Doyle (The Minnesota Kingstons #3)

Chapter 1

ONE

Three months on a Caribbean island helped a man find clarity. Sunshine, sand, and most of all, the children of Hope House orphanage had loosened the grip that grief had on Doyle Kingston.

He might actually be ready for a fresh start.

At the very least, he felt in the best shape of his life.

“Over here, Jamal—I’m open!” He gestured at the eight-year-old as he ran down the rutted, weedy, semi-dirt soccer field, the sun fighting through low-hanging clouds that were turning the field to shadow. Salt and brine hung in the air, waves crashing against the high cliffs where the former-monastery-turned-Hope-House-orphanage sat, and it might be the perfect day to tell the boys the good news.

But not yet.

Jamal dodged a player from the other team—a nine-year-old named Lionel—and then glanced over at Doyle. Jamal wore the yellow-and-white jersey of the Mariposa Wings, the number nine from his favorite player—Ronaldo Vieira, another striker.

Ronaldo and the entire team had donated the jerseys to Hope. A move Doyle could only blame on Tia Pepper, his new... what, codirector?

Annoying wannabe boss?

Doyle kept pace, running at center field. A glance in his periphery said that Aliyah had found a spot in midfield, her brown-eyed gaze on him, ready to intercept. And at goal, sixteen-year-old Kemar wore the gloves Doyle had received in a recent donor package.

Again, Tia’s doing. It had been more than a little awkward when she shown up a month after he’d arrived on the island, her only explanation being that she’d been hired by the founder of Hope House, Declan Stone, to “get the orphanage on financial track and head up fundraising.”

He’d been hired—by Declan—to reorganize and help the kids find a solid future. Whatever that meant. He was still trying to do that for himself.

Jamal kicked the ball, and Doyle ran to intercept, caught it, and sidestepped Taj, one of the RAs in the boys’ dorm, a big guy, wide hands, wider smile. Taj laughed. “Yow, Big D, you drink jet fuel this mornin’?”

Something like that.

Doyle raced down the field and spotted twelve-year-old Fiona waving her arms, open. With her hair bound in tufts on her head, and a generous smile, she’d been easy to spot. He kicked the ball to her.

Aw, it shot past her, out of bounds.

He stopped running, grabbed his knees for a breath.

Andre, another RA, ran to retrieve the ball, blowing his whistle. Lionel set up to throw it in, and his team lined up.

Under the early-afternoon heat, sweat poured down Doyle’s face, saturating the back of his shirt, and he was tempted to pull it off. Except he’d already managed a wicked sunburn his first week here. He didn’t need a reminder of the way he stood out against the population of the island.

Outsider, from his skin to his mannerisms to his expectations for the kids. Like being on time for, well, anything .

So, yeah, he needed to loosen up, live and let live, breathe.

So far, the plan was working—start over, leave the grief behind, focus on something new.

Like finding permanent homes for these children in his care.

He stood up, moving to guard Lionel, the nine-year-old laughing as he pushed Doyle out of his way, stepped in front of him, then grabbed the ball and maneuvered it around him.

“Hey, that’s illegal.”

“Keep up, old man.”

Doyle took off after him and as if to steal the ball, although of course he’d let him win. The entire team had improved since their last game with nearby Sint Eustatius, and now Lionel shot the ball off to Aliyah.

Jamal intercepted and the game turned. Doyle again switched directions, heading toward the goal as Jamal passed it off to Gabriella, a playmaker, lean and tall and fourteen years old. He hadn’t found a home for her yet, but maybe she would age out of Hope House, go on to college.

She had the makings of a doctor, the way she helped out in the medical clinic.

Gabriella kicked the ball through the legs of an opponent and raced toward the goal.

She passed it over.

He ran to intercept?—

Bam! The collision hit him so hard it hurtled him into the air, and he flew, thudding into the weedy grass.

His head bounced off the ground, and he lay, dazed. Blood erupted from his nose, his face on fire.

“Gotcha.”

He held his nose—grimaced and looked up.

Kemar stood over him, holding the ball in his gloves, the sun against his dark head, no smile.

Right.

He sat up, and Kemar stepped away as Andre crouched beside Doyle. “You okay? Let’s get you to the clinic.”

“I’m fine,” Doyle said, even as Gabriella ran up, holding a towel. He shoved it against his nose, then got to his feet.

The world spun.

Kemar stepped away, smirking.

“Why’d you do that, Key?” Jamal had run up, now stood in front of his brother. “You didn’t have to hit him.” His voice shook.

