“Fleur,” his ex-wife breathed. “No, not again.”
Jarrett followed her as Lacey ran into the hallway toward the back bedrooms. Was it a threat? Did someone break in? He’d checked the house twice, but damn, maybe he should have checked it again.
Pushing open her daughter’s door, she raced into the room and flipped on a light.
The child thrashed on the bed, screaming pitifully, her arms waving. Lacey gathered her close and rocked Fleur back and forth in her arms. Fleur woke up and began to sob.
“The bad man, the bad man, he was hurting her! Chou Chou!”
Lacey’s troubled gaze met Jarrett’s as he entered the bedroom.
“Always the nightmares. I thought they were going away. I feel so damn helpless. She needs more than she can get here, Jarrett. And I can’t get her home. I can’t get her home where she’ll be safe and I can really take care of her.”
Jarrett’s heart twisted as he looked at Lacey, her long hair tumbling down her back, her mouth swollen from his fierce, possessive kisses, her eyes wild with frustration and grief.
He sank to the bed. “Let me try.”
Her lower lip wobbled, but she nodded and rose, standing near the bed.
Jarrett gathered the child into his arms and began to sing a lullaby in French he’d learned from babysitting one of his teammates’s kids. At first Fleur stiffened and kept sobbing high-pitched cries like a frightened bird. And then as he kept singing and rubbing her back, she gradually relaxed.
Finally, he felt her little body grow slack and her breathing even.
He laid her gently back into the bed. Lacey tucked the covers around her. Tears glistened in her eyes as she studied her daughter.
For a full moment he looked at her, mother and child. The pain in his chest trebled. This should have been them. Both of them, sitting on their daughter’s bed, soothing away the bad dreams, reassuring her that the bogeyman didn’t live in the closet or under the bed. Singing to her songs that made her eyes close and the bad things go away.
But he knew from hard experiences that the bad things didn’t go away so easily. And though children were resilient, no child should ever have to experience the horrors Fleur had.
Finally, he drew Lacey aside. They left the bedroom and she cracked the door open.
“Thank you, Jarrett. That’s the first time she’s fallen asleep that quickly after a nightmare.” Lacey’s face tightened. “Usually it takes warm milk and lots of hugs, and even then...”
She turned and fled into the kitchen.
At the sink she braced her hands on the counter. “I try so hard, but some days I feel so damn overwhelmed. This place, the work, and all the attention Fleur needs. I’d give anything to make her feel normal again. To have a normal childhood. I love her so much, and she’s starting to respond...it hurts to see the terror in her eyes, know she could have been her father’s next victim...”
Jarrett said nothing. He pulled her into his arms and held her tightly against his chest. Stroking her hair, he rested his chin atop her head.
Lacey pulled away, and he inwardly swore. It felt so good, so right, to have her in his arms again. All those times after returning home from missions, he’d turned to her in bed and the release he’d found in sex had pushed the haunting images back a little further. Connection. Bonding. He found release in sex, and she found it in talk.
“Get some rest,” he told her gently.
Jarrett watched as she climbed the stairs. He rubbed his tight chest and went outside to check the perimeter one last time. He’d find a way to bring Lacey and her little girl home.
* * *
In the morning he woke before dawn, jogging around the complex and scanning for new threats. Usually he loved this time of day, before the world awoke and the sky was leaden and gray. He found solace in running, listening to the sound of his lungs working hard, his feet slapping against the ground. Always he’d pushed himself harder and harder.
Maybe he should have pushed himself harder with Lace, too. He’d had a restless night, knowing she slept only footfalls away in the next room. His arms itched to hold her close once more.
Man, those were the things he’d missed the most after returning home after an op. Sex, yeah, the sex was mind-blowing, but he missed cuddling, one arm secured around her waist, listening to her breathe, feeling her warm, soft skin against his naked body. Curling up next to a pillow didn’t cut it. It was Lacey, holding her close next to him, listening to her soft breaths as she slept, that fueled his purpose each time he went downrange on an op. He’d keep that memory close as he had to sleep at night in the field, remembering the reason why he fought to keep his country safe.
By the time he returned to the house from his run, showered and dressed and sent a few emails from his laptop, there was movement in the kitchen and the smells of frying bacon and peppers. Jarrett rubbed a hand over his clean-shaven face and grinned, knowing he would never eat another pepper without remembering the taste of Lacey beneath his tongue.
Fleur sat at the table, eating spaghetti. He joined her and poked at the bowl. “You like this stuff for breakfast?” he asked in French.
