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Jarrett nearly laughed. The venerable Senator Alexander Stewart had refused to speak to Jarrett after they’d announced their elopement years ago. Her old man still blamed Jarrett for the marriage and the eventual breakup, calling him an “adrenaline-seeking hot dog.”
“Your father doesn’t know I’m in St. Marc. But he’d agree with me that it’s not safe for you here, Lace.” Jarrett leaned on the table and locked gazes with her.
“I’m not part of your life anymore, Jarrett. You never cared what happened to me before.”
The accusation stung. “You were once part of my life, and I did care,” he said quietly. “I care what happens to you now, Lace.”
She looked troubled at the thought. “You really think the country is headed toward another civil war? Everyone is hopeful that the elections will change that.”
“If the current regime, and the military, allows a new president to take over.”
Lacey gnawed at her lower lip. Jarrett watched, both sorely tempted by her lush mouth and worried as hell. He hoped she realized what he didn’t say was more important than the information he offered. The White House had been closely watching the sitch here and was prepared to order US military intervention if a military junta seized control of St. Marc. It had happened in the past, so the possibility was quite real.
One reason he’d chosen St. Marc as his destination. He wanted to check on Ace and nudge Lacey into leaving before the country exploded and it became harder to hustle her pretty rear end off the island.
“What have you heard from your sources?”
Jarrett drew in a deep breath, not daring to say more. “Things are heating up a little too much.”
“This is the city. The countryside is different. Quiet, peaceful, where I live.”
He knew the stubborn line between her two silky eyebrows. Hell, he should have tied her up and carried her away.
Jarrett sipped his water, studying his ex. Her hair was longer now, and she had shadows beneath her eyes, and looked too thin, but she was still lovely. She no longer wore floral perfume, but he could smell the apple shampoo she used when he’d tackled her to the ground.
She smelled like home, and it amplified his sense of loss.
“You’ve changed. No more designer outfits?” He eyed her worn khaki backpack. “Or purses?”
“My priorities changed.” Her mouth lifted slightly. “But I still have my pink Michael Kors bag. It’s in storage. Doesn’t go well with T-shirts and worn denim jeans.”
“I remember that bag,” he mused. “You bought it shopping the day I returned from Iraq.”
His body tightened as he remembered. He’d returned from a grueling deployment, drained and numb, the images of what he’d done haunting him. Jarrett had showered twice, scrubbing his body until the hot water ran out, still feeling the sand between his toes, the grit in his teeth. And then he’d sat in the living room, staring at the walls.
Lacey had walked into the house, the pink Michael Kors bag hanging from one slender shoulder, her lithe body covered in the sweetest pink sundress, her feet stuffed into pink designer sandals. Even her toenails were painted pink. She looked so cute, sexy and so American that all the pressure in his chest finally eased, morphing into pure sexual interest.
She’d dropped the bag in the living room, run into his arms. And then she’d looked into his eyes, really looked at him, and saying nothing, led him straight into the bedroom. The sex had been hard and rough, a purging of every damn thing he’d seen and done. Then they’d showered together, and had sex again, and afterward, they’d grilled burgers and she sat on his lap as they finished a bottle of white wine, and before they’d fallen asleep, they’d made love three more times.
Six weeks later the little white stick she’d taken into the bathroom showed two pink lines. They had conceived their baby that day...
Jarrett squeezed his beer bottle so tight his knuckles whitened. Didn’t want to think of the time after that, how glowing and happy Lacey had been, and then growing paler and sicker, and worried at the bleeding the doctor assured her was normal, just spotting...
The past was the past.
Ives brought the wine and uncorked it with a flourish. As they ate, Lacey asked him about his work. He made noncommittal answers, as he always had, and turned the conversation to her life here in St. Marc. Maybe if he could discover why she was so determined to stay, he could coax her into leaving and finding something better back home.
“How the hell did you end up here in this part of the world?”
She sipped her wine and nodded. “Not bad. Remember how I told you I spent time here in high school when Dad was appointed the US ambassador to St. Marc? I developed an affinity for the people and learning the culture.”
