Harlequin Intrigue June 2015 - Box Set 2 of 2: Navy SEAL Newlywed\The Guardian\Security Breach (42 page)

“Boudreau needs me,” he said and saw in her face that she didn't believe him for a second.

“Boudreau needs
you
,” she stated wryly. “He needs you? Come on, Tris, don't give me that.
I'm looking at you.
” Sighing, she spread her hands in a supplicating gesture. “There was a time I believed every word you said. And it wasn't that long ago.”

Tris saw her eyes begin to shine more brightly.

“Sandy, don't complicate this. I haven't been on my feet but a few days. There was no big conspiracy to keep me hidden. Certainly not from you. I came here as soon as I could walk this far.”

She stared at him, shaking her head. “Right. You already told me you came here to get something. You probably thought I was still in Baton Rouge.”

He shook his head. “No. I told you. It's very simple. Boudreau told me you were back.”

“Damn it, Tristan, you're doing what you've always done. You're simplifying the situation beyond belief. You're acting like we're nine years old and you're trying to convince me that my dad won't hit me if I just go on and tell him it was me who dented the car with a baseball, if he's not drinking. Trouble is he was never not drinking. So you were wrong about that and you're wrong about his. You let me think you were dead. This can't be solved with a little strip bandage or a kiss from Mommy or a great, big
I'm sorry, pumpkin
from Daddy Dearest.”

“Really, San? You think I'm oversimplifying anything? Look at me. Look. At. Me.” He reached for her arm.

She recoiled, her eyes wide.

“You really believe that I think a little bandage will solve anything? You know me better than that. Or at least I thought you did. But you were never happy that I went to work on an oil rig, were you? You thought you were going to get a veterinarian and all you got was a blue-collar worker.”

“I did hate you working offshore. And it was bad enough when you were just working there. When you started working for Homeland Security and were not only gone all the time, but distracted and worried when you were here, I hated it more.”

He was surprised and she saw it in his face.

“That's right. I figured out what you were really doing on that rig. I don't understand why you couldn't tell me, but I can respect that you had to keep it secret. But letting me believe that you died? That was low.” She studied him and her big blue eyes filled with tears. “Great, now I'm crying.”

Tristan almost smiled. It didn't matter what was going on—wedding, funeral or silly movie, Sandy cried.

“I see that. I'm a little surprised, though. This isn't exactly a Hallmark commercial.” He winced internally when he heard the sarcastic tone in his voice.

Her jaw tensed and she glared at him. “No. It's real life and it's not going away. We still need to talk about it.”

“Talk about it?” His tone grated. “You mean like this? This isn't talking. You want to talk? Let's talk about this—you going back to Baton Rouge and staying with my mom. You'll be safe there.”

“Safe? From what?”

“Did you miss the part where somebody tried to kill me? Or here's an idea. You and Mom should go somewhere, then. Somewhere nobody can trace you. Maybe go to DC and stay with Zach until I can clear all this up.” He liked that idea. His old friend from childhood who'd become an NSA undercover agent would know how to keep them safe.

But Sandy's instant anger told him that he'd made another mistake. He could almost see smoke coming out of her ears.

She put one hand on her little baby bump and raised the other, her index finger pointing at him. “You're crazy if you think I am going to go away somewhere and leave you with Boudreau to take care of you.”

“He's done okay so far,” Tristan interjected.

“What? Look at you. You can barely walk. You're at least fifteen pounds—maybe more—underweight. Just where is the good job he did?”

“Right here.” Tristan jabbed a thumb into his chest. “Right here. If it hadn't been for him I would be dead now.”

Her eyes widened for an instant. “Oh, please, Tris. He's crazy and he's Cajun. That in itself is a lethal combination. What did he do? Give you a potion, then touch your forehead and say, ‘Stand up and walk, I guarantee'?” Her tone was bitter as she mocked Boudreau.

She had the potion right, but what Boudreau had said was
You get your own self up and go swim. Or your legs gonna be withered and you be crawling around like a cripple the rest of your life, you.

“What he did that saved me was not waste time trying to get me to a doctor or a hospital.” Tristan cut a hand through the air. “Never mind. You're not going to believe a word I say right now, are you?”

“No, I'm not. You lied to me and that means you're a lying liar. So no. I'll be assuming from now on that if your mouth is open, you're telling me a lie.”

Tristan wiped his face with an unsteady hand.

