More military heroes. More indomitable heroines. One UNIFORMLY HOT! mini-series.

Don’t miss a story in Blaze’s bestselling miniseries,

featuring irresistible soldiers from all

branches of the armed forces.

Don’t miss:

BORN READY by Lori Wilde March 2012

and…

ONCE A HERO… by Jillian Burns May 2012

UNIFORMLY HOT!— The Few. The Proud. The Sexy as Hell.

Available wherever Mills & Boon books are sold.

Dear Reader,

I love the UNIFORMLY HOT mini-series, so I was thrilled when I got the chance to write one. And since the US Coast Guard is the most neglected branch of military service, I thought why not honour those brave men and women protecting the nation’s borders? Immediately, I pictured my hero, Scott Everly, in action—stalwart, strong, always prepared. (And let’s not forget hot and good-looking.) Everything a good protector should be.

Then came the job of choosing the right heroine for this masculine Coast Guard, and that’s when Jackie Birchard was born. She’s the daughter of a Jacques Cousteau-like oceanographer, who recently broke off from her father’s influence to blaze her own trail in marine biology. When she and Scott meet, things do not go smoothly.

But love has a way of creeping up on you and it’s no different for Scott and Jackie. I hope you enjoy learning about scuba diving, the Florida Keys, marine biology and the endangered Key Bleeny as much as I enjoyed researching them. So sit back, relax and join Scott and Jackie on their Florida beach.

To see the “making of” Born Ready, visit my blog at http://wildelori.blogspot.com/. You’ll find a mosaic collage featuring Key West, Scott, Jackie and the activities depicted in the story, along with a musical playlist of songs I listened to while writing the book.

Happy reading,

Lori Wilde

About the Author

LORI WILDE is a New York Times bestselling author and has written more than forty books. She’s been nominated for a RITA® Award and four RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice Awards. Her books have been excerpted in Cosmopolitan, Redbook and Quick & Simple. Lori teaches writing online through Ed2go. She’s also an RN trained in forensics and she volunteers at a women’s shelter. Visit her website at www.loriwilde.com.

Born Ready

Lori Wilde

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To the US Coast Guard.

Thank you for keeping our borders safe.

1

Semper Paratus (Always Prepared)

—Motto of The United States Coast Guard

SIX MONTHS CHASTE.

Coast Guard Lieutenant Commander Scott Everly had gone six long months without sex, although in all honesty it felt more like six years.

Unintended celibacy weighed heavily on his mind and body as he paddled his kayak through the mangrove channel, using vigorous physical exercise to sublimate his baser needs. He’d tried it all. Jogging, strength training, boxing, but in spite of his daily workouts, insomnia plagued him.

Digging deep, he pushed himself harder, rowing full-out until his shoulder, back and chest muscles ached with just the right kind of sweetness.

“Better than sex,” he lied to himself. “Who needs sex when you’ve got all this?”

The early Monday-morning sun bathed warm rays, the color of Florida grapefruits, across the deep green, tree-shrouded landscape. It was good to be home again, even if it was only for three weeks. He was on leave, although the joke in the ranks was that a Coastie never went on vacation; they were born ready for action.

While he loved his commission in D.C., he missed Key West and his family something fierce. He was a Conch through and through, but when it came down to it, as long as he was near water, Scott was a happy guy.

As third generation Coast Guard, sea brine flowed through his veins, and he considered himself the luckiest man on the face of the earth to be doing a job he loved.

Scott had come home for his younger sister’s wedding a week from this coming Saturday. How could it be that Megan was old enough to marry? It seemed like just yesterday that he was pulling her pigtails and putting bullfrogs down the back of her shirt.

He breathed in the heated scent of summer—ripe mangos, tangy lime, earthy loam and murky tide pools. The air smelled rich, sticky and uniquely Key West. A fish jumped, tail slapping against the water, before sinking back below the wet depths. Overhead, blue-white clouds bunched in the waning darkness, voluptuous as a plump woman’s bottom. Scott had an urge to reach up and pinch the sky.

Knock it off. He was daydreaming about goosing clouds? How pathetic was that?

“Snap out of it,” he growled under his breath.

It’s been too long, old buddy. Way too long.

He was thirty years old, in the best shape of his life and he hadn’t had sex in six months, one week, three days and twenty-one hours. Not that he was counting or anything.

His last relationship ended because his girlfriend had wanted him to leave the Coast Guard. Too dangerous, Amber had said. He’d already been injured twice. Why push his luck?

He’d flat out told her no. She’d known who and what he was when they’d started dating. If she cared about him, she wouldn’t ask him to change.

She said she couldn’t bear it if he ended up like this father, killed in the line of duty, and she refused to be like his mom. Widowed at forty.

Hell, she might as well have asked him to quit breathing. He’d learned one thing from that relationship. His ideal mate had to accept him just as he was—military career and all. He was done bending himself into a pretzel to please a woman.

Unless of course it was in bed.

Grinning, he stuck his oar into the water, pushed aggressively against the current. A gator slipped from the banks into the channel right behind him, but Scott didn’t pay much attention. He was bent on getting sexual frustration out of his system before meeting an old friend for breakfast. Alligators were a fact of life in Florida and as long as you didn’t do anything stupid, they generally minded their own business.

Six months.

The longest dry spell he’d had since college. He was a charming guy and he knew it. He’d been graced with his father’s good looks and his mother’s outgoing personality. Usually he had no trouble coaxing a willing lady into his bed, but as much as he wanted sex, short, hot liaisons had oddly lost their appeal.

What he couldn’t figure out was why. Maybe it was because his baby sister was getting married. Megan’s wedding made him realize he wasn’t getting any younger, but then again neither was he ready for commitment.

So what do you want? Sex or a relationship?

That was the quandary and explained his lengthy dry spell. Scott blew out his breath and rounded the bend.

That’s when he saw her.

Where the channel turned into an estuary just before it joined the sea, a lone woman bobbed in a small dinghy.

A precarious spot. Rocky shoals. Swift current. And there were the gators. Not to mention bull sharks.

Instantly, his protective instincts engaged. What was she doing out here alone at this hour of the morning when dew still dampened the air and darkness lingered in the shadow of the mangrove trees?

Was she unaware of the trouble she could get into? Between drug smugglers, human traffickers, deadly wildlife and the tourist trade that attracted scores of inebriated college students, Key West was not a place to be taken casually. As much as he loved the tropical beauty of his hometown, as a Coast Guard officer he knew all the locale’s dirty little secrets.

The woman stood up in the boat, her back to him. The skiff rocked gently.

What was she up to?

She held something in her hands, but he couldn’t make out what it was. Damn, he wished he had binoculars.

From what he could see of her she was thin as a sapling. Scott preferred women with a little meat on their bones. He liked rounded bellies, curvaceous butts and lush thighs. This woman could do with a double helping of his homemade chicken and dumplings. A thick slab of his famous Key lime cheesecake wouldn’t do her any harm, either.

Still there was something about her that instantly attracted his attention and it went much deeper than looks. Yes, she was pretty, but in a careless way, as if she couldn’t be bothered with anything as shallow as tending to her looks. She possessed both intense concentration and a quiet serenity that called to him.

She lowered whatever she held in her hands into the water via a black cable.

Scowling, Scott changed directions and paddled toward her, territorial impulses driving him. Who was she and what was she doing here?

He drew closer, but she never glanced up from her task. His kayak glided over the water, swiftly, silently. If she were up to something illegal, wouldn’t she be more furtive? Or maybe she was just that arrogant.