At her nod, he wrinkled his nose. “Looks like worms. Yuck. How can you eat that big, messy bowl of worms?”
She giggled. “It’s paghetti,” she said in English.
Surprised at her use of English, he tilted his head. “Spaghetti,” he corrected.
Jarrett poured himself coffee and thanked Rose as she set a plate of eggs scrambled with bacon and peppers before him. As he dug into it, Lacey appeared in the doorway.
“I overslept. Why didn’t anyone wake me up?”
He didn’t reply. Too busy staring. Her blond hair rumpled, her eyes still dazed from sleep, she wore a gray sleep shirt and pink pajama bottoms. For a moment he stepped back into time, remembering those mornings when she’d rise like this, her hair tangled, her face smudged with sleep, her nightwear rumpled. And he’d think how beautiful she was, and how damn lucky he was because she was his.
No longer his.
Jarrett mumbled good morning and turned his attention to the eggs to hide his raging emotions.
Lacey’s gaze met his when he finally looked up. She sat at the table sipping her coffee, and he noticed the smudges of fatigue shadowing her face. “Fleur’s classes start at 0800. School lets out at 1400.”
Two o’clock. She still used military time, a habit Lacey acquired while married to him. He set down his fork. “What are your plans for today?” he asked in English.
“Trying to salvage whatever’s left from the fire, paperwork and then setting our plan in motion that we talked about last night. I’ll drop hints at the packing house, gauge reactions. Those women are hard workers, but they adore good gossip. I have a meeting with Paul at 1300 here at the compound. He’s having a driver bring back my SUV. You’ll get to formally meet him.”
At her stern look, he flicked out his hands. “What?”
“You know what. No paint on his car or tinkering with his battery. Be nice.”
“I’m always nice.” To those who deserved it.
Fleur picked up her empty bowl and carried it to the sink. He lowered his voice. “Call your dad. If anyone can expedite the visa, he can. Get the old man to pull whatever strings he can.”
She nodded. Jarrett polished off his eggs and then stood. He dropped a hand on Lacey’s shoulder. “I’ll take care of her. Try not to worry. Worrying sucks out your energy.”
* * *
This vehicle sucked.
Lacey’s elderly pickup truck had a finicky clutch and rumbled like an old horse with colic. Used for transporting mangoes, it made a lousy passenger vehicle. As he navigated on the main road toward Fleur’s school, he asked Fleur about her classes, careful to mask questions about the “bad men” so he wouldn’t scare her.
The bad men hung outside the school. They were there each day before classes and remained through recess and lunch break. When she left, they were still there.
She had noticed them about four weeks ago.
Jarrett passed a small market, keeping his eyes open for threats. Vendors grilled corn on small charcoal stoves on the sidewalk. A woman clutched a little boy’s hand as she walked him to school, his blue backpack hanging against his back. A girl in a red-and-white-checked uniform like Fleur’s bit off the plastic to a bag of chips.
He reached the school, beeped the horn and the security guard opened the tall metal gate. Jarrett drove inside, noting the guard held a shotgun. Held it the right way, too, not like Lacey’s guy who’d missed the dead chicken at the gate.
He parked the SUV in the yard and they hopped out. Jarrett straightened her backpack and stared at her solemn face. “I’ll be right here when school lets out. Don’t leave the yard. Rose packed you a nice lunch, so you’re all set. If anyone or anything scares you, call me on this,” he told her in French. “Do you know how to use a cell phone?”
“Yes.”
Palming one of the local cell phones he’d bought in the city, he slipped it into her backpack. Fleur gave him a dubious look far too wise for a five-year-old. “We’re not supposed to have cell phones.”
“It’s our secret. Only for emergencies. You call your mom and I’ll be here before you can say ‘paghetti.’ Deal?”
The shy smile she gave him melted his heart. He reached down and hugged her. The child barely came to his thigh, and she felt all skin and bones.
“I’m going to keep you safe, Fleur. No one’s going to hurt you or your mom. They have to go through me first.”
“Promise?” she whispered.
He hugged her again, his throat closing tight. “Promise.”
She nodded and hitched up her backpack. “And jump rope after school.”
He laughed. “Deal.”
Jarrett watched as she trudged off to class.
He went outside the gate, scanned the area and saw two men hovering near the school’s front gate close to where men played dominoes. Both men had tell-tale bulges in their jeans he instantly recognized as sidearms. One was short and dark-skinned, but muscled like a bodybuilder. The other had dark blond hair, stood about six feet and was trim and athletic.
