Harlequin Intrigue June 2015 - Box Set 2 of 2: Navy SEAL Newlywed\The Guardian\Security Breach (40 page)

“I'll be glad to check on that for you, but do understand, my budget is too small to replace your laptop.”

“I'm not asking you to. I'll buy a new one.” She paused. “You don't want to take fingerprints or anything, do you?”

“I can send my deputy out there when he gets back. It'll probably be after dark. He's gone to Houma to deliver some paperwork. I need a courier, but like I said—my budget won't handle it.”

“No, no,” Sandy said, feeling relieved. She didn't want anyone coming into her house right now. She'd come back to be alone with her baby and try to come to peace with Tristan's death. “I'm sure you're right about how it happened.”

“Anything else I can do for you, Sandy?”

“No, Baylor. Thanks.”

Sandy hung up while he was telling her to take care of herself. She rinsed her glass, then headed out to walk to Boudreau's cabin. She took a deep breath of clean morning air and yawned again. “I'm sorry about last night, bean. I couldn't get what Maddy said out of my head.”

She wondered if talking to her unborn baby about things that upset her was bad for him. She hoped not, because talking to Tristan's child soothed her, and according to the latest baby books, it was good to let the baby become used to the mother's voice.

“Did you know your daddy was an undercover agent? Wait. What am I thinking? You were there when Zach told me. Naturally I had to hear it from his oldest friend, because Tristan apparently thought I didn't need to know that little tidbit.” She heard the bitterness in her voice. She didn't want to sound like that when she talked about Tristan. Certainly not to her baby.

With an effort, she made her voice light and soft, the way she talked when she told him a fairy tale or quoted a poem. “He was a real-life spy, I guess. He worked for Homeland Security, catching bad guys. Until one day, one of the bad guys killed him.”

She stopped talking because she had to. She was breathing hard, mostly from trying not to cry, and she'd arrived at the dock. It was a beautiful morning. The sun glared and glistened off the water. “I should have gotten up earlier and watched the sunrise,” she said wistfully. “Although without Tristan...” Her voice trailed off and she smiled sadly at the memories of sunrises and making love and being happy.

“Okay,” she said briskly. “Let's go. I want to talk to Boudreau.”

As she turned toward the path to Boudreau's cabin, she noticed slide marks in the mud. Stepping closer to the wooden pier, she studied the markings. Someone had pulled a boat up there since the last rain. She shook her head. It was probably Boudreau. He used the dock all the time.

“I've got to be careful,” she murmured. “I'm seeing terrorists and bad guys everywhere.”

The sun was already yellow and hot when she stepped out of the tangle of vines and branches into Boudreau's front yard. Boudreau was sitting on an old, rough-hewn bench, mending a tear in a fishing net.

“Well, now, you are moving much faster this—” he said, looking up. “What the hell you doing here?” he snapped, glaring at her.

“Boudreau, it's Sandy. Tristan's wife.” He'd known her for years, and the last time she'd been here was on that awful night, when she'd come to tell him Tristan was missing and feared dead. But when he talked nonsense, like just now, she wasn't sure he remembered her.

Boudreau stood, dropping the fishing net and stalking toward her, the darning needle in one hand and his knife in the other. “I ask you a question. What you doing here? You go on now. Get out of here.” He stopped, pointing the tip of the knife back the way she'd come. “Go!”

“But I need to talk to you. I want to close the dock—”

“Get out of here, Mrs. DuChaud. Get!” Boudreau shooed her as if he were shooing a chicken, with a sweeping motion of his hands. “Get!” he yelled again.

Sandy stared at him in openmouthed disbelief. This wasn't confusion. It was hostility. Did he think Tristan's death was her fault?

“Boudreau, please, listen to me. This is important.”

He eyed her suspiciously. “I come down to your house one day soon. We talk then. Now you get out of here and back to your house
tout de suite
or I'll sic my dog on you, I guarantee.”

She didn't know a lot about Boudreau except what Tristan had told her and he'd never mentioned the man being violent. But he had shot that oil rig captain in cold blood, so maybe the best thing to do was to leave.

“Please, come talk to me,” she called out over her shoulder as she turned and headed back down the path she'd walked up to his shack.

“You just get gone and stay gone,” she heard him say.

By the time she got to the dock she was breathing hard again, so she stopped for a few moments. She stood on the dock and looked out over the dark, greenish-gray waters of the Gulf of Mexico. And there, diving and surfacing as the sun glared off the water with such intensity it was difficult to see anything but the splashes and waves, was the creature that she'd seen the day before yesterday, frolicking in the water. She squinted and shaded her eyes, wishing she'd brought her sunglasses with her.

