Ruined by the SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 2) (13 page)

“Campaign how?”

“A letter, to start. A formal statement of Gwendolyn Parry’s philanthropy on the island and her fondness for the Historical Society.” It was a bit of a reach, but in the same territory as the truth, and the woman was dead. It didn’t matter.

“We can’t afford a lawyer.”

She nodded. “Of course not.” It was a crapshoot, bringing up Daphne and Arielle’s idea, but what
did she have to lose? “One option would be to recruit a local attorney to the board of directors. All of you have been so gracious with your time. I’m sure if we had a new director with legal knowledge, they might—”

“That is an incredibly self-serving thought,” one of the older committee members, Bettina Hugo, snapped out.

Cara flushed. “I was only thinking of—”

Bill held up his hand, cutting
her off. “We’ll take that under advisement.”
 

But Bettina’s criticism had opened the floodgates, and the meeting slid far and fast from professional politeness.

“We can't afford to wait forever,” said one member.

“This might bankrupt us!” said another.

She listened to them imagine horror stories, and finally raised her voice. What if it didn't cost anything? Let’s not jump to worst case scenarios.
Let’s just start with a simple letter.”

Bettina stood, her cane shaking against the table. Cara felt awful, but she wasn’t in the wrong here. “It costs us every day that you're there and not doing the other, very important work of the Society.”

“Like polishing the plaques on board member's homes?”

Stunned silence greeted her inappropriate and unfair outburst.

She wanted to cry.

“That's enough,
Ms. Levasseur,” Bill said quietly.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, staring intently at Bettina. “I didn’t meant that.”

Bill gestured for them both to sit down. “We appreciate that you are passionate about this project. We'll give you a week to wrap up the work out at Villa Sucre. Itemize the expenses, document everything as much as possible, and have a report back to us next Monday.”

She nodded.
“Understood.”

“But this is probably it. You can write that letter, sure. But you need to wrap it up out there, Cara. That can't be where your head is next week. We need to move forward on the assumption that Villa Sucre is going elsewhere in the Parry family.”

She nodded numbly.

“Let's move on to the next agenda item.”

She sat woodenly and listened to the rest of the meeting. When it wrapped
up, she excused herself, painfully aware that as soon as she headed for the door, everyone else sat down again.

Her days were numbered. She had to make them count.

FOURTEEN

M
ICK HADN’T REALIZED HE’D BEEN HOLDING HIS BREATH
until Cara drove back up the lane the next afternoon.

He stood on the verandah and watched hungrily as she climbed out of her car.

She was dressed up like a librarian or something. A historian, he supposed. Her wild curls had been tamed into a bun, and her long, gorgeous legs were mostly hidden by a demure skirt. The heels made what
he could see of her calves go on for endless miles, though, and he wanted to drop to his knees and hike that skirt up, inch by inch, until her thighs fell open and revealed all her secrets for him.

Sex wouldn’t change the fact that she ran away the day before. But it sure as fuck would feel good. And maybe what she needed was a reminder of just how intense their connection was.

She moved around
her car, to the trunk, and opened the back door, lifting out a large basket covered in a checkered cloth.

“Hey!” he called out, raising his hand.

She waved back. “Hi.”

He headed over there. “Can I take that?”

She shook her head. “It’s not heavy. But there’s a hibachi back there, too, would you get that?”

He stopped in front of her. He wanted to give her a kiss, but she gave him a look, like…that
wasn’t a good idea. Fuck. He settled for rubbing his knuckles lightly against her bare upper arm, from her elbow up the silky curve of her skin to the fluttery cap sleeve on her blouse. “Sure thing.”

He grabbed the portable grill and closed the hatch on her car before following her through the house to the back deck.

She set the basket on the table and gave him a weak smile. “Corn and pineapple,
and some lobster, too. I thought we could get our grill on.”

He grinned, happy as a stupid fool just to hear her voice and see her pretty face again. “I accept your apology.”

“That’s not what this is,” she said softly, but her eyes sparkled. Finally.

“Sure it’s not.”

“I’m being nice.”

“Okay.” He raised one eyebrow.
Spit it out, woman.