As Jarrett leaned against the wall, he pulled out his phone, pretending interest in checking his messages. A bystander watching the game had ten red plastic clothespins on his arm. So the man had lost. Bet he’d love to have the chance to make a little money.
Time to create a distraction.
He ambled up to the game and struck up a conversation with the clothespin man. Five minutes and two US twenties later, Clothespin Man began arguing in a loud voice with the players.
He knew from experience such arguments tended to be more boisterous than violent, for people in St. Marc loved to express themselves. But if these guys, Americans from the looks of them, didn’t know much about the island, they would check it out. At least one of them.
Jarrett walked back to the gate, passing the men, ignoring them.
Sure enough Blond Guy walked toward the game, leaving his pal behind. But the dark-skinned man turned his attention to the game, watching his buddy. Jarrett stole toward the dark-skinned man and snuck up behind him. He pressed his Sig into the back of the shorter man’s head.
“Talk to me. Who are you, why are you here? Talk fast unless you want a head full of lead,” he said in English.
The man didn’t budge. “What do you want?” he replied in the same language.
“Never question the man holding the gun. Why are you hanging out at a private school attended by ex-pats’ kids?”
No answer. Jarrett pressed the gun barrel deeper. The man stiffened. “I’m only here to watch over Fleur.”
Watch over her before hurting her? “What do you want with her?”
“Senator Stewart hired us to watch Fleur’s school in case there was trouble.”
“Hired you? Who are you?”
“Sam Pendleton. Her bodyguard. What do you want with Fleur?” To his credit the man didn’t even flinch.
“I’ll ask the questions. Why are you here? And why not tell her mother?”
“I’ll answer when you tell me who you are.”
“I’m her personal bodyguard. Why doesn’t Lacey know about you?”
His quarry seemed to relax a little. “Her father didn’t want her to know because she’d put up a fuss about him interfering.”
That sounded like Lace. “ID?”
“My wallet and ID are in my back pocket. There’s a white card with a phone number with the senator’s private cell phone. Call the number and tell him who I am.”
Training his weapon on the man, he fished out the wallet, flipped it open and saw the ID and the card. Sam Pendleton, Security. Flipping out his phone, he called the number.
His ex-father-in-law’s gruff voice answered on the first ring. “Stewart speaking.”
“Hello, Alex,” Jarrett drawled. “Remember me? Your ex-son-in-law.”
Sam turned his head and gave a slight guffaw. “Oh, shit.”
“Adler! How the hell did you get this number?” Senator Stewart bellowed.
“Nice to talk to you again, too,” he said. The man had never liked him, always resenting the fact that Jarrett, a kid from New England who’d joined the Navy as enlisted, had stolen away his only daughter. Nothing Jarrett had done was good enough. Not even the fact he’d gone to school and gotten his college degree and became an officer. Not the fact he was SEAL, certainly, because Stewart thought SEALs were “hot dogs.”
“Got it from the man who said you hired him. Who is he?”
“He and Gene work for me. I hired them a month ago when Fleur’s visa wasn’t coming through.”
“And you didn’t think it was a good idea to tell Lace that armed men were watching her daughter’s school?”
“That’s my business,” the man snapped. “Why are you there, Adler?”
“I’m here to take Lacey back to the States.”
Silence on the other line. Finally, the man sighed. “She won’t budge without Fleur.”
“Then light a fire under the asses of those paper pushers. Use your clout and do something useful instead of hiring muscle and scaring her daughter and your daughter.”
“Leave those men alone, Adler. They’re employed directly by me.”
“I will if they check out with my references.” Jarrett flipped off the phone, tempted to give it a one-fingered salute.
He lowered his pistol but did not put it away as Blond Man jogged up to them. Blondie introduced himself as Gene Armstrong. He had a Southern drawl and cool green eyes. They gave their military creds and Jarrett made another phone call, this time to Ace.
“Ace. Need you check out two guys. Sam Pendleton. Company F, First Battalion, First Marine Division. And Gene Armstrong. He was with the 75th Ranger Regiment.”
“Give me a few.” Ace hung up.
Jarrett eyeballed the men, who stared back with equal hostility. He wasn’t leaving his position, or trusting his ex-father-in-law until he heard from Ace. Alexander Stewart might think he had hired bodyguards, but he could be fooled. And this was Lacey’s little girl.
His cell rang. “Yeah?”
“Both check out. Enlisted, both received honorable discharges. Armstrong was wounded in Ramadi. Took a bullet to the leg.”