Odd. He’d forgotten her time abroad. She’d seldom mentioned it during their marriage, maybe because she knew her father disliked Jarrett intensely. He blamed Jarrett for Lacey’s dropping out of college and getting married, no matter how much she insisted it was her idea.
Enthusiasm lit up her face as she described Marlee’s Mangoes, the NGO she’d formed to help poor women and children. She’d started the charity from her share of profits from a coffee plantation in St. Marc. Marlee’s Mangoes operated out of a twenty-five-acre farm a good two-hour drive from the city. She harvested fruit from mango trees, and her staff prepared a popular mango jam and salsa she hoped to start exporting.
Lacey waved her hands, illustrating the operation. He studied those hands with curiosity. Once she’d never failed to go without her weekly manicure. Now those nails were unpainted and filed down to the quick.
“The marmalade is well-known around the island. I have contracts with several high-end restaurants that cater to tourists who come here from the cruise ships or vacation at the beachside resorts.”
“How did you get started?”
“I came here four years ago when Paul offered me an opportunity with his coffee business. He owns the plantation and factory where they process the beans. And I fell in love with the people, and the culture, and realized there was a need I could fulfill for poor women who had no place else to go. So I bought a small farm to start Marlee’s Mangoes.”
Four years ago, shortly after their divorce. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Buying a farm is a huge step. Isn’t land expensive here?”
“Outrageous, but I bought the farm from the son who inherited the land after his dad died. I went to school with him here in St. Marc and got the land cheap, even before it went on the market.” She grinned and his heart gave a little jump. Once she had grinned like that at him, and he fell hard and fast.
“Paul needed the capital for his coffee business and he needed help. I enlisted my dad’s help to set up a new processing factory to wash the coffee beans and sun dry them. We sell those beans to companies in the States.”
Jarrett was deeply impressed.
“Not bad for a college dropout, huh? With my share of profits from the coffee business I funded Marlee’s Mangoes. But...” She leaned forward, her gaze sparking with life. “I’m very happy to announce that our NGO is now fully self-sufficient and no longer operating in the red. This is a huge deal for me because I’m teaching the women to be empowered, to learn skills that will grow their futures.”
Candlelight flickering on the table showed the pink flush on her cheeks. “It may sound idealistic, but I believe in these women and their potential. Some lost their husbands to violence, but many were victims of abuse. They’ll do anything for their children, and just want a chance for their kids to have a better life.”
Admiration filled him. Lacey always had a tender heart for the underprivileged. “It sounds like a terrific project. How did you come up with the name?”
Her expression fell. She toyed with the stem of her wineglass. “That’s private. I can’t talk about it.”
He let it slide. Jarrett noticed she drank very little wine. He lifted the bottle out of its silver bucket. “It’s very good. Would you like more?”
She shook her head. “One glass is my limit. I have to drive.”
Plan A out the window. She wasn’t going to get drunk and spend the night here. Time to put Plan B into action.
“Excuse me,” he murmured.
A pass of a few twenties to Ives, and he found himself in the hotel parking lot standing before Lacey’s older and somewhat battered SUV. It didn’t take long. Jarrett returned to the hotel, washed the grease off his hands in the men’s room and went to their table.
Their food arrived and as he picked up his fork, Lacey handed him the hot sauce without asking. Amused, he shook the sauce over his broiled fish. Marriage did that to you. You had habits that your spouse knew, and those habits were hard to break. But he was quietly pleased she’d remembered his preferences.
She ate quickly, keeping her gaze focused toward the hotel’s front. As the hour passed, her animated conversation grew quieter.
Lacey realized her donor was not going to show up. She dug out her cell and excused herself.
Jarrett polished off his meal and waited, nodding at Ives as he came to check on their wine. He’d slipped Ives money earlier to pass a bottle of the hotel’s finest rum to Augustin in apology for the thrown paint incident. If Ace’s intel proved right, and Ace’s intel always proved right, the bastard was drunk as hell right now on his favorite liquor. He didn’t want him anywhere near Lace.
Sure enough, Lacey returned, palming her cell phone, her expression dejected as she resumed her seat. “He’s not coming. Paul said Monsieur Augustin is inebriated and doesn’t want to go anywhere. Paul is staying with a friend tonight and said he’d call him tomorrow.”
