Chapter 5
FIVE
She didn’t want to return to her normal life, thank you. In fact, she’d dived headfirst into this life of luxury. She’d eaten a lobster roll with an avocado and citrus salad for lunch—on a china plate, no less—courtesy of the galley and Declan’s Michelin-rated chef.
In fact, the Invictus hosted a staff of seven, serving four people, which felt a little excessive. But then again, it probably took a small army to run a boat this size.
“Any more lemon water?” The question came from the petite, dark-haired female steward named Belle, who materialized from the shadows the moment Austen drained her glass and set it on the table beside the lounger.
“Yes, please.” For a homeless woman, Austen wasn’t suffering, although her missing boat loomed in the back of her mind.
She’d given the Fancy Free ’s identification number, call sign, and description to the captain, and Teresa had agreed to pass along the information to the vessel-tracking services and the local Coast Guard.
So far, nada.
Oh boy.
Elise lay on the lounge chair next to her, her body tanned, wearing a cute swimsuit dress. Austen wore the utilitarian swim shorts and top she’d worn under her wetsuit so at least she didn’t have to borrow undergarments.
But good thing she and Elise were the same size; otherwise, she might have had to spend the next few days in a bathrobe.
Also, she wasn’t exactly suffering, was she?
Maybe she was Cinderella.
And Declan was what? Her handsome prince? She glanced at him, sitting in the hot tub, talking with Hunter. He’d taken off his shirt, and the man definitely worked out—strong shoulders, muscled arms. He wore a pair of Ray-Bans, like a modern-day movie star, Hollywood written all over him.
Clearly the sun had gotten to her, started to sizzle all the feelings inside.
Declan’s grand tour of the boat hadn’t helped. The way that, after she’d taken his hand—mostly to get him way from Steinbeck—he hadn’t let go.
He’d shown her around the three decks—starting with the opulent salon and dining area on the main deck, then the aft-deck lounging areas, the inside foredeck with large wraparound sofa, and even the second-deck theater and gym.
Hence the washboard abs.
They sat in the spa lounge on the second level, overlooking the deck below, the blue skies cloudless, and frankly, she could sink into sleep right here under the glorious sun.
A perfect day, and she simply didn’t have to think about yesterday.
Or about Stein’s words to her as he left the boat. “If you need me, just shout . ” What, he’d follow the boat, appear at her first shout? Her brother could be a little overzealous.
Declan rose from the Jacuzzi, water dripping off him, and climbed out, grabbing a towel. He dried his hair, then wrapped the towel over his shoulders, settling onto the lounge chair beside her. “Not a bad way to travel.”
“I’ll manage,” she said, smiling.
He smiled back. Wow, he was handsome when he smiled. And when he didn’t smile. And when he scowled...
Just, always.
Good thing Steinbeck hadn’t stuck around. In fact—“What went down between you and Stein?” She’d walked up with the two men staring at each other like they might be trying to reduce one another to ash.
Usually Steinbeck won any fight, so the fact that Declan had held his own...
But the man had been a Marine.
“Just a disagreement,” Declan said. He leaned back on the lounge chair, and Jermaine came over, set a glass beside him.
“Would you see if Camille has any tapas? And I’d love some of her homemade hummus.”
Jermaine left and Austen glanced over at Declan. “Hummus?”
“So good. And she makes her own pita bread, so...” He put his arms up behind his head.
Only then did she spot the tattoo on the underside of his arm. Semper Fidelis, in script.
She pointed to the tat. “You get that while you were in the Marines?”
He glanced at it, then shook his head. “I got it when I was eighteen, right out of high school.”
“Before you joined up? That was prophetic.”
“No, I was always going to be a Marine.” He lowered his arms, sat up, and reached for his glass. “My dad was a Marine.”
“He must have been proud when you joined up.”
He glanced at her, and a memory niggled. Wait —he’d said he was raised by a single mom.
“He died in the Gulf War when I was three.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Declan.”
He shrugged. “He was serving his country. I wanted to be like him. It was rough on my mom, though.” He set down the glass. “Especially when I went to Afghanistan.”
“Oh, that must have been terrible for her.”
Hunter had gotten out of the Jacuzzi, dried off, and sat in the lounger beside Elise. “Yeah, Declan was still wet behind the ears when he deployed. I’ll never forget him showing up in A-Stan. Scared to death. Determined not to show it.”
Declan stared at him. “I wasn’t scared.”
“Sheesh, you checked your gear so much I thought you had OCD.”
His mouth opened, then closed. “I like to be ready.”
