try those swinging chairs down by the pool.”
Impish grin, a promise of pleasure in those dark green eyes. Lacey’s mouth twitched as she struggled not to smile. Sex had always been great between them.
It was the other things that got in the way.
Her cell phone quietly chimed. Paul. She answered. “Where are you?”
“Lacey, I’m sorry,” her VP said in his singsong accent. “I went to the parking lot and Mr. Augustin was by his new SUV. Someone threw red paint all over his windshield as he pulled into the lot! He was infuriated and to calm him down, I took him home. We’re here, drinking a nice rum. His cook is making an excellent grilled salmon and once we are done with dinner, I’ll drive him back to the hotel and we all can have a drink there. Don’t worry, ma petite, we’ll be there in about an hour or so.”
Her spirits sank. Damn, she had counted on Augustin’s goodwill and money to pay for the houses she’d planned to build on her compound. He’d wanted to meet with her in person to arrange a tour of Marlee’s Mangoes. And “an hour or so” on St. Marc time usually meant no less than two hours. She was stuck here until then. “Do your best to rush through dinner.”
Jarrett quietly studied her as she thumbed off the phone and placed it into her backpack. “You don’t do anything by half measures, Adler. Red paint? That man was a prime donor poised to fund housing I need for the women I employ.” All her pent-up emotions tumbled out. “You don’t care about anything, do you? Just like before.”
Something flickered in his gaze. “You don’t want him as a donor. I do care. I care about hustling you out of here.”
She searched his face, the grim set of his jaw. Something was going on and he wasn’t about to tell her. Jarrett was a SEAL accustomed to secrecy. But her life was transparent now and she hated secrets.
“Joseph Augustin is a respected member of the upper class here in St. Marc. Why wouldn’t I want him as a donor?”
His gaze flicked around the courtyard. “Not here. We need to talk someplace where we won’t be overheard.”
Fine. “The hotel has a walkway around the gardens.”
As she reached down to grab her backpack, a staccato burst of gunfire exploded in the streets below the hotel. Jarrett leaped to his feet and pushed her down to the ground, covering her body with his own. His muscled weight pinned her down. She heard a handgun’s slide being racked, and looked up to see Jarrett, weapon in hand, crouching low. Screams and shouts erupted around her, and heavy footfalls pounded against the concrete courtyard.
Jarrett spoke into her ear, his deep voice rumbling. “I told you, this country isn’t safe. Now do you believe me?”
“Those shots were in the neighborhood below the hotel. It’s nothing, Jarrett.”
Twenty minutes after the gunfire, after the hotel manager had walked around and assured everyone there was “nothing” to worry about, Jarrett perched on the edge of his chair. His Sig Sauer tucked back into his holster, he stared at Lacey. His ex-wife’s words didn’t comfort him. “Nothing? With the president of the country dining within bullet range? Don’t think so.”
Lace shook her head, pushed back at the long fall of her hair. “I’m starved. I hope their griot is good here. It’s expensive enough.”
Hungry. She wanted fried pork and he wanted the hell out of here.
But he’d talked her into having dinner with him while she waited for her donor to arrive at the hotel for drinks later. And that particular donor wasn’t getting within ten yards of Lacey.
He’d make sure of it.
He should have left her pinned to the ground, then tied her up with the linen tablecloth and carried her to his hotel room, trapping her there until morning.
Jarrett grunted as he sipped the bottled water the cheerful Ives delivered to their table. Lace had been in St. Marc far too long. Too easily dismissive of gunshots. He partly admired her cool aplomb under pressure when everyone else had run off screaming, and partly wanted to shake sense into her.
All those tours he did in the Middle East, despite the strain on his marriage, he’d never worried about Lace. Lace was safe, back in the United States. No one could hurt her. The marriage had died, but his protective streak and his feelings had not. Now she was in this place, with riots popping up like sniper fire, and he’d be damned if he turned his back and left her.
He’d feed her and stall her leaving the hotel. What if she’d driven off, headed down that same street where the gunfire erupted? A stray bullet could have hit her...
The grim image of Lacey slumped over the steering wheel, blood streaming down her head, turned his stomach into ground glass. Forget the danger Ace had mentioned. There were hot spots all around that could kill her.
Jarrett gave the menu another glance and as Ives returned, ordered in fluent French one order of griot with rice and beans, an order of broiled grouper for himself and a bottle of Bordeaux. Beaming, Ives walked off.
Lacey seemed paler at the order of French wine than she did at the gunshots. “I really don’t need to drink and I’m really not that hungry after all...”
“My treat.”
She sat straighter. “I have money.”
“No worries. I’ll pay for dinner. Call it a peace offering.”
“Why are you here, Jarrett? You didn’t just come to this hotel and find me because you have nothing better to do with your vacation. What’s the deal?”
“I have leave and came here to visit Ace.” At her confused look, he added, “Kyle Taylor. He’s staying with his sister Aimee at the resort she runs on Paix Beach.”
“I didn’t know Kyle was here. I see Aimee from time to time.”
“He’s on medical leave. Busted his knee on his last deployment so he came here to visit Aimee and her kids.” Jarrett’s jaw tensed. “And keep an eye on her because of the increasing violence.” He looked around. “When is Augustin getting here?”
“Paul said he’d phone and let me know. What’s going on, Jarrett? Why all the secrecy? Does this have to do with my dad?”
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