She bent at the waist, her white cotton T-shirt riding up to expose her smooth, slender back and showing off her heart-shaped butt. From the waistband of her low-rise blue jean shorts, a red thong bikini peeked out.

Scott stared as if he’d never seen a woman in a thong, angling his head for a better look and feeling his pulse quicken. What was that all about? Normally, he was a pretty even-tempo guy and this woman was not his usual type.

And yet … and yet he could not stop staring at her.

A pair of mile-long legs tapering to skinny, but shapely calves had his breath coming out in hot, tight rasps.

Exertion. It was nothing more than exertion.

Yeah? You exercise every morning and you’ve never gotten short of breath like this before.

Curiosity tickled the back of his neck. Interest tingled his hands. Startling desire stirred beneath the zipper of his khaki shorts.

Leave her be. She’s not your concern. You need to turn around now if you want to be on time for your breakfast meeting.

But he kept stroking straight toward her, hands curled tightly around the bent shaft of the fiberglass paddle, because she was his concern. If anything happened to her, he’d feel forever guilty for not warning her about the dangers of boating alone in the Key West mangroves.

Um, you’re alone.

That was different. He was a guy, for one thing, a native for another and third, he carried a gun.

Is that really why you’re going over? To warn her?

Of course it was the reason. He was Coast Guard. Even though he wasn’t on duty, he’d been raised to look after people on the coastal waterways. “A Coast Guard,” his father had been fond of saying, “is a shepherd of the seas.” The Coast Guard motto was Semper Paratus. Always prepared.

The glare of the rising sun caught him squarely in the face. He squinted, wished he’d worn sunglasses, his gaze fixed on the woman in the dinghy. He turned his kayak away from the sun, hungry for a second look.

She straightened in silhouette, a lithe figure in the splendid dawn. The denim shorts she wore were cutoffs with unraveling threads. One side was higher than the other as if she’d just grabbed a pair of scissors and whacked away without measuring.

Scott didn’t mind. The shorter side revealed a glimpse of where her firmed thigh rounded into her buttock. He had an overwhelming urge to press his mouth to that sweet spot and nibble.

A shiver went through him and sweat popped out on his forehead. Look away. Paddle away. Get out of here.

He didn’t move.

She reached for the hem of her T-shirt and in one quick swoop tugged it over her head, revealing a red bikini top that matched her bottoms. Although she was not overly endowed, she curved in all the right places.

More than a mouthful is a waste anyway, his best friend since grade school, entrepreneur Gibb Martin, loved to say about small-breasted women. He’d heard somewhere that the French considered the perfect breast size to be one that could fit into a wineglass. Frankly, Scott was more of a leg man. There was a reason Rod Stewart’s “Hot Legs” was on his MP3 player and this woman had hot legs in spades.

Her hands went to the snap of her denim shorts and in two seconds flat, she was standing in the wavering boat wearing nothing more concealing than a thong bikini, still seemingly unaware of his presence.

Scott held his breath. He shouldn’t have been so impressed. For hell’s sake, women strutted the beaches of Key West in thongs every day of the week. Many of them moving straight from sand to asphalt without a cover-up for the famed Duval Street Crawl. Key West was free and easy. Residents and tourists alike came here to let it all hang out. He should not have been slack-jawed.

But he was and he had no idea why.

Sure you do. You’re six months backed up and she’s a nearly naked water nymph.

So he should mind his own damn business and head back. Smart. So why was he still drifting here, his gaze glued to her backside?

Don’t be a tool, fool. Go.

His skin sweated against the kayak oar, his fingers curled so tightly that his short nails bit into his palms. He caressed her with his eyes from the top of her caramel-colored hair pulled back into a ponytail that just grazed the strap of her bikini top, to the nip of her waist, to the flare of her hips.

Then she gave a graceful little hop and dived headfirst into the murky water. The muted splash echoed softly down the channel.

She disappeared from view and the last he saw of her were cute toes painted pearly peach flipping gracefully as a dolphin’s fin. He waited, and his temples started to pound. He realized he was holding his breath.

Exhaling, he glanced at his sports watch. She’d been down there for over a full minute. Just when he was getting worried, she came up on the side of the boat closest to him. Talk about superior lung capacity.

Water glistened on her high cheekbones, rolled off her full lips. Her hair lay plastered against her skin. She looked like a beguiling mermaid.

Splash, Splash. Catch of the day.

Scott ran a palm across his mouth, tasted the saltiness of desire on the back of his tongue. It was too early in the morning for thoughts like this.

Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut. She tossed her head, sent water flying over him, her legs gently threading water.

Then her indigo eyes opened.

She did not startle. In fact, she seemed utterly self-possessed. As if she’d known all along that he was watching her. Who was this woman?

Their gazes locked.

A swell of thundering heat rolled through his veins, rushed straight to his groin.

She did not smile. Did not speak. She didn’t have to. He could feel her disdain.

His head spun and a burst of adrenaline sent his pulse skipping. What the hell was this? Some kind of extreme horniness he’d never felt before?

He’d come over here to warn her off boating alone. Cockily portraying the protector. Donning his Coast Guard mien. Preparing to show off his knowledge. But one look into that enigmatic face and something shifted.

Tilted.

Suddenly, Scott couldn’t help feeling that he was the one in danger.

DOCTORAL STUDENT Jacqueline Birchard blinked water from her eyes. She was so wrapped up in her research project that she barely even registered the man floating in the kayak, her mind whirling with thoughts of the endangered Key blenny.

Everything was ready to go. A Kevlar cable laced with monitoring instruments lay anchored to a metal platform that extended from the floor of the estuary to just below the surface—that’s what she’d just dived down to check on. She had a lab set up in the waterfront apartment she rented in town for the summer and she was receiving constant satellite feed from the underwater equipment. She had minimized all her obligations for complete immersion into this independent research project for her doctorial dissertation.

This was it. The time had come at last.

Jackie hovered on the verge of making her mark as a marine biologist and proving to her father, once and for all, that she was worthy of the name Birchard. Her success hinged on finding the elusive Key blenny.

The man with movie star good looks cleared his throat.

Jackie slid her hand over her face, dispersing the water. She had never much liked handsome men. By and large they cared too much about what people thought of them. Got too caught up in appearances. She had no patience for vanity or idle chitchat. Life was too precious to waste on the insubstantial. The planet was in trouble. Mother Earth in pain. Global warming threatened the oceans. Mankind was rapidly working to do itself in.

She was on a mission to save the world, and with it, her relationship with her father. She had no time for pleasantries. This guy was in her way.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m Scott Everly.”

Annoyed at being interrupted, Jackie glowered. Ugh. It was just her bad luck to stumble across some idiotic tourist at seven o’clock in the morning. If he asked her a stupid question, she might have to hurt him. “Bully for you.”

Instead of putting him off as she intended, her curt comment brought an enigmatic smile to his lips. Good God, was he trying to charm her? Seriously?

“What are you doing?” he asked, earnest as a golden retriever.

Oh, she was going to ignore that. Ignore him. This was not Oceanography 101. She had no obligation to tell him anything. She turned and swam toward her boat.

“There are bull sharks in the mangrove channels.”

“Uh-huh,” she said absentmindedly, her thoughts already back on the Key blenny.

“That doesn’t scare you?”

Go away. “Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Incidents of shark attacks are actually quite low,” she said. “If you look at statistics, in Florida you’re ten times more likely to be hit by lightning.”

