Harlequin Intrigue June 2015 - Box Set 2 of 2: Navy SEAL Newlywed\The Guardian\Security Breach (47 page)

As he walked carefully down the dock toward Slip 43, which held a relatively small fishing boat, he put the cap on, pulling it down to shadow his face, then he shook out the rag and mopped the back and front of his neck and then his face, just about the time he passed the slip. If the kidnappers were waiting for him somewhere nearby, he didn't see them, but then he'd limited his vision greatly by holding the rag over his face as he passed.

Slips 44 and 45 were empty, so Tristan stopped at Slip 46, which held a houseboat. After taking off the bulky hunting vest and hiding it behind a coil of rope, he stepped onto the deck of the houseboat and hid, waiting to see who showed up at Slip 43. He thought Murray and Boudreau would be walking down the pier by now, but maybe Boudreau was checking out the area, too, before he let Murray expose himself.

The houseboat rocked a little and Tristan had to steady himself when his leg protested. Then, at the same instant he realized there was someone behind him, he felt a gun barrel in the middle of his back.

“What the hell are you doing on this boat?” a gruff voice said.

“What?” Tristan said, his voice high-pitched as if he were terrified. “What are you doing? What's that?” He tried to turn around, but the pressure in the middle of his back increased.

“Don't move, bud, if you know what's good for you,” the gruff voice said.

“I—I'm not. I mean I won't. I mean—”

“Shut up,” the man snapped. “Now, what's going on here? Who sent you?”

“No-nobody sent me,” Tristan stammered, trying to sound genuinely afraid. He was, a little. After all, the man had a gun stuck in his back and his weapon was on the other side of the dock. The only thing that would make the situation worse at this moment would be if Murray and Boudreau showed up.

He glanced down the pier, but didn't see anybody—yet.

“I swear. I was just hiding here, waiting for...” He stopped, his mind suddenly blank. What could he say? What would sound reasonable enough and at the same time slightly ridiculous?

He'd like to make the man think he was harmless if he could. Then he had it. Or at least the beginning of it. A story that just might work.

“See,” he said breathlessly, “my wife's screwing the guy that owns that boat down there.” He pointed vaguely in the direction of Slip 43, then tried to turn around to face the man, as probably anyone would do if they hadn't quite figured out that what was sticking into their back was a gun barrel.

“Don't! Move!” the man said, sounding as though he were gritting his teeth.

“O-okay. Sorry. Anyway, she told me she was going shopping, but I think she's coming over here with whoever owns that boat. I found a note in her purse that said Slip 43, Gulfport pier. I'm sure this is it.”

The man cursed, long and colorfully. “Get the hell off this boat,” he ordered Tristan, “and keep going until you're off the pier.”

“But they're probably on their way. They might see me. I don't want her to see me. And I sure don't want him to. Not till I'm ready.”

Tristan felt the pressure of the gun barrel ease. Had he done it? Had he convinced the man that he was harmless?

“Get off the boat, now!”

“But I need to—” Tristan didn't have to come up with what he needed to do because the man grabbed his arm and turned him around, right into a big right fist.

Tristan went down like a rock. He was barely conscious and he tasted blood, but the man wasn't done with him. He picked him up bodily by the neck of his shirt and the back belt loop of his jeans and tossed him off the boat. Tristan's shoulder hit the deck hard. He rolled a couple of times, coming to an abrupt stop against the coil of rope where he'd hidden his weapon. His cheek scraped against the rough wood of the deck.

While he lay there, trying to gather enough sense back into his head to figure out which way was up, he heard Murray, about forty feet away, probably at Slip 43, saying he had a SIM card with a photo of Tristan DuChaud on it.

Tristan tried to clear his vision. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, but it didn't help. Meanwhile his tongue was exploring the bloody cut on his lip. He blinked again and this time, he saw something.

He was lying on the pier directly across from the houseboat, and although he was inclined to doubt what he saw, he decided to believe it, because if what he saw was real, then he and Boudreau and Murray might make it away from here alive.

As he watched, Boudreau silently paddled a dinghy up beside the houseboat and reached up to catch one of the tie lines and haul himself up onto the deck, his shotgun slung over his shoulder.

When he saw Tristan he made a face and shook his head. Then he held up the shotgun and pointed to Tristan, looking a question.

