Colton Under Fire

by Cindy Dees

  “So no visit to San Francisco?” “Visit” being friend-code for the man taking an extra half hour to have drinks with his daughter at the airport while his private jet refueled.

  “No. I offered to meet him in Milan instead, but he has a full schedule. And, well, you know.”

  She did know. Her friend couldn’t afford the trip or to take time off work at the art gallery. Yet another thing she and Corinne had in common was limited funds. Where they diverged was how they dealt with it. Poor Corinne let it bother her, while Lila, well, she didn’t. Much.

  “Don’t let it get you down,” she advised. “I’ll be home in a few days and we’ll go out, hit the clubs, drink like crazy and dance our worries away.”

  “Guys?”

  “Of course.” Lila smiled at the two striding past. Tall, sporting swim trunks and surfboards, they grinned back. “It’s always more fun to dance with guys who know the moves.”

  “I wouldn’t know. None of the guys I’ve danced with had much in the way of moves.”

  “That’s because you’re always holding out for guys who remind you of your father,” Lila said under her breath.

  “Yeah, yeah, you always say that,” Corinne shot back. But her laugh faded fast enough to send Lila’s smile into her toes.

  “What else happened?” she asked.

  “Well...”

  Lila’s stomach clenched when Corinne hesitated. Oh, she knew that hesitation.

  “It must be the day for fathers. Did mine leave a message when he called?” she asked quietly. Knowing she was going to need a few moments to get herself together before meeting Rodriguez, Lila dropped onto a vivid pink bench in front of a surf club and waited.

  “Three, actually,” Corinne said, her words tight with discomfort. “He’d like for you to return his call.”

  “Like me to?”

  “Well, more like he demanded that you call. He’s arranged a party at the navy base he expects you to attend. Some sort of celebration for your brother.” Corinne cleared her throat, then blew out a breath. “He said something about your duty to play hostess, expectations to the family name and, um, maybe something about snits.”

  Oh, how she’d like to tell her father just where he could shove his snit. Lila had to grind her teeth tight to keep the words from spewing. But the main drag in a small Costa Rican town was hardly the place to mouth off.

  “I’ll deal with it later,” she promised instead. “Right now, I have me a chef to woo.”

  With that and a goodbye, she tucked her phone away and turned the corner toward Casa de Rico. Lila grimaced when she stopped in front of the restaurant. Heaps of trash spilled out of the alley beside the building, which probably accounted for the smell. The windows were slicked with the same dingy grime as the once-white exterior, giving the whole place a gray coating of neglect. The hand-lettered sign propped into the window claimed that Casa de Rico was open for business, but the silence pouring from the open door didn’t indicate that there were many takers.

  She’d take that as a sign of management issues and not the chef, she decided, lips quirking. Which would make convincing Rodriguez to change employers all that much easier.

  Still, the beachfront location was ideal. But Lila was pretty sure location and the views were the only things the Casa had going for it. The roof was patched in places, and the railing along the balcony so rusted that it reminded her of a rickety old lady wearing black lace. The landscaping was limited to a few scrubby bushes and, again, that beach view.

  Which couldn’t be discounted, she had to admit. It was a pretty gorgeous view.

  Wanting—needing—to absorb it a little more before she went inside to scope out her target in his natural atmosphere, she stepped around the side of the building and started down the wooden walkway. When she reached the soft sand, she stopped to step out of her kitten-heeled slides.

  In the act of slipping off the second shoe, she had to grab on to the bleached wooden railing to keep her balance.

  Because the view just got a whole lot more interesting.

  A man stepped out of the surf, water sluicing off muscles that made her want to raise her hands in praise.

  Hello, gorgeous, was all she could think.

  Gorgeous, hot and sexy, all rolled into one very muscular, very intense package.

  The guy was ripped. From his broad shoulders to his lean calves, he epitomized manly perfection. She knew she was staring, but she’d been raised to believe that a work of art deserved appreciation.

