Rescued by the alpha SEAL

Tawny Weber debuts the stunning Aegis Security miniseries

Injured in the line of duty, navy SEAL Travis “Hawk” Hawkins retreats to paradise. But R & R takes a turn when he runs smack into a beautiful blonde who just witnessed a murder. Travis offers to help, only to find himself equally taunted and titillated by irresistible Lila Adrian. Can the wounded warrior protect Lila and take down a deadly crime ring?

TAWNY WEBER is the New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of more than forty books. She writes sassy, emotional romances with a dash of humour and believes that it all comes down to heroes. In fact, she’s made her career writing about heroes, most notably her popular navy SEALs series. Tawny credits her ex-military alpha husband for inspiration in her writing, and in her life. The recipient of numerous writing accolades, including the RT Reviewers’ Choice Award, she has also hit number one on the Amazon and Barnes & Noble bestseller lists. A homeschooling mum, Tawny enjoys scrapbooking, gardening and spending time with her family and dogs in her Northern California home.

Visit Tawny on the web at www.tawnyweber.com. You can also find her on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest and Goodreads.

www.Facebook.com/TawnyWeber.RomanceAuthor www.Twitter.com/TawnyWeber www.Pinterest.com/TawnyWeber www.Goodreads.com/author/show/513828.Tawny_Weber

Also by Tawny Weber

Nice & Naughty

Midnight Special

Naughty Christmas Nights

A SEAL’s Seduction

A SEAL’s Surrender

A SEAL’s Salvation

A SEAL’s Kiss

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Navy SEAL to the Rescue

Tawny Weber

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09364-4

NAVY SEAL TO THE RESCUE

© 2019 Tawny Weber

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

To the amazing ladies at Mills & Boon Heroes.

Thanks so much for letting me join you!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

Costa Rica, baby.

The small beachside town of Puerto Viejo de Talamanca was filled with character. The laid-back, mellow atmosphere was complemented by thatch-roofed buildings, colorful fabrics and hand-lettered signs.

Midstride down the deserted sidewalk, Lila Adrian stopped to close her eyes and take a deep breath of the rich, ocean-scented air. When she opened her big green eyes again, she was thrilled to see that yes, indeed, it was still gorgeous. What was it about the Caribbean that made everything just a little brighter?

God, she loved her job.

As the brains, brawn and chief headhunter of her own business, At Your Service, she was rocking it. She might be meeting clients in San Francisco one day, in London scouting for an art director the next, visiting a tiny village in Tuscany to woo a former prima ballerina the week after that. And now she was cruising Puerto Viejo for a chef.

Wherever the talent was, she went. And then, with charm, guile and a great deal of wit, she enticed that talent into the job of their dreams. Or into believing the job she wanted them to take was dream-worthy.

It’d all started with a few favors, helping a friend find an elite aromatherapy masseuse for her new spa, connecting a concierge doctor she’d once dated with an upscale hotel chain owned by a friend. But it had been introducing three of her father’s fired housekeepers to wealthy families who’d welcomed their services that made her realize she could turn it into a career.

Something she’d been desperate for. Not just to prove herself to family members who claimed she didn’t have any marketable skills, but to show herself that she was more than a pretty face. With the strings to her trust fund knotted tight, she’d spent most of At Your Service’s first three years living on ramen noodles and depending on the local coffeehouse’s free Wi-Fi.

But sheer stubbornness, a ton of charm and taking advantage of the varied connections she’d made over the years had finally done the trick.

That, and her family name.

Something she knew pissed her father off to no end.

Loving that small victory, Lila increased her pace to make her way around a pair of locals pedaling their bicycles, with baskets filled with produce.

Now she was in Costa Rica to add another feather to her cap. She didn’t figure it’d take an abundance of charm to convince Alberto Rodriguez, formerly of Miami, Florida, and currently the head chef of the aging Casa de Rico, that he’d like to travel the world as the personal chef to the Martins, a wealthy San Francisco banking family.

Mr. and Mrs. Martin—Joe and Mimi, respectively—had spent a week reveling in Rodriguez’s cuisine on their honeymoon. Food so delicious, they often claimed, that they could still taste it a decade later. Lila had followed up their praise with a little research, which assured her that Rodriguez had a great reputation as a chef who could handle upscale gourmet as well as fusion and regional cuisine. The man was wasted in a one-star restaurant that, from all accounts, was on the verge of bankruptcy. Since research turned up no reasons for him to want to stay, she figured he should be more than ready to make a move.

But just in case, Lila had the charm ready to pour on like syrup.

With that in mind, she pulled her cell phone from the front pocket of her capris and opened the web browser to the hotel’s website. She’d already committed the details to memory, but she was a believer in double-checking.

Before she could scroll through the page, the phone rang.

Corinne Douglass. Socialite, diva and the best friend Lila had ever met.

“How’d you know I was holding my phone?” Lila answered with a laugh instead of a greeting.

“You’re always holding your phone,” her sometimes assistant-slash-roommate answered. “Even if it’s not in your hand, you’re still holding it in some form or other.”

“You have a point. What’s up?”

“How’s Costa Rica?” Corinne asked instead of answering.

Lila frowned at the sidestep, but looked around anyway.

“Gorgeous. The air is just humid enough to be sultry. The sun shining hot enough to sink into the bones. The people are friendly, the locale colorful and, so far, the job is on track.”

“Have you met with the chef yet? Is he interested? Are you coming home soon?”

“Not yet, but I’m on my way to the restaurant now. I’m sure he’ll be interested, once he hears the deal. And why?” Suspicion laced the last question, but Lila figured it was well deserved. She might be a card-carrying optimist, but she’d never be mistaken for Pollyanna. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing, really,” Corinne hedged. “Just wondering when you’ll be back.”

“This shouldn’t take more than two or three days,” Lila estimated. Which she’d told Corinne when the other woman had dropped her at San Francisco International Airport. “Once again, I have to ask, why?”

“Can’t a friend check on a friend?” Corinne dismissed her with a light laugh that Lila knew she used only when she was nervous.

“What’s wrong? Did you hear from your dad?” Not only did the two women have a taste for designer heels and sappy chick flicks in common, but they also had wealthy families led by overbearing fathers. The only difference was, Corinne wanted her father’s attention while Lila wished hers would forget she existed.

“His secretary,” Corinne confirmed. Arthur Douglass rarely deigned to dial a phone himself. “Some things came up. He’s delayed.”

“So no visit to San Francisco?” “Visit” being friend-code for the man taking an extra half hour to have drinks with his daughter at the airport while his private jet refueled.

“No. I offered to meet him in Milan instead, but he has a full schedule. And, well, you know.”

She did know. Her friend couldn’t afford the trip or to take time off work at the art gallery. Yet another thing she and Corinne had in common was limited funds. Where they diverged was how they dealt with it. Poor Corinne let it bother her, while Lila, well, she didn’t. Much.

“Don’t let it get you down,” she advised. “I’ll be home in a few days and we’ll go out, hit the clubs, drink like crazy and dance our worries away.”

“Guys?”

“Of course.” Lila smiled at the two striding past. Tall, sporting swim trunks and surfboards, they grinned back. “It’s always more fun to dance with guys who know the moves.”

“I wouldn’t know. None of the guys I’ve danced with had much in the way of moves.”

“That’s because you’re always holding out for guys who remind you of your father,” Lila said under her breath.

“Yeah, yeah, you always say that,” Corinne shot back. But her laugh faded fast enough to send Lila’s smile into her toes.

“What else happened?” she asked.

“Well...”

Lila’s stomach clenched when Corinne hesitated. Oh, she knew that hesitation.

“It must be the day for fathers. Did mine leave a message when he called?” she asked quietly. Knowing she was going to need a few moments to get herself together before meeting Rodriguez, Lila dropped onto a vivid pink bench in front of a surf club and waited.

“Three, actually,” Corinne said, her words tight with discomfort. “He’d like for you to return his call.”

“Like me to?”

“Well, more like he demanded that you call. He’s arranged a party at the navy base he expects you to attend. Some sort of celebration for your brother.” Corinne cleared her throat, then blew out a breath. “He said something about your duty to play hostess, expectations to the family name and, um, maybe something about snits.”

Oh, how she’d like to tell her father just where he could shove his snit. Lila had to grind her teeth tight to keep the words from spewing. But the main drag in a small Costa Rican town was hardly the place to mouth off.

“I’ll deal with it later,” she promised instead. “Right now, I have me a chef to woo.”

With that and a goodbye, she tucked her phone away and turned the corner toward Casa de Rico. Lila grimaced when she stopped in front of the restaurant. Heaps of trash spilled out of the alley beside the building, which probably accounted for the smell. The windows were slicked with the same dingy grime as the once-white exterior, giving the whole place a gray coating of neglect. The hand-lettered sign propped into the window claimed that Casa de Rico was open for business, but the silence pouring from the open door didn’t indicate that there were many takers.

She’d take that as a sign of management issues and not the chef, she decided, lips quirking. Which would make convincing Rodriguez to change employers all that much easier.

Still, the beachfront location was ideal. But Lila was pretty sure location and the views were the only things the Casa had going for it. The roof was patched in places, and the railing along the balcony so rusted that it reminded her of a rickety old lady wearing black lace. The landscaping was limited to a few scrubby bushes and, again, that beach view.