Tristan nodded and pulled the vest from behind the rope. Boudreau nodded, then gestured toward Murray. Tristan lifted his head enough to take a look at the odds. Murray was, at best, half the size of the two men who were towering over him. One of them had to be the man who had coldcocked Tristan.

He looked back at Boudreau and read the Cajun's gestures as clearly as if he were talking.
I'll go first and get the drop on them. You follow. Tell Murray to run, and you and me can tune those two giants up a bit.

Tristan frowned, pointed in the direction of his leg and shrugged, hoping Boudreau could read his answer in impromptu hand signals.
Maybe you. Probably not me.

Boudreau stepped onto the pier and cocked his double-barreled shotgun. The two big, strapping blond men froze, then slowly turned and eyed the weapon. One of them held a pistol in his hand.

“Drop it or I'll make a sieve outta you,” Boudreau said.

The man looked at the shotgun, then at his handgun.

“Throw the guns in the water,” Boudreau added, lifting his weapon.

“What?”

“I don't like killing,” Boudreau said. “But when I got to, I make a good job of it. I'll start with your legs, yeah.” He pointed the gun at the man's legs and slid his finger across both triggers.

“Okay,” the man said quickly. “We don't want no trouble. We got business with Mr. Cho.”

Tristan pushed himself to his feet with all the strength he could muster. Just as he pulled the handgun from the vest, he heard something from inside the houseboat. It sounded like a muffled voice crying out. But he didn't have time to check it out because Boudreau needed him.

“Business about a photo?” Tristan said, finding it a little hard to speak around his swelling lip.

The man looked at him. “I knew you weren't quite as dumb as you sounded.”

“And I knew you were,” Tristan responded. “Murray, take your phone out and hit the video record button. And don't screw up.”

Murray frowned, but he did as he was told. He held up the phone and started recording.

But Tristan wasn't nearly as interested in showing off for Lee as he had been. He'd taken an awful chance, following Boudreau and Murray out here, and he knew he'd hear about it from Boudreau later. So he just walked around until he could put his face in the middle of the phone's screen with the two kidnappers in the frame behind him.

“Hello, Mr. Lee. I'm Tristan DuChaud. I'm giving you plenty of footage here, so you have time to get a match for my face. Sorry about the cut on my lip. That shouldn't hinder the face-matching software much. I want you to know that I'm alive and mostly well, and that I'm looking forward to meeting you. I'd like to have the opportunity to shake the hand of the man who tried to kill me.”

He smiled. “I won't do it. I wouldn't touch you with a ten-or even a hundred-foot pole. But I do want to stand in the same room with you and choose not to shake your hand. You are the lowest piece of scum on the planet, and another thing I'd love to do is shoot you in cold blood, but I won't do that, either. I'm going to let the international court deal with you, you traitor, you subhuman, you piece of slime under my boot.”

He wiped a drop of blood that he could feel trickling down his chin. Then he smiled again. “By the way, if you even think about sending anyone near my wife again, I might just have to change my mind about touching you. I won't be shaking your hand, though. Have a nice day, Mr. Lee.” He made a throat-slicing motion at Murray, who looked down to find the stop-recording key.

“Give it to me,” Tristan said, and Murray complied again. Tristan held up the phone. “Here you go, boys. Take that to your boss and tell him Tristan DuChaud says he hopes he enjoys the show.” He looked behind them at Boudreau. “You going to shoot them?”

“No!” Murray cried. “They know where my son is. Please!”

Boudreau shook his head. “Shells are pretty expensive these days. Reckon I might opt for a cheaper alternative. Say—” Instead of finishing his sentence, Boudreau took one step forward and shoved one of the men hard into the other one.

Both of them teetered for a second, then tumbled from the pier into the water.

Tristan grinned at him, then looked down to where the two men were splashing about. “Hey, boys, I'm going to put the phone right here. Mr. Lee will be looking for this. You'd better get dried off and get it to him. Once he sees that I'm alive and well, tell him to come and see me. My wife and I are getting reacquainted, so please call first.” Tristan made a show of getting ready to walk away, then he remembered the noise he'd heard in the houseboat. He stopped and looked at Murray.

“Murray, I think your son's in the houseboat. Boudreau, you want to keep an eye on these guys while Murray and I check it out?

“Sure,” Boudreau said.

“Come on, Murray,” Tristan said. “Let's go make sure there are no more muscle heads around and get Patrick out of there.”

