Harlequin Intrigue June 2015 - Box Set 2 of 2: Navy SEAL Newlywed\The Guardian\Security Breach (43 page)

Murray ached to tell the man what he wanted to know. All he had to do was report that he'd seen a man with Mrs. DuChaud in her home through the binoculars, and he could get his son back safe and sound. He hoped.

But just as he opened his mouth he realized he'd be giving away everything with no promise of return. He couldn't prove to the kidnappers that the man with Mrs. DuChaud was Tristan DuChaud. He needed that proof as leverage.

“Yes. Got it,” Murray said. With any luck he had the perfect way to ensure his son's safety. To get the proof he needed, he'd have to risk getting a lot closer to the house, and going in the daytime. That was not a problem. He'd do anything he had to in order to get a photo of Tristan DuChaud, because that was the only thing he could do to save his boy's life.

Chapter Six

The first thing Sandy noticed when she woke up the next morning was the smell of coffee. For a fleeting instant the dark aroma took her back to the days just after she'd found out she was pregnant, when Tristan was so excited about the baby. Knowing how much she loved coffee, he'd gone on a safari through South Louisiana looking for the absolute best decaf coffee in the state.

But on the heels of that poignant memory came harsh reality. This wasn't those early days. This was now.

Tristan was back from the dead and he'd spent the night in their house. She'd known he had because after she'd stormed out of the kitchen and down the hall to the master bedroom, she'd listened for the French doors to slam. They didn't.

She'd lain there for a few seconds, wondering if he'd left quietly. Then she heard the familiar, comforting beep of the alarm being armed. She'd gone right to sleep.

Sitting up and taking another whiff of the aroma of coffee sifting into the room, Sandy realized it had been five and a half months—her entire pregnancy so far—since she'd wanted a cup of coffee.

She turned on the lamp, but nothing happened. She'd forgotten the electricity was out. How had Tristan made coffee?

And what was the other aroma? Bacon? It must have been in the freezer. Maddy had put all the food that made Sandy nauseous into the freezer, and bacon had been a big culprit.

Right now, however, both the coffee and the bacon smelled heavenly. Sandy didn't care how Tristan had made them. She just hoped her nausea didn't come back as soon as she walked into the kitchen and got the full effects of the smells.

She jumped up, took a quick shower and dressed in a white skirt and pink top. The skirt had to go on top of her baby bump, so it came to just below her knees instead of just above her ankles, where it was supposed to be. But it looked fresh and new and maybe it would be a portent for the morning with Tristan.

When she stepped through the door into the kitchen, she understood how Tristan had cooked. He'd used the gas stove they kept in the laundry room for these circumstances. He'd used one burner to fry the bacon and had boiled water in a pan to make boiled coffee, sometimes known as hobo coffee.

He was at the kitchen table, sipping at a mug and playing with his food.

“What are you doing here?” she asked grumpily.

“Didn't you say you didn't care what I did, as long as you didn't have to look at me? I slept on the couch. I'll sleep outside tonight if you want me to.”

“I
don't
want you to. I don't need you to protect me. You know how I know?” she asked. “I know because you left me alone for over two months. If you were so sure I needed protection, why didn't you come home? It's not like it was a long trip.”

Tristan grimaced. “I couldn't.”

She knew that. Of course he couldn't have, because he was in bed, at the very best too weak to stand, at worst, in a coma. She knew she'd have to ask Boudreau what had gone on during those weeks, because Tristan would never tell her.

“You went to a lot of trouble to find the gas stove and make breakfast. Why aren't you eating?”

He looked up at her and smiled, a tired smile that made her heart start to break. “I made it for you,” he said. “You've lost weight and, at risk of sounding clichéd, you're eating for two.”

“I've been nauseated at even the
thought
of bacon for months,” she said, suppressing a smile. “And didn't you remember that all I could drink was grape juice?”

Tristan looked blank for a second, then his face turned a bright pink. He ducked his head. “Sorry,” he said as he pushed his chair back from the table. “I'd forgotten that. I'll make you some toast.”

“No.” She put her hand on his arm. “Don't get up. The bacon and the coffee both smell good. I want to try them.”