Which couldn’t be discounted, she had to admit. It was a pretty gorgeous view.

Wanting—needing—to absorb it a little more before she went inside to scope out her target in his natural atmosphere, she stepped around the side of the building and started down the wooden walkway. When she reached the soft sand, she stopped to step out of her kitten-heeled slides.

In the act of slipping off the second shoe, she had to grab on to the bleached wooden railing to keep her balance.

Because the view just got a whole lot more interesting.

A man stepped out of the surf, water sluicing off muscles that made her want to raise her hands in praise.

Hello, gorgeous, was all she could think.

Gorgeous, hot and sexy, all rolled into one very muscular, very intense package.

The guy was ripped. From his broad shoulders to his lean calves, he epitomized manly perfection. She knew she was staring, but she’d been raised to believe that a work of art deserved appreciation.

And oh, boy did she appreciate him.

Enough to offer a big smile as he slowly made his way across the sand to his towel.

Her lips twitched when he glared in return.

She was too amused to take offense.

As a woman who’d garnered plenty of ogling over the years, she supposed she could understand his reaction. And while it wasn’t like she’d strolled down and grabbed herself a handful of his undeniably pinchable butt, she’d definitely fantasize about licking those drops of water off his flat belly.

But it was lunchtime, and as yummy as he looked, the guy obviously wasn’t on the menu. And she had a job to do.

But her gaze—as unwilling to leave as the rest of her—lingered for a few more seconds. She’d never seen a more visually appealing man. Or, she acknowledged, her eyes flicking over his scowl again, a more discouraging one.

Ah, well, she decided with a philosophical sigh.

At least she’d gotten to enjoy the view.

* * *

Sun, surf and sex.

Once upon a time, Travis Hawkins would have called that heaven.

Now?

Now, he was convinced it was hell.

He strode out of the silken warmth of the Caribbean, his feet sinking in the wet sand. Wincing, he adjusted his stride when the sand turned to powder, taking the weight off his throbbing knee.

He noted the sexy little blonde standing on the edge of the beach. She’d poured her petite curves into a pair of white pants that stopped short of her ankles and a silky red tank that fluttered intriguingly in the light breeze. With her hair clipped up and back, he couldn’t tell its length, but he was imagining it was long. Mostly because he had a thing for long blond hair.

Just like he had a thing for confident women. He could tell this one was just that from the way she stood there, dangling her shoes from one hand while the other shaded her eyes. The better to check him out, he supposed. No harm there. He was checking right back.

And what he saw was intriguing.

But he wasn’t in the market to be intrigued.

He was in the market to decompress. To make decisions. To figure out the rest of his damned life.

Once upon a time, he’d take the blonde up on the obvious interest on her pixie-like face. He’d have strode on over for a little conversation, a little flirtation. He’d gauge the ground, assess the heat level and if it felt right, he’d have swept her off her sexy little feet and into his bed.

But his sweeping days were over. Hell, all the fun was over. Despite the multiple offers he’d gotten from locals and tourists alike, he wasn’t in Puerto Viejo to score.

Travis shifted his weight, carefully balancing on his left foot to ensure he didn’t land on his face when he bent over to grab a towel. Pain exploded away, a lightning bolt of misery spearing out from his knee to his hip, down to his toes.

For twelve years, he’d served his country. For ten years, he’d been a SEAL. He’d served with distinction, with honor, with dedication. He’d been welcomed into two different SEAL teams, where he’d played an integral role of dozens of successful missions.

He’d served through pain, sweat, challenge and terror.

He’d freaking loved every minute of it.

He scrubbed the towel over his face, sopping up the moisture pouring off his too-long hair.

One nasty storm, one bad jump from a plane taking a flaming nosedive into the ocean, and his career was over. He was finished.

Freaking finished.

Travis’s jaw worked as he glared at the sexy reminder of what he’d lost still looking his way. He deliberately turned away from the blond temptation to stare out at the ocean.

Medical discharge.

Was it ironic or tragic that the ocean he loved, the sea he served, had ended the career he’d revered?

Probably both.

The biggest joke was that he, a man who thrived on contingency plans, had nothing. No backup career, no sideline jobs, not a single idea of what he wanted to do—or more to the point, could do—with the rest of his life once his measly savings ran out.

Once he’d gotten a handle on that, he decided, unable to resist glancing back at the blonde again, he’d be interested in enjoying the finer things in life again.

Because, damn, she really was fine.

* * *

Lila told herself she wasn’t thinking about the beach hunk as she stepped into the cool restaurant. But she knew he was there, hovering in the back of her mind. She’d figure out why, later. For now, she looked around the restaurant, assessing her quarry’s lair.

The place was empty but for one other couple, and the décor was enough to make her wince. Here they were in the Caribbean, and the owners had fitted this place out to look like an average bar in Anywhere, USA.

A long bar, complete with neon signs and shelves of bottles, covered the back wall. Posters—thumbtacked, not framed—advertised American beer and, for some reason she couldn’t figure out, a long-defunct sitcom. Three ceiling fans sent lazy shadows dancing over the dozen tables scattered around the room.

“Hola,” a woman from behind the bar greeted her, her black tee stating that Casa de Rico’s salsa was the hottest and her name tag reading Dory Parker. “Table for one?”

“Yes, please.”

“Have at it,” she said, waving one hand to indicate Lila’s varied choices before calling for service.

Lila slid behind the table closest to the kitchen with a nice view of the beach. Not the view of the sexy beach hunk, but that was just as well. The man had distraction written all over him.

“Hi,” she said as soon as the waitress came over. She was a pretty girl with dark skin and a lip piercing, dressed the same as the bartender except that her shirt proclaimed that their margaritas got you drunker. “I’d love a bottle of water and a menu.”

“Got the menu right here,” the girl said, handing over a laminated page. “I’ll be right back with that water.”

Lila glanced at the page only long enough to assure herself that it was the same as the one on their website.

“I’ve heard that your chef is wonderful,” she said as soon as the waitress came back. “Senor Rodriguez, right?”

“Sure, Chef Rodriguez is in the back, cooking up a storm,” the waitress said, her vigorous nod sending the bleached dreadlocks bouncing around her round face. “He’s good. You’ll see. You decide what you want?”

“What’s your favorite?” Lila asked, keeping it friendly.

Deciding to take the girl’s advice, and since early afternoon lent itself to tapas, Lila ordered a varied selection.

The menu was promising, but she wanted to see for herself if Rodriguez was as good as the Martins remembered. There was no point convincing them if he’d lost his touch.

An hour later—Casa de Rico obviously didn’t believe in rushing their diners—Lila had confirmed that Rodriguez was as good as advertised.

What she hadn’t figured out was why a chef of his caliber was working in a low-end restaurant like this one. According to her notes, he was in his midfifties, originally from Mexico City, single and childless. He’d worked in various high-end restaurants over the years, with excellent references from all of his previous employers.

It was definitely time to get a few more answers for her files.

“Everything was wonderful,” she told the dreadlocked girl when she came to take the last plate. “I’d love to personally thank the chef. Is that possible?”

From the look on her face, it was the first time she’d heard a request like that. But she shrugged and muttered something before heading back to the kitchen.

Since nobody else, including the bartender, was in the room, Lila took a moment to pull out a compact and check her makeup. She refreshed her lipstick, slid one hand over her tidy chignon to make sure no hair had escaped, and decided she’d hit the right note of professionalism. Not always easy when you looked like a blonde Kewpie doll.

“Hola,” called out a big voice. It matched the man, who lumbered through a door barely wider than he was and strode across the room. His thick black hair was sprinkled with the same gray that dusted his mustache. Instead of the traditional white chef’s attire, he wore blue with a white apron tucked under a gut that proclaimed him a man who loved to eat as much as cook.

“I’m Chef Rodriguez,” he greeted, his accent light and musical. “And you must be the woman of excellent taste who enjoyed my food, yes?”

“I am, Chef Rodriguez,” she said with a wide smile, rising from her seat to take his hand in hers. “The meal was delicious. I particularly enjoyed the ceviche tico.”

“Gracias,” he replied, bending so low over her hand that his bushy mustache tickled her knuckles. “It’s a pleasure to serve you, senorita.”

“Everything was wonderful. Imaginative, delicious and beautifully plated,” she told him, laying on the flattery thick and widening her smile in a way she knew highlighted her dimples. Professionalism was still the byword, but with his Old World manners, she figured a smile would go further than a crisp handshake. “And your food is exactly why I’m here in Puerto Viejo.”

His dark eyes flashed with curiosity.

“I’m Lila Adrian. We spoke on the phone last week. I’m here on behalf of the Martins.”

The friendly smile disappeared, and something that looked like panic burned away the flirtatious ease on his face. He gaze shifted left, skittered right before returning to her face. His smile reemerged, much stiffer and less friendly.

“This is a bad time, senorita. And the wrong place for a discussion such as the one you’re inviting.”

“Okay,” Lila said agreeably, despite her surprise at his extreme reaction. Especially given that during their phone conversation, he’d been the one to suggest she come to the restaurant to negotiate the employment terms.