And by tomorrow you’ll be gone. The man’s bad news, Lace. Will you trust me on this for once?
He signaled for the waiter. “Would you like dessert?”
She stood and he stood, as well. “I have to leave, Jarrett.” She stuck out her hand. “Thank you for dinner. It was nice to see you again. I hope you enjoy your stay in St. Marc.”
Instead of shaking her palm, he lifted her knuckles to his mouth. The kiss was a bare brush of his lips, but she turned pink. Desire and recognition flared between them, and her breathing hitched.
Then she pulled away, picked up her backpack and walked off, hurrying as if she wanted to get away from him fast.
He sat down, sipped more wine to quell his raging hormones, which urged him to run after her, sweep her into his arms and carry her upstairs to his room. Straight into his bed, where they could get reacquainted in a much more pleasant way.
He waited.
Ten minutes later she stormed back to the table. “My car’s dead.”
Jarrett tilted his head. “Oh?”
“The battery is gone. Damn it, Jarrett, why did you do this? I need to get back home.”
“Yes, you do.” He leaned forward. “Home to the United States of America. That’s your home.”
Lacey dumped her backpack. “You bribed someone.”
He shrugged. “Money talks in these countries. Think, Lacey. I paid cash for someone to point out your car so I could remove the battery. What if I wanted to blow up your car instead?”
“Will you stop being so paranoid.”
“It’s my job to be paranoid and protect citizens like you. You’re not going anywhere. You’re spending the night here.”
Then he added in a gentler tone, “You couldn’t drive all the way back to your home this late, anyway. It’s too far and too dark on these roads. Stay here, and things will work out.”
Her mouth trembled as she sat. “I can’t stay here. This is an expensive hotel. I’d planned to go to the L’Étoile d’Amour.”
Recognizing the name as a place one of his teammates had visited during a deployment here, Jarrett choked on his sip of wine. “The Star of Love? Lace, that’s a place where you pay by the hour and you bring your own sheets!”
“It’s inexpensive and only for one night. And I know the owner.”
Jealousy wormed through him. “How do you know the owner?”
“He’s donated to my NGO.”
Long as the man didn’t donate anything else, like his DNA. Jarrett inwardly swore. Why was he reacting like this? He’d thought his feelings for her had died. Obviously not.
Hands on hips, she glared at him. “I’ll hire a taxi and go there. You can’t keep me here.”
Think fast. Don’t let her get away. If he lost her for the night, he lost her for good.
Jarrett went to her, clasping her shoulders, feeling delicate bones beneath her soft skin, feeling her quiver beneath his touch. “You’re right. I can’t. Don’t go, Lacey. I’ll make you a deal. Stay the night here and I’ll give you a ride back to your compound tomorrow. You can make arrangements to return your truck.”
Anger faded from her expression, replaced with wariness. “Spend the night with you, in your room?”
Oh, the possibilities, but Jarrett forced away the temptation. “I’ll pay for your room tonight. Tomorrow we’ll leave. I want to see this place you’ve talked so much about.”
Lacey bit her lower lip, and it made him hard all over again. Such a sweet, lush mouth. “C’mon, Lace. I wouldn’t let you stay at a fleabag motel, and I do want to see your NGO’s compound while I’m here. It sounds amazing. I’d like to visit and see all the work you’ve done.”
Finally, she nodded. “All right. But I’m paying you back for the room and the dinner when we get to my home. And I’m not getting on a plane with you, Jarrett. No matter what you say.”
“Fine. Come with me and I’ll reserve you a room.”
As she walked with him into the hotel, he felt a sense of relief more than jubilation. Lacey was safe here tonight, with him. And tomorrow he’d see the compound she had worked hard to establish.
He just had to convince her to leave it all behind.
Chapter 3
Much as he’d wanted to head out at first light, for Jarrett didn’t want to take chances of running into protestors, they didn’t get on the road until nearly noon. Lacey had business in the city, and Jarrett drove her to various stores and did shopping of his own.
They were safe enough for now. She’d monitored the radio, heard reports of burning tires and roadblocks planned for later this afternoon.