“But bull sharks are one of the most aggressive species, right behind great white and tiger sharks.”

“Been watching a lot of shark week on the Discovery Channel, have you?”

He grinned. It was the kind of charismatic, come-hither grin that would have weakened the knees of most women, but not Jackie. “What if I have?”

“I’d say, don’t believe everything you hear on TV.”

He gave a fake gasp. “No?”

“Bull sharks are declining in number in Key West.”

“Really?”

She shrugged. “People fish them for their meat, hides and oils.”

“Are you a vegan?”

“No.”

He cocked his head. “You’re different.”

Jackie rolled her eyes. Her toe found the submerged step at the back of her boat and she pulled herself up, knowing all the while he was staring at her butt.

Don’t look at him. Don’t encourage him.

She had an urge to readjust her swimsuit bottom but she didn’t do that, either. No need to call even more attention to her ass.

But she couldn’t quite resist taking a small peek over her shoulder. Not because he intrigued her. Because he didn’t. Not at all. Jackie lived in her head, not her body. She was not one of those women always looking for the next guy to hook up with. Sex was fine for what it was worth, but when mixed with emotion, it invariably turned into a big hairy mess. She had no time or patience for that kind of drama.

And Mr. Perky over there looked like he was totally into the games people play.

He had a bright face, as welcoming and shiny as the morning sun. He possessed tanned skin and startlingly white teeth. His chocolate-brown hair was cut in a short, well-kept style, a poster boy for the healthy island lifestyle. He looked as wholesome as orange juice. It was enough to give a cynical woman the heebie-jeebies.

“Do you need help with anything?” he asked.

Back off, Skippee. “No.”

She purposefully pulled up the white plastic milk jug she’d used as a buoy to mark this spot the previous day. It helped her find her way back, but she didn’t want to advertise the location. The last thing she needed was some nosy tourist like Skippee here mucking with the expensive instruments she’d borrowed from the University of California. Which was why she was pulling up the milk jug. She would trade it out for a smaller, more inconspicuous buoy once Skippee left.

“You do realize that while the seclusion is peaceful, it’s really not a good idea to go boating and swimming alone. Bad things could happen and there would be no one here to help,” he said ominously.

Jackie didn’t scare easily. Living twenty-six years with Dr. Jack Birchard cured her of that. But this guy was starting to creep her out. “I have a cell phone. I can call the Coast Guard.”

“What if you severed an artery? They couldn’t get here in time to save you.”

“The bull sharks again?”

“There’s human predators, as well.”

Normally, whenever she was unsettled, she withdrew into her mind, where she kept a rich supply of knowledge and fantasies to ruminate over. That skill helped her survive a childhood of an absentee mother and a demanding, famous father with standards as high as the moon.

But whenever she was cornered—as she was now; she couldn’t exactly go off and leave her claim vulnerable to this stranger—she went on the offensive. Another skill she’d learned from dealing with her father. If you didn’t stand up to Dr. Jack at some point, he’d steamroll over you, turning you into a human pancake.

Jackie spun around in the boat, hands planted on her hips, and donned her fiercest scowl, the one that usually sent men scrambling for cover. “Are you threatening me?”

His hands shot up so fast in a gesture of surrender that he dropped his kayak paddle. “No, not at all. I didn’t mean to make you feel threatened. I wasn’t threatening you. I’m sorry if you felt threatened.”

He looked so contrite that she almost smiled. Scott leaned over and plucked his paddle from the water, but when he raised his head, his gaze strayed to her chest. He stared long and hard. That’s when she realized her nipples were beaded tight beneath her bikini top.

Men. Jackie snorted. They were so predictable.

Still, she couldn’t help feeling a flush of embarrassment.

Quickly, he yanked his gaze from her chest, and met her cool stare.

A shot of pure sexual awareness buzzed into the center of Jackie’s solar plexus. The sensation was so intense that she gulped to keep from taking an involuntary step backward and she brought a hand to her tingling lips.

Scott’s gray eyes widened and he looked as befuddled as she felt.

Time skipped, glitched.

They exhaled simultaneously, the sound softly explosive in the balmy air. The boat wobbled. Jackie had actually been born at sea, on her father’s research vessel, the Sea Anemone, and she always felt more balanced on water than she ever did on land. But now, she felt strangely tremulous.

Withdraw! Withdraw!

But there was nowhere to go. Scrambling to find her equilibrium, she focused on her bare feet, pushing her toes flat against the bottom of the boat.

Scott ran his right hand through his hair. The gesture moved the cuff of his T-shirt sleeve upward, revealing a deep puckered scar on the underside of his upper arm. It looked like he’d been shot with a harpoon.

Startled, she felt a knot of attraction form in the pit of her stomach. Oh, this was crap. She couldn’t like him simply because he suffered. For all she knew he was a drug dealer and that’s why he’d been harpooned. Mangrove channels made for great outlaw hideouts.

But somehow she wasn’t getting that vibe from him. Then again, she wasn’t particularly intuitive when it came to people. Plants and animals and fish, yes. Human beings? Not so much.

So there was absolutely no reason for her to be wondering what he looked like without a shirt on. His biceps were hard as baseballs. If his arms were that awesome, chances were his abs were equally spectacular.

She did not want to go there, but her rebellious stare slipped from his arm to his chest and on down to—

Jacqueline Michele Birchard you will not look at that man’s crotch.

Then something alarming occurred to her. What if he was spying on her? Oceanography was a viciously competitive field. Could he be out to steal her research project?

Don’t be so mistrustful. How likely is that?

Not likely at all, but she was her father’s daughter. She knew what kind of tricks people pulled to get a leg up in this cutthroat business.

Jackie snapped her gaze back to his face and said curtly, “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Everly, I have things to take care of.”

“You never did tell me your name.” His voice was low, teasing.

And she didn’t want to tell him now. She didn’t trust him any farther than she could toss him. “Jackie,” she said.

“No last name?”

She hated dropping the Birchard name, but maybe if she gave him a name, he’d go away. “Birch. Jackie Birch.”

Only half a lie. Still, she didn’t like fudging the truth.

“Well, Jackie Birch, you have a nice morning.”

“Thanks. You, too,” she said automatically. All she wanted was for him to go away so she could get back to work.

“And seriously, do bring someone with you the next time you’re on the water. The buddy system works best out here.”

“Yes, yes.” Beat it, Skippee.

“I’d hate for anything to happen to you.” His smoky voice caressed her ears.

Then there she was again feeling completely unbalanced.

Without another word, he put his oar in the water, turned his kayak and paddled away, leaving Jackie stumped, stymied, suspicious and more than a tad sexually attracted to a total stranger.

She didn’t like it. Not one bit.

2

The Coast Guard is the shepherd of the seas.

—Late Chief Warrant Officer Benjamin Everly

UNITED STATES COAST GUARD Station Key West was a major base in the 7th District founded in 1824. Sector Key West was a unified command consisting of two patrol boats, eight duel boats and three small boat stations. Even though it was a small unit, Sector Key West’s responsibilities encompassed 55,000 square miles of territory, including the borders of Cuba and the Bahamas.

Every time Scott walked into his father’s old headquarters, a thrill ran through him. This was where he’d first fallen head over heels for the Coast Guard. His love for his chosen career had only deepened with time. He was living his father’s legacy. You couldn’t put a price on that kind of pride.

Although now he worked out of D.C., his heart still belonged to Sector Key West.