He thanked Ace and thumbed off the phone. Jarrett tucked his Sig back into his holster. “My friend says you’re cleared. I’ll leave you to your job. I’m picking Fleur up at 1400 hours.”
Gene and Sam nodded.
He gave the dark-skinned Sam a scrutinizing look. “Were you hanging out, asking if a flower attended this school?”
Sam’s brow wrinkled. “No. We knew she was here all day.”
This was troubling. “Anyone else you’ve seen who has been asking questions about her?”
“Not me, but my French isn’t that great,” Sam admitted. “Gene’s is better. We’ve been keeping an eagle eye on the place with all the growing unrest. There’s a chance someone could have been here for a few minutes and we missed him.”
A few minutes around recess, when children came outside to buy snacks from the vendors. Jarrett rubbed the nape of his aching neck. “This ices my balls. Someone’s been asking about Fleur. Someone other than you two.”
Quickly he gave a description. “If you see this guy again, get hold of him. I’d like to question him. My way.”
“Would hate to go up against you in a fight, sir. You military?” Sam asked.
When Jarrett told them, Sam’s face lit up. “Knew you had to be a SEAL. Only a frogman could sneak up on me like that. Don’t feel so bad now that you got the drop on me, sir.”
“Where you boys from?” Jarrett asked.
“A little town near Houston, Texas,” Gene said. “Best damn state in the USA.”
“Don’t mind him,” Sam drawled. “He gets a little antsy when he’s not within shooting range of the Alamo. I’m a Yankee. From New York City. You?”
“We’re almost neighbors. I was born in New Hampshire. The old man was military so we moved a lot.”
Gene gave him a look filled with respect. “Lt. Jarrett Adler. You’re the Iceman. I heard about that op you did in Ramadi. You laid down enough fire in that neighborhood for our boys to beat it the hell out of there.”
Uncomfortable with the praise, Jarrett gave a brusque nod. He didn’t like talking about that op. Too many nightmarish images from that time, men who died with their legs blown off, screaming, the blood and the slick, coppery scent of it...
“You’re the Iceman?” Sam asked. “Hooyah, sir. Semper Fi.”
He relaxed a little and for a few minutes, talked with them about missions in Iraq and Afghanistan, the crummy food and American football. Gene had retired from the service only last year, and Sam had left six months ago.
“It was tough getting used to wearing civvies,” Gene said. “Tougher finding work after being a Ranger for years. We were happy the senator gave us a detail. I speak French, but ole Sam here barely knows any words.”
“I’m good at pointing and talking with my hands,” Sam said, grinning.
Jarrett gave a gruff nod, for Gene had voiced a fear he also felt. What life did he have upon leaving the teams? He was nearly thirty-five, and some days he didn’t think he’d live long enough to celebrate his fortieth. Thirty-five was approaching senior citizen age in the teams.
These young kids coming into the teams with their snappy attitudes and do-or-die zeal... Yeah, they had respect for all he’d done, and more than often there was a quiet sense of almost hero worship. He’d lived for the adrenaline thrill, the sense of a job well-done, knowing he kept his country safe.
Jarrett didn’t want to be pushed into retirement. He wished he could find something to replace the sense of purpose that had driven him all these years.
He could still serve. But how?
Gene handed him a white business card. “When you get back Stateside, look us up and we’ll buy you a beer. Be honored to share a brew with a frogman who watched our six.”
Jarrett thanked him, fished a card out of his wallet and scribbled down the number of his local cell phone. “Where are you two bunking?”
“Local hotel. It’s not bad.” Sam’s voice was neutral.
“The fleas aren’t as big as the sandfleas in Ramadi,” Gene added.
Jarrett grinned. “Yeah, I know it. While you’re here, keep an eye out for anything suspicious and call me at this number if you see anything.”
He told them what happened with the shed and Gene’s eyes narrowed. “This country’s getting too many hot spots. I heard last week that the favored candidate might not win because the current regime could be targeting him.”
He considered. These men, ex-military, might be good resources. “Let’s get together tonight at Lacey’s place, dinner and drinks.” He grinned at the hopeful look on Gene’s face. “Lace has a great cook. I bet she can whip up a mean Texas-style chili that will melt your socks.”
“Only Texans can do that, sir,” Gene said.
“Yeah, Lace has a stash of peppers that would do you proud. Trust me. I’ll scrounge up some cold brews, too.” He rubbed his chin. “I know the senator is paying your bill, but it would be a huge relief to my ex to know the men hanging outside her kid’s school are aboveboard.”
He gave them the address. “Be there at 1800 hours.”
“Be nice to hang with other Americans,” Gene said.