Riding shotgun as he steered the rented Montero SUV through the city streets, Lacey fisted her hands atop her backpack. She’d spent a restless night thinking of Jarrett and their past. Once they had deeply loved each other. But life changed her. She wasn’t the naive, sheltered senator’s daughter who thought the sun rose and set on Jarrett. Her horizons had broadened and she wanted more. No longer did she want to sit and wait for him to come home. Sit and worry he would never come home, for he was a SEAL and his missions were dangerous.
Being a military wife hadn’t suited her. She’d spent her time indulging in silly pastimes like manicures and shopping to ease the constant worries about his welfare. And in between remained glued to the twenty-four-hour television news channels to glean the slightest information about volatile parts of the world where Jarrett might be.
No, she didn’t need Jarrett in her life anymore.
Unfortunately, her libido remembered well the pleasure he’d given her in bed and begged her to draw closer. She hadn’t had sex since her last relationship two years ago. Francis Monroe was a great guy, son of a wealthy independent contractor, and exciting.
All the men she’d dated since Jarrett had been dull and safe, except for Francis, who was on the board of directors of her charity. Francis was both wealthy and charming, and his family was connected. Their dads were friends and Lacey knew her father was grooming Alastair Monroe to become the next US ambassador to St. Marc. But as responsible as his dad was, Francis was not. He was more interested in playing the field than a stable relationship.
Lacey was determined to never again get involved with a man who would desert her, both emotionally and physically.
Unfortunately, Jarrett now seemed determined to stick by her side. How could she shake him? And why was he so worried about Augustin?
Maybe when he saw her compound, he’d change his mind and leave. Some people shied away from her charity and the terrible reality of what the women had suffered.
Lacey stole a sideways look. With his long legs encased in blue jeans, gray T-shirt molded to his muscled torso and chest, and his jaw set in a determined line, Jarrett made an imposing figure as he navigated through the tight streets where vendors lined the sidewalks and paraded their wares. Driving through downtown had always frayed her nerves, even after living here. She hated the tight spaces in this most dangerous part of the city one had to drive through to get to the main road leading south to her home.
There was always that element about Jarrett that hinted at calm confidence. Once his overprotective streak had annoyed her. Funny how it didn’t anger her now, but made her feel safe. Maybe because she’d finally found a life of her own, and the confidence she’d lacked when they were married.
She didn’t need designer handbags or dresses to prove her self-worth. Her purpose rested between the concrete walls of her compound with the women who relied on her.
Finally, they cleared the city and accessed the national road hugging the turquoise bay that flanked the capital.
A few abandoned homes that had been bombed years ago during a coup faced the bay, their broken windows looking like sad eyes. “Nice homes. Terrific view of the water. Needs a little work. Perfect for a do-it-yourself,” he murmured.
“Comes complete with running water, when it rains. Air-conditioning when there’s a breeze,” she joked back.
He glanced over and grinned, and the power of that smile made her toes curl. Lacey scolded her raging libido. Sex was on the back burner. She had other priorities.
“We’re in your car and no one can hear us. Can you tell me now why I don’t want Monsieur Augustin as a donor? He’s a very wealthy philanthropist.”
Jarrett checked out his rearview mirror. “He’s wealthy, but his idea of philanthropy isn’t charitable. And his real name isn’t Augustin.”
He shot her a hard look. “It’s Robert Destin. He’s an illegal arms trader who found refuge here. He isn’t interested in your NGO for a tax deduction.”
Lacey’s heart dropped to her stomach. That was news. Jarrett might be overprotective, but he had excellent information. “He’s known around the country as a philanthropist. He donates to several NGOs.”
Jarrett eyed her. “He’s rich because he sold weapons to terror groups, Lace. Intelligence chatter has it that he’s looking to finance a new op out of this country.”
His face tightened. “Perfect place to plan an attack. St. Marc is a Third World country already balancing on chaos, where money can buy a lot of new friends in low places. His cover is doling out money to international charities with global operations.”
It didn’t make sense. “Why would Augustin want to donate cash for my NGO’s irrigation system? I’m a small operation.”
