My memory is a tad faulty—are we conducting some joint operation that requires a liaison?”
“Sir, I don’t know. I am just following my orders.” Janey looked miserable but didn’t back down.
The colonel sighed. “Yes, I expect you are.” He turned to Claire. “Miss Cook, I assume you know the lieutenant?”
“Yes, we were roommates at UVA—University of Virginia. Go Cavaliers,” she finished weakly.
“I was a West Point man myself. Congressman Cook?” He turned to her father.
“Colonel,” her father said brightly.
“I don’t suppose you would know why First Lieutenant Merrick was plucked from her important desk job in our nation’s military command center and sent down to pal around with us lowly Special Forces types, would you?”
“A chaperone.” Claire jumped to hear the sergeant’s clipped Cajun tones. “Congressman Cook got himself a chaperone for his li’l girl.”
Her father’s mouth twitched guiltily. Claire wanted to die a thousand deaths. “Oh, Janey, I am so sorry he dragged you into this. Dad, how could you? Janey doesn’t deserve this.”
“Yo’ papa don’t trust you’re alone in the woods with a big, bad Green Beret?” For the first time, Sergeant Boudreaux met her shamed gaze with a mocking one of his own. “You must be quite the tiger.”
“Shut your mouth, you!” Her father shot to his feet, his face mottled.
“No offense, sir, but you’re not my commanding officer, and last I checked, Fort Bragg is still in the U.S. of A., where freedom of speech still applies.”
“Zip it, Boudreaux,” his captain said without heat.
“Zipping it, sir.” He closed his mouth, his point made.
“No, you zip it, Dad!” Claire turned on her father. “That man is totally justified in his outrage.”
“Outrage,” Boudreaux mused. “Now that is a fine word for this situation.”
“You zip it, too! I’m trying to defend you here,” Claire cried in frustration.
He arched a black eyebrow at her. “Bébé, do I look like a man who needs defending?”
She huffed out a breath and turned back to her father. “You have constantly thrown up roadblocks to my plans, you have tampered with the workings of the U.S. Army, and meddled with the careers of Janey and at least three of her fellow soldiers. You’ve abused your authority and are a disgrace to your office.”
“I don’t know about that, cher,” Boudreaux interjected with a smirk. “Your daddy hasn’t been indicted, served prison time or accidentally killed someone—he’s an amateur in comparison to his fellow politicians.”
Captain Olson unsuccessfully muffled a snort. Colonel Spencer intently studied the ceiling, his jaw twitching.
Claire clenched her trembling fists. “Dad, I have had enough. I am going to San Lucas, Janey is going to Washington and these nice men can go wherever they had planned to go before you came along. Hopefully to a barber,” she added, ticked off at the sergeant’s enjoyment of her embarrassment. And who was he to call her cher, anyway, in that mocking French-tinged accent?
She hurried from the conference room, ignoring her father’s shouts, wanting to escape. She dashed into the humid Carolina afternoon, crossing the parking lot into a small landscaped grove with a picnic bench. The scent of pines didn’t quite cover the smell of diesel and something else pungent—explosives? She wasn’t sure. Claire climbed onto the picnic table, her feet resting on the bench.
A new scent came along, clean and masculine. She turned and stifled a yelp. Good thing Sergeant Boudreau was wearing cologne because she certainly hadn’t heard him approach. Of course, that would be a plus in his line of work. He stood next to her and stared across the parking lot, shoving his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, tightening the thin fabric across his zipper. Not that she noticed things like that.
“Don’t worry—you’re off the hook.” Claire didn’t want to meet his mocking glance again. “I’ll be fine—the Río San Lucas settlement is like a small town, running water and everything so I can wash my hair.” She gave a little laugh, trying to get him to leave her alone.
“Why you wanna go down to that jungle snake hole anyway, Mademoiselle Cook?” This time he wasn’t mocking, just curious. “You got somethin’ to prove to your papa?”
She tried to hide her flinch. “Maybe I have something to prove to myself.”
“There are easier ways to do that. Go mountain climbing or white-water rafting if you want to see how tough you are. Walk across the country to raise money for cancer, but moving to the jungle doesn’t make you tough—just foolish.”
Claire saw red. “Shut up! You denigrate my mother, my grandmother and my grandfather.” She slammed her fist into her palm as she named each of her family members. “They moved to San Lucas to serve people who had no one and had nothing. You talk to all the women who lived after my grandfather saved them during difficult childbirth—you talk to all their babies who lived because they had their mothers to breastfeed them. You ask them how foolish it is that they are alive and not buried in an unmarked jungle grave site!”
He stood in silence for a minute. “I apologize,” he finally said.
Claire almost fell off the picnic table. “What?”
He ran a strong hand through his wavy hair. “I have been extremely rude and my grand-mère and maman would pass me a slap. My only defense is that I’ve been overseas away from civilization too long.”
“How long?” she asked without thinking.
“Now that’s classified information, ma’am.”
His scornful attitude was back. “I’d say at least seven or eight months according to your facial hair,” she retorted. “If you don’t want people speculating, the least you could do is get a haircut and shave.” He did look good as a pirate—maybe he was descended from Jean Lafitte, the famous Louisianan pirate.
“Maybe you should sign up as an intelligence agent instead. It was actually eight months and ten days.” He rubbed his chin.
“Claire! Claire!” Her father’s voice echoed out the main door of the office building.
She pressed her lips together. She was definitely getting her own place, San Lucas or no. Dad had gone too far.
“There you are, Claire.” He hurried up to her, ignoring Boudreaux. “Now can you see how foolish this idea of yours is?” he asked, unknowingly echoing Boudreaux’s earlier taunt.
Next to her, the Green Beret sucked in a breath, obviously waiting for her to lose her temper with her father like she had with him.
But her will had been tempered into steel. “Who’s going to look like the bigger fool at the press conference I’ll arrange—me, for wanting to go to San Lucas, or you, for throwing so many inappropriate