Over the years, she’d seen plenty of people who didn’t want their current bosses to know they were being scouted, but most usually used it as a bargaining tool. For better money out of her client if they left, or better conditions from their boss if they stayed. He’d given a different impression over the phone, but she could play the game.

“That’s fine,” she said agreeably. “Would you prefer to meet elsewhere? Perhaps Luca’s, in the Hotel Azure? I’d be happy to take you to dinner and discuss the Martins’ proposal.”

They both glanced over as a party of four came into the restaurant with a woman who stationed herself behind the bar. They all appeared harmless enough to Lila, but Rodriguez looked like he’d seen a group of ghosts. His eyes widened so much that the dark circles beneath almost disappeared. He wet his lips before calling out a command that had the waitress scurrying out to seat the newcomers.

“Excuse me,” the chef murmured, snagging the tray holding her check and credit card off the table and hurrying to the small station by the bar. His eyes kept bouncing between the new diners, the bartender and Lila as he ran her card.

Curious, Lila watched along with Rodriguez as the newcomers were seated, menus handed out, but none of them glanced their way or yelled boo. But Rodriguez sure looked spooked when he came back with her credit card and receipt. He was so focused on watching the new diners, he almost hit her in the face with the tray.

“Chef?” she finally said, drawing his attention back to her. “Would it be convenient to meet at my hotel?”

“No, no. Nowhere else.” Swiping the back of his hand over his sweating upper lip, Rodriguez looked over at the bartender, then at the new diners again, then shook his head. “Here is fine. Here is better. Come back later.”

“Okay...”

“The restaurant closes at 1:00 a.m., but the bar is still open. Meet me then.”

For the first time, Lila hesitated. Traveling around the world to chase down unique employees for eccentric clients might not be considered the safest career ever heard of. But meeting anyone in a strange town in a foreign country in the middle of the night was pure stupidity.

“How about tomorrow morning instead? Perhaps before the restaurant opens, around 8:00 a.m.?”

His jaw worked, the grinding making his mustache flutter. Finally, Rodriguez gave a jerky nod.

“Make it six. We open early. Go to the office, though. Not the kitchen.”

There was something in his voice that sent a shiver up and down her spine. Which was silly. Lila had been traveling—and doing damn near everything else in her life—alone for a decade without any problems.

But spine shivers weren’t to be discounted, so she’d take precautions, she decided. And everything would be fine.

“Tomorrow at six, then. Here’s my number. Please, call my cell if you need to change anything,” she requested, folding the receipt and putting it and her credit card in her bag before handing him an embossed ivory business card.

“Yes, yes, fine.” His face creased with worry, he made a shooing motion with his hands. “Go, now. Go.”

Okay, then.

Lila went.

Right down to the beach in search of Mr. Muscles, the hottie she’d like to get up close and personal with.

Lila wasn’t sure if it was still lingering irritation over word of her father’s nagging, or if it was frustration over Rodriguez playing hard to get.

But she suddenly wanted a drink. And having it with a sexy hard body would have made that all better.

But while there were plenty of hard bodies and bare skin lounging on the sand, riding on the surf, the hottie was nowhere to be found.

Figured.

Chapter 2

Stars scattered over the night sky like buckshot against black velvet. Music rolled out of Casa de Rico’s doors, blending with the crickets’ serenade to the fall of night.

Another day over and done with, and not a damned thing to show for it. He hadn’t even come up with a freaking hint of an idea of what to do with the rest of his damned life.

A beer tucked between his thighs, the braided cotton strands of the hammock digging into his flesh, Travis waited for the tension to leave his body. He’d been waiting so long, he considered it a miracle that he still believed it could happen.

Maybe he should have tried a little harder with the blonde on the beach earlier. A bout or three of hot, sweaty sex would have relaxed him a little.

Maybe it was time to give up the beach and head somewhere else. He just couldn’t quite work up the enthusiasm to figure out where.

“Yo, Hawk.”

“Yo, Manny,” Travis returned laconically, lifting a hand to greet the beanpole of a man so dark that he blended with the night. All but the brilliant white of that smile he was always flashing.

“You had phone calls. I took messages.”

“Thanks, man,” Travis said, taking the scraps of paper he didn’t want.

“One is from Paulo. Others are your SEAL friends. I know their names from times they visited, fished here. But nothing from family,” Manny said in sad tones, as if not having a family calling to add their nagging to his teammates’ was something to mourn.

“No family to be calling,” Travis said, tucking the messages into the front pocket of his cutoffs. “Only child, parents gone before I was twenty.”

“That’s a bummer, man.”

It’d been a decade, but the sympathy hit him hard. He’d thought he was long over the loss. But being around people like Manny, with an extended family so big that he had cousins in every other house in town, really brought it home how alone he was. For years, he’d had his SEAL team for family. But while they weren’t dead like his parents, they weren’t there anymore either.

But all Travis could do was shrug. Nothing else to do, and absolutely nada to say.

“You didn’t have to deliver the messages. I would have come by your place tomorrow.”

Manny ran a small produce market with his brothers. Not quite a store, not quite a stall, it did brisk business with the locals and tourists alike.

“Now’s fine,” the skinny man said before lifting a covered plate. “You want fish? I caught it this morning. Glory cooked it nice.”

Rich spices escaped the dish, its foil glinting in the moonlight as Manny plopped it onto Travis’s bare belly.

Travis grunted. He really didn’t want the fish. Just like he hadn’t wanted the gallo pinto Boon had brought by an hour ago or the cacao fresco that Senora Miguel had forced on him at breakfast. But the upside—or downside in his opinion—of crashing at a friend’s place was the friend’s friends.

“Thanks, to Glory too,” he said as he lifted the plate and, bending at the waist, leaned over to set it on the battered crate that served as his table.

“So what you doing for a job now? I’ll bet you get bored recreating, right?”

Right. There was no appeal in forced recreating. But Travis only shrugged.

“I know the perfect job for you. You should be a private investigator. Or the police. But joining the police means you follow a bunch of rigid rules, that’s no way to get the job done.”

Debating whether to point out the plethora of rules he’d lived by in the military, Travis opted to keep silent. He’d learned in his first week in town that Manny and logic weren’t real close pals.

“You become a PI and solve all the crimes around here. Like I heard yesterday, that a bunch of turistas, they were hit on by two hookers.”

Not surprising. Since it was legal, prostitution was a way of life in some parts of Costa Rica.

“The men, they do the grab and feel, but didn’t like the merchandise. Happens all the time in my market. Everyone squeeze the melons but not everyone want to buy. But these men? When they don’t want a guy, some big bruiser come out and rough them up. Says, ‘You touch, you buy.’ He put one in the hospital.”

Travis frowned. Prostitution might be legal, but pimping wasn’t. Neither were prostitution rings, which was what it sounded like Manny was describing.

“My cousin Luis, he says that a bruiser was the one who came around his store last week. He said Luis pay for protection or there will be trouble. Next day, Luis’s little girl Lupe got lost.”

“She’s missing?”

“Was missing until nighttime. The whole family, we went looking, but nobody could find her. She turned up at the market after dark. Said a big man stole her, tied her up and said she had to give a message. If her papa didn’t pay, she’d get hurt.”

Damn.

Travis grimaced.

Helpless women and children, they’d always been his hot buttons. He was tempted to offer his services. But the reality was that he had no services to offer. Who needed a cripple slowing them down? So Travis forced himself to unclench his jaw and relax instead.

“Sounds like a job for the cops.” He leaned back in his hammock again.

“The cops, they are no good here. That’s why we need you, Hawk. You can be a PI, you can help with the crimes.”

“Thanks for the food,” he made himself say.

Manny’s face fell, but he didn’t push the subject.

“You eat. It’s good. Then you go have fun.”

Travis grunted, hoping Manny would take that as an affirmative and go.

No such luck.

Instead, the other guy squatted in the sand next to the hammock and grinned.

“You gonna party like a wild thing, yes? Lots to choose from tonight, Hawk. There’s a bonfire at the big hotel, a band tuning at Lolo’s and the dancing is already kicking over at the Catfish bar.”

Not too long ago, he’d have hit all three party spots in a single night. All three and more.

But that was then.

“No, thanks.”

“You really should have some fun. Loosen up and have a good time.”

“I’m close enough to Lolo’s to hear the music,” Travis pointed out, gesturing to the bar on the other side of the small dune. “I’ll join in if I feel like it.”

“You always say that, but you don’t look so good.” With an assessing look somewhere between doubt and pity, Manny shook his head. “My instructions, they’re to watch out for you. You’re healing okay. Good food, good rest, it helps. But good spirits, that’d turn the tide.”

“My spirits are fine,” Travis said somberly.

“Paulo, he’s gonna call me tomorrow. What am I supposed to say to him when he asks how you’re doing? I’ll tell him you won’t party, you barely eat, he’s gonna be peeved.”

Peeved, Travis rolled his eyes, but had to admit—if only to himself—that peeved was the perfect word for Paulo. The chief petty officer didn’t get pissed, he never threw fits, he was the perfect gentleman. Some would say a goody-goody, but only if those some hadn’t ever watched him eviscerate an enemy combatant.

Still...

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“No? Then you need a friend. A lady friend, maybe.”

The sexy blonde’s face flashed through Travis’s mind. She was definitely the kind of friend he’d like to show a good time. For a night, or in her case, two or three.

