The Brit

by Jodi Ellen Malpas

  I join him and scan the refrigerator. “A coconut water, please.”

  Danny orders, while I spend more time absorbing the space. My presence hasn’t gone unnoticed, many people—men and women—looking this way. He hands me a carton and I’m left to follow him out onto the decked terrace looking over the water. It’s stunning. But . . . “Jet skis?”

  Pulling out a chair for each of us at a table at the far side, right by the railings, we sit, and Danny spends a while gazing out across the water. The noise is loud but bearable. “I deal in them,” he tells me without looking at me, unscrewing the cap off his water.

  He deals in jet skis? I’m at a loss. The consignment, the deal, the handover. It’s for jet skis?

  “This part of the bay is a prime location. Still waters, good depth, plenty of space.” He takes a swig and leans back in his chair, pulling off his baseball cap. “The top competitors train and practice here.”

  “Oh.” It’s all I have.

  “We offer lessons, sell the equipment, and import the top performing machines for sale.”

  I laugh under my breath. The cold-blooded killer deals in jet skis. With my coconut water at my lips, I look across the water, squinting from the sharp sparkles reflecting back at me from the low sun. “Is that another boatyard?” I ask, pointing to the other side of the bay. I can just make out a ramshackle of a marina in the distance.

  “That’s Byron’s Reach.” Danny sounds thoughtful as he tells me. “I’m in the process of buying it.”

  Ah. So that’s the marina he wants. “Why?”

  “They’re developing this land soon. We have to be out in a few weeks.”

  “Well, what about this building? And the beach and this deck?”

  “I’ll rebuild it all across there.” He cocks his head, indicating over there. “It’s a much better location. Bigger. More potential. More secluded.”

  “This is pretty perfect.” I shrug, thinking it’s a shame that all of this will no longer be here soon. “It’ll take you months to rebuild all of this. Can’t you keep this place while you build?”

  “Sadly not.” Danny stands, downing the rest of his water before setting his empty bottle on the table. “Had I secured Byron’s Reach a month ago like I’d hoped, then maybe. Unfortunately, buying it hasn’t been as smooth as it should be.”

  “Yes, I heard.” I smile cheekily when he raises his eyebrows. “But just think, had you gotten your marina easily, we wouldn’t be having all this fun together.”

  Danny smiles on a shake of his head. “And what a travesty that would be,” he muses, flipping his baseball cap on and pulling his phone out when it rings. “I have a few things to sort out. Don’t go far.”

  I roll my eyes and kick my feet up on a chair, happy to sit here and smell the water, breathe in the fresh air, and soak up the sun. I shouldn’t enjoy it, but in my world, a moment’s peace, any moment I can grab, should be cherished.

  But . . . jet skis?

  * * *

  A while later, the noises are no more, the sun is beginning to set, and it’s even more beautiful out there, the water calm and still. I stare across the sea, an odd sense of tranquility blazing through me. Despite everything, I’ve sat here this whole time without that lingering familiar sense of foreboding. I’ve not been on the edge of my seat. I’ve not dreaded this moment ending or being disturbed by my real life. It defies reason, since I’m still very much a prisoner, but . . . why? I shouldn’t be feeling peaceful. I should be more afraid than ever. It’s him, you fool. He’s as fucked up as you, and you find comfort in that.

  I look over my shoulder to see the café is now empty, and a quick scope of the shore below tells me that’s empty too. I drop my feet off the chair and stand, groaning as I stretch my muscles. God, that feels amazing.

  As I wander through the cabin, I browse the rails of wetsuits, as well as the glass cabinets that are full of goggles, sunglasses, and sports watches. At the back of the shop, I spy a workshop, where a few jet skis are in parts. He fixes them too. What a wonderful notion. To be fixed. Repaired. To be made as good as new.

  Making my way out to the front, I scan the deserted space. No one. Nothing. It’s like a ghost town. I must have been relishing the sun and peace for longer than I thought. I take the steps and follow my feet to where his car was parked. It’s still there. No Danny. No anyone, in fact.

  I’m about to call out a hello when I hear a loud clatter from one of the containers. My spine straightens, and I follow the sound of voices. Danny’s and Brad’s voices. As I creep closer, I hear Ringo too. All of them in a big metal container? Then I remember: the consignment arrived. They’ll be checking the order.