  And oh, boy did she appreciate him.

  Enough to offer a big smile as he slowly made his way across the sand to his towel.

  Her lips twitched when he glared in return.

  She was too amused to take offense.

  As a woman who’d garnered plenty of ogling over the years, she supposed she could understand his reaction. And while it wasn’t like she’d strolled down and grabbed herself a handful of his undeniably pinchable butt, she’d definitely fantasize about licking those drops of water off his flat belly.

  But it was lunchtime, and as yummy as he looked, the guy obviously wasn’t on the menu. And she had a job to do.

  But her gaze—as unwilling to leave as the rest of her—lingered for a few more seconds. She’d never seen a more visually appealing man. Or, she acknowledged, her eyes flicking over his scowl again, a more discouraging one.

  Ah, well, she decided with a philosophical sigh.

  At least she’d gotten to enjoy the view.

  * * *

  Sun, surf and sex.

  Once upon a time, Travis Hawkins would have called that heaven.

  Now?

  Now, he was convinced it was hell.

  He strode out of the silken warmth of the Caribbean, his feet sinking in the wet sand. Wincing, he adjusted his stride when the sand turned to powder, taking the weight off his throbbing knee.

  He noted the sexy little blonde standing on the edge of the beach. She’d poured her petite curves into a pair of white pants that stopped short of her ankles and a silky red tank that fluttered intriguingly in the light breeze. With her hair clipped up and back, he couldn’t tell its length, but he was imagining it was long. Mostly because he had a thing for long blond hair.

  Just like he had a thing for confident women. He could tell this one was just that from the way she stood there, dangling her shoes from one hand while the other shaded her eyes. The better to check him out, he supposed. No harm there. He was checking right back.

  And what he saw was intriguing.

  But he wasn’t in the market to be intrigued.

  He was in the market to decompress. To make decisions. To figure out the rest of his damned life.

  Once upon a time, he’d take the blonde up on the obvious interest on her pixie-like face. He’d have strode on over for a little conversation, a little flirtation. He’d gauge the ground, assess the heat level and if it felt right, he’d have swept her off her sexy little feet and into his bed.

  But his sweeping days were over. Hell, all the fun was over. Despite the multiple offers he’d gotten from locals and tourists alike, he wasn’t in Puerto Viejo to score.

  Travis shifted his weight, carefully balancing on his left foot to ensure he didn’t land on his face when he bent over to grab a towel. Pain exploded away, a lightning bolt of misery spearing out from his knee to his hip, down to his toes.

  For twelve years, he’d served his country. For ten years, he’d been a SEAL. He’d served with distinction, with honor, with dedication. He’d been welcomed into two different SEAL teams, where he’d played an integral role of dozens of successful missions.

  He’d served through pain, sweat, challenge and terror.

  He’d freaking loved every minute of it.

  He scrubbed the towel over his face, sopping up the moisture pouring off his too-long
hair.

  One nasty storm, one bad jump from a plane taking a flaming nosedive into the ocean, and his career was over. He was finished.

  Freaking finished.

  Travis’s jaw worked as he glared at the sexy reminder of what he’d lost still looking his way. He deliberately turned away from the blond temptation to stare out at the ocean.

  Medical discharge.

  Was it ironic or tragic that the ocean he loved, the sea he served, had ended the career he’d revered?

  Probably both.

  The biggest joke was that he, a man who thrived on contingency plans, had nothing. No backup career, no sideline jobs, not a single idea of what he wanted to do—or more to the point, could do—with the rest of his life once his measly savings ran out.

  Once he’d gotten a handle on that, he decided, unable to resist glancing back at the blonde again, he’d be interested in enjoying the finer things in life again.

  Because, damn, she really was fine.

  * * *

  Lila told herself she wasn’t thinking about the beach hunk as she stepped into the cool restaurant. But she knew he was there, hovering in the back of her mind. She’d figure out why, later. For now, she looked around the restaurant, assessing her quarry’s lair.