“And look at you,” she said. “If you don't get some real care, real medications and real cleansing and bandaging of those wounds, you could die of...of sepsis or infection.” Her voice cracked as she continued to fight tears. “Why can't
you
go to DC? Why can't you tell Zach everything and let him protect you?”

Tristan shook his head. “Have you not heard a word I've said? I. Am. Not. The. Only. One. In. Danger. Should I repeat that, so you're clear?”

“Oh, I'm clear,” she snapped. “I'm starting to see a lot of things clearly that I never saw before.”

“Sandy—” Tristan started.

Sandy held up her hand. “Okay, then. We can both go, together. I'll drive.”

But he was already shaking his head. “That doesn't work. If we do that, they'll get Boudreau.”

“Then we can take him with us.”

“Right. Take Boudreau. Besides, don't you think they know who Zach is by now? Just listen to me. Boudreau and I are going to work something out.”

Sandy growled. “Ooooh, you've just got an answer for everything, don't you?” She clenched her fists.
“Everything.”

He couldn't help but stare at her. She was furious and he was so frustrated he could almost be tempted to wring her pretty neck, but when she got mad her eyes sparkled like sapphires, her cheeks turned a nice shade of pink and her hands wrapped protectively around her stomach. His heart felt as though it would burst with love for her and the baby.

“What are you staring at?” she snapped. “Could you try to help me come up with something? There has to be an answer.”

Then suddenly, for no apparent reason, all the discussion and planning and rejecting of plans that he and Boudreau had been doing coalesced and he had it. He looked at her thoughtfully. “There is an answer,” he said.

“Well, then, tell me. Why have you been beating around the bush—” She frowned at him. “Wait a minute. What are you talking about?”

But he didn't have to answer. She was already putting it together.

“Oh, no,” Sandy said, shaking her head. “No, no, no! You are
not
setting yourself up as bait. They'll kill you.”

“San, this is not a discussion and it's not up for a vote. It's the only way I can stop them.”

“I said no!”

But Tristan didn't hear the word
no
. It was drowned out by a deafening explosion.

Chapter Five

Sandy shrieked involuntarily, but she couldn't hear herself. The explosion was too loud. It took her a fraction of a second to realize that the thunderous crash had actually been thunder. She remembered a quick, bright flash of light right before the noise.

Now, at least for the moment, the sky was dark and the explosion of thunder was fading to a deep rumble. In the suddenly dark kitchen, Sandy felt disoriented.

She lost her balance and fell against Tristan, who almost toppled. He caught himself against the facing of the French doors as she scrambled to get her feet under her and push away from him. But his arms slid around her and tightened and everything changed.

He held her tightly against him and all the things about him that she'd missed were right there, molded to her body, just as they should be. His strong arms, his warm broad chest and his chin, under which her head fit perfectly.

She slid her arms around his waist, trying not to think about how fragile he felt, with ribs sticking out on his sides and back. All she wanted to do was bury herself in him and drink in his familiar scent, and the hard-planed muscles under his smooth skin.

She turned her head and pressed her lips against his collarbone. “Tris,” she whispered, “I missed you. I missed this so much.”

He took a sharp breath. “Sandy, I—” He let go of her and stared through the glass panes of the doors. Just at that instant, lightning flashed again.

“Get down,” he growled.

“What? What is it?” she asked.

“Keep your head down and go into the living room!”
His hand raised, pointing, silhouetted by a flash of lightning.

She bent over and crept away from the French doors and into the living room. “What did you see?” she whispered.

“Shh,” he said, cutting the air with his flattened hand.

Sandy waited, both irritated at his orders and grateful that he was there. Whatever he'd spotted in the flashes of lightning, she was glad she didn't have to face it on her own.

It was about five minutes before he came into the living room, massaging his forehead with his fingertips.

“Well?” she said. “What was out there?”

“Nothing. A trick of the lightning.”

“Liar! Lying liar!” Sandy pulled herself upright by grabbing the door frame. “You expect me to believe that you acted like that over some waving branches? You used to play outside in thunderstorms.”

He shrugged. “I'm just telling you what I saw. Something looked a little odd, but I never saw it again.”

“Tristan, stop it, please. You're acting—I don't know—different. I know you saw something, or somebody, out there. Why can't you tell me like you always have, and we'll deal with it together.”

“I'm not different. It's the situation. Someone tried to kill me. That same person wants to smuggle automatic handguns into the US. I'm the only one who even has a chance of identifying him. But, Sandy, I promise you. Nothing has changed. I'm still the same person I always was.”