“Honored, sir.” Sam saluted him.
As he returned to Lacey’s truck, feeling a little more relieved that Fleur was being guarded by professionals with weapons, Jarrett couldn’t help but wonder if someday soon it might be him standing outside a school, keeping watch on someone else’s dime. He loved his career in the Navy, but what came next?
* * *
When he returned to the compound, he did a thorough check of the property, riding along the narrow pathway of the wall’s perimeter, looking for weaknesses in the wall or an easily penetrated spot.
At the field near the homes where the women lived, four men picked corn. He questioned them all, but none had seen or heard anything suspicious. The men worked in the compound during the day, but left before dusk fell. All four had worked for Lacey for two years and seemed loyal and grateful for the jobs she’d given them.
They promised to keep an eye out and report anything odd.
At the property’s northwest corner, beneath the shade of several mango trees, he saw a man leaning on a shovel near the garden. Dressed in dirt-stained jeans, a button-down shirt plastered to his sweating body, he appeared to be taking a break.
Except he wondered what the guy had been doing, for he didn’t see evidence of holes dug or dirt piled up. Jarrett parked the truck and climbed out.
“Who are you?” he asked in French.
The man gave him a long look before answering. “I’m Jean. I work here.”
He remembered him from last night. Pierre, the man Lacey had sent to fetch the hose from the gardening shed.
“For how long?” Jarrett asked.
“Miss Lacey hired me last week to take care of the garden.”
He swept a critical eye over the tomato garden. “By weeding with a shovel?”
“I’m planting seeds. Over there.” Jean waved at a spot closer to the compound’s wall. “The sun is better there. More tomatoes to grow.”
Jarrett wasn’t a gardener, but it made sense. Except he didn’t like the way he kept glancing nervously at the wooden shed near the garden.
“Do you live here?” he asked.
Jean pointed to the shed. “Miss Lacey lets me stay there. I live an hour away off the main road and visit my family on the weekend.”
“Did you see anything last night before the storage shed started burning?” he asked.
Jean shook his head.
Following his instincts, he walked around the shed, with Jean following him. Two walls sported new coats of bright red paint.
“Odd color to paint a shed,” he told Jean.
The gardener shrugged. “Miss Lacey had the paint donated. No choice.”
Jarrett went to the shed’s door and stepped inside. Jean followed him.
Inside he found nothing unusual. The shed was neatly organized, and in the back room with a narrow bed where Jean obviously slept, there was a small kerosene stove and a table with a few plates and pots.
The front room of the shed contained gardening tools, buckets, a few burlap bags that he opened, and found to contain chicken droppings. It could have been used to help start the fire, but it wasn’t as effective as regular fertilizer when making a bomb.
“Guano is a good fertilizer. Natural,” Jean said.
The man seemed eager to explain everything. Interesting.
Even more interesting were the two plastic buckets of paint and the still-damp paintbrushes. Jarrett picked one up and examined the bristles.
“The paint protects the wood when it rains,” Jean told him.
“Do you keep the shed locked? Or can anyone walk inside?”
“Why would we lock it? No one steals from Miss Lacey.”
Yeah, no one stole. They just set fire to her storehouse and left threats on the walls...in red paint. Jarrett didn’t like it. He dropped the brush. He went outside and touched the red wall and his fingers came away stained crimson.
“I painted it this morning,” Jean said.
Too convenient. He made a mental note to keep his eye on the gardener as Jean returned to the garden and began to dig.
When Jarrett finished patrolling, he parked the truck in front of Lacey’s house and went searching for his ex. Rose was in the kitchen and told him Lacey was talking with the women at the mango processing building.
“Miss Lacey said Fleur’s visa is coming through. I’m happy for her, but sad to see my little Fleur leave,” Rose said in French.
“Well, I have news that’ll make you happy, Miss Rose. I have a challenge for you.”
When he told her about dinner, her dark eyes gleamed.
“I have to go into town for paint Miss Lacey wants, and I’ll get some beans from the grocery. I will make a chili that will have your American friend howling, Mr. Jarrett.”
He grinned. “Go for it.”
Leaving Rose to plan the meal, he headed for the remains of the storage shed. It still smoked, though the fire was long out. Jarrett rummaged through the remains of the shed. After an hour he found something that made his blood run cold.
Charred, enough of the mechanism still existed for him to ID it. A sophisticated incendiary device with a timer. Maybe even a cell phone.
He traced back the path he’d taken last night. The red painted words still stood out on the wall: American go home.