He looked down at her hand on his arm and, embarrassed, she pulled it away and sat down. She poured herself some coffee from the pot at her right hand, added a little sugar and stirred it. “Decaf?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said, picking up a piece of bacon, then putting it down. He picked it up a second time and pressed it against the plate to break it. The bottom half shattered. “Bacon might be a little crisp,” he said, sticking the half that was still intact into his mouth.

Sandy chuckled. “We never came to a compromise about bacon, did we?” She picked up a piece and took a bite. “It
is
crispy,” she said, making a face.

“That's what I just said.”

She glanced up. He sounded irritated. “What's wrong?” she asked.

He shook his head and sighed.

“Don't sigh at me. What's wrong with you?”

He grabbed the wooden arms of the chair and shoved himself up out of the seat. “That's not the question,” he barked. “The question is what's wrong with you? With
us
?” He pointed back and forth between them.

She watched him warily. She'd never seen him angry, not at her, and it sent a heart-thumping burst of adrenaline through her. An instant later, the baby stirred restlessly and she rubbed the side of her belly. “Are you saying—”

His gaze went to her hand and the look on his face made her heart hurt. “I'm saying I don't understand your attitude. I thought you'd at least be happy to see me.”

Sandy gave him a shocked look. “Happy? I suppose you mean because you were so thrilled to see me and you came all this way. In case you don't remember, when I saw you, you were trying to sneak in and out of here without me catching you. Name one thing—just one—about it that should make me
happy
?”

He leveled his gaze on her in a game of visual chicken. “Maybe the fact that I wasn't dead?” he said softly.

She couldn't hold his gaze. Of course he was right. She
had
been stunned and thrilled that he was alive, after she'd recovered from the initial shock. Then she'd woken up thinking she was having another hallucination. There had been no room inside her for happiness.

“When I first saw you—” She held up a hand. “No. I'm not going to go into all that again. Tristan, you know how I feel. If you can't accept that I have a right to be angry, then...well, I don't know what else I can tell you.”

He didn't like her answer. There was no mistaking that. A muscle in his lean jaw ticked and at his temple, a vein stood out in sharp relief. “Oh, great,” he said, his voice heavy with irony. “That explains everything.”

She opened her mouth to spit out a sharp retort, but he kept talking.

“I'm headed over to Boudreau's,” he said through gritted teeth, “but first I'm going to take a look around the area where I saw Murray last night. Now that the sun's up, I might be able to find a clue as to what he was doing here this time.”

“Whoa! What?” Sandy gasped. “You saw Murray? Are you talking about Murray Cho?”

Tristan muttered a curse under his breath. He obviously had not meant to say that out loud. He opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again.

“Damn it, Tristan. Stop trying to not tell me anything. I need to know what's going on so I can take care of myself.”

“Fine. Yes, it was Murray Cho. He was sneaking around in the weeds on the other side of the garage.”

“Murray? But he's in Gulfport. He moved.”

“All I can say is I saw him and recognized him. I can't tell you why he was here. That's why I'm going to check,” he said with exaggerated patience.

She crossed her arms, a little creeped out. “I saw Murray's son peeking in the master bedroom window on the day of your funeral. Murray was behind him.”

“What were they doing?”

Sandy shook her head. “I assumed Patrick had wandered around the house and was peeking in to see what he could see. Murray followed him to stop him.” She paused. “How are you so sure this was Murray?”

“I saw his face when the moon came out for a few seconds.”

“What do you think he was doing here?” she said. “Do you know he was involved in bringing down the smugglers?”

Tristan nodded. “Yeah. Boudreau told me he showed up at the seafood warehouse threatening to take them all down.”

“Did Boudreau tell you he shot first? Boudreau killed the oil rig captain without blinking an eye.” She sent him a sidelong glance. “Maddy told me Boudreau said, ‘This is for Tristan,' or something like that.”

Tristan's brows shot up. “No. He never mentioned that, but I suppose he wouldn't.” He was quiet for a moment.

“There's something else about Murray, isn't there? You said ‘this time.'”

He looked down at his hands and back up at her. “Did I?”

She set her jaw and stared at him. “Don't be coy. You said, ‘What he was doing here this time.'”

“Have you got your laptop?” he asked.

