Savage Beauty (The Arrow Tactical Series Book 5)

Prologue

What am I missing?

The hard edge of my nail clicks lightly, tapping out a beat on the plastic key, the keyboard as my instrument.

Tap tap da tap tap tap da tap tap tap

Am I clear in my discourse and presentation of data?

The sharks will rip it apart. As they should. That’s the point of a peer review.

But is this ready to be shredded?

There’s no one to ask. Of course, there’s no one to ask. It’s Sunday afternoon on island time.

I’m the only one who works on Sunday in this sun-soaked town.

Even the cleaning service only works Monday through Saturday. On Sunday, the offices are divine solitude. But today, isolation is an unfortunate reality. It would be beneficial to have someone to read through my premise, the evidence I’ve collected, and my conclusions. Someone to challenge me before I publicly share what I’ve found.

If I’m correct—and I am correct—there’s no way they’ll stop funding my research.

A shadow darkens the sun’s rays over the white tile squares on the lab floor. Why didn’t I hear footsteps?

Light rays stream around the tall, muscular man wearing a black button-down dress shirt with sleeves folded up his sinewy forearm. The top two—no, three buttons of his shirt are undone. A heavy gold necklace glints above a nest of curly chest hair. Two gold rings glimmer, obscuring the black ink on his fingers. The thick black hair atop his head matches his full, trimmed beard. This man is not a scientist.

With his back to the sun, the shadows conceal the contours of his face, but I can see enough to know he’s handsome in a rugged, bad boy way. He could be a model on one of the mafia romance books my sister Sage likes to read. Or the ones I read when my brain is too tired to absorb material with sustenance.

“Why are you here?”

Those worn black boots and jeans don’t match the tourists’ outfits. Hawaiian shirts, shorts, and flip-flops, or possibly a t-shirt with an idiotic saying on the front are what tourists wear. And I’ve never met a bad boy scientist. I’ve read about them. Characters in a Penny Reid book, maybe? But those men aren’t hairy.

“Saw a gorgeous woman through the window. Sitting all alone on a beautiful day.”

I haven’t showered since Friday, and I’m in a hooded sweatshirt, running shorts and sneakers. I didn’t apply the eyeliner like Sage showed me, didn’t curl my eyelashes, and the roots of my hair are slightly greasy. Maybe he’s horny. Or drunk. Studies have shown drunk men find women more attractive than sober men.

He pulls out a cigarette.

“You can’t light that here.” There are rules, and even growly, book-cover-worthy men need to obey them.

“Who says?”

Click. A yellow flame shoots up near his thumb.

“This is a non-smoking building.” I’m up, off my stool, report forgotten. “Sir, you cannot smoke in here. Exposure to secondhand smoke causes an estimated forty-one thousand deaths annually in the United States. Data isn’t publicly available for the Cayman Islands or the Caribbean region, but it’s reasonable to assume the results translate to all regions.”

He holds the cigarette between two fingers, lifting it higher, as if out of my reach. But I’m five-foot-nine.

“Sir.” My fingers are inches from the tip. “This is a non-smoking building.”

“Why don’t you come outside with me?” He grins.

I snatch his unlit cigarette out of his fingers, break it in two, and drop it into a black plastic trash can. I brush my hands to clean them of the offending item, but I need a sink. Who knows where that thing has been?

“Don’t like smoking, huh?”

I twist the knob on the stainless-steel sink. Sinks are in all the labs here. The soap at this sink needs to be refilled, but there’s enough for two pumps of milky white antibacterial soap to fill one palm.

“What’s your name?” His deep voice bears a distinct accent, but it’s not Caymanian. European?

“Where are you from?” His smile widens, exposing crooked teeth and a missing incisor. When he doesn’t smile, he resembles a book cover model. When he smiles, the urge to back up stirs. His shadow darkens the tile all the way to the toes of my running shoes.

“Belarus.” Caymanian, Jamaican, Filipino and British are the four most common nationalities in the Grand Cayman Islands. Belarus is an outlier. “What’s a beautiful woman like you doing inside on a gorgeous day like this? You belong in a bikini.”

A vacuous comment from an aesthetically pleasing male. Predictable. “Do you have business with Origins?”

“More or less.”

My gaze traverses his halfway unbuttoned shirt, worn jeans, the thick black leather belt, and the holster with the grip of a pistol. A firearm can be legally owned on Grand Cayman only with the express consent of the Commissioner of Police, and on Cayman Brac and Little Cayman with the express consent of the District Commissioner, after a thorough application and vetting process.

He does not look like one of the investors from last week. Those men wore business suits. They didn’t wear ties, but on the islands, ties are often set aside. Their suit jackets were pressed. And they wore polished leather business shoes. This man’s shoes are not polished.

“Are you a police officer?”

“Do I look like a police officer?” He grins, but it’s a closed-lipped grin. It’s a better look.

“What will it take for me to get you out of the office? To enjoy the sunshine. I’ll take you for a ride on my sailboat.”

“I don’t go on boats.”

“Are you afraid of boats?”

“No.” I need space, so I take a step back. “An estimated one hundred million people go on boats for recreational purposes in the United States. It’s estimated there are over four thousand boating accidents each year, but only approximately five hundred deaths worldwide. The chance of death is statistically insignificant. I suffer from motion sickness.”

“Have you been to the marina?”

“No. I moved here for work.”

He grins, but I look away quickly to avoid those teeth.

“The weekend has almost passed you by. Let me whisk you away for a glass of wine overlooking the marina. We can watch the ships pass from the safety of the dock.”

“I’m supposed to call my sister soon. Sunday is the day we do our video call. I need to be back at my apartment.”

“I promise you, I’ll have you back.”

“Why?”

He chuckles, and his hands rest on his waist. There’s a noticeable bulge in his crotch. Intriguing.