They made short work of searching the houseboat for another thug. Inside, they found Patrick tied up and strapped to a chair. His face was bruised, but he looked healthy otherwise and he started crying when he saw his dad.

Murray untied his son and got him to his feet, then pulled him close for a long hug. Patrick hugged his father back.

“Patrick, my boy. Are you all right?”

Patrick nodded. “They hit me and kept me tied up,” he said brokenly, still crying. “But I'm okay. Oh, Dad, I'm sorry. I forgot to lock the door. I'm sorry.”

“Shh,” Murray said. “None of this is your fault, son. They'd have broken the door in. I'm just glad they didn't hurt you any...any more than they did.” He hugged his son close again.

“Think you can walk?” Tristan asked.

Patrick nodded.

“Let's go. It'll be dark before long and I'd like to get out of here before those guys manage to pull their thousand-dollar suits out of the water.”

Tristan led the way back down the dock. The two thugs were wading toward shore, glancing back at Boudreau with every step.

“By the way, guys,” Tristan called to them, “tell your boss my number's in the book. Have a nice day.” He tipped an imaginary hat.

“Don't get too cocky, son,” Boudreau muttered, looking around. “They could have friends.”

Tristan smiled at Boudreau. “Not as good a friend as I have.”

Chapter Ten

Vernon Lee watched the recording his computer expert had just received and uploaded to the plasma screen. He didn't take his eyes off the screen for the entire one and a half minutes. When it ended with Tristan DuChaud saying,
Have a nice day, Mr. Lee
, Lee growled, “Play it again!”

On the screen, his voice amplified by the state-of-the-art speakers in Lee's media room, Tristan DuChaud said,
Have a nice day, Mr. Lee.

A shiver of disgust slid through Lee. He didn't like smart-asses, and based on what he'd just seen, DuChaud was definitely a smart-ass. Lee watched the recording a third time.

So this was the man who had overheard him talking to that moron Poirier. The man who, in all likelihood, had copies of those conversations somewhere.

“Back it up to where he says have a nice day,” Lee ordered his computer expert. “And freeze it there.”

He studied DuChaud. Yep. A smart-ass. “You probably hid it in your house, didn't you?” Lee muttered. “You look like the type to hide it in plain sight.” Without taking his eyes off the frozen picture of the man who could bring him crashing down, Lee picked up his phone and dialed a number.

“I'll get rid of that recording and you, smart-ass, with a perfect match.” Lee chuckled. “A match. That's a good one.”

After giving orders to his employee on the other end of the phone, Lee hung up and watched faces flash by on the screen, too fast to recognize what they were, much less who.

Bored, he stood. “Gartner,” he said to his computer expert, “I'll be back in an hour. I'm having dinner with my daughter. Print out the facial matches and have them ready for me to look at.”

Charles Gartner turned in his chair.

“Mr. Lee, it will probably take all night for the computer to find every facial match. Your database now contains more than a billion people.”

“Did I ask you how long it would take?”

The American blinked, but his gaze didn't waver. “No, sir,” he said, his face completely blank of expression.

Lee lifted his chin slightly. “What did I ask you to do?”

“To print out the facial matches for you.”

“Do you know why I want that, even though DuChaud told me who he is?”

Gartner swallowed. “Yes, sir. You don't like mistakes or loose ends.”

“That's very good, Mr. Gartner. What else don't I like?”

“Smart-asses, sir.”

Lee thought he saw, just for an instant, a look of annoyance, maybe even anger, on Gartner's face, but it was gone before he could react to it. “Very good, Mr. Gartner. Very good. Print them in color, if that's not too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all, sir.” Gartner turned back to the monitor. He picked up a pen and jotted a note onto his desk calendar.

Lee pushed the door to the penthouse open and went inside, looking forward to having dinner with his daughter.

* * *

S
ANDY
WAS
TIRED
of reading, tired of napping, even tired of eating. She'd heated soup and made herself a grilled cheese sandwich earlier. She glanced at the portable stove and thought about firing it up again and making a cup of tea, but she didn't really want tea that badly.

Pouring a glass of water, she walked over to the French doors, thinking about where Tristan had been going in such a hurry earlier.

She'd heard the Jeep's motor, but by the time she'd gotten to the doors and opened them, he was taking off up the road. It occurred to her that in the past, she'd almost always known exactly where he was and what he was doing. He'd seldom stayed out late with buddies or stopped at the local watering hole for a drink or six.