The place always stirred memories, but today his thoughts stayed anchored on the woman in the red bikini. In his mind’s eye he kept seeing her standing in the boat, vulnerable, fierce and sexy as hell. She’d said her name was Jackie Birch but that did nothing to alleviate his curiosity.

Who was this Jackie Birch, besides a pretty woman who swam alone in the mangroves? And why did he keep wondering what she would taste like if he kissed her?

“Scott!” Marcy Dugan, the civilian public relations liaison, exclaimed. Marcy was in her mid-forties, almost as tall as Scott, with a whip-thin figure from running marathons. “It’s so good to see you.”

“Don’t I get a hug?” He held out his arms.

“Of course.” She embraced him. “It’s so good to have you home.”

His strongest memory of Marcy was at his father’s funeral ten years ago. At the graveside, she’d placed a palm against his back and whispered, “Your father was so proud of you. I know you’re going to live up to his expectations.”

He’d done his best to do just that.

“How’s Megan?” she asked.

“Flustered. She keeps second-guessing herself on every decision.”

“All brides are nervous before the wedding. There’s so much pressure.”

“She really seems happy, though.”

“Dave’s a good guy,” Marcy said, referring to Megan’s fiancé.

“I’m glad to hear he gets your stamp of approval. I haven’t had a chance to really get to know him yet.”

Marcy smiled. “You’re having a hard time letting go of your baby sister.”

“Am I that transparent?”

“Yes.” She linked her arm through his. “But that’s okay. You’ve always looked after her.”

“Except she doesn’t need me to take care of her anymore.” He was surprised to hear a wistful note in his voice.

“It’s time for you to find a wife who will appreciate your protective qualities.”

“Too bad you’re not available,” he teased.

“Flirt.”

“If you ever get tired of Carl—” he winked “—you know where to find me.”

“Hitting on my wife again, Everly?” Chief Warrant Officer Carl Dugan drawled as he came down the hall toward them. Carl had been born in Corpus Christi, Texas, and although he’d lived in Florida for most his life, he never lost his Lone Star accent. “You’re late.”

“Normally, Carl eats breakfast at 6:00 a.m. sharp,” Marcy said, slipping her arm around her husband’s waist and patting his flat belly. “He held off for breakfast with you, so he’s bit cranky.”

Carl, while good-natured, didn’t believe in excuses, so Scott didn’t offer him one. Besides, how would it sound if he said he was late because he’d been ogling a girl in a red bikini? “My apologies, sir.”

“You can stop calling me sir. You outrank me now.”

“That’s never going to happen. I was calling you sir long before I ever joined the Coast Guard.”

“Well, you’re on vacation so I guess I can let your tardiness slide,” Carl joked. “I’m hungry as a whale. How about you?”

“You know me. I can always eat.”

“See you boys later.” Marcy wriggled her fingers.

“You’re not coming with us?” Scott raised an eyebrow.

Marcy said, “I’ve got a busload of middle-school students coming by for a field trip.”

“Better you than me,” Scott said.

“You’d be great with kids. Just wait until you have little nieces and nephews running around.”

Scott put both hands over his ears. “That’s my baby sister you’re talking about.”

Marcy laughed.

The three of them left the building together. Carl stopped to kiss Marcy’s cheek before she branched off in the direction of the parking lot. “Have a good breakfast.”

Without speaking, Scott and Carl fell into lockstep. Scott didn’t have to ask. He knew they were having breakfast at the Lighthouse Restaurant just across the pier from the base. The familiar call of seagulls whinged overhead. The salty air carried on it a hint of coconut. Morning sun glistened glassy blue off the waves.

He paused on the pier to take a deep breath of home and Carl stopped, seeming to understand that Scott needed a moment. It was good to be back.

They walked into the restaurant, greeted by the clatter of dishes and the hum of voices. Most everyone in the place was Coast Guard of one fashion or the other—active duty, reservists, auxiliary or family members of Coasties. People waved and called out to them.

The hostess knew Carl by name and led them to his regular booth that looked out over the water.

On the wall behind them was a ten-year-old photograph of Carl with Scott’s father, Ben. They wore their navy blue operational dress uniforms and had their arms slung over each other’s shoulders. Looking like brothers, they grinned for the camera.

The picture had been snapped just after they’d completed a successful search-and-rescue mission for missing teens who had taken out a sailboat without permission and got caught in a squall.

It was the last photo ever taken of Scott’s dad. Two weeks later, he was dead, killed in a drug interdiction operation. Psychologists might have said Scott had gone into the same line of work as his father as a way to avenge his death. They would have been half-right.

“How you been?” Carl asked.

The question was more perfunctory than fact finding. He and Carl stayed in touch through email, corresponding at least once a week. “Good, good.”

“Dating?”

Scott shook his head and immediately thought of Jackie, but he had no idea why.

Six months without sex. That’s why.

Their waitress came over. “The usual?” she asked Carl.

Carl nodded.

The young woman turned her eyes on Scott, smiled coyly. “And what will you have?”

He thought about flirting with her but he wasn’t really in the mood. He couldn’t stop thinking about Jackie Birch and the disdainful look she’d given him. Scott loved a challenge. He preferred to do the chasing instead of being chased.

“Scrambled eggs, four slices of bacon cooked crisp and a fruit bowl.” He placed his order.

“Anything else?” She licked her lips.

“Cup of coffee.”

The girl looked deflated, picked up their menus and wandered off.

“I can see why you’re not dating,” Carl said. “She was interested.”

“I know.”

Carl watched the departing waitress. “She’s cute.”

“Too young.”

“She’s over eighteen.”

Scott shrugged.

“What’s up? A year ago you would have been hitting banter shots like tennis balls.”

“I don’t know.” He paused. “I guess I’m looking for something a bit more demanding.”

“Picking up a young waitress is too easy?”

“Something like that.”

Jackie kept prowling the back of his mind as he remembered the look on her face telling him to buzz off. He’d wanted to convince her that he was a man worth knowing. Why was that? The intensity of his attraction to a woman that should not have attracted him niggled.

Carl drummed his fingers on the Formica tabletop. For the most part, he was a self-possessed guy. Scott knew his friend. He had something on his mind. “What’s up, Carl?”

A somber expression crossed the older man’s face. He pressed his lips together, blew out a breath. “Juan DeCristo has resurfaced.”

Scott tensed, folded his hands into fists against his thighs. DeCristo was the drug lord responsible for his father’s death. It had been ten years, and while the pain had ebbed, it never completely went away.

And the need for revenge? Would he ever stop feeling it?

He’d been in college when it had happened. Messing around instead of taking his academics seriously. He had wanted to enlist in the Coast Guard as soon as he graduated from high school. Ninety percent of the Coast Guard were enlisted. But his dad argued he would have more opportunity if he went to college. So he’d gone and majored in girls and good times. Then his dad had been killed and that had changed everything forever.

Scott had gotten serious about his studies. He’d changed his major to criminal justice and graduated with top honors from the University of Florida. The next day he joined the Coast Guard. They’d welcomed him like the prodigal son. He’d risen up through the ranks, working in various positions from San Diego to New Hampshire where he’d met Amber. Ironically, she’d left him just two weeks before he’d gotten the desk job in D.C.

“DeCristo is still alive?” He had to force the words through his constricted throat.

“Unfortunately. He—”

The waitress returned with their breakfast.

Carl paused, thanked her. He waited until she walked out of earshot before he resumed his story. “DeCristo was in a South American prison for a while, but his interactions there seemed to have only made him stronger. He met people. Curried favor. He’s got powerful connections.”

