style="font-size:15px;"> By then Jackson had discovered just how much financial trouble Lancaster was in, so he’d told the man to go ahead and hire a lawyer—he’d known James couldn’t afford one.
And he hadn’t felt a single twinge of guilt. Not when people’s lives and safety were involved.
That potential mishap with the explosives was how shit like oil rigs exploding and millions of gallons of crude spilling into pristine waters happened.
Several weeks later their front door had been smashed in and their offices ransacked. All the expensive dive equipment and computers had been left untouched, nothing of value missing.
It had taken Asher, Knox, Kennedy and himself several days to deal with the mess. There was no way to prove the burglars had paid an inordinate amount of attention to his research on the Chimera, or that the person behind the theft was James Lancaster, but his gut had told him that’s what had happened.
He’d had plenty of experience trusting his gut. On dangerous missions those hunches often had been the difference between life and death.
And now his gut was telling him Lancaster Diving’s presence in Turks and Caicos wasn’t a coincidence. Loralei Lancaster disappeared below deck, Brian right behind her, his hand hovering at the small of her back without actually touching. The diving community was small and he’d made it his business to know everything he could about Lancaster Diving...including the woman who’d inherited the mess James had left behind.
Jackson almost felt sorry for her. But not enough to stop his campaign to put them out of business. Which was secondary to keeping them away from the Chimera. He’d been researching the shipwreck for the past ten years. There was no way he’d let the Lancaster team find her first. Especially using his own damn work.
There was no denying Loralei was beautiful. Exotic. Her skin was a deep, sun-kissed brown. The shorts she wore hugged the curves of her hips, leaving plenty of long, delicious leg on display. Her lightweight shirt fluttered loosely against her body, making her look tropical and carefree.
Based on the information he’d been able to gather, he’d expected her to be bold and unabashed as she’d walked across the dock toward Emily’s Fortune. But she’d kept her gaze focused straight ahead, every movement of her body stiff.
Why?
He didn’t know, and he didn’t want to care. But the soldier in him couldn’t help but catalogue and consider.
Part of him wanted to stomp down the dock, storm onto her ship and confront her.
But that wouldn’t lead him anywhere. No doubt she’d simply lie just as her father, Brian, and everyone else attached to Lancaster Diving had.
So, he had a better plan.
Crossing his arms over his chest, Jackson leaned against a low railing and settled in to wait. This was something he was comfortable with, trained to withstand the kind of boredom that could drive most men crazy.
He watched the ships coming and going from the marina so that anyone who noticed him would just assume he was a tourist taking in the native color. But he never lost sight of Lancaster’s ship.
Luckily, his wait wasn’t very long. An hour later Loralei emerged, Brian still glued to her side.
She kept her head high and her focus squarely in front of her. Brian’s mouth moved, but Jackson couldn’t hear what the man said. Not that it particularly mattered. Loralei was either bored or unimpressed because she didn’t bother responding. Her mouth was pulled into a tight line and her body strung with tension.
Her long black hair swirled in the soft breeze blowing off the water. For some reason he’d expected her eyes to be deep brown, but as she drew nearer Jackson realized they were actually a pale green. Like her father’s.
It was about the only resemblance he found between the bear of a man with red-tinged skin permanently burned from too many years in the sun and harsh sea air, and the woman striding ever closer.
Jackson didn’t bother moving as they drew even. Both of them were absorbed. Brian didn’t notice him at all.
Loralei’s gaze, though, brushed over him. And lingered. Not on his face, but on his body. He knew what she saw. He’d spent years honing his form into the weapon he needed it to be. He depended on strength and mobility to get the job done.
He was used to women noticing him. And he had to admit, the danger and secrecy of being a SEAL helped build a reputation many women found appealing. Over the years Jackson had been happy to take advantage of that job perk.
It had been months since he’d had the time to indulge, though. All his focus and energy had been going into opening Trident, building a reputation and client list, and gathering the research and capital to fund this search for the Chimera.
It irritated him that Loralei Lancaster stirred to life the first hint of awareness he’d felt in eighteen months.
Apparently, his dick didn’t feel like being picky. Good thing his brain had better sense.
Her perusal only lasted a few moments, enough time for her to walk past him and then it was gone. But the sensation she’d awakened lingered, an unwanted buzz beneath his skin.
Clamping his fingers around the railing, Jackson forced himself not to turn and watch her walk away. There was no point. He knew exactly where to find her.
* * *
LORALEI NEEDED A DRINK. Or several. Yep, definitely several of those pretty orange and pink things every restaurant and bar seemed to offer. Fruity concoctions with enough alcohol to help her forget that tomorrow she would be on a ship surrounded by nothing but ocean.
God, she wished Melody was here. Her best friend had offered to come, but she couldn’t get the time off. Melody was about the only person who knew of Loralei’s phobia. She supposed it wasn’t that important to keep it a secret, but she didn’t like weakness—especially in herself. And it was difficult to look at her fear as anything but that. Over the years she’d tried to logic herself out of the irrational reaction, but nothing seemed to work.
Melody had discovered the truth by accident several years into their friendship. Even then, Loralei had been reluctant to admit the extent of her phobia until her friend had backed her into a corner, unwilling to accept her lies.
She didn’t bother changing clothes before heading down to the bar attached to the hotel. She wasn’t in the market to get picked up so she didn’t care if her makeup was smudged and her clothes wrinkled after a long day of traveling.
She honestly didn’t care about anything aside from settling her nerves.
Walking across the plush carpet, she let the dim light and soft sounds wash over her. If not for the calypso music and beach-chic decor, she might have been able to convince herself she was home in Chicago, which is where she’d much rather be, instead of on a Caribbean island.
Sliding into a booth in the far corner, she placed her order and then drilled her fingers into the table while she waited for it to be delivered. She should probably order food, too, but she didn’t. Maybe in a bit, when her stomach stopped churning.
Her waitress dropped a heavy margarita glass onto a
