by Cherry Adair
"First of all, we're not husband and wife. Second, I've done enough traveling. I like to stay home. Have a garden. Get a dog."
"Here, cat," Auntie said as Lucky entered through the open door and limped across the worn linoleum, tail waving like a banner behind him. "You have."
Lucky made a beeline for Tally, and wound around her ankles. But the second she crouched down to pick him up, he hissed, and laid his ears back. His back arched, and he fell over, then lay there as if he'd done it on purpose. He glared at her from his prone position. Shaking her head, Tally picked him up and set him back on his three legs. The second he was on his feet, he hissed and narrowed his eyes.
"You're behaving like an idiot, you know that?" Just like your master. Tally gave Lucky's head a quick rub before she rose.
"Cats are too independent for me." And perverse. Just like Michael.
"Home be where the heart is," Auntie said firmly as she wiped down the counters. "Only three thing happy girl need." Auntie counted off on her stubby fingers. "Something to do. Something to look forward to. Someone to love. You got. You be happy. I make poi for party later. You go swim. Lie on beach. Dream of love."
Tally didn't particularly want to dream about love, but the beach sounded like an excellent idea. "Hey, Lucky, you poor, disreputable-looking critter," she said to the sleeping cat at her feet. "Want to go to the beach with me?"
Brian's people had already fixed the holes in the hull. Clearly the movers and shakers on the island wanted Michael gone ASAP. The Nemesis was berthed on one of the side wharfs, and Michael climbed aboard. The clouds had burned off, and the sun shone brightly overhead. The sky was a brilliant blue. And he was in the mood to punch something. Somebody. Energy to burn, and no damn way to burn it. He plucked aside the elastic holding his patch and rubbed at his skin.
He didn't want to think about his aborted morning. Asshole! I'm losing my grip if I can't handle one small woman, for Christ sake!
In the good old days he would've dived overboard and swum ten miles. Instead, he dropped to the deck for a push-up marathon.
"One. Two…" He counted off. Half the anger this morning had been directed at himself. Ten. Eleven. Hell, 99 percent of it. Fifteen. Sixteen. Partly because he'd taken one look at the small—Christ, really small—body of water up at the waterfall and he'd almost passed out at the thought of getting in it. Twenty. Even with Tally. His damned stupid male pride had balked at Tally seeing his weakness. And, like a jackass, he'd taken it out on her. Which made him a prince among men.
Michael wondered, when he looked back on these days, what he'd call them? The shit old days? The screwed-up old days?
Or would he be around to wonder anything at all?
"Forty-two… forty-three…"
Damn it all to hell, inactivity was eating him alive.
Until arriving on Paradise Island, the last few months had flown by. He'd gathered every iota of intel available on Trevor Church. To heighten his chances of success, Michael had called in favors from his navy contacts, and mined his brother's antiterrorist agency, T-FLAC. The only thing he didn't know about Church was whether he took a leak five times a day, or six.
And where the hell he'd stashed the arms and munitions he'd sold to terrorist groups.
Michael was ready. More than ready…
"Sixty-two… Sixty-three." Church's buyers were due on Thursday. It was now Wednesday. All his ducks were in a row, but one.
He had twenty-four hours to find the ordnance, do what he needed to do, and wait for Church. And he had to do it in full view of anyone interested enough to be watching.
There were some extra-special party favors in Church's stash, making the bidding for this particular cargo hard and fierce, and extremely competitive.
The buyers would fly into Paradise late tomorrow. Possibly with Church on his private jet. The shipment was large, heavy, and volatile. They'd need a tanker to transport it away. The tanker couldn't get into the marina. The channel was too narrow. Which meant they'd anchor beyond the reef and ferry the boxes out.
A laborious… "Hundred-twenty…" and time-consuming endeavor. They'd need muscle and time. He'd already searched the large Quonset building used for dry dock. No evidence there of what he was looking for.
The marina had emptied out since last night. Several small sailboats, probably owned by locals, bobbed along the wharf. All the big, expensive vessels, like the Mangusta, were gone. Michael frowned, because if the boats were gone, then so was most of the muscle needed to do the transfer on Friday.