Scott picked up his fork, but he’d lost his appetite. He knew how the story went. He worked the coastal borders between California and Mexico. Understood all too well the uphill battle of preventing illegal drugs from reaching American soil.

“We’ve had an influx of high-grade cocaine coming into the Keys. Users aren’t accustomed to such a pure product and there have been a half dozen overdose deaths.”

Scott inhaled a slow hiss of breath.

“With government cutbacks, we’ve been in a staffing crunch. Add to that our patrol boat operational gap and we’ve got big trouble.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s rumors that DeCristo has gotten his hands on the latest stealth technology.”

That stunned Scott. This was the first he was hearing about it. Then again, D.C. was something of an ivory tower. He needed to get out on the seas more often, check on the local sonar. “But how?”

“Spies? A government mole? Hell, he could have gotten in from Russia. You’re in on high-level security. You know there are leaks. Money talks and it’s estimated DeCristo is worth over a billion dollars.”

Scott pushed eggs around on his plate. “How substantial are these rumors?”

“Substantial enough that I’m bringing this to you.”

“Details.” Scott pushed his plate away, steepled his fingers, leaned in closer. “What have you heard?”

“We arrested a tourist last week who had two grams of the high-grade coke on his boat. He was looking for a plea deal and claimed to have gotten the stash from a young woman working for DeCristo.”

“How credible is the guy?”

Carl shrugged. “Typical small-time drug dealer, but his story is just outlandish and detailed enough to have credibility.”

“What do you mean?”

“He says that the woman told him DeCristo is using a stealth drone submarine to transport the drugs and he’s using her and other young American women to help him.”

“How does the operation work?”

“Supposedly, DeCristo is dropping the submarine into the water off Cuba. It’s got a navigational camera that can get it through the open water, but it needs help maneuvering through obstacles in the mangrove channels. According to the source—which I admit is not terribly reliable—these young women go out in the estuaries at an appointed time, usually in the early morning or just after sunset, in skiffs with homing beacons on them and they guide the drone into shore. We haven’t picked up a damn thing on our radio, but if it is a stealth submarine, we wouldn’t.”

If what Carl was saying was true …

Scott’s gut tightened. It was possible. A savvy drug lord with the right connections might indeed be able to get his hands on stealth technology and make his own drone. And if he was hiring young American women to guide his drone in, no one would be the wiser. Key West was an open port just waiting to be abused.

A rushing noise built in Scott’s ears, low and insistent. The hairs on his forearm lifted.

Jackie Birch.

Part of him said, no way, but another part of him, the suspicious part that had a degree in criminal justice and had worked drug interdiction on the high seas knew better. Anyone was capable of being a drug mule. From junior high school kids to grandmothers.

Jackie Birch.

It could explain why she’d been so unfriendly. Why she was in the estuary alone at dawn. Could she be a courier for DeCristo?

Disgust hardened a knot in his stomach. How could he have been so stupid? So led around by his dick?

Six months without sex, that was how.

He felt like a damned fool. Your father’s murderer is turning the Key West mangrove channels into a devil’s playground and he’s using gullible young women to do it.

Except Jackie hadn’t seemed the least bit gullible. She struck him as focused and very capable. A woman who knew exactly what she was doing. His stomach soured. The eggs smelled gelatinous.

“We need to seriously look into this,” he told Carl.

“I was hoping you’d say that, but I don’t have a budget for supposition. I have no proof beyond this small-time dealer who’s looking for a plea bargain. It could all be bullshit.”

“But you feel it’s got a ring of truth to it?”

“Considering DeCristo’s connections? Yeah, I think it’s not only plausible, but possible.”

“Let me do some digging.”

“But you’re on vacation.”

“You know there’s no such thing as a Coastie on vacation.”

“Your sister is getting married. You’ve got tuxedo fittings and rehearsal dinners—”

“Next week. That’s all next week.”

Carl shook his head. “I told you because you have pull in Washington and I thought that maybe you could get us a bigger budget for interdiction.”

“In order to do that I’ve got to have something stronger to go on than a rumor. I’ll put my ear to the ground,” he said. “You just leave this to me.”

3

I will ensure that my superiors rest easy with the knowledge that I am on the helm, no matter what the conditions.

—Surfman’s Creed

WATER.

It stirred Jackie Birchard’s soul in a way nothing else did. She’d been born in March, a Pisces. Sign of the fish. Not that she believed in anything as unscientific as astrology. Her father would never have stood for it if she had exhibited a budding interest in horoscopes.

She sat cross-legged on the dumpy old sofa that came with the apartment she rented, her notebook computer nestled in her lap while she monitored the readout from her equipment submersed in the estuary. The conditions were perfect. She was determined to prove that her hunch was right.

Up until a year ago, Starksia starcki, aka the Key blenny, could be found in only one location in the world. Just South of Big Pine Key. But then suddenly, the Key blenny had started disappearing from that area.

Dr. Jack Birchard had been of the mind the Key blenny was on the road to complete extinction and he attributed it to a number of cumulative environmental factors in that region. Even though he cared deeply about the ecology, her father was also the most unsentimental man on the face of the earth. Stoically, he moved on to other more salvageable creatures, leaving the Key blenny to its fate.

This was when the crack in their relationship—that had been there from the day she was born—expanded into an unbridgeable fissure. She couldn’t forgive him for writing off the Key blenny.

Particularly, when he looked her in the eye and said, “It’s just one species of fish. We have to focus on the bigger picture. Let it go, daughter.”

And she’d made the mistake of bringing up an old emotional argument that had no place in the discussion. She raised her chin, met his challenging stare with a razor-sharp glare of her own. “Just like you did with Mother?”

He didn’t fight with her. He never fought. Just issued edicts and expected them to be obeyed. If you were rebellious enough to disagree with him, he froze you out.

His eyes turned to glaciers. “You’re never to mention her name again. Do you hear me?”

Okay, she shouldn’t have brought up her mother. Ancient history. Water under the bridge. It wasn’t as if they knew what had happened to her, although if Jackie had been truly interested, she could have called her half brother, Boone. But it had been easier to let things lie.

“You’re wrong,” she said, dropping the whole issue of her mother. It would always remain a sore spot between them. “About the Key blenny.”

“Wrong?” He arched a skeptical brow, sent her a glower that made her wish for an overcoat. He adjusted his glasses, narrowed his eyes.

“The fish isn’t extinct.”

“You have empirical data to support this assertion?”

“No, not yet—”

He dismissed her with a curt wave of his hand. “The Key blenny is a lost cause and our time is too valuable. Let’s not bawl over spilled milk.”

“They’re not dead,” she insisted. “I’ve tracked the current and the minute changes in temperature and I think they’ve simply migrated to Key West.” She’d pointed to the ocean map on the wall of his research yacht. “I believe they’re here.”

He burst out laughing. “Starksia starcki has never migrated. They are not an adaptable subspecies, which is why they’re virtually extinct.”

Jackie gritted her teeth. Her father’s arrogant belief that he knew best in matters of the sea grated on her nerves. Impossible to believe that a prestigious scientist, the oceanographer second only to Jacques Cousteau, could be so irrationally stubborn. But that was her dad. He was brilliant, yes, but his ego was the size of the sun.

“Desperate circumstances call for desperate measures and the Key blenny has risen to the challenge,” she said.

He shook his head violently. “There’s no coral in that area. Starksia starcki is a reef dweller.”