She licked her lips. “I don’t think either of us has
wronged the other here.”

“You don’t.”

“No.”

“Then why weren’t you in my bed last night?”

“I was swamped. I had to make a presentation to the board this morning and I was working late…”

If she hadn’t trailed off, he might have just believed her. But that wasn’t the whole story. And he was pretty sure it wasn’t just last night. “After we ‘get our grill on’… Will you head back into town?”

She gave him a pleading look. “I think so, yes.”

“Why?” He softened his voice as much as possible. “Cara, what happened yesterday?”

“I have a week,” she burst out. “A week to document everything I did here, how valuable this property is and why we should fight for it. And those last two things? They don’t even want me to do that, but I have to. So I don’t have time to be distracted by your arms
and your smile and your secretly sneaky kindness.”

“I distract you?”

“Yes. And okay, fine, this is an apology dinner.” She busied herself unloading fruit and vegetables from the basket. He didn’t miss that she’d bought him beer, too. And the same brand he’d been enjoying.

He set his jaw. “But you’re not saying sorry for yesterday.”

“No.”

“What are you making amends for, then?”

“I need you
to let me be for the next week.”

“Let you be.”

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

“Just…don’t distract me.”

“With my arms and smile and…my kindness.” His huff did a good job of conveying what he thought of her excuse. This was crazy. “I don’t get it.”

“I screwed up.” Her eyes flared wide in her face and her lips drew tight. He knew panic and fear well, and felt them and conquered them, talked other guys through
it on the battlefield.

He hadn’t expected to see it here, like this. “I doubt that very much,” he said softly.

“That’s what the board thinks.”

“What do you think?”

“That hardly matters.”

“It matters a great deal.”

She dropped her eyes, hiding her gaze.

“Hey, I’m not trying to make you fee bad. But mistakes happen. Human error is a fact of life. We learn from it and we get better. It doesn’t
need to be about blame.”

“You haven’t met the Miralinda Historical Society,” she muttered.

“I’m not sure I want to if they’re asshats.”

She laughed weakly.

“Whatever you need to do to fix this with them, I can help you.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Pretty sure that part of it is damn simple, kitten.”

She stopped unpacking and pressed her slim hands to her cheeks. “Stop that.”

“What am I doing?”

“Don’t call me kitten, don’t try to seduce me, just…let me deal with this, okay? And then once it’s done…” She whirled around, facing him, and he took a step back at the emotions rioting on her face. Her eyes were full of tears. “I’m going to lose my job, Mick. I can’t give anything less than a hundred percent this week. And if I give any part of myself to you…”

“Okay.” God, that hurt. He held
his hands out wide. No tricks up his sleeve. “You know me. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll lay on the beach, out of your hair, and when you’re in a better place…call me.”

The tears breached her eyelids then, flooding her cheeks, and he crossed the deck, pulling her into his arms.

“I’m sorry. Jesus, Cara, I’m so sorry.” He held himself back from kissing her hair. Just a friendly hug, that was all.
“You want a beer? Want to tell me about what happened today?”

She shook her head. “No. To talking, I mean. Yes—hell, yes—to the beer.”

He let go of her, his heart cracking as she slid out of his arms.

“I don’t think you’re lazy,” she said quietly as he twisted the caps off two bottles of beer. “I may have a habit of lashing out, verbally. I do owe you an apology for that, and probably more
than once.”

He handed her one. “You’re on the defense, and with good reason. I’m not going to sweat it. Plus you brought me dinner. Unless you want me to cook?”

She laughed. “I can handle it.”

He peered more closely at the lobster. “Is it already cooked?”

“Shhh. That’s the secret to my culinary skills—outsourcing.”

As she wrapped the corn and prepped the pineapple onto skewers, she told him
about the fish shop in town that parboiled the lobsters for her.

“So all I need to do is mix up the jerk rum butter, slather, et voila…impress you.”

He was impressed all right. “Tell me more,” he said, settling back in one of the chairs as she lit the grill. “In French.”

“As-tu faim?” She smiled at him as she put the corn on first, then lowered the lid. “That means,
are you hungry?
This will
take about half an hour, so I hope only a little.”