Nothing helped her see any better, though. The sun was higher now and the glare was too bright. And all at once, it seemed that whatever the creature was, it had sensed that she was watching, because the splashing stopped. Sandy blinked and put both hands up to deflect the sun, but the water was glassy and smooth and the sun reflected off it like a mirror.

Whatever—or whoever—had been playing in the water just beyond the shallows was gone now.

“I'm going to have to get up early one morning, bean, and get out here so I can catch whoever or whatever that is. Maybe it's a mermaid.” She smiled and rubbed the side of her belly. “Or a merman.”

Back at the house, she made herself some breakfast. By the time she'd finished eating, she'd convinced herself that Boudreau had shooed her away for her own protection. Maybe he knew there was a fox or a bobcat or an alligator running around that might do her harm. And he had promised to come see her. She knew from Tristan that if Boudreau said he would do something, he would.

“I guess we've got to wait for him, bean. He could have been nicer, though. He didn't have to yell like that. Kind of hurt my feelings.” She drank the last of her juice and rinsed her glass and plate and set them on the drain board.

A glance at the clock told her it was just now eleven o'clock. “I still need to talk to him, though. He may have a better idea of how to keep people away from the dock,” she told the baby. “He may already be guarding it. Maybe that
was
him I heard last night, checking to be sure no one was using the dock.”

She yawned again. She'd been tired before she went to Boudreau's. “We've got to take a nap, bean. I'm about to fall asleep standing up. Then we've got to drive into Houma and get some groceries and buy me a new, smaller computer. A notebook. That'll be our big, exciting adventure for the day.” As she said the words, a faint echo of a chill ran down her spine. “I hope,” she added.

Chapter Three

It was almost dark when Sandy got back from shopping in Houma, which was twenty-five miles north of Bonne Chance, and if she'd been tired before, she was about to collapse from exhaustion now. She had stopped and bought a chocolate milk shake on the way. It was melted now, but she could put some ice in it and rejuvenate it a bit. Even melted, it sounded better than any of the food she'd bought at the grocery store. She was too tired to cook anything. Swallowing the melted shake would probably take the last of her strength.

She parked on the driveway just beyond the patio and grabbed her groceries and the new computer box in one hand and her house keys in the other. She was almost all the way across the patio to the door when she saw the footprints.

She nearly dropped the groceries. Automatically, she glanced around, but there was nothing to see. She stepped around the muddy tracks and tried the French doors. They were still locked.

She looked at the threshold, but there was no mud there. Relieved, she went inside and locked the doors behind her. Then she stood there and studied the muddy prints through the glass panes.

It was hard to tell how big or small the shoes were because the prints were smeared and the concrete was wet from an earlier rain. It looked as though they had no tread, though. So either the shoes were worn-out or they were soled in smooth leather.

Boudreau wore old, cracked leather boots. Maybe he'd walked over here while she was gone.

Of course,
she thought with a sigh of relief. It was Boudreau who'd made the prints. It made her feel better that he'd come. Tristan had always told her that when he was away, Boudreau would watch over her.

She glanced at the clock on her phone. Eight o'clock. She stretched and yawned. “What do you think, bean? Too early to go to bed?”

She walked to the alarm box and set the door and window alarms, grabbed a glass of water and her milk shake, which she'd cooled with a couple of ice cubes, then headed into the master bedroom.

She'd already climbed into bed before she realized she'd left the curtains open. She didn't want to get up, but she certainly didn't want to sleep with the curtains like that, not after what had happened the last time she was here, when Murray Cho's son had spied on her.

She closed the curtains and climbed back under the covers. She picked up a book she'd begun at her mother-in-law's house, but it didn't take long for her to recall why she hadn't finished it before. She tossed it onto the floor and pulled an old fashion magazine from the shelf of the nightstand. It took practically zero concentration to glance through the ads and the fashion spreads.

She was nodding off over an ad for Bulgari earrings when the bean decided he was restless. “Ow!” she said. “Wow, bean. That was a good one.”

She rubbed the place where he'd planted his tiny foot, not that it helped much. It was like scratching your thumb because your nose itched. The place that hurt was on the inside, so rubbing the outside, while it seemed like a good idea, didn't help much.

“Settle down. You're going to make me go to the bathroom again. Please don't kick my bladder.” She grunted. “And there you go. That was my bladder. I'm so glad you mind well.”