  “All looks good, yeah?” Brad says.

  “Yeah,” Danny replies. “Very good.”

  I edge around a corner and stop abruptly in my tracks on a lumpy swallow, not sure I’m seeing right. Danny’s holding a machine gun in his hand, inspecting it closely, as Ringo pulls out another, this one a rifle, from underneath a jet ski, handing Danny that one too. Guns? Oh my God. I cast my eyes across the endless jet skis, counting twenty of the big machines in total. Are they all packed with guns? “Get them all loaded back inside,” Danny orders, handing the gun back to Ringo. “I want them spread across all the containers.”

  I quickly back up before I’m spotted. Guns?

  “Who’s watching the girl?” Danny asks, and I freeze, listening.

  “I thought you was,” Ringo grunts.

  There’s a bang, the sound of a container door shutting and then the slide of a big metal bolt engaging. “I can’t watch the girl and count fucking bullets.”

  I’m moving quickly, tiptoeing across the ground as quietly and as quickly as I can, practically throwing myself up the steps to the cabin. I’ve never moved so fast in my life. I land in the chair that Danny put me in earlier, and just about get my breathing stable and my feet up when I hear urgent thumping footsteps coming through the café.

  I look back as he falls through the doors onto the decking, his face a little red, his breathing shot. He thought I’d be gone.

  “Okay?” I ask, visions of machine guns rolling through my mind. Not just machine guns, either. Bullets, rifles, grenades, and all kinds of other weaponry, all hidden in the bottoms of jet skis. My brain is currently an arsenal fit to kick off a world war. This place, it’s a cover. That’s all. I should laugh at myself for stating the obvious. Of course it’s a cover. I knew that. Danny Black owns it, for God’s sake.

  His whole upper body rolls and relaxes, his hand coming up to the doorjamb to support him as he finds breath to talk. “Yeah,” he exhales, looking over his shoulder. I hear the stampede of more steps and see Danny shake his head, silently telling his charging men the panic is over. He’s found me.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, acting totally dumb.

  He sighs and comes forward, gazing down the length of my legs stretched out before me on the chair. “You’ve been here the whole time.” It’s not posed as a question, more of a statement. Like he’s telling himself.

  “It’s peaceful,” I say without thought. “Besides, you told me not to go anywhere.”

  He takes my feet and lifts them, sitting on the chair and resting them back on his lap. He’s thinking. What’s he thinking? “And you listened to me?”

  I nibble on my lip, unable to read the way he’s looking at me. It’s almost . . . pensive. “You’d find me and kill me,” I whisper.

  “Yes, I would.” His eyes narrow on me, scrutinizing my reaction. I have no reaction. Yeah, he’d find me, but he wouldn’t kill me.

  “Then I’m sensible, yes?”

  “Not obedient?”

  My smile is unstoppable. “Never.”

  And so is Danny’s. “Ever been on a jet ski?”

  I slowly shake my head.

  “Want to?”

  No, not if I’ll be riding on something harboring enough grenades to destroy Miami. Thank you very much. “I don’t think it’s my thin
g.”

  “Fraidy cat,” he says quietly, starting to stroke over my shins. Denim is thick material. Not thick enough. I subtly shift in my chair and pull my feet down off his lap, but he puts them right back and continues with his torturous strokes, smiling innocently at his hands. Innocent? Nothing Danny Black does is innocent. Everything is thought out, that much has become glaringly obvious.

  “I’m not a fraidy cat,” I whisper.

  Looking up at me, he loosens his smile, making it more of a cheeky grin. “Then prove it.”

  Prove it? Haven’t I proved it enough? “By riding a jet ski?” I ask, and he nods. “I wouldn’t know how to.”

  “You don’t need to know how. You’ll be with me.”

  Stuck to his back? No. I don’t think so. “Thanks, but I’ll respectfully decline.”

  “Respectfully?” He laughs, finally putting my feet back on the ground. “What are you afraid of?”

  A grenade exploding underneath me.

  Actually, no. I’m more afraid of you.

  My eyes climb his body as he rises and looms over me, holding out his hand. “I’ll take care of you.”