“N-nothing has changed?” she sputtered, as her tears changed to a bitter laughter. “You...can't be...serious!” she gasped, laughing. “Maybe you think you haven't changed, Tristan, but everything,
everything
, around you has. You may still live in the same world as before you fell overboard, but I don't. Did I tell you the rest of it? Did I tell you that they told me they'd found parts of your body that the...sharks didn't eat?”

She could barely repeat the words the ME had told her.

Tristan stood without moving, his face averted. She kept going. “I had to pick out a casket and talk to Father Duffy about a service. I had to choose flowers for the top of the casket.” She stopped to take a deep breath.

“Do you understand what I'm saying? Do you get that
you were dead
? I had nothing to hold on to. No hope.
Nothing!
” She was almost out of control and she knew it. She had to calm down, for the baby's sake. He was wriggling and kicking, upset because she was upset.

“Sandy, I never meant—”

She held up her hands. “No!” she snapped. “I can't do this anymore. Just leave,” she said brokenly. “Leave!”

“I'm not leaving. I don't know what I saw, but I'm not taking any chances.”

“I knew it,” she said flatly. “I knew you saw more than a branch. At this point, I feel more capable of facing whoever is out there than you. And you're upsetting the baby.” She pressed her hand against the side of her belly where the bean's little foot was.

“Do whatever you want to. I don't care as long as I don't have to...look at you.” She turned on her heel and stalked down the hall to her bedroom with as much dignity as she could muster.

* * *

T
HE
BEDROOM
DOOR
SLAMMED
. Tristan spat a curse in Cajun French and slammed the heel of his palm into the door facing. He cursed again when his hand throbbed with pain. “Ow.
Fils de putain
—” He clamped his jaw, shook his hand and tried to get his anger under control.

In one way, he understood why Sandy was so angry at him. When his dad died right before his high school graduation, he'd been furious and terrified. As much as he'd hated his father's job, he had loved his father. But with him gone, Tristan had known that the future he'd hoped to have as a veterinarian was impossible. He'd had to drop out of school and take a job on the oil rigs, just like his old man.

His family was there, too, with all the churning emotions Sandy had described. The only difference was that his dad hadn't shown up later.

She'd had to experience the trauma and grief of finding out he was dead, and then the equally traumatic experience of finding out he was alive. Of course she'd be angry, at least at first.

He was angry, too.

There had been a time, not too long ago, when he'd have sworn that he and Sandy had never and would never have a serious fight. They'd known each other practically all their lives and had learned long ago that they were perfectly suited for each other.

But then he'd started keeping secrets. He'd never told her about his job with Homeland Security. He'd lied to her and he'd pretended he was dead.

Lightning was still flashing in the sky, fainter than before. Tristan took a step closer to the door and looked out. There wasn't as much rain and he wasn't hearing thunder anywhere. The storm was over.

Of course, he knew as well as Sandy that it would be days before their electricity came back on. Meanwhile, at least they had candles and a camping stove. They were in the laundry room, just off the kitchen.

Before he could start in that direction, he saw something move outside. He froze. It was a larger shadow among the smaller, darker ones out beyond the patio. The shadow was noticeable because it was moving, not just quivering as the raindrops hit the leaves or swaying in the shifting wind.

His muscles tensed, but he remained perfectly still, his eyes straining as he stared at the shadow, waiting for it to move again.

He stole a glance into the living room, where his dad had kept a pair of guns hanging above the fireplace. One was a double-barreled shotgun and the other was some kind of rifle.

Tristan didn't like guns. Never had, not even when he was a kid and almost all of his friends wanted to play cops and killers.

He stared at the two weapons now, trying to decide which one he could carry more easily. The rifle was less bulky than the shotgun. He took it down and loaded it.

When he stood, the rifle's weight played havoc with the careful balance he'd just begun to learn that allowed him to favor his right leg. But he couldn't go out there without a weapon. He had no idea who was lurking in the shadow of the swamp, but he'd seen enough of a silhouette to know for a fact it was human, a two-legged rather than a four-legged predator.

Tristan set the alarm and carefully unlocked the French doors, making as little noise as possible. He chambered a round in the rifle and slipped out onto the patio. It was fortunate that the electricity was off. Otherwise the motion-detector lights on the patio and garage would come on, spotlighting him. When he reached the far corner of the garage, he stopped. His leg was aching badly and he was sweating in the rain-soaked air.

He stood with his back straight and solid against the exterior of the garage, as close as he could get to the corner without being seen. Then, carefully, keeping his gun at his side, he angled his head around and took a look at the area where he'd seen the shadow moving.