Arms burning, endorphins pumping, he leaped to his feet and went below. He grabbed a soda from the fridge, popping it open as he closed and locked the door to the galley behind him, then drew the small blue curtain across the windows.
Michael gulped the fizzy soda, then rubbed the cold can across his sweaty chest. Thanks to his brother-in-law Jake's sleight-of-hand inventions, the Nemesis could've sailed yesterday, even with those fist-size holes he'd made in the hull.
Those had taken a full day to repair. Now it was lunchtime, and the workers had disappeared like smoke. He had a couple of hours to look busy, then he'd go for a run and the hellish long walk down the beach.
He checked methodically to see that none of his fail-safe precautions had been breeched. "Thanks, Jake, my man." The guy was a master at disguising the obvious.
He spent several more minutes rechecking everything, then unlocked the door and climbed into the wheelhouse. He chose a nice big hammer from the tool kit he kept in a locker. Useless for anything he'd need to do serious repairs on the boat, but it was suitably noisy.
All he had to do was make it sound good. He picked an unobtrusive spot inside a cabinet and started slamming the hammer against the wood, heedless of the crescent-shaped marks he left behind. He just wanted to make a showing, and it allowed him to sound very busy.
For almost a year he'd slept when exhausted, ate when hungry, and quite literally sailed into the sunset. Despite the loss of an eye, he was as healthy as he'd ever been.
Having his health didn't give him back who he'd been before Trevor Church had turned his life to shit. He was no longer a Navy SEAL, so what did that make him now?
Being a Navy SEAL wasn't who he was… Michael paused to wipe sweat from his face, then took the blue handkerchief out of his back pocket, twirled it, and tied the narrow band around his forehead to keep the sweat out of his eyes. Eye.
Would this hollow feeling in his chest ever leave? Because, of course being a Navy SEAL was who he was. In his heart. His soul. His gut. With every fiber of his being. He missed what he no longer had. A feeling of purpose. The camaraderie. The knowledge that he was making a difference.
The severed limb of his life ached with a phantom pain that nothing could assuage.
Bottom line. No eye, no career.
Not with the navy, anyway.
Perhaps when he'd completed this op, he'd consider his brother's offer to join T-FLAC.
His baby sister, Marnie, had married Jake Dolan, and at least one of the Four Musketeers, Kyle, was probably married by now, too. One down, two brothers to go. Kane and Derek. Michael counted himself out of the happily-ever-after scenario.
He'd thought about it once with Maria. Briefly.
But after she'd left, the urge had faded. He'd had his career. He'd had a good life and a great, close-knit family. And he had terrific friends. He hadn't needed anything, or anyone else.
Then he'd crossed paths with Trevor Church.
His life was FUBAR.
His family couldn't reach him.
He'd lost an eye, and most of his courage.
And he'd killed his best friend.
Other than that, things were fine, just fucking fine.
Meantime, he had a boat to pretend to repair. He gave a satisfyingly loud whack to the inside of the cupboard. The blow vibrated up his arm. It felt so good, he whacked it again. And again.
Unbidden came a flash of Tally out there on the lava field this mor
ning. His verbal assault had been bloodless and painfully direct. His own damn fault for allowing her to get close. He didn't know which made him feel worse: the hurt in her eyes, or the total absence of joy that had been there only moments before. It was as though a candle flame had been snuffed out. Bullshit. He was getting maudlin for no reason.
She was an adult, damn it.
He slammed the hammer down on the wood so hard, the clawed head flew off. Michael nearly lost his good eye as the metal shot past, missing his cheek by an inch. He swore virulently.
Hell. It didn't matter. He resumed his countdown. Twenty-four hours. Twenty-four fucking hours. He could keep his equipment in his pants and look for the ordnance.
He thought of Tally's narrow, bare feet with fire-engine red polish on her innocent toes last night. And her mouth, with that short upper lip, the full curve of her lower lip, and got hard.
Yeah. He was still a fully functioning male. BFD.
