She’s got nowhere left to run
After a year of searching, ex-marine turned private eye Tack Reeves has finally located Cate Allen. She’s traded in her high heels for flip-flops but Tack would recognize the stunning beauty anywhere. He just needs proof. Posing as a tourist at her Caribbean resort is the perfect cover. Except that the closer Tack gets to Cate, the less his case makes sense...and their intense attraction is only fueling the confusion. When he learns that the mom and her four-year-old son are hiding from her abusive ex, he vows to protect them. But Cate may not let him when she learns why he’s on the island...
“Cate. Cate Dalton, St. Anthony’s Resort,” she said, not missing a beat.
The lie came out of her mouth smooth as silk.
Cate. The woman hadn’t even changed her first name. Now it all seemed so obvious, but before, when he’d been rummaging through hundreds of records, he never would’ve guessed she’d done something so careless. Everything else, every bit of her trail, had been so carefully scrubbed. She’d left hardly any clues. But she’d kept her first name.
He wanted to know why.
A tiny little scar barely the length of a nickel ran across her chin. It hadn’t been in the photographs he’d pored over, and he wondered what it was from.
“We spoke on the phone,” she said. “This is your first time to the Caribbean?”
“That’s right.”
He could lie, too. No need to tell her he’d been hopping from island to island for the last four months, on one goose chase after another, starting to wonder if he needed to rethink his new career as a private eye.
Dear Reader,
I’m excited to share with you my new book, Shelter in the Tropics, a story about two people running from their pasts and desperately hoping for a fresh start. It takes place on a Caribbean island I created, St. Anthony’s, after the patron saint of lost things.
I loved the idea of a place where people who might be lost in different ways come to find themselves—and each other. This is the first story I wrote on this island, and I hope it won’t be the last!
Cate has fled an abusive relationship with her child, hoping to hide from her very powerful and very rich ex-husband, who will stop at nothing to get her and his son back. Tack Reeves, riddled by guilt from his service in Afghanistan and haunted by a dishonorable discharge, is a private eye hired by Cate’s ex.
Except Tack discovers very quickly that his own redemption might come by protecting Cate from the man who wants to destroy her.
Together, Cate and Tack must learn to face the demons of their pasts and move on. Together, they’ll find the strength to do it on this very special island.
I think life can be complicated and we all deserve second chances. Sometimes, the hardest thing to do is to forgive ourselves for mistakes we’ve made, but with love and patience, I believe we can do it. I hope you enjoy this book and St. Anthony’s Island.
Here’s to the restorative power of Caribbean sunshine, love and forgiveness!
All my best,
Cara
CARA
LOCKWOOD
Shelter in the Tropics
Cara Lockwood is the USA TODAY bestselling author of more than fourteen books, including I Do (But I Don’t), which was made into a Lifetime Original Movie. She’s written the Bard Academy series for young adults and has had her work translated into several languages around the world. Born and raised in Dallas, Cara now lives near Chicago with her two wonderful daughters. Find out more about her at caralockwood.com, friend her on Facebook, www.Facebook.com/authorcaralockwood, or follow her on Twitter, @caralockwood.
Books by Cara Lockwood
HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE
The Big Break
Her Hawaiian Homecoming
COSMOPOLITAN RED-HOT READS
FROM HARLEQUIN
Boys and Toys
Texting Under the Influence
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Dedicated to my daughters, who challenge me to be my best self.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
EXCERPT FROM UNEXPECTED ATTRACTION BY STELLA MACLEAN
CHAPTER ONE
St. Anthony’s Island, the Caribbean Sea
WELCOME TO THE Island of Lost Causes.
Tack Reeves couldn’t help but shake his head at the sign that greeted him at St. Anthony’s baggage claim. Looking around at the crowd of tourists in T-shirts and flip-flops, nothing seemed very lost about this tiny Caribbean airport. He grabbed his old faded olive green seabag from the ground near his feet and moved with the tourists, though his jeans and plain black T-shirt looked out of place in the sea of neon around him. People herded together like this reminded him of the markets in Kabul, Afghanistan, where it was impossible to tell the citizens in the crowd from the insurgents. He felt that old familiar steel ball of unease at the center of his stomach.
One redhead wearing too-high platform sandals bumped into him, making him flinch. She looked up, smiling sheepishly as she apologized for the accidental contact. The old Tack, the one before his sixth deployment, would’ve found time to talk to the twentysomething in the barely there sundress. Maybe even had the clothes off that fit little body before she’d managed to get her first tan lines. But those carefree days were long gone.
Besides, he had a job to do.
It was probably another dead end, like the dozens he’d run down in the last year. His target, Cate Allen, was like a ghost. Her billionaire husband had hired him to find her and his son, but after nearly a year of working the case, he was starting to think seriously the woman might be dead.
