by Geri Krotow
“Tell me, Jeb. What happened when you found her?”
“I had to speak to all the embassy folks, like I told you.” He pushed his plate away, unable to look at food as his stomach sank. It never failed—any thoughts of Paraguay made him want to hurl. He had nothing against the nation, which had looked pretty enough. It was the hell seared into his memory that soured his perspective.
“You said it took two days of wrangling.”
“A day and a half, yeah. Then the local police had to agree to stay out of it. There are so many layers to an international kidnapping, I had no clue.”
“But you got through them, bro.” Brandon’s use of the childhood nickname made Jeb feel like an imposter. A true brother wouldn’t have made a move without telling the other, especially when it involved an entire business.
“Somehow, yeah, we got through the red tape. The transfer took all of thirty seconds to go through, but then it took the cartel another hour to release her. They didn’t get the call that the money was in their account on time, so they started to…”
“Hurt her.” Brandon’s face was white. “The FBI agent told me, after you’d given your statement.”
“They tortured her. When I saw her, I thought she was dead.” Her face was bloodied and her body limp. “But head and mouth injuries bleed the most.”
“She’s okay, bro. She made it. You got her out of there.” Brandon’s words, meant to comfort, only underscored the depth of all their fears. They’d come too close to never seeing her again.
Jeb blew out a long breath. “We got out of there after she was seen by the embassy doc at the local hospital. I couldn’t go with her—she was taken out on a life flight, a service the embassy had access to. Then a Foreign Service Officer drove me to the airport to catch my flight out.”
“You had no idea you’d be arrested here?”
Jeb laughed. “None. In fact, all I was concerned about was when and where Jena was going to get her medical care.” She’d been flown straight to Washington, D.C., and transferred to Walter Reed. The medical staff on the life flight had stopped her bleeding and stabilized her until a plastic surgeon tended to her. He only knew that because the embassy employee had kept him up to speed until he boarded his flight.
“There’s hardly a mark on her face. And she seems to cover it with makeup okay.”
“She has a scar, but you’re right, it’s faded so much already, and there won’t be much left of it before long.” Except he’d always know what had happened, how she’d suffered. Rage blinded him and he forced himself to breathe through the emotions that crested over him, threatening to turn him upside down again. She’s safe. Jena’s okay.
“Jeb, it’s okay. Jena’s out of there. You saved her.” Brandon’s voice grounded him, and he looked at his lifelong friend.
“How did you know I was—?” He didn’t have to say what or why; he and Brandon had a connection that was almost scary at times.
“You’re about to crush that glass in your hand.” Brandon nodded at Jeb’s lemonade, and he relaxed his fingers and took his hand off the vessel.
“It catches up with me sometimes. How close we came.” Cool relief washed over him. He’d shared his fear with no one.
“To losing her.” Brandon nodded. “I know. If my parents ever knew, it’d kill them. For the record, my folks would have raised the money from their friends, you know. They’ve been racist asses for most of their lives, but they do love their children, as best they can.”
“I do know. I also know that would have taken too much time. You know what they did to her when the money was five minutes past their demands. If I’d waited—”
“My sister would be dead.”
Jeb nodded. “Yes.”
“Do you know for sure that she’s done doing this kind of, uh, work?”
Jeb nodded. “She says she’s done with the Navy, and it appears to me she’s thrown herself into The Refuge House.”
“How’s that going, you two working together? Besides what I’ve seen.” Jeb tensed. Did Brandon suspect anything between him and Jena?
“Fine. Good, actually. Jena’s a stellar professional.”
“She is, and she’s found her calling with social work. But it wasn’t enough to keep her from getting into dangerous work with the Navy, or whomever she worked for.”
“You know as much as I do—she said she’s done with that part of her life.” And he had to believe her—anyone who’d seen her as battered as she’d been would. The thought of her ever doing that kind of work again was worse than the anxiety the memories of Paraguay triggered.