She stepped into the bathroom and saw that the curtains in there were open, too. She closed them, used the bathroom, then looked at herself in the mirror as she washed her hands. Her eyes were wide and dark.

“Come on, Sandy,” she muttered. She looked like a pitiful heroine in a horror movie, although there was no reason to feel afraid in this house.

“This house is very safe,” she said to the baby. “It's your daddy's house. It was his daddy's and his granddaddy's house. He promised me he would always keep me safe here. Me and you now.” She felt tears starting up in her eyes and dashed them away angrily.

“This is Murray Cho's fault,” she said. “It was his son, Patrick, who'd peeked in the window on the day of your daddy's funeral.” She'd been terrified to see two men looking in her window, gaping into her private life.

“
Our
private life. I'm not sure I'll ever be the same.” She sighed. “Not even when you get here,” she said softly, patting her tummy where she thought his little back was. “It's their fault I'm scared.”

She turned out the light and lay down, but there was no way she was going to fall asleep. It was just like the night before. Every time she closed her eyes, horrific visions haunted her. With a sigh, she sat up and turned on the lamp.

Opening the bedside table drawer, she picked up the prescription bottle and considered the label.
Take one or two for sleep.
She could take one. One would be safe. Extra safe, since the doctor had prescribed two.

She swallowed the pill with water. “Okay, let's try again,” she whispered, then lay down on her side and cradled her pudgy tummy.

“Good night, little bean,” she said as she felt something wet trickle down the side of her face to the pillow. “Why am I crying?” she grumbled out loud. She rarely cried and seldom ever needed help sleeping. But tonight, there was something bothering her and it wasn't the memory of two men peeking in her window.

She'd insisted on coming back here, had declared to Tristan's mother that she had to come back to the house where she and Tristan had lived together. She'd told her it was the only way she could heal. She'd meant it then, but now she wasn't so sure she'd made the best decision. An impossible thought had occurred to her while she'd been on the phone with Maddy. A ridiculous thought. A thought that couldn't possibly ever be true. But, whether it made sense or not, she couldn't get it out of her head.

What if it wasn't the Chos who had spawned this fear and dread that was keeping her from sleeping? What if it was the figure she'd seen at the window later on the night of Tristan's funeral? The figure that had to be a dream. Or was he? What if he'd been the one who'd taken her laptop computer?

Was it Tristan—or his ghost—that she was really afraid of?

She remembered him standing there just inside the bedroom window, dripping wet, his face pale and haggard. Blood had dribbled down the side of his head, mixing with the water. Sandy shuddered. She never wanted to see that apparition again as long as she lived. She did not believe in voodoo. She did not believe in ghosts or demons or goblins—not on this earth. But she knew she couldn't live here if Tristan was going to keep showing up, even if he was just a figment of her grief-stricken imagination.

She knew he was only in her imagination, because if he were alive, he would never hurt her by pretending he was dead.

If Tristan were alive, he'd be here with her and their unborn baby.

* * *

T
RISTAN
UNLOCKED
THE
French doors of his home with the spare key that had been hidden in a fake flowerpot bottom for as long as he could remember. He shook himself, trying to get rid of the rainwater dripping off him.

Boudreau was right again. He'd been sure Tristan wasn't strong enough yet. Now, with his leg throbbing with pain and his head fuzzy with fatigue, Tristan had to agree. But he'd had no other choice.

Boudreau had told him about Sandy showing up at his cabin that morning while Tristan was swimming. But Tristan already knew she'd been out walking.

He'd gotten a glimpse of her at the dock from the water. She'd been shading her eyes and craning her neck, so the odds were that she couldn't see him because of the sun's glare. The fact that she hadn't shouted at him or marched back up to Boudreau's asking about him had been reassuring.

According to Boudreau she'd been agitated and nervous, as if she was afraid of something. And she'd seemed desperate to talk to him. But Boudreau, knowing that Tristan would soon be coming up the same path that Sandy would be walking down, had put her off and sent her home, hopefully in time to prevent them from running into each other.

Tristan made his way across the kitchen floor to the alarm control box behind the hall door, worrying about the squeaking of his sneakers. He disabled the alarm with two seconds to spare. He was way too slow.

He shook his head in disgust. He'd brought his walking stick with him, but he'd abandoned it by the French doors. He didn't want to use it inside the house and take a chance on dropping it or banging it into something.

He hobbled down the hall to the nursery, where he'd hidden the flash drive in plain sight. He'd thought at the time that he'd chosen an excellent hiding place. He had no idea how well it had worked, although he figured if anyone had found it, Boudreau would know.