“Like I said, I was passing by and saw a beautiful woman, and I thought to myself, ‘she needs fresh air.’”

The outline running along the side of his zipper means he might have an erection. Horny or drunk? I don’t smell alcohol.

It’s been months since I had sex. William returned to Switzerland after getting a better-paying job with one of our investors. Sex with William was fulfilling. Since William, I’ve been relegated to my vibrators. My gaze flicks over to a supply closet where William and I used to regularly have sexual intercourse.

I don’t have relationships, but I enjoy sex. It’s been a long time since I’ve had an orgasm with something other than my fingers or a vibrator. I have spare condoms in my backpack.

My screensaver plays across my screen in twisty, vibrant hues. After my call with Sage, I’ll re-read the report. Dr. Kallio won’t read it until the morning.

“Okay.”

“Yes, you’ll go with me?”

“Yes.” I nod, save my report on the server, disconnect my laptop, and place it in my backpack. “To the marina.”

“Is that everything you need?”

“Yes, it should be.”

He lifts the shoulder of my backpack, and I snatch it back.

“Easy, there, tiger. I was going to be a gentleman. Carry it for you.”

“There’s no need for that.” His gentleman reference clashes with his bad boy vibe.

Outside the offices, there is one lone car in the parking lot, and the front windows are rolled down. My bike is in the shade, locked in the bike rack. Sometimes I walk, but today I rode. Walking works a different set of muscles than riding a bicycle does.

He opens the passenger door for me. Inside, on the console, are two water bottles.

“Thirsty?”

I am thirsty, but I don’t like the idea of getting in a car with a stranger.

He gestures for me to get in.

“I have my bike.”

He ducks into the car, grabs a bottle, and hands it to me. It’s already been opened, but the water is full. Reusing water bottles is a wise choice for the environment. The water is slightly cooler than room temperature. Maybe the bottles were recently in the refrigerator.

He leans against the car, arms crossed below his chest while I take a swallow from the water bottle.

“You’re going to the marina across the way?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

Sage always tells me I’ll never meet anyone if I spend all my time in the lab. But I met William. He moved, but still, we had sexual relations for over a year. And now, I’ve met another man while working in the lab. Two instances of meeting someone in my lab. Sage will be floored today on our video call.

“Can I take your picture?”

“Mine? Why?”

“My sister would get a kick out of seeing you.”

“And why is that?”

“You look like one of the men on her book covers.”

“You talk to your sister a lot?”

I unzip my backpack, searching for my phone. “Yes.”

“Where does she live?”

“In the States.”

Locating my phone, I pull it out.

“Don’t take a picture of me out here in a parking lot. Wait until we’re at the marina. Better background.”

Consideration should be given to the background when taking a photograph. The most memorable photographs feature an off-centered object with a background of interest.

“Get in the car.”

I shake my head and go to my bike. The marina is close. I’m not going to leave my bike here. Then I’d have to come back to get it, and I might be late for my call with Sage.

He slips behind the wheel and starts the ignition as I turn onto the street. He catches up to me with his window down.

“What’s your name?”

“You’re just now thinking of asking my name?” He chuckles, like it’s funny.

“You don’t know my name either.”

I lift the bottle from the holder on my bike and chug a swallow of the tepid water. The sun is bright, and after putting the bottle back into the holder, I shield my eyes from the sun.

Why did I agree to go to the marina? It’s not like we’re going to bonk in public. And I won’t invite a stranger to my place. William and I had been together for at least two months before I brought him back to my place.

Of course, if he tries anything, I’m not defenseless. No, if he behaves badly, I will make him regret it. Thanks to my brother’s training, I do not fear men.

“Oh, but I do know your name.”

The tips of my sneakers graze the sidewalk as I slow to a stop. He’s driving slowly to keep pace with me, and a hotel van honks before speeding past him.

“You’re Sloane Watson.”

Maybe he was with the investors on Friday. Facial recognition is a weakness of mine. My mouth feels parched. I chug more water and use the back of my hand to dry my lips. The tap water he used to refill this plastic bottle is unexpectedly crisp, with a slight citrus zest. I drink more.

I hop off the bike and walk it in the direction of the marina. A sailing mast protrudes above the low, curly trees.

He’s beside me, watching me, matching my slow speed.

“How do you know my name?”

“I’m Anton. What do you like to do in your spare time?”

Spare time. I assess the deeply tanned man driving beside me. He’s not dressed for beach activities, but he possesses spare time. You don’t get a tan like that unless you have spare time or you work outside. “What do you do?”

We’re getting closer to the marina. There’s a small parking lot without a bike rack, but I can always find a place to park my bike. He said we’d get a drink here, but I don’t remember there being a bar. I’m not sure I want to drink alcohol. I haven’t eaten today. A veil of exhaustion falls over me.

“I’m getting tired.”

“No wonder. You work all the time.”

He’s right. I do. I slept little this weekend. The sun warms my skin, and the breeze cools it.

“Are you sure you don’t want to get in the car?”

My feet are heavy, as if my sneakers are weighted. We’re so close to the parking lot. There are people milling around.

He stops the car, gets out, and guides me to the passenger side of the vehicle. I lean against him.

“You’re being nice.” It’s true. He is. But I suspect he may not be trustworthy. Why is he being nice? He’s not drunk, and I haven’t showered.

“So are you.”

“I’m not sure I want that drink. I’m sorry. I think I need to go home.” Why am I so tired? The seat in his car is warm, heated from the sun.

“Close your eyes. Rest. We’ll be there in a little while.”

“We’re right here.” I point into the parking lot. There is an abundance of empty parking spots.

“But you said you want to go home. Right?”

Right. That’s right. I do. I want to wash my face. Brush my teeth. Crawl between the cool sheets on my bed and sleep.