“How long do you plan to work there?” Ah, here it was. Jeb knew Brandon as well as he knew himself. Like him, Brandon was a fixer. From the way he was staring at him, he saw Jeb as his current project, he’d bet.
“Another couple of weeks. My Atlanta life beckons.” He paused, then forged ahead. “I can’t thank you enough for not affecting my career over what happened.”
“No thanks needed. You were working under extenuating circumstances. Speaking of which, would you let me know before you drive out of town?”
“Why do I get the feeling this isn’t about a farewell party?”
Brandon shook his head. “You’re a gifted accountant and executive. I want to know when you’re leaving because I want to counteroffer your new job. I’m hoping you haven’t already signed on the dotted line.”
“I haven’t, but I did verbally accept. I’ve got thirty days to back out, which I see no reason to. Why are you so determined to get Boats by Gus going again? I thought you were set with your new job.” Jeb knew Brandon had taken a high-level position with an international ship building company in NOLA. As a naval architect, his skills were highly desirable.
“‘Set’ is a matter of perspective. I enjoy it enough, and it’s challenging, but it’s nothing like what we did with Boats by Gus. We were a good team, Jeb.”
“We were.” Until he’d changed everything.
“You say I’d never trust you again, and while I’m sure I might be jumpy about funds and accounts for a while, there are ways to have a third party oversee that for us. I don’t want to lose the working relationship we had, Jeb. I designed my best sailboats knowing you were at the helm of the business side. And our flat-bottom boats were the best. The factory’s waiting for us to start again.”
“How are you going to do that while working at the shipbuilder’s?”
“I’ll quit. But not until you’re ready to partner up again.”
Jeb stared at his last remaining best friend in the world. It’d be incredible to be back with Brandon, working his dream job. It’d also be a fucking nightmare, a constant reminder of how quickly he’d dropped it all to go after Jena.
The woman he’d never be able to have.
Brandon saw the reluctance and leaned back, both hands on the table. “Don’t answer me yet. Hell, don’t give me an answer for a year. I’ll wait longer if I have to. Do what you need to do with Jena at her center first. Go to Atlanta, try the new job. But promise me you’ll take another look at coming back to Boats by Gus.”
“Whoa—I’m working at The Refuge House for you. You’re the one that put me over a barrel about it.” They both laughed. “I have to leave, Brandon. It’s the right time for me to start over, like you have.”
Brandon didn’t reply right away, just let Jeb’s words settle.
“Remember when my father caught us smoking out back, behind the shed?”
“Oh, my God, how old were we? Twelve? I thought we were both going to get the belt, for sure.” The belt and other forms of abuse were part of Jeb’s home life until he’d found escape and salvation with the Boudreaux family.
“Naw, Dad wasn’t that kind of disciplinarian. He was more into making sure we understood consequences.” Brandon referred to the community service Hudson signed
them up for after the cigarette incident. They’d spent the next four Saturdays helping the neighborhood hermit, Mr. La Croix, clean out his house, a hoarder’s haven and their torment. The worst part wasn’t the piles of decades-old newspapers, or the six feral cats that roamed the stinking place. Mr. La Croix had suffered early lung and tracheal cancer. His tracheostomy tube had horrified them, as had how he’d smoked through the man-made opening at the base of his throat.
Jeb laughed. “Poor Mr. La Croix.”
“Are you kidding? Poor fucking us.” Brandon grimaced.
“I never picked up a cigarette again. And I can’t stomach cigar smoke.”
“Same.” Brandon’s eyes crinkled, revealing the depth of his sincerity. Regret yanked on Jeb’s awareness. He knew Brandon like he knew himself. Leaving NOLA wasn’t just about leaving Jena. He’d be letting go of life as he’d known it. He wanted to make sure he left nothing unspoken with Brandon. Maybe he’d been too harsh on himself about taking the money. Like Brandon said, he’d saved Jena’s life.