But today, it had been hours since he'd taken off in the Jeep. He'd promised her he'd be home before dark. Apparently his word wasn't worth squat these days.

The sun was sinking low and the sky was turning pink. It looked as though it was going to be a clear night.

Her restlessness returned. She knew what she wanted to do. She wanted to go for a walk, maybe down to the dock, where she and Tristan had sat on so many evenings like this and watched the sun's reflection in the water until they could no longer see it. But it wasn't the same without him. Nothing was.

Besides, he'd told her to stay inside. Dejected and feeling a little sorry for herself, she watched the sky turn from pink to magenta, then to purple.

It was gloaming, that few minutes right before dark that she disliked so much.

Then, out of the dull palette of dark hues, a bright set of headlights caught her attention. Her stomach flipped, but immediately she recognized the Jeep's headlights and her heart soared like a teenager in the throes of her first crush. She reached for the doorknob to throw the door open and run to him, but as the door swung open, she stopped herself. She actually felt timid about going to him.

Because if he didn't gather her up in his arms, she wasn't sure if she could bear it.

So she waited, her pulse pounding in her ears. She tried to calm her breathing and her heartbeat, but it was no use. She knew she was on the verge of hyperventilating, but she couldn't help it. As he stepped onto the patio the light from the kitchen played on his face and emphasized the deep lines around his mouth and between his brows as he stepped inside.

He looked exhausted and in pain. His face was drawn and pale and his clothes looked two sizes too big. But he was here.

“Tristan,” she said softly, the longing inside her reflected in her voice. Then she saw his swollen lip. “What happened?”

His nostrils flared as if he were taking in a deep breath. “Nothing,” he muttered, looking down at the floor.

Suddenly, she wanted him so badly her entire body quivered. A desire so deep, so primal that it nearly doubled her over spread through her, and she wanted to grab him and kiss him and mold her body to his and damn the consequences.

But just as she began to lift her arms, his steady, solemn gaze filled with fire and he pulled her to him, so quickly that she lost her footing.

He caught her, wrapping his lean, muscled arms around her and burying his nose in her hair. She could hear and feel his unsteady breaths. He said nothing, just held her, squeezing a little too tightly, which was the perfect amount. She slid her arms around him and hugged him back.

After a long, long time, he lifted his head and kissed her. It was barely a kiss, just a brushing of lips against lips, but it ignited a sweet flame so deep and strong that it disturbed the little bean.

“Oh,” she said.

“What?” Tristan whispered hoarsely, his lips still against hers.

“He kicked me. He's getting really good at that.”

“Yeah?” His mouth flattened and he glanced down between them.

She took his hand. “Come with me,” she said.

“San, I'm tired. This has been a long, long day. I just need to go to bed.”

“Lucky for you,” she said, “that's where we're going.” She tugged on his hand until, with a sigh, he followed her.

In the bedroom, she turned back the covers. “Take off your shirt and sit down. I'll untie your shoes.” She crouched down, settling her baby bump onto her lap, untied his sneakers and slid them off, then slid off his socks.

“I ought to take a shower,” he said, his voice muffled as he pulled off his shirt.

She looked up at him. “You look clean.”

“I bathed at Boudreau's, but still...”

She started to rise and Tristan stood and caught her arms, helping her up.

“I'm not that bad off yet,” she said. “I can get up by myself.”

He didn't comment as he unbuckled his belt and let his pants drop to the floor.

Sandy went to the other side of the bed and quickly shed her clothes.

“I've got something to show you,” she said, climbing under the covers beside him. She lay back against the pillows. “Look.” She pushed the covers down to expose her breasts and belly.

Tristan took a swift breath. “Wow,” he said.

“I know. I'm huge. The little bean's kicking around in there and making things pretty uncomfortable for me.”

Tristan put his hand out, then drew it back.

“It's okay.” She caught his hand and placed it, palm down, on her tummy. “Rub right here.” She moved his hand to the right side. “The bean likes that.”

Tristan's fingers tentatively spread over her skin and she closed her eyes.

The desire was still there, throbbing within her, but her heart was filled with something more now. This was all she'd ever wanted. She and Tristan, together, with their baby. A family, bonded together with such strength of love that nothing could ever tear them apart.