  The place was empty but for one other couple, and the décor was enough to make her wince. Here they were in the Caribbean, and the owners had fitted this place out to look like an average bar in Anywhere, USA.

  A long bar, complete with neon signs and shelves of bottles, covered the back wall. Posters—thumbtacked, not framed—advertised American beer and, for some reason she couldn’t figure out, a long-defunct sitcom. Three ceiling fans sent lazy shadows dancing over the dozen tables scattered around the room.

  “Hola,” a woman from behind the bar greeted her, her black tee stating that Casa de Rico’s salsa was the hottest and her name tag reading Dory Parker. “Table for one?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Have at it,” she said, waving one hand to indicate Lila’s varied choices before calling for service.

  Lila slid behind the table closest to the kitchen with a nice view of the beach. Not the view of the sexy beach hunk, but that was just as well. The man had distraction written all over him.

  “Hi,” she said as soon as the waitress came over. She was a pretty girl with dark skin and a lip piercing, dressed the same as the bartender except that her shirt proclaimed that their margaritas got you drunker. “I’d love a bottle of water and a menu.”

  “Got the menu right here,” the girl said, handing over a laminated page. “I’ll be right back with that water.”

  Lila glanced at the page only long enough to assure herself that it was the same as the one on their website.

  “I’ve heard that your chef is wonderful,” she said as soon as the waitress came back. “Senor Rodriguez, right?”

  “Sure, Chef Rodriguez is in the back, cooking up a storm,” the waitress said, her vigorous nod sending the bleached dreadlocks bouncing around her round face. “He’s good. You’ll see. You decide what you want?”

  “What’s your favorite?” Lila asked, keeping it friendly.

  Deciding to take the girl’s advice, and since early afternoon lent itself to tapas, Lila ordered a varied selection.

  The menu was promising, but she wanted to see for herself if Rodriguez was as good as the Martins remembered. There was no point convincing them if he’d lost his touch.

  An hour later—Casa de Rico obviously didn’t believe in rushing their diners—Lila had confirmed that Rodriguez was as good as advertised.

  What she hadn’t figured out was why a chef of his caliber was working in a low-end restaurant like this one. According to her notes, he was in his midfifties, originally from Mexico City, single and childless. He’d worked in various high-end restaurants over the years, with excellent references from all of his previous employers.

  It was definitely time to get a few more answers for her files.

  “Everything was wonderful,” she told the dreadlocked girl when she came to take the last plate. “I’d love to personally thank the chef. Is that possible?”

  From the look on her face, it was the first time she’d heard a request like that. But she shrugged and muttered something before heading back to the kitchen.

  Since nobody else, including the bartender, was in the room, Lila took a moment to pull out a compact and check her makeup. She refreshed her lipstick, slid one hand over her tidy chignon to make sure no hair had escaped, and decided she’d hit the right note of professionalism. Not always easy when you looked like a blonde Kewpie doll.

  “Hola,” called out a big voice. It matched the man, who lumbered through a door barely wider than he was and strode across the room. His thick black hair was sprinkled with the same gray that dusted his mustache. Instead of the traditional white chef’s attire, he wore blue with a white apron tucked under a gut that proclaimed him a man who loved to eat as much as cook.

  “I’m Chef Rodriguez,” he greeted, his accent light and musical. “And you must be the woman of excellent taste who enjoyed my food, yes?”

  “I am, Chef Rodriguez,” she said with a wide smile, rising from her seat to take his hand in hers. “The meal was delicious. I particularly enjoyed the ceviche tico.”

  “Gracias,” he replied, bending so low over her hand that his bushy mustache tickled her knuckles. “It’s a pleasure to serve you, senorita.”