“I’m fine. I’m gonna eat this good fish, then get some rest.”

“You want me to hang out? Visit and keep you company while you eat. Save you cleaning the dish afterward, cuz I’ll just take it back to Glory to wash.”

“It’s a paper plate,” Travis pointed out. Then, because he knew the man wasn’t going to budge off his damned babysitting duties, Travis made a show of snapping up the plate. He uncovered it, and using his fingers, he snagged a chunk of fish. Spices exploded on his tongue, the flavor reminding his stomach of the good ole days, when he’d liked to eat.

“It’s great, man. Tell Glory thanks for me.”

“You’ll eat it all?”

As much to assure the guy as to get him to leave, Travis tossed back the rest and handed back the plate.

“Yum.”

It took a few more prods to convince Manny that he was fine, he was full, he was comfortable and yes, he would get some sleep. But finally, the guy took his paper plate and left.

Leaving Travis alone with the sound of partyers in the distance, and the ocean nearby. As the moon climbed higher in the sky, he watched the waves with eyes that must have been as empty as his soul felt. For what seemed like the hundredth time in the last month, he wondered if recovery at the beach had been a mistake. He’d had friends offer him their cabins in the mountains, a trip to a ranch in Colorado, a condo in Vegas and a high-rise in Manhattan. He could have—should have—crashed at any of them. Instead, here he was watching the one true love of his life.

The ocean, the sea.

For all her fickle whims, all her changeable moods, she was power. She was life.

Some might say that she’d tried to kill him, but Travis figured that just proved she had a dark side.

And watching her from a hammock on a sunset beach was as good a way to heal as any, he supposed.

* * *

Lila loved the job she’d created. She really did.

Here she sat in a deeply cushioned lounge chair, her hair loose, a tray on her lap to hold her computer and a frothy drink, complete with pink umbrella at her elbow. Despite the setting sun, the air was warm and the beach quiet as the sun worshippers had gone in for dinner and the partyers hadn’t yet gathered.

It really was a great job, she reminded herself as she sucked up more Caribbean Punch through an icy straw.

But, holy cow, where was she going to find a female blacksmith? Specifically one with public speaking skills, an affinity for children and a desire to travel with an educational troupe for a year. Scrolling through the database on her laptop, she scanned for any name that’d spark an idea.

But blacksmiths weren’t exactly plentiful in the circles Lila traveled in. So she’d expand them, she decided.

Still, maybe Corinne was right. Matchmaking might be easier. But Lila had less faith in the longevity of love than she did in her ability to track down a buff chick that liked to beat fire and steel.

“Ms. Adrian?”

Her fingers pausing on the keys of her laptop, Lila looked up with a smile. “Yes?”

“Phone for you, ma’am,” the young concierge said, holding out a cordless phone on a bamboo tray.

“For me?”

Corinne would use her cell number. So would any clients, friends or prospects trying to reach her.

There was only one person who’d make a point of tracking her down and calling the hotel to ensure she knew she’d been tracked.

Lips pressed tight, Lila gently closed her laptop. She gave herself an extra few seconds to gather her thoughts, to push away the initial rush of emotions that dealing with her father always incited.

Strongest was the heavy weight of regret that she’d never, not once in her life, lived up to her father’s expectations. She’d like to blame it on her brother. It wasn’t easy to live up to a guy like Lucas. Prep school prince, Annapolis grad, Navy SEAL. Not even leaving the Navy against their father’s express wishes had knocked him off his golden pedestal.

Instead of a pedestal, Lila had a gilded cage.

“I’d prefer to take this in my room,” she stated. He was probably calling to lecture, would likely round that out with a few unreasonable demands. Whatever her father wanted, she knew she’d rather deal with it in private. “Would you transfer it there, please?”

Lila took her time. She took the stairs. Once in her room, she even took a bottle of water from the small refrigerator. Tequila would be better, but she knew she’d want her wits about her.

She didn’t sit on the bed. That’d be too casual, too relaxed. Instead, she pulled out the stiff wooden chair from the small desk and perched on the edge.

One deep breath, and she lifted the phone receiver.

“Hello, Father. How are you?”

“Lila. Your help is required to organize and act as hostess for an event of great import. I’m honoring dignitaries and notable Navy personnel, including your brother.”

Pointing out that Lucas wasn’t in the Navy anymore would have as much impact as her hello had. So Lila didn’t waste her breath.

“It does sound like a worthy event, and honoring our troops—” even the ones who didn’t serve in Special Ops, the ones her father pretended didn’t exist “—is important. But as commendable as I’m sure it will be, I am not available to hostess or attend.”

There. Didn’t that sound officious and professional? Two things her father should easily relate to.

But, instead of understanding—or God, forbid, pride—at her work ethic and business success, her words garnered her a lecture.

Duty. Privilege. Expectations. Failure. Disappointment.

Years of practice helped her keep all of the tension, all of the reaction, in her left hand. Clenching, unclenching, clenching her fist. Over and over. Squeeze the tension, release the stress, she silently chanted.

When he finally wound down, she gave herself a second to make sure her temper was under control before speaking again.

“I have a business to run and commitments that require my time. A concept you should be familiar with. Isn’t that what you always said at every holiday, birthday or potential family occasion?”

So much for control.

“I run a multimillion dollar conglomerate with holdings in twelve countries, producing profits in the billions. You, on the other hand, are playing at running an employment agency for the odd and disenfranchised. Your accrued net earnings for the three years you’ve been in so-called business are a drop in the bucket compared to just the yearly interest on the trust fund you’ve rejected with your little act of faux independence.”

Everything wasn’t about money, Lila wanted to shout. Some things were worth more than dollars and cents. Like independence. Or pride. Or respect. She’d happily walk away from her trust fund if he’d give her any one of those.

But there was no point in telling him any of that. He never listened.

“As I understand it, you’re in Costa Rica to procure a chef for Joe Martin. That’s no longer necessary.”

“What’d you do?” she asked, her words a furious whisper. “What did you do?”

“My secretary will find them five comparable chefs to choose from, freeing you to come home.”

“The Martins are my clients, and it’s my responsibility to fulfill their request,” she snapped.

“That’s inconsequential. I’ve arranged for a helicopter to transport you to the San José airport where a private plane is scheduled to depart in the morning,” he continued, his tone of absolute confidence the only thing Lila had ever wished she’d inherited. “The itinerary is in your email inbox. I expect you to be here in two days.”

While Lila was choking on her stunned fury, he hung up.

She wanted to call him back and scream.

She wanted to throw the phone through the window.

She wanted to cry.

She shoved her hands through her hair, tugging on it until the urge passed.

Then she got up to pace off her fury.

Her entire damned life, he’d done this. Ordered, demanded or manipulated. She’d tried reason, she’d tried threats, she’d even run away from home. She’d tried to cut herself off from the family, even going so far as to use her late mother’s maiden name in her teens. It hadn’t made any difference.

Nothing got through to the man.

All she could do was focus on her life, and her business. Which meant figuring out what he’d done and undo it, Lila told herself. It still took a couple more paces of the room to calm down enough to listen to herself, though.

When she did, she figured she’d better call Joe Martin and ensure she still had a client. Otherwise she was going to have to rewrite her company’s tag line to guarantee 95 percent satisfaction instead of 100.

Lila opened her laptop to pull up his phone number and saw her email notification flashing.

Flight details.

Her jaw set, her finger shaking, Lila deleted the email without replying. And contacted her client, instead.

“Mr. Martin, hello. This is Lila Adrian.”

Thirty minutes later, she’d smoothed over the trouble her father had caused and promised complete satisfaction in the form of Chef Rodriguez. No substitutes, no replacements, just him.

When she hung up, she knew she was tiptoeing a shaky line, making that kind of promise. But years of watching her father had given her plenty of insights into how the rich and influential operated. She’d built her business on those insights. She might not like the man a whole lot, but she couldn’t deny that his business skills were legendary.

Legends weren’t built on empty promises.

But neither were they built on fear, she told herself as she headed back to the Casa de Rico. She couldn’t wait until morning to talk with Rodriguez. Not with a man like Wayne Adrian making travel plans, whether she liked it or not. She wouldn’t put it past her father to send someone to the hotel to ensure she made that flight. She wasn’t going to comply, but it wouldn’t hurt to nail down the details with the chef tonight.

Snatches of noise rolled out of the buildings, the beat of a steel drum and thrum of guitars playing backup to the sound of Lila’s heels tapping down the sidewalk as she wove her way through the partying crowds.

People poured out of bars, gathered around restaurants and a happy couple danced in front of the hardware store. She’d had no idea that Puerto Viejo was such a party town. But safe enough, she supposed as she returned friendly greetings, refused two cleverly worded propositions and sidestepped a would-be pickpocket with an apologetic grin.

She hadn’t quite worked out her pitch, but she knew it’d be smarter to talk with Rodriguez tonight.

Maybe.

Two steps inside the restaurant and she could barely move. It obviously did a better dinner service than lunch, because it had wall-to-wall bodies.

Still, she gave the bartender a friendly look when she finally wiggled her way to the counter.

“Hi, there. Bar or restaurant?” the woman asked, giggling as a passing customer patted her on the butt.