But if he healed his friendship with Brandon and agreed to work with him again, he’d forever be tied to the Boudreauxes.
“You’ve gotten serious again.” Brandon playfully punched him on the upper arm. “That bad in South America, huh?”
“You’ve no idea.” He slid his empty glass away.
“Sorry, man.” Brandon looked around for the waitress and waved her over for the check. “Take your time. When you’re ready to move on from The Refuge, or Atlanta, all I ask is for first dibs.”
Jeb didn’t say anything, but he didn’t want his silence to imply consent.
“I can’t promise anything right now, Brandon.”
“Fair enough. Let’s meet up again soon.”
“See you.” They clasped hands, gave one another a brotherly hug.
Damn it if a huge lump didn’t clog his throat.
Chapter 6
Jena looked up from her desk—her real, solid desk that had been delivered earlier in the day—as Robyn walked through the opening that would become her office doorway. Jena’s immense gratitude that Robyn had remained involved, even after they’d signed off on her plans, made her smile.
“Hey, Robyn. What’s up?”
Robyn placed two pieces of card stock in front of her.
“Good morning. These are the chips for the wall paint. The first set is a typical health services office palette, and the second is more along the lines of the historical vibe of this house.”
“There’s no question I’d rather go with the Victorian colors.” Their clients deserved to feel like they were coming home. This wasn’t a medical facility, and she didn’t want the upstairs to resemble a hospital ward. She fingered the eggplant and mustard chips. “Do you have any idea what color the original rooms were?”
Robyn shook her head. “I don’t, but I’ll bet we could get information from the historical society, or at least the library.”
“Those photos will all be black and white.”
“We can actually guess on some of the colors using a program my firm has. I’ll see what I can find out.” Robyn crossed her hands over her chest. “What do you think about your space?”
“I love it!” And she did. Her office was down a corridor from reception, the last and largest one in the facility. “I can’t believe they’ve gotten the walls up so quickly. Thank you so much for staying on, Robyn. It means a lot to me, and the community. Your work is going to make a difference for so many people.”
Robyn sank into the easy chair across from Jena’s desk. “I’m glad to hear it. But after the kitchen extension is complete, I’m afraid I have to move on. My firm gave me an extra two weeks here, tops.”
“You must have a long line of clients eager for your talents.”
“You seem quiet lately, Jena. Is everything okay on the personal front?” Robyn’s expressive eyes touched a place in Jena’s heart that she’d forgotten existed: the girlfriend chamber, where men couldn’t reach no matter how great they were as a partner, or brother, or friend. Or more.
Nope, not going there.
“It’s good.” She still wasn’t ready to spill it all, but as Robyn sat patiently, clearly open and nonjudgmental, an emotional dam broke. “I’ve been better, actually. Without going into it, I had a pretty complicated job with the Navy Reserves. I was out of the country for several months, on my last deployment, and it got riskier than I’d expected. I’m finding the transition back to regular life a little difficult.” It was scary how easy the lies still came—necessary lies, but she’d never been more aware of how much of her life since college had been a total sham. At least, the parts she presented to her family. And Jeb.
Robyn nodded. “I totally get it. My cousin was in the Marines for five years and she’s still not the same. I have no clue what she did, other than go to the Middle East, Iraq or Afghanistan, for a year at a time, twice. My auntie and uncle were so worried. So were my Dad and I. Have you thought about getting some counseling?”
Jena bit back a grin. She’d had to undergo extensive debriefing at CIA headquarters, and at Walter Reed, before returning to New Orleans. They’d also sent her to see a psychiatrist who specialized in special ops trauma, at the National Military Hospital’s Bethesda, Maryland, location. It was counseling on speed. Not that she was able to share that, though.
“I did see someone for a bit. Like I said, it’s not anything super heavy right now, just an awareness that I’m in the middle of a career and life change. Moving on from my past.”