“They’ve adapted in that regard as well and they’re using the mangrove mangles for their food source.”

“Doesn’t happen.”

“I think it is happening.”

“Based on what?”

She explained her theory.

He made a face. “Pseudo science. I thought I taught you better than that. You’re allowing romanticism to sway your critical thinking.”

She’d tried to defend her position in a calm, rational manner but he kept cutting her off. That’s when Jackie knew that if she wanted to save the Key blenny, she was going to have to do it on her own. So she’d packed her things, left MIT, where her father taught, and transferred to the University of California where she was welcomed with open arms.

From a political standpoint, snagging Jack Birchard’s disenfranchised daughter as a doctoral candidate was a colorful feather in the university’s cap. They embraced her theory on the Key blenny, loaned her equipment for her independent study and even gave her a monthly stipend. She felt giddily liberated and wished she’d left her father’s direct sphere of influence a long time ago. No more kowtowing to his diktat. She was free to explore the sea on her own. A bright future awaited her.

Now, all she had to do was prove her theory.

The hardest part was going to be keeping people away from her instruments. She hadn’t fully realized that this was going to be a major issue until Scott Everly had shown up.

One minute she’d been totally isolated in the estuary, just her and nature. The next minute there had been the handsome man in the kayak. If he could appear out of nowhere, so could others.

Disgruntled, she settled the computer on the coffee table and got up to walk out onto the balcony. Sunset came quickly in the Keys and she wanted to catch it before it was gone. By dawn, she’d be back on the water. Not because she needed to go out there again so soon, but simply because she worried about Everly returning to muck with her equipment.

She entertained the idea that he might not be the simple kayaker he seemed. He could be spying on her. A competitor bent on stealing her research. Hell, her father could have sent him.

That thought was unsettling, but it was the sort of stunt her father might pull. Jack Birchard could say one thing and then do the exact opposite. The interest that the University of California had shown her project would be just the thing to make him change his mind. Except, his hubris would never allow him to admit he was wrong.

You ‘re letting your imagination run away with you. Everly isn’t after your research. He was just a good old boy out in his kayak.

Jackie leaned on the railing and took a deep breath of the sultry summer air. Duvall Street was not far away and she could hear the sound of revelers stumbling in and out of the bars that Hemingway had once frequented.

She wondered if Everly was a tourist or a Conch and then wondered why she wondered. Who cared?

The ubiquitous Key West Anthem, Jimmy Buffett’s “Margaritaville,” drifted up from the street. The smell of fried seafood floated along with the music. Jackie’s stomach growled and she realized she’d forgotten to eat again. Her last meal had been a breakfast energy bar.

She was about to pad into the kitchen to see what she could find to eat when her computer made a soft pinging noise. It was the alert system she set up to notify her of problems with the equipment.

Quickly, she hurdled the coffee table, dropped down on the sofa and snatched up the laptop just in time to see the electronic data disappear from the screen.

A curse word escaped her lips. Either something had gone haywire with the satellite feed or someone was messing around with her equipment.

SCOTT SPENT THE REMAINDER of the day with Carl in his old stomping grounds, getting educated about what Juan DeCristo had been up to. He didn’t tell Carl about Jackie. Scott knew enough about the law to make damn sure of his accusations before he threw them out there. But even so, he couldn’t help wondering if there was another reason he did not mention his encounter with the woman in the red bikini.

He didn’t want to admit, not even to himself, that he had been sexually attracted to her. Shame burned his gut. How could he be attracted to a woman involved in the drug trade?

Easy there. Remember, innocent until proven guilty. Trust your instincts. Your gut didn’t get bad vibes from her. Don’t jump to conclusions.

Still, he had to know what she’d been doing out there alone at the break of dawn.

By the end of the day, Scott knew he had to investigate and either put his mind at ease or push Jackie Birch to the top of the suspect list.

When Carl and Marcy invited him over for dinner, he begged off, asking for a rain check. He was staying in the guesthouse in his mother’s backyard, but he did not even stop in to say hello to his family when he got home. He didn’t bother changing out of the Coast Guard clothes he’d worn to visit Sector Key West. Instead, he walked straight to the motorboat docked at the pier and took off through the mangrove channel, headed for the estuary where he’d found Jackie that morning.

The sun hunkered low on the horizon. He’d be returning in the dark, but he had floodlights and the power of the Coast Guard behind him. The more he thought about what DeCristo was doing, the madder he got.

If Jackie Birch was involved in this, he’d take her down so fast it would make her gorgeous little head swim, sexual attraction be damned.

Fury flamed hot inside him, burning up his collar to his neck, and on upward to flush his cheeks. He was so fired up that it took him a while to find the spot where she’d been that morning. In fact, if the dying sunlight hadn’t glinted off the silver fish bobber, he might not have been able to find it in the thickening twilight.

“Gotcha,” he growled and motored over.

He killed the engine and tossed the anchor overboard. Anger trembled his hand as he leaned over the side of the boat to search for what was hidden in the water. His fingers brushed a small metal platform. He grabbed hold, shook it hard.

It did not give. His fear was confirmed. Jackie Birch was up to no good.

“Son of a bitch,” he swore as his gut dipped to his shoes. His stupid gut had led him astray. He’d liked her. Shame pushed away the anger. Six months without sex could ruin a man.

His furious fingers snatched at the buttons of his shirt. In five seconds flat he stripped off everything except his skivvies. He turned to lift up the passenger seat. He then dug in the compartment where he kept boating supplies, found a snorkel mask and underwater lamp. Too bad he didn’t have a diving tank with him.

Mosquitoes buzzed around his bare skin as he strapped on the mask and leashed the lamp around his wrist. A second later, he was in the water.

Silence engulfed him. It wasn’t until he was underneath the surface that he realized just how noisy it was topside—birds calling, insects singing, trees whispering in the breeze. Down here, quiet reigned.

Mangrove roots stuck out every which way, snatching at his hair, scraping against his skin. Scott flicked on the light. Fish darted past him. He examined the metal platform. It was mounted on a pole securely buried in the floor of the estuary and attached to the platform was a long black cord that stretched down as far as he could see.

He wrapped his fingers around the cord. Kevlar. He yanked. The cord did not give, but a heavy object moved, banged against the pole, vibrated the cord against his palm. Something was attached to it.

Fueled by the rumors Carl had told him about Juan DeCristo’s stealth submarine drone, Scott’s imagination ran wild. It could be a transmitting beacon. To elude detection, Birch could have hidden the beacon here and stopped back to attach it to her boat before each of her drug missions.

He didn’t want to believe it. He wanted to give her every benefit of the doubt, mainly because he’d been dumbly smitten, but the evidence was pretty damning so far.

Don’t be a chump. Let the evidence speak for itself.

He needed to dive deeper.

But first, he had to go to the surface for air.

When he reached the top he saw that heavy darkness had engulfed the sun, leaving only whisper traces of daylight lingering in the evening sky. In the distance, he heard a loud splash and tried to convince himself it was an alligator or a bull shark, and not an armed drug dealer. Precisely what was Jackie capable of?

Don’t spook yourself.

He took a deep breath and dived again. With one hand on the Kevlar cord, he followed it down.

The beam of his light found the first cylindrical tube at eight feet. It was secured through the cord. He flashed the beam over the tube. It was some kind of sensor device, but what? He was not familiar enough with stealth technology to make a guess.

Air hunger drove him back to the surface. This time when he came up he saw the headlights of an approaching boat. Small craft from the sound of the engine.