Lila angled her head to peer around the column and check out the crowds. The small bar was three people deep, with the bodies spilling into the restaurant.

“I’d love to chat to Chef Rodriguez instead.” Lila tried a wide-eyed, innocent smile when the woman arched one brow. “I’m working on an article and was in earlier. I had the ceviche. It was great. I was hoping to ask him about a few follow-up questions.”

The woman gave her a narrow-eyed look, but finally shrugged.

“Sure. Go on back.”

Fighting her way through the crowd, Lila took a deep, grateful breath once through the kitchen doors.

A dozen faces turned to stare at her in surprise. But none was the one she was looking for.

“Chef Rodriguez?”

She got a series of shrugs, a couple of scowls and one frown from the dishwasher, who jerked his chin toward a door leading to a narrow hallway.

“Try his office.”

“Thanks.”

Remembering the chef’s earlier reluctance to talk, Lila closed the door behind her. The grumble of voices hit her when she was halfway down the hall. Men. They were speaking Spanish, but it was a dialect she wasn’t familiar with. But the rage in their tone came through loud and clear.

Biting her lip, Lila paused. She took one step back toward the kitchen, then spotted a door leading outside. Probably better to go out the side, she supposed, ignoring the frustration tightening her jaw. She wanted to talk with Rodriguez tonight, to get her offer in first.

The voices rose. She recognized enough to know that one man was pleading, another cursing. She’d just talk with the chef in the morning, as planned, she decided, nervously sidling over to the door.

Before she could turn the knob, there was a whine and a pop. Lila jumped, barely choking back her scream at the loud crash, the sight of papers winging through the air.

Another pop, and the partially closed door burst open, slamming into the wall. Before it could ricochet back again, a body flew out, landing in the hallway with a sickening thud. Something splattered, spraying the walls, spewing across the floor.

Blood?

Was that blood?

Hers drained out of her head, leaving her dizzy and blinking against the tiny black dots dancing in front of her eyes.

Chef Rodriguez, she realized with a silent scream, recognizing the body that splattered blood over the floor. A very dead Chef Rodriguez.

Oh, God.

Oh, God.

Oh, God.

Lila’s whole body shook. She swiped at the doorknob, but it wouldn’t turn. She swiped again, trying to get a good hold on the metal with her sweat-slicked hand.

Get out, get out, get out, she mentally chanted, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Get out before they see you.

She heard footsteps.

The sound of something hitting the wall.

They were coming.

She let out a squeal of panicked relief when the door opened. She tried to run, but her knees were as useful as Jell-O, so she hung on to the doorjamb to keep from falling on her face.

“Hey!”

Lila heard the office door ricochet off the wall again, the horrible squelching sound of someone sliding in blood, a big body hitting the wall.

They’d seen her.

Lila considered herself to be a smart woman. A world traveler trained in self-defense. A woman who followed and respected the law.

She knew she should scream. Call for help, yell for the police. There were at least fifty people twenty feet away. Someone would help her. Someone would save her.

“Hey. You.”

Lila didn’t even wait a heartbeat. She didn’t scream. She didn’t head for the kitchen.

Nope.

She ran like hell.

* * *

Ripped out of a dream, Travis jerked awake, instantly coming to full alert.

Where was he? What’d happened?

Hammock.

The beach.

In Costa Rica.

Shit.

He rubbed his hands over his face, cleaning the fatigue away before glancing at the sky. From the angle of the moon, the position of the stars, he estimated that he’d slept for about three hours.

Three uninterrupted, peaceful hours.

Not bad, he decided as he swung his legs out of the hammock and, balancing carefully, got to his feet. He doubted he’d get any more tonight, but three was good enough.

He’d go back to Paulo’s house—a hut, really—and chill. He was a man skilled in keeping his mind occupied and hands busy. A talent that came in handy before a battle. And, apparently, while mulling what the hell to do with the rest of his life.

Because the life of a beach bum was getting old.

Grinning a little because, yeah, those had been a great three hours of sleep, Travis headed for his temporary home.

But before he had taken ten steps toward the hut, he had his hands full of a hysterical blonde. Her hair flew around him in silken ropes. He felt rather than heard the loud crack as his knee gave out, but the woman continued to grab at him, her fingers clutching his back like he was a lifeline.

Despite her violent shaking and gasping sobs, he knew the only thing keeping him from planting his face in the sand was the woman grabbing at him.

If that wasn’t annoying, he didn’t know what was.

Travis gritted his teeth against the pain and grabbed her right back. He damned well wasn’t letting go until he had his footing. After a few seconds, her continual squirming and wriggling had a different effect on his body than vicious, shooting pain.

Whoa. Now that was a sensation he hadn’t enjoyed in a long time. Too long, he figured, if a panicked woman hell-bent on knocking him on his ass was a turn on.

“Nice to meet you and all,” he said, reaching around to grasp her wrists and unleash himself from her hold. “But I think that’s enough for now.”

“No. No, no, no,” she gasped, her words breathy with terror. “You’ve got to help me.”

“As soon as you let me go.”

But instead of releasing her hold, she tried to burrow deeper.

“Lady, you grab me much harder, you’re going to be inside my skin.”

He managed to break her arm’s lock on his waist, but before he could unwrap himself, she jumped in his arms, shoving him off balance again.

Travis didn’t bother to censor his curses as he struggled to find his balance.

“What the hell is your problem?” he finally snapped, getting a firm grip on her shoulders and pushing her to arm’s length. She shook harder, her hair flying as she looked behind her then back at him.

It was the sexy blonde from earlier that afternoon, he realized. The one he’d flirted with. If this was her follow-up, it was seriously twisted.

And, based on his body’s reaction, it kinda worked.

“They’re after me. Bad men. They saw me. Police. We need the police.”

Seriously? Adjusting his weight onto his left leg, Travis rolled his eyes.

“Get a grip,” he told her.

“Dead,” she gasped, almost sobbing the words. “They killed him. He’s dead.”

“What?” Dead? His senses hitting high alert, Travis looked over her shoulder, tracking the path she’d run. He could see the furrow of her steps in the sand and the lights of Casa de Rico beyond. There was a handful of people on the beach, but they all looked to be alive. “Who do you think is dead?”

“He’s dead. They shot him. Oh, God, there was blood everywhere.” Swallowing so hard he heard the click in her throat, the woman had to take a couple of deep breaths before she could finish. “They killed Rodriguez. The chef at Casa de Rico.”

Her thick lashes were spiked with tears over eyes of a misty, sea green that might be pretty when they didn’t have that glassy sheen.

Someone down the beach shouted. She gave a short scream and jumped, turning so fast that her hair slapped him in the face.

“Is that them? They’re going to come after me. Oh, God. I need to get out of here. I have to get away.”

Her voice was so thick with panic, he could barely make out her words. He reached out to grab her when her body sagged, not surprised to feel her shaking like an earthquake. She screamed again as soon as he touched her.

“Calm the hell down,” Travis snapped. Then, seeing no other option that didn’t make him a complete jerk, he grabbed her arm.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking you somewhere safe.”

Chapter 3

Safe.

Safe was good.

The sand seeping between her feet and sassy wedge sandals, Lila stumbled in his wake. She was glad he was holding her arm, since her knees were gooey now that the adrenaline was gone.

She blindly went along with no idea where he was taking her. Gorgeous body and a little flirting aside, she couldn’t figure out what it was about this rude man that made her feel safe, but she’d take it over the faceless guys with guns.

The image of the chef hitting the floor flashed through her mind again, the sound of his body crashing to the floor, the red spray across the walls.

She wanted to ask him to slow down, but Lila’s breath jammed in her throat, choking on the words before she could utter them. She blinked hard and tried to focus.

That’s when she realized that they’d left the beach, heading into the tall trees of the rain forest.

Where was he taking her?

Was it really safe?

Was he?

Get a grip, Lila told herself. And she needed to get it fast, before she ended up like the stupid blonde in every horror movie who went into the basement to check a noise.

“Let’s call the cops,” she said, trying to pull free of his grip on her arm. “I want the police.”

She dug her cell phone out of the pocket of her capris with her spare hand.

“Smarter to use a landline where we’re going to call the local station. But if you want, go ahead and make the call yourself.”

His easy disregard calmed a few of her nerves. Not all of them, but enough that she was able to get a better look at where they were going.

Not a neighborhood, per se. But a tidy row of thatched-roof houses, bordering a low hill leading into the forest. A pair of elderly men sat smoking in front of one house, both lifting their hands to her escort in a friendly greeting. Since neither said a word about his dragging her along by the arm, she had to wonder if this was some weird courtship ritual of his.

A weary looking woman swayed in the open doorway of one house, patting the back of the crying babe in her arms.

“Colic again?” Lila’s rescuer called out.

“Again and again,” the woman returned in a singsong voice. “We’ll be hurting too much to sleep for a little while yet.”

“I keep telling you, a shot of Jim Beam will take care of the problem.”

“Is the whiskey for him? Or is it for me?” the woman asked with a laugh.

“Whatever works.”

It was his easy humor as much as the crying baby that reassured Lila enough to have her tucking the phone back in her pocket. Either way, she’d wait for a little privacy to call the police. Privacy and, she decided with a deep, calming breath, a few minutes to get herself under control.

