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