Who was it? His gut roiled and he felt vulnerable, defenseless. His gun was in the boat.

The nearing craft moved at a rapid clip, coming up on him fast. There was no way he could get into his boat, get to his gun before the intruder was upon him, but he had to try.

He swam to the ladder, pulled himself up on his boat, and he was just yanking up the anchor when the headlights from the oncoming vessel caught him dead on. Now he knew how deer felt.

His soaking-wet underwear clung to his thighs. Water rolled off his body. He couldn’t see against the glare, had no idea how many people were in the boat. He was an open target. He raised an arm to shield his eyes.

The engine of the other boat died.

“You there!” a tart, sharp female voice hollered. “Stop whatever you’re doing. I have a gun and I won’t hesitate to use it.”

JACKIE WAS LYING about the gun, but she hoped the nearly naked guy poised on the back of his boat with his arm, shielding his eyes would buy her bluff. Instead of a weapon, she held a spotlight clutched tightly in her hand.

He turned directly into her spotlight, raised both arms over his head. “Don’t shoot.”

That’s when she saw that it was Scott Everly.

The anger that had sent her running from her apartment to the boat docks and propelled her here as fast as she could drive, flared high and hot.

“You!” she spat. “I should have known. Who sent you?”

“Put away the gun,” he said, his voice calm but steely.

“Who are you working for?” she demanded. “My father?”

“I’m going to put my arms down now.” He started to lower his arms.

“Keep your hands up!” she barked.

Slowly, he raised his arms back up, squinted against the glare of the light. “Is that you, Jackie Birch?”

She didn’t know what to do. She moistened her lips, hesitated.

It was all the time he needed. He dropped to the floor of his boat.

Startled, she moved the light to track him, but when her beam caught him again, he was back on his feet, a real gun in his hand.

Pointed straight at her.

She immediately switched off the light. It was her turn to dive to the floor of her boat.

“You don’t have a gun, do you?” he taunted. “You’re all bluster.”

Crap! How was she going to get out of this? From her spot on the bottom of the boat, she eyed the keys dangling in the ignition. If she stood up, she’d be in his line of direct fire, but maybe she could ease over, start the engine and—

“It’s over, Birch,” he said. “Give it up.”

What the hell was he talking about? Give what up? He was the one stealing her equipment.

Anger warred with fear. She wanted to confront him, demand to know who he was and what he was doing, but he had a gun. She had no idea what he was capable of. Gone was the affable guy she’d met that morning. In his place was a man hard-core enough to pull a gun on an unarmed woman.

You started it. You told him that you had a gun.

And she was going to end it.

She scooted on her butt until she was close enough to reach the keys, never mind the Astro Turf on the floor of the boat burning her thighs. She heard the sound of heavy footsteps but didn’t dare look up. She had to get out of here before he tried to board her boat.

With one hand she started the engine. With the other, she slammed the boat into Reverse. The craft dizzily spun backward.

Jackie pulled herself up onto the seat but kept her head down.

Everly uttered a curse and a split second later the sound of his boat engine churned the night air.

Heart pounding in her throat, she goosed the accelerator and took off down the channel. She would have preferred the ocean as an escape route but she would have had to go past him in order to get there. Clearly, he would have no compunction about ramming her boat or shooting her for that matter.

Who was he and what did he want? He couldn’t simply be a competing researcher. Not even her father’s assistants would take things this far.

What if he was a smuggler and she’d accidentally staked a claim near his port of operation? She’d heard colorful stories about drug smugglers, had dismissed them as urban legends. Now she wished she had not been so cavalier.

Boone had told her that her single-mindedness would get her into trouble one day. She should have listened. Wistfully, she wondered if she’d ever see her brother again. She didn’t know him well, but he was the only sibling she had, the only connection to her mother.

She pushed down on the throttle, running her skiff full-out, but the bigger pursuit boat was gaining on her. The moon had started to rise, blazing a silver light over the water. Speed-generated wind blew her hair out behind her, whipping over her ears.

His engine revved, whining high and hot. In the rearview mirror she saw him move to the left. He was going to overtake her.

Go, go, go.

But there was no more power left in her dinky boat. It had nothing left to give.

She let out a cry of alarm. What to do? What to do? She could slow down, let him pass her, try to whip around and head for the ocean, but she knew she couldn’t outrun him. The scenario would be the same, only in the opposite direction.

Yet, she could not surrender. Could not give up without a fight.

You could always go into the water.

Water. The one place she always felt safe.

His boat caught up to hers. They were racing neck and neck down the channel. Mangrove trees whipped by on both sides. At this speed, in the dark, wrecking was a distinct possibility.

Dread crouched on her shoulders, but she kept going because she did not know what else to do. She’d learned a long time ago to bury her emotions. Deny them power over her actions.

He honked his horn.

She refused to look over. Fear was a marching band, ramming a cacophony of adrenaline through her veins. Her temple throbbed. Her fisted hands tightened around the wheel. Her thoughts galloped, but no solutions materialized. She should have moved her equipment when she’d run across him this morning. Why hadn’t she moved her equipment?

Because that was where her research had led her. Because in her single-mindedness she’d neglected to realize how vulnerable she was. Because she’d been so invested in showing up her father that she hadn’t paid any attention to the threats around her.

Stupid, stupid girl. She could hear her father now.

Berating herself wasn’t helping. She had to think. What was she going to do?

Everly’s boat overtook hers. He pulled around in front of her, and started slowing down. She had no choice but to slow down, too, or ram into him.

Go ahead ram him.

Except her skiff would smash to smithereens in the process. He had one hand on the wheel, but he was looking back at her, the gun extended from his other hand. Moonlight washed over his bare chest. He was still mostly naked except for a pair of dark boxer briefs.

“Stop your boat,” he ordered.

She started to jerk the wheel to the left to try to bolt.

“Don’t make me shoot you,” he warned.

Defeat drained every bit of energy from her body. She turned off the engine.

“Good move,” he said in a tone so patronizing she wanted to smack him. He wheeled his boat around, edged it alongside hers, cut the engine.

Narrowed, steely eyes met hers. His jaw was set. His gun pointed right at her heart. “Hands up.”

Slowly, she raised her arms over her head.

Time slowed, moved like syrup.

This was it. She was about to be raped or killed or both. She gritted her teeth, curled her fingernails into her palms.

No, no, I’m not going down without a fight. I’ll take my last breath fighting.

“United States Coast Guard,” Scott barked. “Face down on the floor. Prepare to be boarded.”

4

There’s no such thing as a Coast Guard on vacation.

—Marcy Dugan, public relations liaison, Sector Key West

SCOTT STOOD ON THE BOW of her small craft, playing his flashlight over the prostrate woman, alarmed by the jolt of sexual awareness passing through him. He couldn’t want her. He shouldn’t want her.

But he did.

Gotta stop these inappropriate impulses, Everly. Six months is too long. You need to get laid. Clear your head. ASAP.

“You … you’re really Coast Guard?” Relief leaked from her voice, filled the starry night air.

She lay on the floor of the boat, her hands clasped behind her back, wrists crossed together over her fanny, awaiting his handcuffs. Problem was, his cuffs were in the pants pocket of his uniform on his boat. Not to mention he was standing there in nothing but boxer briefs plastered wetly against his thighs and his half boner.

Briefly, he closed his eyes, licked his lips, struggled for control.

She raised her head from the floor, turned her face upward, squinted into the light.