The man might be gruff and overwhelming, but she was pretty sure he was safe. Or, safe enough, she amended, watching the way his muscles flowed as he strode a step ahead of her. He had a slight limp, like he was favoring his right leg. She frowned, squinting at the scars crossing, bisecting and wrapping around his knee. She wasn’t an expert, but that looked fresh, to say nothing of painful.

“Slow down,” she insisted. When he frowned, she made a show of pointing to her feet. “I’m wearing heels. So unless the bad guys are actually chasing us, let’s keep it to a reasonable pace.”

He didn’t bother to hide the roll of his eyes, but he did slow his pace. Enough, she was glad to see, that he wasn’t limping as badly.

From the front, the house looked smaller than the others, barely bigger than her apartment in San Francisco. But it had impressive hardware on the door and windows, and, if she wasn’t mistaken, a state-of-the-art alarm system.

“Worried about break-ins?” she asked as he reached for the doorknob. As soon as he twisted it, she realized she had her answer. It wasn’t even locked.

“Not my place.” He pushed open the door and gestured her inside. He gave her an impatient look when she hesitated. “It belongs to a friend. He’s not here a lot, so he keeps it secured.”

Okay. Lila wet her lips. As she hesitated, a loud crash came from the path they’d come from, followed by a couple of gruff shouts. Lila rushed through the door so fast, she almost tripped over his feet.

“In a hurry?”

“It’s been a crappy night, okay?” she snapped, hurrying over to peek out the front window. The same old men still sat, smoking. The same woman still swayed, singing. But nobody else was out there. She pressed her hand against her stomach, trying to calm the sharp jabs of fear.

“It’s been something, all right,” he agreed under his breath, pulling the door shut behind him.

“Lock it. Please. Lock the door.”

His eyes skimmed over her face, and even though she could feel his exasperation, he silently turned the lock.

“Feel better?”

“No.”

She looked around with a frown. The bulk of the square footage seemed to be in this main room, with a pair of doors on the end leading to what she assumed was the bed and bath. The furniture was simple. A long black couch and a huge black recliner stood in the center of the room, both so big she was surprised they fit in the room. A table and two chairs were shoved in a corner next to a refrigerator that looked older than the house itself.

Something about cataloging the room calmed her. Enough so that she started to feel her legs again and her hands started to tremble. She didn’t want to close her mind; she wasn’t ready to see the scene in her head again. But she figured she had a handle on the babbling enough to make a coherent report.

“We should call the police now.”

“You sure? Maybe you want to wait a few more minutes. Think it all over again.”

Lila turned to stare.

The man was gorgeous. Even in the sad light put out by one rickety looking lamp, he was a work of art. From his sculpted jaw that needed a shave to his eyes, as dark as his midnight-black hair, he had the looks. The body, too, she remembered. She didn’t let herself ogle it for the same reason she wouldn’t let her mind reenact the murder. Because she wasn’t sure she could handle it.

But she couldn’t deny the man had it all going on.

All that, and he was still an idiot.

“You think I went running willy-nilly down the beach on the verge of hysterics, then grabbed on to you, all just for entertainment?” She barreled on before he could say anything to go with the amusement in his eyes. “You think I threw myself into your arms, that I made up the whole story about seeing something that horrible? Why? Just to get your attention?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t believe me,” she said with a scowl. “So why did you bring me here?”

“To give you time to calm down before you did something stupid, hurt yourself or hurt someone else.”

“Aren’t you the hero,” she muttered, turning her back on him and pulling out her cell phone.

“What’re you doing?”

What did he think she was doing?

“I’m calling the police,” she said, shooting a defiant look over her shoulder before pressing the keys. One. One. One.

Before she hit the seven, a hand reached over her shoulder to take the phone.

“You sure you want to call the cops?” he asked, his voice a slow rumble vibrating against her back. Irritation made it easy to ignore the sensations coiling in her belly, but Lila figured it was smarter to step away regardless. No point in letting her body get stupid ideas.

“Look, buddy,” she snapped, turning to face him rather than leave all that temptation hulking at her back. Mistake, she realized as soon as she stared up into his dark eyes. Big mistake. But she was good at ignoring mistakes, she reminded herself before taking a deep breath.

“I don’t know how things are handled in your world. But in mine, murder means we call the cops. So get out of my way and let me do that, then you can get back to your beer and your beach and whatever the hell else actually matters to you.”

Lila wished that her voice wasn’t shaking almost as hard as her hands, but a person could only take so much.

“You need to calm down,” the man said, obviously impervious to her nasty tone and cutting words.

“You don’t believe me?” she accused, slapping her hand on his bare chest to keep him from walking away. “Why? Why would I make something like that up?”

His eyes locked on hers for a long heartbeat, then dropped to her hand. Her fingers tingling, Lila dropped it to her side. His gaze met hers again and he shrugged. A slow shrug that was just as indifferent as the rest of his attitude.

Years of being ignored, of having her simplest wants and needs and thoughts dismissed as inconsequential exploded in Lila’s head.

She used both hands this time, not to stop him from walking away, but to shove him back a step. Ignoring the look of amused surprise on his face, she gave him another shove. There was something about having a man’s full attention that filled her with a feeling she barely recognized as power.

God, it felt good.

“Call the damned police. Call them now,” she ordered, her voice vibrating with fury. “They’ll figure out what happened. They’ll find Rodriguez.”

“You’re sure?”

She slapped her cell phone against his chest.

Ignoring it, he gave her one last, long look, then stepped over to grab the receiver of an ancient rotary dial phone and made the call.

He spoke Spanish in the local dialect, his words flowing too fast for her to make out more than every third. Her eyes widened when she realized he was actually talking to the chief of police.

“Sí. Rodriguez,” he confirmed. “Casa de Rico.”

Lila held her breath, waiting for the rest of the conversation, but the only thing she heard from then on was grunts on her pseudo rescuer’s part until he said goodbye.

“They’ll meet us there.”

“Someone else probably called it in by now,” she mused, her fingers clenching and unclenching as she thought it through. “There’s no way nobody noticed the chef on duty missing and didn’t go looking for him.”

“No calls from that location or in the vicinity.”

“How do you know?”

“I asked.”

Oh.

“Let’s go then,” she said, heading for the door. “We want to be there when they get there.”

“Give me a minute.”

A part of her wanted to unleash that fury again, to yell and demand and see him respond. But he was already doing what she wanted, she realized. So letting loose her anger wouldn’t be a show of power. It’d just be showing her bitch face.

So Lila stayed silent while he stepped out of the room.

She glanced out the window, noting that the baby must have fallen asleep because the swaying woman was indoors now. The forest was a tangle of shadows in the dark, but she could still make out the path to the beach. She squinted, wondering if she could see the ocean from here. Maybe in the daytime.

But she could see well enough that she’d notice anyone coming their way. Cops. Killers. She stared until her eyes watered, but nothing moved.

She was so focused on watching out the window that she almost screamed at the sound behind her.

It was the beach bum, still shirtless but wearing jeans and heavy black boots instead of cutoffs and bare feet. He strode over to a drawer and pulled out a gun. A black, lethal looking weapon that had her breath knotted in her throat so tight she could barely breathe. He pulled out the magazine, checked it, then shoved it back in place before tucking the weapon into the back waistband of his jeans. He snagged a T-shirt off a pile on the chair. Pulling it over his head, he strode to the door and threw it open.

Without a word about the gun.

Why that should make her nervous after everything else that’d happened, she couldn’t say.

“I’ll walk you back to your hotel.”

“I’m going to the restaurant,” she snapped. “You remember, the scene of the crime.”

“Of course you are.” He gestured toward the open door. “After you.”

“Do you have to be such a jerk?” she asked as they headed through the tree-covered path.

“Do you have to be such a drama queen?”

“When I see a man murdered right in front of me, yes. I think I’m entitled to wear the drama crown.”

His lips twitched.

“Yeah, I suppose you are. If you did.”

It took her a couple of seconds to puzzle that out.

“You honestly don’t believe me? Why would I lie? What purpose is there in making something like that up?”

It wasn’t until he’d joined her on the path, his steps just a little hesitant, his gait just a little off, that Lila realized she’d thrown herself into his arms, gone with him into a strange place, leaned on him for emotional support and was dragging him back to a murder scene.

And she didn’t even know his name.

* * *

“Who are you?”

What difference did it make? When Travis shot the blonde a questioning look, she amended, “I mean, what’s your name?”

“Hawkins.”

“That’s it? Just Hawkins?”

He didn’t figure they were going to be exchanging mail. Or, despite the appeal of her pretty little body and sea witch eyes, good-mornings over sex-tangled sheets. So, yeah, he shrugged. That was it.

“I’m Lila.”

“Okay.”

She stared. Blinked. And stared again.

“Seriously?” she muttered under her breath. “Just, okay? Could you be any ruder?”

“I’m sure I can if I put a little effort into it.”

He didn’t know if that puff of sound she made was a laugh, but it made him grin.

“Just walk me back to the restaurant and help interpret with the police,” she told him. “Then I promise, I’ll leave you alone with your beer and your beach.”

“Anything you say. Lila.” He put a little extra agreeableness into his tone. The kind he used with irritating officers who were superior in rank only.

“Just for that, I want an apology before you drop your butt back in that hammock.”