  “Everything was wonderful. Imaginative, delicious and beautifully plated,” she told him, laying on the flattery thick and widening her smile in a way she knew highlighted her dimples. Professionalism was still the byword, but with his Old World manners, she figured a smile would go further than a crisp handshake. “And your food is exactly why I’m here in Puerto Viejo.”

  His dark eyes flashed with curiosity.

  “I’m Lila Adrian. We spoke on the phone last week. I’m here on behalf of the Martins.”

  The friendly smile disappeared, and something that looked like panic burned away the flirtatious ease on his face. He gaze shifted left, skittered right before returning to her face. His smile reemerged, much stiffer and less friendly.

  “This is a bad time, senorita. And the wrong place for a discussion such as the one you’re inviting.”

  “Okay,” Lila said agreeably, despite her surprise at his extreme reaction. Especially given that during their phone conversation, he’d been the one to suggest she come to the restaurant to negotiate the employment terms.

  Over the years, she’d seen plenty of people who didn’t want their current bosses to know they were being scouted, but most usually used it as a bargaining tool. For better money out of her client if they left, or better conditions from their boss if they stayed. He’d given a different impression over the phone, but she could play the game.

  “That’s fine,” she said agreeably. “Would you prefer to meet elsewhere? Perhaps Luca’s, in the Hotel Azure? I’d be happy to take you to dinner and discuss the Martins’ proposal.”

  They both glanced over as a party of four came into the restaurant with a woman who stationed herself behind the bar. They all appeared harmless enough to Lila, but Rodriguez looked like he’d seen a group of ghosts. His eyes widened so much that the dark circles beneath almost disappeared. He wet his lips before calling out a command that had the waitress scurrying out to seat the newcomers.

  “Excuse me,” the chef murmured, snagging the tray holding her check and credit card off the table and hurrying to the small station by the bar. His eyes kept bouncing between the new diners, the bartender and Lila as he ran her card.

  Curious, Lila watched along with Rodriguez as the newcomers were seated, menus handed out, but none of them glanced their way or yelled boo. But Rodriguez sure looked spooked when he came back with her credit card and receipt. He was so focused on watching t
he new diners, he almost hit her in the face with the tray.

  “Chef?” she finally said, drawing his attention back to her. “Would it be convenient to meet at my hotel?”

  “No, no. Nowhere else.” Swiping the back of his hand over his sweating upper lip, Rodriguez looked over at the bartender, then at the new diners again, then shook his head. “Here is fine. Here is better. Come back later.”

  “Okay...”

  “The restaurant closes at 1:00 a.m., but the bar is still open. Meet me then.”

  For the first time, Lila hesitated. Traveling around the world to chase down unique employees for eccentric clients might not be considered the safest career ever heard of. But meeting anyone in a strange town in a foreign country in the middle of the night was pure stupidity.

  “How about tomorrow morning instead? Perhaps before the restaurant opens, around 8:00 a.m.?”

  His jaw worked, the grinding making his mustache flutter. Finally, Rodriguez gave a jerky nod.

  “Make it six. We open early. Go to the office, though. Not the kitchen.”

  There was something in his voice that sent a shiver up and down her spine. Which was silly. Lila had been traveling—and doing damn near everything else in her life—alone for a decade without any problems.

  But spine shivers weren’t to be discounted, so she’d take precautions, she decided. And everything would be fine.

  “Tomorrow at six, then. Here’s my number. Please, call my cell if you need to change anything,” she requested, folding the receipt and putting it and her credit card in her bag before handing him an embossed ivory business card.

  “Yes, yes, fine.” His face creased with worry, he made a shooing motion with his hands. “Go, now. Go.”

  Okay, then.

  Lila went.

  Right down to the beach in search of Mr. Muscles, the hottie she’d like to get up close and personal with.

  Lila wasn’t sure if it was still lingering irritation over word of her father’s nagging, or if it was frustration over Rodriguez playing hard to get.

  But she suddenly wanted a drink. And having it with a sexy hard body would have made that all better.