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