Beneath the red splatter of paint was a large footprint that stuck out like a black stone in white sand. He squatted down and analyzed it.
Jarrett brought a ladder over, scaled the wall and jumped over. Lacey’s property abutted a small stretch of forest that marched up the mountainside.
Another few feet, he saw the same kind of footprint. And then a few yards away, bingo. He picked up the cell phone. Cheap, throwaway type that were common here in St. Marc.
The detonator.
He imagined the owner standing here, safely far away from the compound, making a call to trigger the detonator.
His guts clenched. And Lacey could have been hit with this. Nightmarish images flicked through his mind, Lacey screaming as the device exploded...trapped in the shed, no way to get out...
Pocketing the cell phone so Ace could try to trace it, he returned to the compound.
He went into his room and put the cell phone on his bureau. His own phone rang. It was Ace with the full 411 on Paul Lawrence, Lace’s business partner.
After, he found Lacey in the workshop, supervising the women peeling mangoes. She greeted him with a quick smile that had his whole day vastly improve. If he got a smile like that every morning, he’d be a happy man.
Jarrett nearly stopped in his tracks, dumbfounded. He was happy, right? Had a secure job with the teams, making sure his country was safe.
But ever since the divorce, there was a big, empty hole in his heart, not just his bed.
“Hey, sunshine,” he told her, dropping a kiss on her cheek. She flushed beneath the touch of his lips.
Her skin was so warm and soft, and he had to fight the urge to keep kissing her and not stop.
“Fleur’s safe in school.” He explained about her bodyguards and how her father had hired them.
“I should be angry he didn’t tell me. But he meant well. Thanks, Jarrett. That’s one less thing I have to worry about, knowing they check out and they’re keeping an eye on her.”
“I invited them for dinner tonight, so you can meet them.”
“Thanks.”
The fact that she wasn’t furious at her dad, and she seemed resigned, warned him she was under much more pressure than she’d alluded to.
She swept a hand over the workshop. “Though the fire took the mango marmalade that was ready for shipping, we still have plenty of stock to work with. Collette told me the women were quite worried that I’d shut down operations. I assured them I would not abandon this project. We’ve all worked too hard to let someone chase us away.”
But clearly, Lacey was tense this morning, her body stiff and rigid. Jarrett stepped behind her and began massaging her shoulders. At first she tensed and then sighed as he kneaded the tension away.
“Wow, I miss this. You always did give great massages.” She stole a peek over one shoulder. “And other things, as well.”
“Still do.” He finished and Lacey rolled her shoulders. “I have a report I have to complete before Paul gets here. Care to keep me company?”
“Let’s go outside first. Away from all the ears.” He glanced at the women.
When they were outside the building, he lowered his voice. “That man you recently hired, Jean. How well do you know him?”
“He’s related to one of the women I’m helping. Jean is her cousin. Why?”
He explained his suspicions about the red paint and how it was the same color as the messages on the wall.
“Someone could have taken it from the shed. It isn’t well guarded and sometimes they leave the paint outside. I’ve been after Jean to finish for two days.”
“He seems more interested in planting a tomato garden. Did it occur to you that the red paint he’s using for the shed has been used for the wall?”
Lacey sighed. “It couldn’t have been Jean. He doesn’t speak English, and he’s illiterate. He wouldn’t have done it, Jarrett. Why would he threaten me when I gave him a job?”
The arson indicated a professional. Still, he didn’t trust the man.
“Don’t let him sleep on the property anymore.” He pushed a stray lock of blond hair out of her face. “You’re a good manager, Lace, but you have a soft heart for the downtrodden. Keep that soft heart for the women.”
She gave him a wry smile. “I’ll tell him to find lodging in town. What else did you want to discuss?”
“Lace, have you seen anyone or heard anyone in the compound who stuck out like he didn’t belong or was interested in your operations? Any guests you’ve given tours to lately?”
“I had a small group of donors from the States three weeks ago.” She pursed her full lips. “There was one guy who was with them who seemed interested in the shed and how we pack the jam for shipping. But he’s legit. Friend of a big donor. Why?”
“I found an incendiary device and the timer. Cell phone. Cell phone timers are popular with terrorists because they can remotely trigger bombs.”
The floral scent of her shampoo tickled his nostrils as she leaned close and whispered to him. “That’s crazy! Why would a terrorist be interested in my NGO?”
“Why would an illegal arms dealer be interested in donating?” He lightly clasped her shoulders. “Lacey, you’re the daughter of a US senator and former ambassador to this country. Even if you aren’t political, your father is. And I’m certain he made enemies here in St. Marc.”