  Those words, those simple words, are like tempting a dehydrated dog with water. My hand’s in his before I’ve thought about it, and my body is stuck to him a second later, his tug pulling me up smoothly and quickly. My heart is going crazy in my chest, and I know he’s felt it because he glances down between our pressed bodies and smiles to himself. “You are scared.” Eyes back to mine, his smile falls. “But not of jet skis. And not of me.”

  “I am scared of you.”

  “Not in the normal sense of the word, Rose.” His hand reaches for my cheek and caresses it, before sliding his palm onto my nape and massaging gently. Again, he’s right. I’m not afraid of his violent nature, his business, or his reputation. I’m scared of the rush of blood to my head when he touches me. I’m scared of my kicking heart when I look into his insanely blue eyes. I’m scared of the backward sense of security I feel being his prisoner. I’m scared that he clouds my purpose. I’m scared that I hate him for all the wrong reasons. Not because he’s callous and cruel. Not because he says wicked things. But because I know for me, it’s all a front. I close my eyes and sink into his touch. “Feel good?” he whispers.

  I hum and let him massage away . . . everything. My thoughts, my tension. I’m putty in his hands. It’s only when a small moan slips free that I open my eyes. And as soon as I meet the intensity of his stare, I look away.

  But I caught the look of knowing in his gaze. And the satisfaction. “Come,” he orders softly.

  We walk through the café, where his men now all sit with beers in their hands, and into the shop. Danny pulls down a black and pink wetsuit and leads me into the men’s changing room. “Put this on.”

  I stall, looking at his outstretched hand. “This is the men’s changing room.”

  His arm drops, a flurry of mild amusement creasing his face. “So now you’re shy?”

  “I’m not shy.” I snatch it from him and proceed to strip down until I’m in my underwear, and he smiles the whole time, collecting his own wetsuit from a nearby locker and undressing himself. Every godforsaken muscle on his torso undulates as he pulls his sweater up over his head, revealing the bandage. He shouldn’t get his wounds wet. “Your arm,” I say, a misplaced sense of concern coming over me.

  “Your arm,” he counters, holding up some protective bags and moving in. He wraps my arm carefully to protect it from the water before taking care of his own wounds. His bandage is stained, the blood having seeped through, and I turn away feeling . . . guilty. I did that. His wounds are because of me.

  I step into the wetsuit, reaching behind me for the cord that’ll get the zip up.

  “Here.” He moves in, and I move away.

  “I’ve got it,” I say, feeling around, finding nothing.

  My hand is knocked away and the zip dragged up my back slowly. “All done,” he murmurs, taking my ponytail and pulling the ends out of the neck. I shudder and take one cool step back into my personal space, and when I turn around, his wetsuit is only pulled up to his waist. Good God.

  “How long have you rode jet skis?” I ask, blinking back my wonder as I gather up my pile of clothes and set them on a nearby bench. Do you ride them? Drive them?

  “Since my father built this place fifteen years ago.”

  “Your father built it?”

  “Yes.” He walks away, and I follow, my eyes rooted to the wide expanse of his bare shoulders.

  “Aren’t you sad to be leaving it then?” I ask, watching him toss his baseball cap on the shop counter and replace it with some wraparound shades on his head.

  “It’s business. No smart man gets sentimental over business.” He makes sure I’m in his sights as he articulates every word clearly.

  Of course. I’m business. “And you sell all these?” I motion to the line of shiny new jet skis in the store.

  “I do.” He goes to a sliding metal door and takes the handle with both hands, leaning back to pull it across. More rippling muscles. I force myself to focus on them and not on his arm.

  “And which jet ski will we be on?” I turn away, trying to sound nonchalant, when on the inside I’m wondering what on earth I’ll do if he leads me to the container full of loaded jet skis.

  “One of these.” He points into the room he’s just revealed, and I peek inside. There are two jet skis strapped to trailers, both sparkling clean, both huge, and both black. Completely black, except for the gray writing down one side that says SEA-DOO. Every other jet ski I’ve seen today has been mostly colorful. “This one is mine.” He slides open another door, and Brad pulls up in an old Jeep. “And that one was my father’s.” He nods to the other jet ski.

  “Your dad rode a jet ski?” I blurt without thought, and he smiles, starting to hook up the trailer to the jeep.

  “Before he was ill, yes.”