“I’m here for you.” Robyn looked at her watch and stood up. “I have a meeting with the contractors on the extension in five minutes. The roof’s not measuring to spec.”
“You’ll work it out.” Jena knew there were no mistakes in Robyn’s plans—they’d been checked and checked again by her firm. “And Robyn, thanks for listening.”
“Anytime. We need to get a cocktail night on the calendar. Part of your stress is probably from the long hours. Take it from me: work can be a salvation, but it can also be the death of you.”
Jena laughed. “Don’t I know it.”
* * * *
Jeb stood just outside Jena’s office, plywood in hand, ready to frame the doorway so the door could be hung later today. He’d stopped to look at a text from Brandon and unwittingly overheard the tail end of her conversation with Robyn.
“Hey, Jeb.” Robyn smiled as she left the office and walked past him.
“Robyn.” Fuck. All he’d had to do was put the damn beams on the floor outside Jena’s office and walk away unseen. Now he had to say good morning to Jena—he was certain she’d heard him reply to Robyn.
“Jeb. What do you have here?” Jena stood in the doorway, her eyes missing nothing, from the two-by-fours to the caught look he knew was on his face.
“We’re hanging your door today.”
“Doors are important, aren’t they?” The sparkle in her eyes told him all he needed to know.
“I wasn’t eavesdropping.”
She shrugged, her go-to defensive gesture. “Wasn’t anything to hear.”
“Other than you’re leaving your past behind you.” Goddamnit, he needed to work on his filter.
Her chin raised and he fought to remain in place. He wanted to take one, two steps back. Hell, he’d turn tail and run to escape—
Escape what? His heart pounded and his palms suddenly dripped sweat, making his phone slip from his hand to the floor. It wasn’t unlike the panic attacks he’d experienced after he’d returned from South America, gotten out of the county jail, and sought refuge in his apartment. The after effects of seeing someone you cared about as still as death, short on blood.
He bent to pick up his phone and found he’d been beat, again. Jena’s hand grasped the cell and his hand covered hers. As if his brain was a step behind, his rapid pulse blocking his ability
to function. As if he’d downed a tranquilizer. Then his serenity snapped back into place. Jena’s touch, like magic, cured him even when she didn’t intend to.
The instant spark of attraction that ignited from their physical connection didn’t escape his comprehension.
Or Jena’s, her eyes wide and her mouth parted in surprise.
“Oh.” A soft sound, let out on a breath scented with toothpaste and pastry. Jena’s sweet tooth knew no bounds, and sugar was her go-to when stressed. She crouched in front of him, giving a beautiful view of her slim knees, her frothy lemon skirt hiked up and exposing a solid length of thigh.
“Jeb. Stop.” The barest whisper, but she wasn’t moving away, didn’t let go of his phone. He kept ahold of her hand, wondering if he’d forgotten how soft her skin was or had never fully appreciated it before.
“Hey, kids!” Hudson Boudreaux’s low voice barked down the corridor, the unfinished walls echoing the sound like a clap of thunder.
Jena dropped his phone as she jumped up and back. Jeb let go of the wood beams as he heard the unmistakable crunch of his phone’s screen.
“What are you doing here, Daddy?” Shit, she never called Hudson “Daddy.” Usually it was “Dad,” or, more often, nothing. He might as well have held a big sign saying, “sexual tension zone here,” with an arrow aimed at his dick, which was harder than the two-by-fours he’d dropped. He avoided looking at the elder Boudreaux for a few breaths. Jesus, he was glad to be in his loose, worn cargos. If he’d worn jeans, the entire staff would have seen his erection.
“Now, that’s a fine good morning.” The bold words didn’t match Hudson’s hesitancy. “I didn’t mean to bust in, but I’ve been curious about your project. You didn’t tell me much about it on the phone the other day.”
“That’s because it’s my project.” Jena wasn’t cutting Hudson any slack, and Jeb didn’t blame her. But he did recognize a man trying to do the right thing, no matter how late.