At the very least, she really, really, didn’t want to be found. He was following the latest lead to this small island, hoping this time he’d finally get a break. But it was a long shot. Cate Allen was a missing wife to a famously reclusive billionaire. He’d quietly offered ten million dollars for her return, but nobody knew about this except a chosen few. How he’d kept it out of the news was anyone’s guess, but Tack figured money had something to do with it. He steered clear of the other tank-top-clad college coeds on their way to spring break. At the end of the gleaming steel baggage carousels stood a group of drivers, holding up signs. One of them bore his name: Reeves.
He looked up at the woman holding it and for a second nearly froze in his tracks.
Could it be...?
On the surface, this woman looked nothing like Cate Allen, the dazzling, overly made-up brunette socialite, always in designer stilettos, Chanel suits and bright red lipstick. This woman screamed quintessential beach bum with the long blond hair in a loose braid down her back, the aviator sunglasses perched casually in t
he neckline of her scooped tee and the flip-flops on her feet exposing toes that lacked nail polish. But Tack had memorized the photos he’d trolled through online. He knew every laugh line, every little quirk of her face. His gut told him, This was her.
Nobody else had a dimple like that on her right cheek, that flirty “dare you to ask me to dance” upward quirk of her pouty lips. And no matter what she did, the woman couldn’t hide the fact that she was gorgeous. No matter how much she dressed down.
She hadn’t seen him yet, and for that Tack was grateful. He needed a minute to compose himself. He’d been hunting this woman for almost a year, and she’d stymied him at every turn. He couldn’t let himself be carried away. This could still be another dead end, the welling of hope in his chest just another precursor to disappointment.
And everything was riding on this case.
Her eyes met his then, and his knees locked up. They were greener than her photographs—a clear blue-green, like the Caribbean Sea. Damn, but she was so much more beautiful than her pictures. And they were near a perfect ten. He was just a few feet from her. She smiled at him, hesitant.
“Mr. Reeves?” she asked, and then her eyes widened a bit as he took another step closer. “You’re...tall,” she managed.
“Six-four,” Tack said. “Got my dad’s height and my mother’s forearms, just don’t tell her that,” he joked as he always did when people asked him why he was built like a tank. His mother was a big-boned woman who, years ago, didn’t mind getting after her boys with a wooden spoon when they got out of hand. The tough love apparently worked as she was now the proud mother of two marines and an army ranger.
Cate smiled, and the brightness of it took him by surprise. She certainly didn’t look like a woman with a backyard full of buried secrets. But then, the best liars always believed their own tales.
“You’re...?” He deliberately paused, studying her face.
“Cate. Cate Dalton, St. Anthony’s Resort,” she said, not missing a beat, the lie coming out of her mouth as smooth as silk.
Cate. The woman hadn’t even changed her first name. Now it all seemed so obvious, but before, when he’d been rummaging through hundreds of records, he never would’ve guessed she would’ve done something so careless. Everything else, every bit of her trail, had been so carefully scrubbed. She’d left hardly any clues. But she kept her first name.
He wanted to know why.
A little scar barely the length of a nickel ran across her chin. It hadn’t been in the photographs he’d pored through, and he wondered what it was from. “We spoke on the phone. This is your first time to the Caribbean?”
“That’s right.” He could lie, too. No need to tell her he’d been hopping from island to island for the last four months, on one goose chase after another, starting to think he needed to rethink his new career as a private eye. “Need a little R and R.”
“You’ll find it here. Where are you from?” she asked, beaming at him as she put on her sunglasses.
“Seattle.” The lie came smoothly. No need to tell her he lived in Chicago now, the same city her ex-husband, the real estate mogul, called home these days. Tack’s younger brother lived in Seattle. He visited often enough, and he’d be able to bluff his way through any further questions.
She nodded and beckoned for him to follow as she moved to the exit. She headed out the first sliding door to the bright tropical sunshine. Tack couldn’t help but watch her hips sway like a palm tree on a breezy beach. The sunlight shone on her tanned thighs, the bleached denim cutoffs hitting right at his favorite spot.
“Great view, isn’t it?” she asked him, nodding at the big blue sky above them and, in the distance, the sparkling aquamarine sea.
Tack, who couldn’t take her eyes off Cate’s just-short-enough shorts, nodded once. His view was spectacular.
Distant alarm bells in his brain told him his thoughts were wandering into dangerous territory. He needed to keep this all business. He had a job to do. A job that had more riding on it than just money.
They made their way to the small airport parking lot and an old, slightly battered minibus with St. Anthony’s Resort in faded blue paint on the side. She wasn’t exactly living the luxury resort life he’d thought she would be after taking off with so much cash. Clever, he thought. Wouldn’t be good to be flashing money around that she’d taken. Maybe she was smarter than he thought.