And there he was. Tristan took a quick mental picture of what he saw, then pulled back, flattening himself against the wall of the garage again. Staying alert to any sound, he ran the picture his brain had made. What all had he seen?

First, the shadow was not as tall as he'd initially thought. Could it be a kid, sneaking around, looking for alligators to poach?

He shook his head. No. The way the man stood upright, not crouched, the way he moved his upper body and the shape and size of his torso and head, told Tristan he was a full-grown man.

But what innocent reason would a man have to sneak around out here? The answer was, none. He had to be someone connected with the man who'd ordered Tristan's murder. But that man thought Tristan was dead. A horrible notion hit him.

As far as anyone knew, he
was
dead. So there was only one explanation for why the intruder was sneaking around. He was spying on Sandy.

Tristan glanced up at the sky, where clouds still hung low. He wished the moon would come out, but any light that illuminated the lurker's face would also illuminate his, so if the clouds parted, he needed to be ready for anything. He decided to take another look. When he angled his head around the corner of the building, his fears were realized.

The man held binoculars to his eyes. Even in the dark the vague shape of the man holding the binoculars and the direction he was looking were unmistakable. He was looking at the house. He was spying on Sandy.

The surprise morphed into anger, undercut by a gnawing fear. Who was he? Who had sent him?

Tristan picked up the rifle and took a deep breath. He had a lot to concentrate on. He had to aim the rifle, keep his balance, maintain his cool and keep an eagle eye on the other man.

He knew he was at a disadvantage, because he was to the man's left, so he'd have to step out into the open before he could even aim the rifle.

But when he peeked one more time, the lurker had lowered the binoculars and bent down. He was sneaking away.

After the man crawled for about a third of the way around the edge of the yard, he stood and ran toward the road. Tristan sneaked around the garage, hugging the wall, trying for one last glimpse of him.

He had reached the road now and was sprinting. In the sky, the thunderclouds had begun to break up and a bit of pale moonlight shone through.

Tristan squinted. Even from this far away, as the man quickly ran toward the road, he looked familiar. He looked like Murray Cho.

* * *

“Y
OU
HAVEN
'
T
KEPT
UP
your end of the bargain,” the voice said through the phone Murray held.

“But...I've done everything I can,” Murray stammered. “It's not that easy. Have you ever tried to stalk someone?” The instant he heard himself say those words, he regretted them.

What the hell was he doing asking a question like that to someone who was ruthless enough to kidnap an innocent boy to coerce his father into spying on another innocent person?

The man could have stalked dozens of people and killed them for all Murray knew. His gruff, guttural voice certainly
sounded
cold and hard enough to be a killer's.

“Are you
kidding
me?” the man said with a harsh laugh. “You listen to me, Murray. My boss wants this information and he wants it fast! What's the big holdup?”

“I can't go around there in the daytime and it's hard to see anything at night. It's a new moon right now and—”

“I'm warning you, you little whiner—”

“Hold on,” Murray said with much more bravado than he felt. “I'll not do anything until I find out if my son is alive—” He stopped because his voice broke. He cleared his throat. “Alive and well. I want to talk to him.”

“You're skating on thin ice. There's only so much my boss will put up with and he's already had more than one problem this year. He's extremely nervous.”

“I want to see my son. Kill me, but I won't do anything until I know he's alive.”

“You can't see him until my boss sees what you've got,” the man said harshly. “But I can let you hear his voice. Will that do?”

“Yes. Yes. Please.”

Murray heard the other man cursing. Then he heard him calling loudly. “Get that punk in here.” Pause. “You don't need to know why.” More cursing. “Over here. Sit,” he ordered.

Holding his breath, Murray listened for every sound. The man was obviously talking to his son. His heart squeezed in his chest until he thought it would burst from the pressure.

Then he heard his son's voice and a half sob caught in his throat. “Patrick!” he cried. “Patrick, are you all right?”

“Dad? What's going on? I don't get it—”

“All right, that's enough. Hey, you guys. Get him out of here.”

“Dad! I think we're at—” Patrick's voice was cut off by an unmistakable sound. It was the sound of a fist hitting flesh.

“No!” Murray shouted. “Don't you touch my boy!”

“He's okay,” the man said. “He just needs to learn to do what he's told and not try to be a smart-ass.”

“He will. I promise he will.”

“Listen to me. I don't need promises. I need action. Now, I'm going to give you a number to call and we'd better hear from you in forty-eight hours with the proof the boss needs, or neither you nor your son will see another sunset. Got it?”