“No. As a matter of fact, somebody stole it from the nursery. It was gone when I got back here.” The look on his face unnerved her. “Why?”

“Boudreau was checking on the house a couple of weeks ago and he saw Murray coming out the French doors with what looked like your laptop.”

“And he's sure it was Murray. A hundred percent sure?”

“What is it with you and Murray?”

“Nothing,” Sandy said. “I felt bad that he thought he had to leave Bonne Chance after the incident with the smugglers at his seafood warehouse. He always seemed so nice and quiet. But this makes the third time he's been sneaking around. What do you think he's looking for?”

“He's watching you.”

That surprised her. “Me? Why? Are you sure?”

“Oh, I'm sure.”

Sandy stared at him. His tone had been almost amused. “I don't get it. How can you be?”

“Because you were here in the kitchen and he was directly across the yard, in that patch of weeds, with binoculars.”

Sandy looked in the direction Tristan pointed. It had been frightening to see Patrick Cho and his father standing at her bedroom window on the day of Tristan's funeral. But as she pictured Murray lurking out there in the dark and watching her through binoculars, she felt sick.

She turned back to Tristan, but he was gone. She hadn't heard him open the door. She stepped out onto the patio and looked in the direction of the dock, but he'd already disappeared into the heavy canopy of branches, weeds and vines that hid the path from casual view. He'd gone back to Boudreau's cabin.

She went inside, her fury at him rising with every breath she took. How dare he act so supercilious? He wasn't the only person who'd been hurt. She'd nearly died of grief and unbearable loss when she found out he was dead. The only thing that had kept her alive during those first hours and days was the knowledge that if she took her life, she'd be taking another innocent life with her.

She hadn't been able to even think about doing that to her baby. Instead, she'd vowed to make sure her child lacked for nothing and knew everything she could possibly tell him...or her...about his father.

“I swear, little bean, sometimes I don't know why I bother. What's the matter with him? Staying away for my safety. What a jerk. If everyone thinks he's dead, how could he possibly draw the bad guys to me?” She stopped. “Unless— Oh, dear God.”

She sat down and cradled her tummy in her hands. “That's what's bothering Tristan—your daddy,” she said. “Murray Cho is working for...for whoever tried to kill him. He must have been sent by them to watch me, to see if I acted strangely. He must be trying to find out if Tristan is really dead. Because if Tristan is alive, he could ruin them—maybe even put them in prison.

“What if Murray saw him, bean?”

* * *

B
Y
LATE
AFTERNOON
, Sandy was climbing the walls. She'd tried to distract herself by taking inventory of their stock of food and planning what to cook, but that only kept her occupied for about a half hour.

So she decided to practice her crochet. She'd taken a class and now she was knitting the bean a pair of booties, but they were looking a little more like gloves than booties. Her stitches stuck out here and there.

Finally, she tossed the crocheting aside and stood and looked out the French doors toward the path to the dock, but nothing was stirring. Maybe Tristan had decided he needed some peace and quiet, so he was planning to stay at Boudreau's.

It had been around five hours or so since he'd left. Under normal circumstances he occasionally spent all afternoon and sometimes all evening with his Cajun friend, talking and fishing or just drinking beer.

But these weren't normal circumstances and Sandy wanted to talk to her husband.

She flung the French doors open and stepped out onto the patio. “You're not going to leave me here all day and night by myself, Tristan DuChaud. Not now that I know you're alive, you lying liar.” She patted the side of her belly where the bean was beginning to kick.

“Hey, bean, it's okay. Don't worry. I'm not really
that
mad at your daddy. It's just that he's the stubbornest, most arrogant man in three counties.” The baby kicked her again.

“Okay, okay,” she whispered. “I'm through being mad. We're going to go over to Boudreau's place and find your daddy. And when we do, I'm playing the alone-and-scared card. Because if there's one thing you need to remember, it's that your daddy might be stubborn, but your mama is downright obstinate.” She chuckled. “With us for parents, you're going to be a piece of work, aren't you?”

She walked briskly across the yard to the overgrown path. Before she stepped into the tangle of weeds and vines, she glanced toward the place where Tristan had said that Murray Cho had been hiding and watching her.
Through binoculars.
She drew her shoulders up as a frisson of aversion slithered down her spine.