“There are lots of ex-pats more politically connected than me,” she pointed out. “My friend Helen, Sally’s mom, is married to a well-known UN diplomat. She’s the one you’ll meet this afternoon when you take Fleur to Sally’s house. And sabotaging their businesses or their homes would make more of a statement, if this is political.”
“Augustin could have sent someone to scout out the compound, target you where you were most vulnerable. It’s gone beyond chickens and painted threats, sweetheart.” Jarrett braced himself mentally for her protests. “After today you should leave and take Fleur someplace else.”
“For Fleur’s sake, I would. But what about Rose? And the women who live here? Work here?”
She folded her arms and stared at the building. “This is their world, Jarrett. They have no place else to go. They can’t go back to their families. If something else happens around here and the compound shuts down, they’ll be on the streets.”
“If something bad happens to you, the compound will shut down and they will be on the streets.”
“Collette can take over. But I have to let them know I’m strong and I won’t let these vandals drive me away. I’m not only their director, Jarrett. I’m a role model.”
He said nothing, only listened, sensing she needed to get this out.
“When they first came here, they were beaten, not just physically, but emotionally. I taught them to be confident, that their lives have worth after all they’ve heard for years that they aren’t worth anything. I taught them that a real man doesn’t hit a woman, ever.”
Her gaze shining, she studied him. “I told them about you.”
Stunned, he blinked at her. “Me?”
“We might be divorced, but you always treated me with respect, Jarrett. You taught me how to shoot a gun and defend myself from attackers, too. I told them how I was married to a man who could kill enemy soldiers with his bare hands, but he never raised a hand to me. Not during the times when we argued or any other time. He valued my opinion and he treated me like an equal. And that is what real men do.”
At a loss for words, he pondered her words. He’d been seen as a role model, among the teams, among the men who accompanied him on missions, but as one for battered women? And to know Lace still held him in high regard...
“Real men stay married and stay committed,” he said quietly, watching her face to gauge her reaction.
A shadow entered her eyes. “Divorce isn’t one-sided, Jarrett. I’m the one who broke it off. But even that didn’t change my opinion of you. Even what my father said never changed my opinion of you.”
A tiny flicker of hope blinked on and off. Maybe they still could make it work. And then he remembered he wasn’t here to patch things up with his ex. He was here to haul her out, get her home where he wouldn’t have to worry about her anymore.
“You still remember those self-defense moves I taught you?”
Lacey nodded.
Her gaze softened. “You taught me a lot, Jarrett. I still know how to pick locks. That skill has come in handy a few times when I managed to lock myself out.”
She grinned and his pulse kicked up a notch. Unable to resist, he cupped her face with his hand, rubbing his thumb across the smooth skin of her cheek. “I still have a few moves I could teach you.”
Lacey’s eyes closed as he kept stroking her face. Her long lashes feathered her cheeks and she made a little humming sound of pleasure he remembered well. She was enjoying this.
So was he.
Opening her eyes, she pulled away. “I have work to do before Paul gets here.”
Watching her walk off toward her office, he rubbed a hand over his face. He was committed to staying with Lacey and safeguarding her and her daughter until he could hustle them out of here.
Unstable governments, risky missions, hell, he was a SEAL and used to danger. There was always a plan, and always his training to fall back upon.
But nothing in his military career ever prepared him for this—keeping his ex at a distance and not falling for her all over again, screwing up this relationship any more than it was already screwed up.
* * *
A while later Jarrett joined Lacey in the living room to meet her business partner, Paul Lawrence. The man hadn’t impressed him when he’d seen him in the hotel. Up close, he was less impressive.
Jarrett stretched out his legs and gave the man a long, cool look. Paul wore an Italian tailored gray business suit and had thinning brown hair and watery blue eyes. After listening to the man for ten minutes, he disliked him intensely. Paul was condescending and slick, the smooth oiliness of his voice grating on Jarrett’s nerves as he talked about how his family had come from a long line of distinguished notables in St. Marc. Nothing against the guy’s family tree, but Paul definitely had an attitude about Americans.
Odd that he’d agreed to partner with one.
When Jarrett asked him about it as Lacey went into her office to get papers, Paul shrugged. “Alex Stewart is a good friend and a good businessman. And when Lacey asked to partner with me, I felt I owed it to my friend.”
Hmm. “I heard that your coffee business was running out of money and you were operating in the red, desperate for a cash influx. Odd, too. It was profitable for a long time and suddenly you owed money. Lots of money.”