Terrified that she would get a glimpse of his arousal, Scott commanded, “Face down!”

She obeyed, planting her chin back on the Astro Turf.

Scott wasn’t sure what to do next. He couldn’t let her up until he’d resolved his body’s unwanted involuntary response. He swallowed hard.

Quick, think of something libido crushing.

But all he could think about was how long and sexy her legs looked in those cutoff blue jeans.

Scott clenched his jaw. Global warming. The state of health care. The national debt.

“What have I done?” she asked. “What laws have I broken?”

He didn’t know what to do. Let her up? Go put on his clothes? But if he stopped to put on his clothes, she could make another run for it. Not that she could escape, but he didn’t want the hassle of chasing her down again.

Scott shone the light around her boat, looking for something to restrain her with, spied a rope coiled in the corner. It was too big and thick, but it would have to do.

“The least you could do is answer me,” she said. “This is pretty outrageous. You chase me down, pull a gun on me—”

“You pulled a gun on me first.” He retrieved the rope.

“I didn’t have a gun.”

“I didn’t know that.” He settled his SIG Sauer P229R and the flashlight on the short bow and leaned over to tie her up.

“Are you sure you’re Coast Guard?”

His fingers skimmed her soft skin as he looped the rope around her slender wrists. He could feel her breathing in angry gulps of air. The erection he thought he’d conquered stirred again.

Dammit!

Scott tugged on the ropes, making sure they were secure.

“You’re rude, you know that? How am I supposed to know you’re Coast Guard? You don’t identify yourself. You’re not in a Coast Guard cutter. You’re in your underwear—”

“Lieutenant Commander Scott Everly at your service,” he said. “And I’m on leave.”

“So if you’re on vacation do you even have the authority to manhandle me?” she seethed.

“I am when I see a crime being committed.”

“What crime?” she yelled.

“Easy there, mermaid.”

“Don’t patronize me.” She chafed.

He straightened, turned, moved away.

“Hey! Where are you going?”

“To solve the underwear situation.”

“What are you talking about?”

Ignoring her, he picked up his duty weapon and flashlight and stepped back onto his boat.

“What are you doing? You’re not just going to leave me tied up here!”

In spite of himself, Scott smiled. She was a feisty one. He’d grant her that. He dressed quickly, finally feeling fully in control again, holstered his duty weapon, retrieved the cylinder he’d found attached to the Kevlar cable and returned to her skiff. He reached down, hauled her to her feet and played the beam of his flashlight over her.

She sent him a blistering scowl. “I demand to know what I’m being charged with.”

“Have a seat,” he said mildly, indicating the captain’s chair.

“No.” Defiantly, she raised her chin.

He gave her his sternest military officer glare. “Do you really want to go there?”

“Bully.” Petulantly, she settled onto the seat.

“You’ve got some mouth on you.” He sank onto the small bench seat opposite her.

She narrowed her eyes, stuck out her tongue.

“Height of maturity.”

“Just tell me what the hell you want.”

He planed his palms over the tops of his thighs, felt the crisp material of his navy blue uniform. He held up the cylinder. “What is this?”

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

“Now is not the time for flippancy. You’re in a lot of trouble.”

“For what?”

“This for one thing.” He waggled the cylinder under her nose.

“Stop it,” she spat through clenched teeth. “You’ve messed up everything. I’m going to have to start all over.”

“What is it?” he pressured.

“The ADVOcean-Hydra.”

“What does it do?”

She rolled her eyes. “It uses Doppler technology to measure 3-D water velocity in a wide range of environments including surf zone, open ocean, rivers, lakes and estuaries. Know any more than you did before you asked?”

Scott studied her in the light from his boat’s headlamps. Either she was telling the truth or she was a superb liar. “Just who are you, Jackie Birch?”

She pulled herself up straight. She glowered as if she wanted to deck him. He was glad he’d tied her hands. “I’m a college student.”

“You seem a little old to be a college student. Slow learner?” Okay, so he was baiting her.

“PhD candidate, Skippee.”

Skippee? He suppressed a smile. He had no right being intrigued by her. For all he knew she was DeCristo’s drug mule. “PhD in what?”

“Marine biology. Not that it’s any of your business.” She wriggled against her restraints. “What am I being charged with? I have a right to know.”

“I’m the one asking the questions.” He pulled his cell phone from his pocket.

“Who are you calling?”

“Running a background check. Got your driver’s license on you?”

She pressed her lips into a thin line. “No.”

He clicked his tongue. “Tsk, tsk. You should carry ID on you at all times. Do you know your license number off the top of your head?”

She huffed out a breath. “I’ve got a confession.”

Confession? His gut tightened. She was going to admit she was working for DeCristo. “Let me guess, you’re not really a marine biologist wannabe.”

“My name’s not really Birch.”

“Aha, now we’re getting somewhere.” An exquisite sadness washed over him thinking that this woman had gotten entangled with scum like DeCristo. Don’t cut her any slack. She’s old enough to know what she’s doing.

“Yeah, down a freakin’ rabbit hole, Alice,” she snapped.

“Not really proficient in people skills, are you?”

“As if you’re a regular Benjamin Franklin.”

“Cacti have friendlier personalities than you.”

“Ouch,” she said sarcastically. “You are so mean. How will I ever survive a cut like that? There’s a reason people give cactus a wide birth.”

Scott leaned forward. This was bad. He liked her spunk. “What’s your real name?”

“Jacqueline Birchard.”

“What?”

She repeated her name.

An odd relief pushed out his sadness. She wasn’t working for DeCristo? Why did he so want to believe that was the case?

“Any kin to Jack Birchard?” he asked hopefully.

She sighed. “He’s my father.”

“Seriously?”

“Yup. Happy now? You’ve discovered my big dark secret.” Her nostrils flared.

This was the renowned oceanographer’s daughter? Chagrin poked at Scott. His desire to stop DeCristo had led to a grave error in judgment.

“Wow,” he said, “I’m a big admirer of your father’s work.”

Her sigh deepened. “Yes, yes, he hung the moon and milked the stars. Your fan worship is adorable.”

“Don’t get along with the old man?”

“My, you are astute. The Coast Guard must be so proud.”

“It’s gotta be tough living in Jack Birchard’s shadow.”

“You know just how to make a girl feel special. I bet women fall all over themselves to see you in your BVDs.”

Scott ran a palm over his head, blew out his breath. “We got off on the wrong foot.”

“Through no fault of mine.”

He let the sarcasm pass. He deserved it. He’d jumped to conclusions. He wasn’t normally so trigger-happy, but DeCristo’s latest exploits had hot-wired his emotions. “What are you doing out here alone?”

“I was trying to find out who was messing around with my data recording instruments. Imagine my surprise to find a vacationing Coast Guard in his underwear who then chased me down and tied me up. It might be sexy if I was into bondage, but since I’m not …” She stood up, turned around. “Untie me.”

Feeling foolish but not wanting her to know it, Scott tugged on the rope and it fell free, but in the process, his hand brushed lightly against her fanny and triggered another unwanted physical reaction in him. Pathetic.

He sat back, placed her monitoring device in his lap to cover what popped up.

She pivoted to face him again, brought her hands up to rub her wrists.

“So,” she said, standing over him. “Who did you think I was?”

He wasn’t at liberty to discuss DeCristo, but he wanted her warned. “We’ve had reports that drug smugglers have been using the mangrove channels to transport contraband with attractive young women as drug mules.”

“You thought I was a drug mule?” She sounded amused.

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