Travis shot her an impressed glance. The woman must be better versed in Smart-Ass than the last admiral he’d answered to.

“Or?”

She stopped on the path that led from the beach to the restaurant and gave him a long study. Then her smile flashed, sassy and challenging.

“Or I’ll keep bugging you until you do.”

Damned effective threat, he silently acknowledged as she continued with surer steps toward the boardwalk, then up toward the side door of the bar.

Smarter than the front entrance, he supposed. The fewer people who saw her, the less flak she’d get later. He knew enough about the local policía to know they weren’t going to be too thrilled at being hauled out of their comfy chairs on a bogus call.

“Get your apology ready,” she said, giving him a snotty look over her shoulder as she grabbed the doorknob. Travis didn’t bother to tell her to forget about it. The doors around here automatically locked on both sides.

She gave it a twist and tugged it open just an inch.

“Quiet,” she whispered. “They might still be in there.”

Huh. Travis frowned at the door, then touched the Glock nestled at the small of his back. He silently followed her inside, first looking toward the door to the kitchen, then toward the office.

“The door wasn’t closed before. And the body? It was lying there in the doorway. Where is it?” she asked, her words so quiet they barely floated on the air. Her gaze slid to his just long enough for him to see the sick dance of nerves in her eyes, then with a sharp breath, she started for the office.

He liked the way she didn’t back down, despite her fear. But Travis still laid his hand on her arm, halting her steps. He drew in a long breath through his nose, noting the faint scent of solvent.

“Wait.”

She stopped and bit her lip, looking at the door, then back at him, then at the door again.

Nobody stormed out with guns blazing, but Travis still had a nasty tingle dancing down his spine.

He didn’t know if they really were standing in a murder scene or not. But his senses told him that something definitely wasn’t right here.

Maybe she felt it, too. Or maybe she simply realized that safer was smarter. But Lila gave him another considering look, then took two steps back and to the side to place his body between her and the door.

“Why aren’t the police here yet?” she whispered.

“They probably don’t see this as a priority.” He didn’t bother to keep his voice down.

“Murder isn’t a priority?”

“We take murder quite seriously, senorita.”

As one, Travis and Lila looked back. A short man stood—posed, was more like it—in the doorway to the kitchen, giving them both enough time to take in his leather pants, waxed mustache and slicked-back hair. Standing behind him was a man so nondescript, Travis was surprised he didn’t simply fade into the background. A handy skill for a cop, he supposed.

Lila gave a relieved sigh, but Travis didn’t figure it was either cop’s looks that had her tension lowering even as his rose. It was more likely the shiny silver badge hanging from the waistband of the man in the lead. The shorter man murmured something they couldn’t hear, but whatever it was sent the other scurrying away.

“Montoya.” Travis grimaced when it was just the three of them.

For a brief second, he considered shifting positions with Lila. The fact they stood at an alleged murder scene where possible killers had been carried less potential threat than the man walking toward them.

“Senor Hawkins. Why would you be involved in this, might I ask?”

“I asked him to come with me,” Lila said, walking forward with her hand outstretched. “I’m Lila Adrian, and I witnessed a murder.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Dismissing her in a single glance, Montoya studied Travis out of dark, beady eyes. “And you, Senor Hawkins? Did you witness this, as well?”

Travis debated. He’d had run-ins with Montoya before. The man had a serious hate-on for members of the US military, considered them all cocky hotshots who should stay in their own country and off his beach. Still, the whole helping a damsel in distress thing was simple enough. But he suspected that the minute he said he hadn’t seen jack, Montoya would toss him out the door, intimidate Lila into recanting anything that’d disturb his comfy existence and maybe grab a drink before heading back to his carefully structured office.

Then Travis could head back to his own carefully unstructured hammock and comfy nonexistence. Which was, after all, priority number one.

He glanced at Lila, noting the way her brow furrowed and the frustration in her eyes at Montoya’s dismissal. He could practically see the smart-ass remarks balanced on the tip of her tongue; she was just waiting for a chance to jump in Montoya’s face. Which was all the excuse he’d need to toss her in a cell and make his point to the town council about the trouble with tourists.

Travis sighed. Looked like his hammock was going to have to wait.

“I’m here with the lady,” he told Montoya. “You want the details of what happened, ask her. She can fill you in.”

* * *

Okay...

Lila’s stomach clenched. Her nerves, already frayed near to breaking with the events of the evening, jangled dangerously. She didn’t know what had caused the tension between the cop and the beach bum, but it felt significant. Was that a good thing or a bad thing?

Lila looked from one man to the other and back again. She couldn’t read either’s expression, but there was enough malice in their words to make her throat dry.

“Senorita?” After a long stare at her companion, the policeman gave her a questioning look. “Why do you claim to have seen a murder?”

“What?” Why? Claim?

Nerves forgotten, Lila scowled. Her fists clenched at her sides. Before she could snap at him to kiss her butt, the beach bum—Hawkins, she had to remember his name was Hawkins—touched her. Just a single finger to the small of her back for barely a second. But it was enough to warn her to reel it in.

So she gritted her teeth and tried to do that.

“Earlier this evening, I saw a man killed in the doorway. That doorway.” She pointed her still clenched fist toward the office. “Someone shot Chef Rodriguez.”

“How do you know Chef Rodriguez?”

“What difference does that make? I saw him fall to the floor covered in blood, right there in that doorway.”

The policeman held her gaze for a long, uncomfortable moment before he stepped around her and Hawkins and walked casually toward the office. Lila cringed, seeing in her head the body fall again, the blood splatter.

Wait.

Her eyes tracked the cop’s steps, not so much to note his progress as to check the walls. The floor. Where was the blood?

Where was the body?

“This is the office where you thought you saw a man fall, senorita?”

The policeman threw open the door and gestured inside. Unwilling to move any closer, Lila craned her neck instead and tried to see the body. But the floor was bare of a body. Nowhere to be seen was a hurricane of scattered papers or broken furniture.

Lila rubbed a hand over her trembling lips.

“There is no dead body. No blood. No evidence of any wrongdoing,” the cop enunciated in careful English. “Perhaps you are used to attention in your country, senorita. But we frown upon such fabrications here in Puerto Viejo.”

He gave the office one last look around, then swaggered over to shift his intimidating stare between Lila and her companion.

“I’m not making it up,” she breathed, shaking her head. Not sure why, since he hadn’t believed her either, Lila shot Hawkins a beseeching look. “I wouldn’t lie about something like that.”

“Why don’t you check on Rodriguez? Make sure he’s not floating facedown somewhere.” The suggestion was made to the cop, but Hawkin’s eyes didn’t leave Lila’s.

“Perhaps you should remember that we have no use for hotshots such as yourself here in Puerto Viejo, senor.” His beady eyes shifted between the two of them again before Montoya smiled.

Lila wanted to ask what the hell that meant. She clenched her fists, ready to demand to speak with the chief of police, the mayor. Whoever the hell was in charge.

But between his flat gaze and those small, sharp teeth, the cop reminded her of a shark. The kind of shark that’d chew her up and spit her out without so much as blinking.

So she kept her mouth shut.

“I will overlook your games this once, senorita. But only this once.” With that, and another sneering sort of smile, the policeman strode down the hall and out the door.

Leaving Lila with no dead body, a raging headache and a gun-carrying grouch.

Chapter 4

Lila could only stare in shock as the dapper little cop strode away, his steps as rigid as his attitude.

He thought she’d made it up.

He thought she was lying.

The sexy beach bum with the lousy attitude thought that, too.

Years of being disregarded, of being dismissed or shunted off to the side as unimportant, exploded in her head. She wanted to scream. More, she wanted to grab something—the stapler off the desk, the rolling chair, the computer—and throw it to get him to pay attention to her.

She’d taken only one step, the red haze of fury blurring her vision, when someone laid a hand on her shoulder. Just one hand, but the simple touch calmed her.

Even as the frustration ebbed in her gut, her gaze shifted to meet Hawkins’s. In those dark eyes, she saw the same irritation that she felt. Then again, he’d seemed irritated since she met him, so maybe that was simply his go-to expression.

Regardless, Lila took comfort in his steady gaze.

“I did not imagine it, and I’m not making it up.” Her knees shook, but she forced herself to take three steps toward the office so she could point through the doorway. “I saw Chef Rodriguez killed. Right there.”

“Okay.” It wasn’t agreement, it wasn’t doubt. Lila knew the word was simply acknowledging what she thought she saw. It was enough to steel her spine, though.

So she wet her lips and took a hesitant step toward the office. Hawkins followed, so the next one was easier. Still, when she reached the door, even with Hawkins at her shoulder, she had to force herself to shift her gaze. To look around the office. To check the floor.

The policeman had said the room was clean.

He hadn’t lied.

Rodriguez was nowhere to be seen. The room was tidy, the floor bare.

She pressed her fingers to her lips to stop their trembling.

“Lila.”

The voice came as if from far away, its rumble soothing some of the tension in her belly. It didn’t explain the room, though.

“But...”

Her head doing a long, slow spin, Lila took two deep breaths, then stepped all the way into the office.

It was one thing that the body was gone. But where was the blood? The mess?