So unless Sandy had noticed it, the device was probably still exactly where he'd put it. He'd grab it and go, and Sandy would no longer have anything that anyone wanted.

Of course, he'd have to figure out a way to assure the mysterious head of the terrorist group that had tried to smuggle guns, using his dock, that Sandy had no idea that he had been working undercover, nor was there anything in the house that could incriminate him.

But he would work that out later. Right now he just needed to get the drive and get out of the house without Sandy hearing him.

As he started to open the nursery door, he heard a sound from behind him. He stopped dead still and listened.

Nothing.
What had he heard, exactly? He reached for the knob and heard the same sound again. It was soft and low-pitched, and his heart wrenched when he realized what it was.

That was Sandy.
He was sure of it. She was talking. It was almost two o'clock in the morning. She should be sound asleep. She was a lark, an early riser. She'd never stayed up past midnight or gotten up later than seven or seven-thirty. Although she
was
pregnant now, and he remembered his mom telling her that she'd be going to the bathroom almost constantly by the time the baby was born.

That was probably it. She'd gotten up to go to the bathroom. On the other hand, maybe she was talking or moaning in her sleep.

He waited, listening. He was in no hurry. Once she settled down he could sneak out without her ever knowing he'd been there.

He stood there on his left foot, flexing the right, trying to stretch and exercise the muscles that were left beneath the ugly scar where Boudreau had stitched up the gaping wound. Point then flex. Point then flex.

After a few moments without a sound, he turned the knob again. He was just about to push the door open and slip into the nursery when he heard a familiar sound that twisted his aching heart even more. The sound of Sandy's bare feet on the hardwood floor. Then the knob on the master bedroom door turned. Within the couple of seconds while he wondered if he had time to push the door open, slip through and ease it shut, the master bedroom door opened and his wife stepped through it into the hall.

In the dim glow of a night-light from the kitchen, he saw that she had on pajama pants and a little sleeveless pajama top that stretched over an obvious baby bump. She'd hardly been showing at all the last time he'd seen her.

He stared at her smooth, rounded belly barely covered by her pajama top. He wanted to touch it, to kiss it, to feel the movements of the tiny little child growing inside. He had missed her so much, and here she was, close enough that he could reach out and take her into his arms, and he couldn't.

If she knew he was alive, she would be furious—more than furious—that he'd let her believe he was dead. She wouldn't understand the danger. She'd spent her entire life in the belief that just because he was with her, she was safe.

That was the one thing about her that had always awed him.

Sandy had always believed in him.

He just prayed that she loved him enough to forgive him for this unforgivable hurt he'd caused her.

She yawned and pushed her fingers through her hair, leaving it sticking out in tangled waves all over her head. He smiled. He knew her, knew her every move, her every little gesture. She was three-quarters asleep, padding on autopilot to the kitchen in her bare feet. Her habit of getting a drink of water without ever completely waking up might save him if he stood perfectly still. Often, people only noticed things that moved.

He concentrated on keeping his bad leg still. If he tensed it too much, the muscles jerked involuntarily. “It's okay,” she whispered.

Shock flashed through his body like lightning and instantly the muscles in his right leg cramped. He clenched his jaw. Was she talking to him? He couldn't move. Didn't dare.

“Ow. Watch it, bean. I know I woke you up. Just need some ice for my water and maybe a couple of crackers. Kinda nauseated,” she murmured, rubbing the side of her belly. “Then we'll get back in bed.”

She wasn't talking to him. She was talking to her baby. To
their
baby. Tristan's eyes stung. It hurt his heart to know how much he had missed. He'd been gone too much, working on the oil rig for two weeks or more at a time, and he'd missed most of the pregnancy. And now...now she thought he was dead.

He held his breath as she took her first step up the hall. There was no way she could pass by without seeing him. He debated whether he should speak to her or wait and let her notice him on her own. Which would be less traumatic?

Sandy jerked as the baby's foot knocked the haze of sleep right out of her head. “Oh, why do you have to kick, bean,” Sandy said, rubbing her belly. “One day your foot's going to kick right through—”

She gasped and stopped cold. What was that? Her heart suddenly vied with the baby's foot to see which could burst through her skin first. She pressed her fist to her chest.

Dear God help her. There was someone there. In the dark. Right in front of her. Her first instinct was to turn and run, but she couldn't move. Her arms and legs were numb with fear.

“Who are you? Wh-what do you want?” she asked, trying to force a cold sternness into her voice, but hearing it quaver.