  I wander down the side of his dad’s jet ski, my hand stroking the black paintwork. I crouch when I reach the rear, running a finger across some small print. “Mister,” I say quietly, biting my lip as I glance at Danny.

  “I used to call him that.”

  “Mister?”

  “Yeah, like a term of endearment.” He points to his jet ski, and I bend to look at the back. “And he called me kid.”

  Mister and kid. I look at Danny. There’s that softness again, the part of him he keeps hidden behind the monster. “That’s kind of cute.” I say, and he huffs a small burst of laughter as I straighten.

  The Jeep pulls away, reversing down to the water edge, and Danny starts pulling the top of his wetsuit up his torso. His muscles are doing crazy swelling and tensing stuff. I exhale my relief when his bare chest is finally hidden from my sights, as well as his mutilated arm. I turn away from him and head for the water, shielding my eyes from the setting sun.

  “You need some glasses,” Danny says, joining me and handing me a pair of black wraparounds. “Put them on.”

  I do as I’m bid, covering my eyes. “Isn’t it a bit late to be going out on the water?”

  He wades into the sea and negotiates the jet ski from the trailer. “Sunset is the best time on the water.” Danny jerks his head, summoning me on as he pulls his shades over his eyes. He looks out of this world in a wetsuit. Out. Of. This. World.

  “It’s just us?”

  He gazes around, prompting me to do the same. The place is deserted, and Brad’s now gone too. Into the café, I assume. It’s just me and Danny. “Just us,” he says, an edge of something unrecognizable in his tone. “The wind in your hair, the salt spray on your face. You’ll love it.”

  I’m sure I will, it sounds amazing, but all this has thrown me, more than the discovery of hidden firearms. “Are white-knuckle rides all part of my stay at the pleasure of Danny Black?”

  “White knuckle?” He pouts, and, damn him, it’s kind of adorable on his murderous face. It’s mischievous. Playful. “You want white knuckle
s? Because I can think of a much better way of achieving that.”

  I sigh. “How? When I’m gripping your bedpost?” That’s all good and well, but I’ve given him plenty of opportunities to give me white knuckles, and he’s not taken them. Now he wants to take me on a jet ski. He’s also being mildly sweet this evening. He’s even talked about his father. The man has a split personality.

  He shakes his head on a small smile. “Get that arse down here, Rose.”

  It’s the way he says ass. It’s something else that sets my insides alight. I bat down the heat and wade into the water. “Fuck, it’s cold,” I gasp, tempted to dash straight back out.

  “You’ll be used to it in no time. Come on.” He makes grabby hands, and I soon find myself up to my waist. “Wait there.” He mounts the jet ski like a pro, and then offers me a hand, pulling me up onto the big padded seat easily. “Comfy?”

  “Where do I hold on?” I ask, looking around for something, anything, other than him.

  He reaches back and takes my hands. “Here.” And guides them around his front. I squeeze my eyes closed and shut off my sense of smell. His back is so broad. So hard. With my cheek pressed to him, I clench my thighs around the seat. “Relax,” he says on a laugh.

  I ignore him and focus on remaining still and holding on tight, the roar of the engine drowning out the remnants of his amusement.

  Danny pulls away smoothly, the sound now a comfortable purr, and I open my eyes. We’re chugging along at a leisurely pace, and Danny points to a yellow buoy. “We can pick up speed once we’re past that marker.”

  “Great,” I quip, my hold constricting. And the moment we’re past that buoy, the engine bellows, and I jerk on a girlie squeal, starting to bump on the padded seat, as he goes from zero to one hundred in a few hair-raising seconds. “Shit,” I yell, squeezing the life out of him. “Oh my God, Danny!” The asshole. He’s doing this on purpose, trying to scare the shit out of me. It’s working. “Slow down,” I scream, and he laughs wickedly, continuing at an insane speed across the cove. Salty water is hitting my face, despite him shielding me, and my hair is flying all over the place. Love it? Nope. Can’t say I do. I’m sure if I were to loosen my hold of him, I’d fly off the damn thing. “Danny!” He takes no notice, zooming across the open water like a madman. I’m incensed. So fucking mad, I’m prepared to risk falling off just so I can hurt him. I release one arm and feel down toward his groin, locating the delicate flesh on his inside thigh. And I pinch him through the rubber of the wetsuit. Hard.