“Oui.”
Yes,
he said, dragging out one of the few french phrases he’d learned. The others—
Mettez vos mains
, put your hands up, and
mettez votre arme,
put your gun down—had no place here. “I am a little hungry.”

She turned back to her prep work, pulling out a small pot, into which she put butter, onion, and red pepper, and his mouth watered. Not
for the food, although his stomach insisted he was hungry for that, too. But the twist of her hips in that skirt—the buttoned up librarian look worked for her.

He wanted to undo every last button and explore the tight confines of that skirt with her perched in his lap.

And she needed him to cool it for a week.

It would take a Herculean effort, but he’d give her that.

“Tell me more about the
sauce,” he said abruptly, shoving his filthy thoughts to the back of his mind. Couldn’t turn them off, but he could force them into a curtained off closet.

She lifted the lid on the grill and set the pot down. “First I’ll melt the butter, and start the onions and peppers cooking. Just to soften, you know?”

“That sounds great.”

She leaned over the basket.
Don’t notice how her skirt pulls tight
over her ass
. “Then we add…” She pulled out a bottle. “Rum, of course.”

“Of course.”

She laughed. “It is the Caribbean, after all.”

“Rum and turquoise waters?”

“And laughter. You can’t forget that.”

He grinned. Would never forget that. “How about dancing?”

She did little sashaying step. “Of course. Do you like to go to clubs?”

“Not if it’s techno crap. But I’d go dancing with you.”

She
made a satisfied little sound as her knees bent and her hips rolled. He was ten seconds away from clearing the table and tossing her down on it. So much for curtained off mind closets. She spun in a circle, then pointed to him. “See? You’re doing it again.”

“Me? You’re the one whose dancing like you learned to do it before you could walk. Those moves are illegal where I come from.”

She laughed
out loud, her teeth flashing white in her happy face. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

“Once everything falls into place—and I have a lot of faith in your abilities, Cara, so I’m sure they will—you could take me dancing.”

She tipped her head to the side. “I will.”

“Then it’s a date. So…what do you do with the rum?” He pointed to the pot on the grill. “Add it to that?”

“Mmm-hmm.” She nodded and carefully
poured in two measures. “And then jerk spice mix.”

“Hot.”

“You know it. And finally a good squeeze of lime. And we’ll have more lime wedges on the side, too.” She turned her attention to the lobsters. “Okay, these are next. And then dinner is just ten minutes away. Will you get plates?”

He did more than that. He grabbed all the dishes and cutlery they needed, spread out the cloth she’d brought
as a tablecloth, and found a utility candle on a shelf. He stuck that in a mason jar and lit it.

“Nice touch,” she murmured as she brushed past him with two groaning plates of food.

“It’s getting dark,” he said gruffly.

“Of course.”

He should be annoyed at the hot and cold, but how could he be? They’d known each other less than a week and her job was on the line. And staying cold to each other
wasn’t an option, either. He couldn’t help himself—so he could hardly blame her for indulging in a little flirtation.

Besides. A week—that was nothing. He’d spent longer on a mountainside staring down the scope of a rifle.

They ate in agreeable silence, only broken by his occasional groan of delight at how fucking good the food was. “I want to eat this every night.”

“Welcome to Miralinda,”
she said with a wink. “We like our lobster.”

It wasn’t the same as he’d had in Maryland and Maine, but it was just as delicious in a different way. “What other island treats are in store for me?”

“Have you had conch?”

“Nope.”

“Then we’ll add that to the dancing date. And we have a lot of fruit, which you’ve already tried, and excellent eggs…”

“You should have excellent eggs, there are enough
chickens running around the island.”

She let out a hoot. “True. And pigs, too. Not here, but on the other side the mountain. Fantastic barbecued pork.”

“You’ll take me over there?”

She held his gaze. “I will. Promise.”

They finished eating, then cleaned up together. With each passing minute his pulse picked up another beat,
 
frustration swiftly building at the fact that their dinner was over
and it was time for her to leave.

Time for him to go against all his instincts and leave her alone for a few days.