“You have something he wants. I don’t know what. But he’s not interested because he’s a nice guy.”
“Or he needs a tax deduction.” She reached for her cell. “I have to warn Paul.”
“Don’t.” Jarrett stayed her hand. “Tell him not to meet with him, but don’t share what I told you. That’s for your ears only.”
The fact that Jarrett shared such information warned he was deadly serious. In their years of marriage, he never told her anything about his work, his missions or the scumbags he encountered.
Lacey called Paul, telling him she’d handle Monsieur Augustin. As she hung up, wished she could light a fire beneath the bottoms of the State Department workers who were processing the paperwork. I need more time...
The car radio blasted out the news. In St. Marc, Lacey always listened to the radio to get reports of possible protests or roadblocks. But today seemed peaceful, and even more so as they drove farther south.
They entered a small town where a man led a donkey through traffic, ignoring the red light on the main road. A parade of motorcycles streamed past their vehicle like water. Bright red umbrellas with a local phone company’s logo lined the sidewalks, shading the vendors who sold mangoes, breadfruit, candy, gum and other wares. The mountains rose to their left, dotted with trees.
They got stuck behind a tangerine-colored bus. A goat and a man perched on top of the bus, enjoying the view. Two men jumped onto the bus as it pulled into a small town. One held a clear plastic bag filled with bread. The other clutched plastic baggies of water.
Jarrett navigated through a local market, people milling in the street as they examined fruit for sale. Behind his shades, he seemed to study the mood of the street. Outside the city it was peaceful and normal. No torqued crowds. No danger.
Please let it stay that way. Last week someone had firebombed her best truck when she’d parked outside the compound to check out property she’d thought of purchasing. Lacey was doing all she could to expedite the paperwork, but it hadn’t come through yet. Damn red tape...
“See how peaceful it is here?” She needed to assure him she was fine, and he could leave her once he’d driven her home.
“It’s deceptive. The radio said there are strikes planned for Monday. The president is planning to raise fuel prices again and the people are going to march.” Jarrett peered over the top of his shades. “Marching people usually equates to violence, Lace.”
“In the city.”
“There’s been a few protests in the country, as well, along this road.”
She knew it and had taken great care to monitor reports to avoid roadblocks. “Not recently.”
“And that will change when the president raises fuel prices if he’s reelected. The poor are desperate and things are getting worse. I don’t like it. Everything in this country points to another coup and it’ll turn into a royal goat fluster. You really want to take a chance with your life?”
“You’re as bad as my father. He wants me to come home, as well.”
But she couldn’t leave, even if he paid her. Frustration bit her because she suspected Jarrett was right, but she was trapped here. Lacey fished her mobile out of her backpack and thumbed it on. “You don’t like it here? You need to book the next flight out for yourself? Use my credit card.”
He ignored the jab. “Tell me what’s been going on with the locals where you live. Any hot spots?” He lifted his right hand and pantomimed a gun and trigger. “Bang bang much?”
“There’s been hot spots in Danton, the city closest to us, but there’s always hot spots flaring up.”
Mango and palm trees flanked the road as they drove south, past hand-painted signs advertising auto part repairs, billboards in French for local hotels, past the small concrete “banks” where lottery tickets were sold. They passed a herd of motorcycles, their riders waiting for passengers. He glanced to the right and noticed the gas station with its bright yellow-and-green sign remained open.
Calm. So calm. But she knew the peace could shatter as quickly as a fired shot.
Jarrett glanced at her. “Why don’t you get some shut-eye while I drive? You’re nodding off.”
She didn’t want to admit he was right, but he was. Lacey closed her eyes and dozed off.
When she opened her eyes, he was turning onto the unpaved road leading to her compound lined with dusty mango trees. A few dump trucks loaded with rocks rumbled past.
Sitting up straight, struggling to snap to attention, she pointed to a turnoff. “Turn at the sign that says Mangoes For Sale. There’s a quarry not far from here. Reason why the road is so bad. But we got the land very cheap, and it’s right off the main highway to make it easier to find us.”
The vehicle bounced up and down as he drove. “Bounce factor,” he mused. “Makes you feel like a bobble-head doll.”