But not with her. If he had sex now, he wanted it with someone nasty. Someone who would give him hard, down and dirty, raw sex. With no pretense. If he had sex now, he'd want the woman to be big and meaty. Someone who'd want it as bad as he did and then go away.
If he had sex now, he'd empty himself, and maybe, just maybe, find a few moments of peace.
If he could work up the enthusiasm.
Tally Cruise wasn't his type. Not by a long shot. Too delicate. Too uptight. Frankly, she would be too much work for far too little reward, plus she'd expect too much in return.
Michael spent the next hour doing busywork, fixing things that really didn't need it, trying to keep his brain too busy to wonder what Tally was doing. His stomach rumbled. He'd screwed up their picnic lunch earlier, and now he was hungry as hell. He debated going back to the bar for a meal. Not yet. He wasn't hungry enough to face the elegant Tally and the hurt in her eyes.
Hell with it. He'd work himself into exhaustion, and when dusk fell he'd take the long walk down the beach.
He felt a faint give and rock of the Nemesis as someone boarded. Light footfalls brushed across the deck. He cocked his head.
Not the elegant Ms. Cruise. These feet were bare, calloused. Tally was no doubt off somewhere shoring up her wounded pride and trying to figure out how to make lemonade from the lemon that was him.
"Avatea. I bring for you the Coca-Cola."
Michael glanced over his shoulder. Well, well, well. He straightened and turned. Leli'a. Niece of Auntie. Now here was a pair of hungry eyes that knew exactly what they were offering.
Long black hair flowed over plump shoulders bared by a teal and white pareu snugly wrapped around the girl's voluptuous body. She was quite beautiful and knew it. She wanted something, and Michael knew it.
"Thanks." He took the can and leaned back against the teak rail to open it. The soda was warm, but he was thirsty enough to drink it, anyway.
"Auntie say I bring." Black eyes sparkled as she gave him the age-old up and down. "O Leli'a to'u l'oa… Leli'a my name," she repeated in English. "You like?"
"I remember." Mildly amused, Michael drank the warm soda. "A very pretty name. Is Auntie really your aunt?"
The girl shrugged. "Auntie everybody auntie."
Over Leli'a's shoulder, Michael watched Tally pick her way across the street from the bar and head toward the beach. She'd changed into mint green shorts, and a skimpy little tank top. From this distance, she appeared cool and, damn it, unaffected. The woman always wore too many clothes. And when that thought occurred, the next was getting her out of them.
Shit.
"…with me?"
Michael glanced at the girl beside him. "To?"
Leli'a's lush lips tightened. "To the ori… dance. For Auntie's birthday. Tonight. I ask."
Now, here was an opportunity for raw, uncomplicated sex. So how come he wasn't jumping at the chance? His gaze drifted from Miss Plump and Ready to Miss Wounded Eyes, and he had his answer. "Honey, I'm ten years too old for you. At least. Don't you have a boyfriend?"
"I have, yes. No." Pride, then denial. "No boyfriend."
"Thanks, but no thanks." Michael didn't bother to soften the rejection. He didn't have the time or inclination for childish games. He wasn't here to make some lovesick swain tow the line for this little coquette, nor was he going to be used for her teething.
For a few moments he lost sight of Tally as she skirted a clump of shrubs and sea grasses and headed down the slope to the sand.
"I appreciate the drink." He handed her back the empty can. "Now I've got work to do." Tally's dark hair shone in the sun as she stepped onto the soft, white sand and headed along the waterline.
"You be having the sex with Arnaud's wife?" Leli'a followed his line of sight, then glanced up at him, dark eyes flashing.
"Arnaud's wife?"
"E oia, you not know this?"
"No," Michael said flatly.
"Is good. Fix boat quick, quick. Take her far away to New York City. Nobody want here."
Arnaud's wife. That put a different spin on things. Goddamn it. "Why's that?" he asked tightly. Arnaud's wife, for Christ sake.
Leli'a gave an eloquent shrug. "Nobody like. Man want girl he can find in sheets. She be too skinny. And very ugly."
Ah. "Is that why you pushed her down the stairs last night?" Michael asked blandly. "Because she's skinny and ugly?"