She pressed Tristan's hand against her skin, guiding it back and forth, back and forth, in the spot where the little bean's feet usually were. After a few seconds, she felt a tiny kick from the inside.

“Did you feel that?” she asked.

Tristan turned onto his side. He looked up at her. “That was a kick?”

“Hey, he's not very big yet,” she said indignantly.

“How big?”

She held her hands up, about ten inches apart. “And he probably weighs around twelve ounces or so.”

“Our little bean,” Tristan whispered. “Have you named him already?” He looked up at her.

She shook her head. “I'd wanted us to do that together, and then you— Then I kind of figured that I'd probably name him after you.”

Tristan stared at her for a long time, then he pushed up on his elbow and leaned over and kissed her belly. “Hi, little bean,” he said softly.

Sandy's breath caught as she watched her husband greeting his child. “You know, the doctor told me he can hear now. He said we should talk to him.”

“You've been doing that all along, haven't you?”

Sandy laughed. “Yes.”

“Because you talk to everything. The plants, the food, me—even when I'm asleep.”

“I cannot deny that I do,” she said.

Tristan straightened, still looking at her. “San, I don't know what will happen if I try to make love with you, but I'd like to try.”

She touched his face. “I'll do anything you need me to do.”

“You may need to be on top. My damn leg won't hold me up very well.”

“That won't be a problem,” she said.

Tristan pushed himself up until he could reach her mouth and kissed her with all the abandoned ardor of a man who hadn't made love with his wife in more than four months.

She felt him harden against her thigh and thought, as she had the last time they'd almost made love, that if he had trouble it would not be with his virility. Her desire swelled inside her until she ached and pulsed with need. With a moan, she slid down into the bed on her side, facing him.

She leaned over to kiss him and he grimaced. “Oh, you're on your right side,” she said. “That's your bad side. Here.” She sat up and moved over. “Lie on your back and I'll do the work.”

His face turned red. “I don't want it to be like this, San.”

“Like what? You're injured so I will take over temporarily, because I do love it when you're above me, my man.”

Tristan opened his mouth to protest again, but Sandy bent down and kissed him. She kept on kissing him as she straddled him, feeling his arousal grow harder. She lifted herself onto her knees and let him be the guide as she slowly and carefully lowered herself onto him.

Being filled by her husband was an exquisite pleasure and a pulse-pounding need. Her muscles contracted around him and he groaned and thrust upward, grasping her around the waist and lifting her, his lean, muscled arms straining to hold her suspended while he searched her face for any trace of pain or discomfort.

“I'm wonderful,” she said, her voice low and sultry. “Let go. I want to feel you. One hundred percent of you.” He did as she asked and she sank down onto him, then began to move.

Tristan made a noise deep in his throat as he took her by the waist again. She moaned in protest, but it was immediately obvious that he wasn't planning to stop her or slow her down this time.

No, he was controlling the pace, easing them into a deliberately steady rhythm that was not enough for her. She kept trying to rush each thrust, but Tristan held on to her and kept the rhythm steady.

“Tris, let me move,” she murmured.

“Don't rush it, San. Keep it slow and steady. In and out. In and out. Feel the sensations. You know how we like it best.”

“But it's been so long. I need—”

Tristan leaned up and pulled Sandy to him, until he could reach her breasts with his mouth.

She touched his cheek. “Tris, don't forget about the milk,” she said softly.

He took a shaky breath. “I haven't.” He closed his mouth over her right breast and ran his tongue across her distended nipple.

“Oh!” she cried, trying to breathe normally, trying to keep it steady and failing. Her back arched to push her breast into his mouth. Then she felt him sucking lightly on the tender tip. She gasped and at the same time, his insistent rhythm sped up, until they were moving together, faster and faster.

His thrusts sent her higher and higher until she was sure she was about to explode into a thousand pieces.

Her jagged flashes of pleasure synced with his thrusts. They breathed in tandem and moved in perfect accord.

Then Tristan thrust harder than he had so far, and he touched something so deep within her that she did explode. Thousands of bright stars burst in front of her vision and thousands more popped and sizzled inside her. And everywhere they touched, they singed her with another level of pleasure. She had no concept of anything except the two of them and the culmination of joy they were sharing.

Much later, Tristan's shoulder moved restlessly under Sandy's head and she murmured in protest. He turned his head and pressed a kiss into her hair. “My arm's going to sleep. Sorry I'm such a wimp.”