“They shot him. He fell. There.” She pointed at the doorway. At the bleached pine planks underfoot. “Blood. It was all over the floor. It smeared on the wall.”

But the floor was spotless. The wall clean.

Lila rubbed her knuckles over the pain throbbing in her forehead, trying to hold back a moan.

“I didn’t imagine it.” She turned to face the beach bum, her voice insistent. “I wouldn’t make something like that up.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

“That policeman, Montoya, he thinks I made it up.”

Hawkins shrugged.

“He does have a point. There’s no body here.”

“I didn’t make this up.”

“Besides a body hitting the floor, what do you think you saw? Who shot him? What’d they look like? Sound like?”

“I only saw a hand. A man’s hand, holding the gun as it shot the chef.” Lila rubbed two fingers over her temple, trying to remember more. “He wore a long-sleeved jacket. Dark. The voices were low. Two men, at least, two, but they spoke too quietly for me to make out what they were saying.”

“That’s not a lot to go on.” His words as casual as his stance, the beach bum crossed his legs at the ankle, propped one shoulder against the door frame and shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. The black tee gripped his shoulders like a tight hug, molded that broad chest.

Despite the confusion, beyond the misery in her gut, Lila couldn’t stop her gaze from taking in the perfect example of male beauty standing there. She’d admired it on the beach earlier today, but now all that perfection was a little irritating. Or maybe it was the look on his face: arrogant amusement and a hint of condescending impatience.

“A lot or not, Montoya still should have done more,” she stated, her frown sliding into a scowl.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.” She threw her arms in the air. “Something. Anything. He’s a policeman. He should do police work, shouldn’t he?”

“The cops didn’t see anything.”

“The police are wrong.” Lila shot him a sideways glance that was as close as she could get to a sneer. “And you’re wrong, too.”

“I’m wrong. The police are wrong. Everyone’s wrong but you. Sweetheart, you take the cake.”

She wanted to tell him where to shove the cake, but she managed to smile instead.

“I didn’t imagine seeing a man killed.”

“Okay.”

That agreeably sarcastic tone was different, and the single word wasn’t what she was used to hearing. But the subtext? Oh, Lila knew every word. She was an expert on arrogance and well-versed in patronizing disdain.

Her fists clenched so tight her hands shook. She knew it was pointless. There was no reasoning with that subtext. Nothing she said would matter. But she still couldn’t keep herself from snapping.

“How can you guys blow this off? What kind of men just dismiss murder? Just shrug off a man being shot and killed? Somebody took Chef Rodriguez’s life and you just stand there, giving me that I’m so perfect sneer. What the hell is your problem?”

“If I’m perfect, I doubt I’d have any problems.”

“I didn’t say you were perfect,” she corrected meticulously, ignoring the tickle in her belly that argued that if looks were anything to go by, he had perfection down pat. “I said you think that you’re perfect. And some might say that you think incorrectly.”

“Is that any way to talk to the man who gave up his quiet evening to ride to your rescue?”

“You were swinging in a hammock.”

“Yet another example of my perfection. With no preparation or warning, I was able to effect a clean op, mount a rescue and end the mission without incident.” He grinned. “Besides, I was swinging pretty damned quietly.”

“Who the hell are you?” she snapped, squeezing the fingers of her left hand, releasing, and squeezing again.

“Me?” He shrugged, the movement making the muscles of his chest and shoulder ripple. “Just a guy on vacation.”

“No. That policeman called you a hotshot. What he’d said about you thinking you can handle things better than the cops, what’d that mean?”

“Civilians sometimes get pissy when dealing with guys with Special Ops training.”

Special Ops training?

“What branch?” she choked out.

“SEALs,” he said, giving her a curious look.

Lila could only shake her head.

No freaking way.

Mr. Tall, Sexy and Gorgeous was a SEAL? A Navy SEAL?

With her luck, he’d served on the same team as her brother. Probably the same squad. He’d have met her father, been honored by one of Adrian the elder’s kiss-ass dinner parties. Even, God help her, golfed at the club.

Tears—as much from fury and frustration as from self-pity—burned her eyes.

The events of the day won, she decided.

She couldn’t take any more.

Her legs were wonky. Too wonky to hold her up any longer. Uncaring that it was the same spot she’d seen a body fall, she dropped to the floor and wrapped her arms around her torso, hoping the pressure would hold in the pain.

* * *

Seriously?

She was going to fall apart now?

Right here, on the floor where she thought she’d witnessed a murder?

Striding over to the tiny refrigerator in the corner, Travis shook his head. He’d never understand women. She’d thrown herself at him, all but climbing inside his skin.

Not that he had much problem with that, he decided in retrospect. She’d fit damned nice, and all that hair of hers was a silky temptation.

He yanked open the wobbly door of the stained appliance and grabbed a water. Twisting off the cap, he walked back and held it out, waiting in silence.

Lila shifted so her head was resting against the wall instead of on her drawn-up knees. The movement threw her face into sharp relief, the flickering overhead light angling down, accenting that full mouth, with its slight overbite. The curve of her cheekbones and the deep hollows beneath. She’d closed her eyes so her thick lashes fanned out over those cheeks, giving her a look of vulnerability that tugged at his gut.

Then she pulled in one long, deep breath that made her blouse slide temptingly across her full breasts.

And he got a tug a little south of his gut.

Then she did it again.

And Travis realized that yes, indeed, bum knee or not, he was alive and well.

By her third breath, he had to suck in one of his own.

He wasn’t the kind of guy who liked to see people fall apart—especially women. But it was pure pleasure to watch her pull herself together.

Still, enough was enough.

“You got a grip on yourself yet?”

“What?” When those lashes fluttered open, her eyes were fogged with confusion and pain.

“Just checking. Are you finished with that meltdown?”

“Meltdown?” she snapped, pushing to her feet. She slammed her hands on her hips while her face curved in fury. She had a wicked glare, one he figured would cut a lesser man to the quick. But his ego was made of steel.

So he just grinned.

“Yeah. You were crying and babbling and seeing things. In my book, that reads like a meltdown.”

“I saw a man killed,” she said, each word clipped and precise. “I heard the bullet, the sound of it piercing his flesh. I watched his body fly backward, bleeding and ripped. I heard men cussing before one of them aimed that same gun at me.”

She stepped forward and poked a sharp finger into his chest.

“So if I had a meltdown according to your stupid book, then I figure I’m due.”

Damn.

Travis couldn’t stop smiling.

Well, what d’ya know, he realized with surprise, downing the water she’d ignored. As the icy liquid poured down his throat, he gave thanks.

Because, oh, yeah. He still had a libido.

“Okay,” he said after debating the merits of keeping her riled up versus being a gentleman. “Anyone who saw that sort of thing would have a right to melt on down.”

“Anyone?”

“You, in this case.” Not interested in arguing the point, he shrugged. “How much time passed between your supposed escape and mowing into me?”

“I don’t know,” Lila said, sounding a little frantic as she shook her head. “A few minutes, I suppose.”

“Factoring in the five or so minutes it took you to reach me on the beach, then to calm down and make sense—”

“You mean for you to quit bitching about being knocked over and listen to me.”

“And the five minutes it took us to walk to my place. I called the cops, we met them here within ten minutes, give or take,” Travis continued, ignoring her. “Less than a half hour, all told.”

“So?”

“So if an as yet unknown number of men killed a harmless chef, and saw you witnessing the murder first, don’t you think they’d have pursued when you ran? But, instead, you figure they cleaned up all evidence, scrubbed the place clean of blood and guts, tidying the office while they were at it. Then they hauled the body out of a busy restaurant, on a busy beach, without anyone noticing?” He waited a beat, letting that sink in, then added, “And all of that in less than thirty minutes?”

“How would I know?” She threw her hands in the air. “All I know is what I saw.”

With that, she headed out the door.

“Where are you going?”

“The cops don’t believe me. You don’t believe me.” She shot him a nasty look. “So what difference does it make?”

“I believe you are upset.” He glanced through the grimy window. “And I believe it’s a little late to be storming around town alone.”

“Oh, sure,” she said with a sneer. “Being a hero isn’t enough for you. You just have to play gentleman, too.”

Ignoring her attitude shift from lady of the manor to peasant, Travis gestured for her to precede him out the door. Despite his service as a SEAL, Travis had never wanted to play hero. But he couldn’t ignore the need to do something to fix this mess for her, to do whatever he could to make her feel better.

“C’mon,” he said, walking over and offering his hand.

She looked at it, then those mermaid eyes rose to his face before dropping to his hand again.

“What?”

“Let’s go.”

Brows furrowed, she looked around the office and gave a small shudder before tucking her hand in his. Her fingers were slender, making Travis want to be extra careful not to crush those delicate bones as he pulled her to her feet.

Upright, she swayed a little, so he left his hand in hers. Just because he didn’t want to have to scoop her off the floor, he told himself.

Her gaze, foggy with confusion and frustration, skimmed from the floor to the wall, then shifted away.

“Where are we going?” she asked, her words faint as they moved through the doorway.

He shoved the side door open, gesturing with his free hand for her to go first, then pulled her down the beach. They’d take the ocean route, give her time to decompress.

And him time to think.

“Your hotel should work.”

“Look, buddy. You’re hot and all, but there’s no way in hell I’m going to sleep with you after all this.”