He stuffed his seabag into the luggage caddie behind the bus driver’s seat and settled into a worn blue bench where he could watch her drive. She climbed up into the big bus seat and looked like a child trying to reach the pedals.
“Okay, just want to apologize in advance,” she said. “I don’t normally do shuttle duty. My driver, Henry, is out today.”
Henry the driver? Maybe the socialite hasn’t wandered so far from the money, after all.
“He had to take his wife to the doctor, and I’m all left feet when it comes to driving the beast.”
“The beast?”
Cate patted the old, cracked dash affectionately. “This old girl doesn’t know how to quit, but she does know how to give one heck of a bumpy ride. You might want to fasten your seat belt.” With that, she threw the bus into gear and they launched out on the road, with Tack nearly flattened against the bus window as they jostled down the bumpy asphalt.
“Are you all right there, Mr. Reeves? Hope you don’t get carsick.”
“Nope. And call me Tack.” He stared at her decidedly not manicured nails and felt a flicker of doubt. He was 90 percent sure this was Cate Allen. But that left 10 percent uncertainty, and he didn’t like it.
He met her gaze in the oversize rearview mirror above her head.
“Sure...Tack. Unusual name.”
“Nickname, for tactical, I guess. You could say I’m a planner.” Nobody went over a mission like he did. He thought of every possible scenario far in advance. His unit thought he was crazy, but when the shit hit the fan, he was ready. He was never without a backup plan. “My parents named me Thomas, but nobody calls me that.”
“Tack.” His name sounded good coming from her pink lips. “I like it.”
He ought to be friendly, try to fish out some information, but he didn’t feel like letting down his guard. This woman, if she really was Cate Allen, was cunning and dangerous, he reminded himself, no matter how pretty her smile happened to be.
She shifted gears on the bus, and the beast protested with a black puff of smoke out the back. Tack wasn’t 100 percent sure they’d make it to the resort in this old clunker.
“You in the marines?” she asked nonchalantly, as if somehow his service were emblazoned on his forehead like a tattoo.
“Why do you say that?” He knew he sounded overly defensive. He needed to calm down. There was no way she’d be able to trace him to his employer, no way she’d find out what he was really doing on St. Anthony’s.
Cate glanced at him in the rearview, surprised. “Your luggage,” she said. “The seabag? My dad was a navy man. Let’s just say I saw a few of those in my time.”
Tack glanced at the olive-colored knapsack, wondering if he should lie, but decided not to, remembering the cardinal rule of deep cover: the truth was easier to remember. “Yeah, I used to be in the marines.”
“Where’d you serve?”
“Six tours of duty in Afghanistan.” And a dishonorable discharge. Tack wasn’t proud of that. Who would be? But if it came down to it, he’d do the same damn thing all over again. He’d take that court-martial, again and again. Sometimes, principle outranked rules.
“Well, thank you for your service,” Cate said.
He knew she probably meant well, but he wished she hadn’t said that. He’d served his country, and he’d gone through hell, so what? Lots of guys did. Lots of good men died. Some men served America who weren’t even in the armed for
ces. He thought of his brave translator, a local Afghan named Adeeb, who’d saved him more than once. Now, he was the one in trouble.
But this job could change all that. Allen had promised to help. That’s all that mattered. Tack had a job to do, and when he did it, everything would be made right.
Tack grew silent, watching as she steered the old clunker down the road. Still, why did she have to be so...nice?
She jostled them down a narrow, barely two-lane road with no lane markers and no shoulders. The tiny road wound up the coast, the view of the water brilliant below them. Cars drove on the left side here, probably because the island used to be British, before it was French and then Dutch. Battered trucks and rental hatchbacks passed them in the opposite direction. Just a line of wildflowers separated them from a plunge down a fairly steep cliff to the water below.
A loud bang shook Tack to his core, and for a second, he was right back in the godforsaken desert. Then he heard the rim of the front left tire hit the road with a deafening screech as they careened sharply to the left.
Cate went silent as her hands gripped the oversize steering wheel. The old minibus lurched dangerously close to the cliff face. Another foot and they’d be taking the shortcut to the beach, grille first. She struggled to keep the three good tires on the asphalt. Tack leaped to his feet. He leaned over the back of Cate’s seat and clutched the wheel. Her hands looked tiny compared to his as he gripped the plastic hard and tugged them away from the cliff. They managed to come to a precarious stop in the middle of the road.
“Oh, my God,” Cate breathed, her chest heaving. “We could’ve...”
“We didn’t,” Tack said, reaching over and throwing the vehicle into Park. “You okay?” He knew shock when he saw it, and Cate looked like she might faint. He moved over beside her in the open area between her and the accordion door of the minibus. “Hey, look at me.”
She stared numbly at him, eyes wide and pupils dilated. For a split second, she wasn’t a mark, and he wasn’t a detective. This was just a scared woman about to hyperventilate sitting in front of him.
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