The man’s gaze flicked to the left. Then Lawrence gave a philosophical shrug. “Times were hard. And I welcomed the opportunity to work with my friend’s daughter and give her a head start on her charity. She has done much good in this region of St. Marc.”
Right. “You like going to Île du Paradis?”
At the mention of the ritzy resort on St. Marc’s northern coast, the man swallowed hard and tugged at his tie. “I have friends who live near there. It is a very nice resort when one wants to get away.”
It was also a haven for gamblers. According to Ace, Lawrence had lost money at the roulette wheel. A lot of money.
Lawrence abruptly changed the subject. “Enough of me, Mr. Adler. I am worried for Lacey. I have told her for weeks that the country is not safe and she should leave.”
Interesting. Why was the man concerned in Lacey leaving? Beads of sweat dotted Lawrence’s upper lip. It was warm, but not that warm. Jarrett studied the way his jugular throbbed.
“It isn’t safe here in the country or inside Lacey’s compound?”
Lawrence’s gaze darted away and he removed a neatly pressed handkerchief from his jacket pocket and mopped his perspiring brow. “Why are you here, Mr. Adler?”
A question to answer a question. Typical evasive tactic. “Take off your jacket. You seem warm,” he suggested.
“I am fine. But I am worried for Lacey.”
“Why do you want her to leave when her daughter is still here and can’t yet emigrate to the United States? Isn’t Lacey your business partner? Are you leaving, too?”
“So many questions. She is a woman, alone, living in this big compound without a man to protect her or help her run her charity.”
“Lacey’s done fine by herself. She doesn’t need help.”
“But women on this island are treated differently. They do not have the same respect as men, and men working for them will not listen to them. With the growing violence, how can she protect herself and her daughter?”
Jarrett didn’t like the thread of this conversation.
“She’s not alone. I’m here.” He narrowed his eyes and sat up. “And anyone who thinks about hurting a hair on her head, or Fleur’s, or anyone else living within the walls of this complex, has to deal with me.”
Paul’s gaze flicked down to the sidearm now holstered at Jarrett’s right hip. “It is good Lacey has you to look after her.”
Lacey returned with papers, and Paul signed them. As Lacey and Paul discussed exporting the coffee shipments to Miami, Jarrett watched Lacey’s animated face. Wistfully he remembered when she used to light up like that around him, when they had one of their late-night conversations in the kitchen, sharing a glass of milk and a plate of cookies when he couldn’t sleep, the haunting images of war flicking through his mind like a PowerPoint display.
Back then, every time he woke up, and no matter how quiet he’d been, she’d awaken, as well. She’d sit with him in the kitchen, encouraging him to sip warm milk and talking about everyday things he’d missed while on an op. Gradually, she’d get him to loosen up, come out of the semicoma state he’d retreated into for self-protection.
By the time Paul extended his hand for Jarrett to shake goodbye, he’d done his own sizing up.
“You believe in more than office work.” Jarrett took his hand and turned it over, exposing the palm. “Your hands are rough, calloused, like a laborer.”
When he glanced at the man’s face, Lawrence was sweating again. But then he smiled. “I have an affinity for gardening. It keeps my mind off troubling matters these days, and I find it relaxing.”
Jarrett flashed an equally chilling smile as the man jerked his hand away. “There are many troubling matters these days. I find it most troubling when someone puts up a front to hide what he truly is, like a snake hiding in the grass. But I’m very good at uncovering snakes.”
Lawrence turned to Lacey. “Excuse me, my dear, but I must leave. First, I need to check on the mango factory and see how Marie is faring.”
“Marie?” Jarrett tensed. “Why? Hasn’t she been traumatized enough?”
“Paul has been very generous and he’s letting Marie stay in a small house on a piece of property he owns near here. It’s a house he rents out to coffee factory employees for a very low fee,” Lacey said tightly.
“It is the least I can do. I wish to find houses for all the women since it’s apparent we cannot find funding to build them homes here on the land you own, Lacey.” Paul gave a very Gallic shrug.
When Paul left the house, Lacey turned to Jarrett, anger flashing on her face.
“You all but called him a snake! He’s my business partner. Give it a rest, Jarrett. Not every single man is a threat. So he has rough hands. He told you, he likes to garden.”
“That man hasn’t held a spade or a fork a day in his life. And if he has gardened, it’s not something as benign as growing tomatoes and cucumbers.”
He wasn’t sure what was wrong with Lawrence. But his well-honed instincts warned the man wasn’t aboveboard. He might be cheating Lacey out of profits. Or worse...