“Indeed. This is the guy who took language lessons. Learned Pashto.”
“Not well,” Declan said, his mouth pinching.
“Between that and volunteering for too many recon missions, I thought I had an overachiever on my hands.”
Declan looked at him then. Silence passed between them.
“I didn’t know you were in the military,” Austen said to Hunter.
“Yeah. I was with an MSOB group.”
“A Marine Special Operations Battalion,” Declan said quietly.
“We were part of Marine Corps Forces Special Operations Command. We focused on direct action, special reconnaissance, and foreign internal defense. And Declan was one of my grunts.”
“Infantry,” Declan said. “We did the hard work.” He smiled, finally.
Hunter scoffed, shook his head, but grinned. “Someone has to dig ditches.”
She looked at Declan. “That’s what you did?”
He slid his sunglasses down his nose. “Hardly. We worked out of a COP—a Combat Outpost—with the MSOB team in the Hindu Kush mountains, setting up observation posts and doing long-range reconnaissance missions. Did you see Lone Survivor ?”
“Yeah. SEAL team, right?”
“Yes. A long-range reconnaissance and surveillance team that got caught deep in Afghan country. We were that—small teams charged with gathering information to pass on to the big dogs, like Hunter here.”
“Usually those teams worked far behind enemy lines. Sometimes the goal was to set up ambushes or sniper nests. And they’d use friendlies to help hide us and gather information,” Hunter added.
Declan sighed, replaced his sunglasses, and looked at her. “Hence the Pashto. Helped to have passable knowledge.”
“They let you do that on your first deployment?”
“We were at a small FOB—a Forward Operating Base, and we were Marines,” he said. “ Semper Fi .”
Belle arrived with a glass of lemon water for Hunter.
“Thank you.” He took a sip. “I’m not sure why someone needs a Jacuzzi in the Caribbean, but I’m not complaining.
” He set his glass down. “These guys were our eyes and ears. And they were trained for recon, so we relied on them. And our contacts in the villages.”
Declan nodded but looked away.
And again, the weird silence, just the sound of the boat motor, the splash of the waves, parted by the bow, streaming out into the wake in a frothy trail.
“How dangerous was that?” she asked quietly. “I heard the Taliban would execute anyone who worked with Americans. Even translators.”
“It was dangerous,” Declan said quietly. “War is dangerous.” He stood up. “I’m going to check on the hummus.”
She watched as he walked away, not sure what had just happened.
After he’d gone down the stairs, she turned to Hunter. “What was that about?”
Hunter met her eyes. “Declan is a good man. But he has... things that haunt him. Mistakes. War always inflicts wounds, and some of them never heal.”
Oh.
Hunter glanced at his wife, back at Austen. “Something happened down range. It’s not classified, but it’s not my story to tell either.”
Right.
More silence, and maybe that was her cue.
“He’s a criminal, Austen.”
No, he wasn’t, but he had secrets. Maybe she didn’t have a right to pry.
“Sometimes, telling our story is what we need to do to set ourselves free.”
She got up. Hunter glanced at her, nodded.
Descending to the first-deck level, she headed toward the galley. The aroma of fresh bread drifted out of the space, and she knocked on the doorframe before entering.
Windows along the aft wall let in the afternoon light, shining on the three stainless refrigerator/freezer units.
Black granite countertops bordered the room, with a six-burner range under a stainless-steel hood along one wall and an expansive middle island where a woman in a chef’s jacket held a tray of croissants in her mitted hands.
She set it down and pulled off the mitts.
“You must be Chef Camille.”
Short brown hair under a chef’s hat, petite, a no-games aura about her. She looked up at Austen. “Yes, ma’am. May I help you?”
“I’m looking for Declan. He said he was checking on the hummus.”
Chef Camille frowned. “I just sent that up with Belle.”
“I didn’t see her?—”
“She took the galley stairs.” She pointed to a set of stairs on the opposite side of the room. “They go up inside the boat.”
So that the guests don’t see the waitstaff?
“Thank you,” Austen said and left the galley. She debated, then headed to the bow.
Bingo. She found him standing at the rail in front. He’d put on a T-shirt, and the wind plastered it to his body, raked his dark hair.
She stepped up beside him. “How’s the hummus?”
He glanced at her, drew in a breath. “I just...”
“I’m kidding. But I do care.”
He put his hand on hers, kept looking out to the horizon.
Silence, just the motors churning up the water.
“I got pretty good at Pashto.”
She glanced at him but couldn’t read his eyes behind the Ray-Bans.