"It dark. She clumsy and stupid. Fall down stair all by self."
Yeah. Right.
But that didn't explain the Frenchman with the knife. Or why Tally hadn't mentioned the small detail of a husband when she'd asked him this afternoon if he'd ever been married.
As his sister, Marnie, used to say when she was a kid, "The thick plottens."
Tally removed her sandals, carrying them in one hand as she strolled down the beach. Beneath her shorts and tank top, she wore her swimsuit. In her bag she carried a towel, a can of soda, an apple, and her book.
She wasn't going to give the pirate Michael Wright one more thought this afternoon. She'd already decided what to do about his stinky attitude. But that was for later.
She'd find a shady spot near those rocks at the end of the beach, settle in, and veg out with her book for the rest of the afternoon. It was probably a couple of miles, at least, but although the sun was high and hot, a pleasant, balmy breeze ruffled her hair. She'd given up on keeping the sleek, sophisticated hairstyle she usually preferred in Chicago. The damp sea air and hot weather brought out the curl, no matter what she did.
She paused, lifting her sunglasses to look out across the sea. Breathtaking. She and her mother had come to Tahiti looking for Trevor when Tally had been about eleven. They hadn't found him, of course. He'd remained well-hidden, almost under Bev's nose. Tally had spent her days alone on the beach, her nights watching movies in their room as her mother had scoured the bars and hot spots. Tally's more vivid memories were of that hotel room and how lonely she'd felt, rather than the color of the surrounding ocean.
Because of being dragged around as a kid, Tally had deliberately avoided overseas travel as an adult. Silly, really, but she'd consciously wanted to purge the smell of desperation and sadness from her life that had come from traveling with her mother.
But this was different. Different not only because she was here as an adult, but because Trevor had, at last, invited her.
Tally felt a rush of pleasure, and with a laugh spun around in a little dance of joyous anticipation. Oh, she couldn't wait to see her father.
Her childhood memories were of a huge man, strong as he lifted her over his head. She remembered the sound of his voice on the phone, telling her about faraway places and grand adventures. Perhaps she'd built a little on those images. What the hell? She was no longer that starry-eyed optimist—
She laughed out loud. Yes, she was.
He'd made no bones about disliking kids, but she'd grown up. There was so much she wanted to know about him. So much she wanted to tell him about herself, her life. Twenty-seven years of anticipation pu
lsed and glowed like the angel at the top of the Christmas tree.
Even though Trevor had sent her the airline ticket to come to him, she'd tried to caution herself not to expect too much. Years of disappointment warned her to keep her hopes and expectations in check. Between visits with her father, she'd embellished her mother's opinions about Trevor Church until he was some sort of godlike creature. Tally had built her father up in her mind to heroic proportions. Her expectations had always been unrealistically high, so it was natural that by the time she saw him again, she'd been doomed to disappointment.
But there was a huge difference between trying to bond over a meal every couple of years and being together for a week or more. Tally was determined to take this opportunity, and to view her father through the eyes of an adult. If they didn't like each other at the end of this vacation, then they didn't like each other. So be it. But she was going to give this her best shot and keep an open mind.
Tally inhaled a deep breath of salty fresh air and sighed it out. Life was good.
Despite that man coming to her room and scaring the bejesus out of her, this was turning out to be a great vacation. The weather was glorious. The island idyllic. A handsome man was attracted to her, she was giddy with delight at the prospect of flirting with him later, and right now she had a picture-perfect beach all to herself.
Oh, yes. This was turning into a vacation to remember. She wasn't going to miss a single second of it.
Gulls, white-breasted and noisy, wheeled in a cloudless blue sky above the marina. Michael was there, she knew, fixing his boat.
But she wasn't going to think about him. She refused to think about the way he made her laugh, or the mocking slant of his mobile mouth when he talked about himself. She refused to think of how gentle he could be, or how tender. And she absolutely refused to think about the quick flash of fear she'd seen in his eye before he'd verbally slapped her. Probably just her imagination.
Still, she'd wanted to draw him close and hold him in her arms to comfort him. Silly, Michael Wright gave every appearance of a man capable of taking care of himself.