Doyle held up a hand. “It’s just a game, Jamal. We’re all good.”

Kemar laughed as he grabbed Jamal, his arm around his neck. “See, bro? Don’t worry about it.”

Jamal pushed away from him. “You good, Mr. D?”

Doyle touched the boy’s shoulder. “I’m good. Get back in there.” But he didn’t miss Kemar’s glower. Or the clench in his own gut.

Kemar would hate him if the Jamesons refused to adopt both boys.

Doyle sank onto a bench on the side as Andre blew the whistle. Andre had run to get the out-of-bounds ball that had fallen into an old grotto, now overgrown at the edge of the field. Another project on Doyle’s long fix-up list.

Kemar threw the ball back into play.

“Doyle. I’ve been looking all over for you. I thought you were going to meet me?—”

He turned, still holding the towel, now soaked, to his face.

Tia, her long brown hair up, a few hairs falling out of the bun, wearing a sage canvas shirt that pulled the green from her hazel eyes and a pair of black cargo pants and KEENs, strode over to him.

The look in those pretty eyes said oops, he’d landed in the doghouse.

Again. Seemed like a regular occurrence over the past two months.

She frowned at the towel, one perfect brown eyebrow dipping, and then shook her head. “You can’t go like that.”

“Like what?” He took the towel away, glanced at his shirt. Sweaty, blue, and, oy —covered in his own blood. Checking his nose—the bleeding had stopped, so maybe not broken—he stood up, trying to wipe the blood off. “Where are we going?”

“Seriously?” She sighed.

Oh, right. “The X-ray machine.”

“Yes. It came into the port in Esperanza yesterday.” She braced her hands on her hips. “Never mind. I’ll take Keon again.”

He threw the towel over his shoulder. “No, I’m in. Just give me five to get changed.”

“Ten, and you shower first. The harbormaster is new, and...” She gave him the once-over. “We don’t need you looking like you’re a member of the S-7 crew.”

“Thanks. First thing I check in the mirror every morning—do I look like a gang member?”

She rolled her eyes. “Just change your shirt.”

Of course. Sheesh. Clearly she hadn’t gotten their first meeting out of her head.

Talk about needing a fresh start. He sighed as he started walking toward the former monastery’s back entrance, where an arched door hung open and led to the interior of the compound.

She followed him, glancing at the game, the kids. “Do they know yet?”

“No. I’m planning to save it. We still have a few days left.”

“Scared about what Kemar is going to do?”

He glanced at her, his mouth tight, and didn’t answer as he walked through the entrance into the cool embrace of the eighteenth-century building. Freshly whitewashed, the thick walls kept heat from invading, and a long, shaded corridor aproned the complex. The middle courtyard, repaved with black limestone that had turned slick and shiny over the years, held a granite fountain with a statue of the Holy Mother holding baby Jesus in the center.

Beyond that, gates—now closed—opened to a dirt road and a view of the harbor town of Esperanza, the capital of tiny Mariposa and home to some four thousand inhabitants. The town was a postcard—red-roofed stone homes, a few three-story, arched-veranda hotels overlooking the pristine turquoise sea. Fishing boats cluttered the port, evidence of their main source of income—conch, snapper, and mahi-mahi.

The smells from the kitchen—located in the remodeled wing—suggested jerk chicken on tonight’s menu, a blend of allspice, Scotch bonnet peppers, and ginger over grilled chicken, and Doyle’s stomach growled.

“You sure you don’t want to stay?”

“No. I just skipped lunch. I was working on the chapel, then I got roped into the soccer game.” He glanced at the open wooden doors to the building across the courtyard. “Had to brace one of the beams—it felt loose.”

“I poked my head in. The kids did a great job on the murals.”

Was that praise?

“It’s a good way to show their talents, as well as the focus of faith we have here.” He reached the stairs. “I think the donors will be impressed.”

“Impressed? Maybe amused.”

For all her beauty, she had a way of dropping a stone into his soul. He reached the stairs. Turned. “I know you think this is a waste of time, but having the donors on-site just might get a few of these kids adopted. And that could change their lives.”

She held up a hand, the wind catching her hair, whisking it across her face. “It’s not that I don’t think it’s a good idea, but let’s not get your hopes up, Doyle—we need them to donate to the medical clinic, get some real equipment here. The clinic isn’t just for the orphanage, it’s for the entire community, and it desperately needs equipment and supplies. That’s why they’re here. The only souvenir these donors want to take home is a conch shell.”

Nice.

“I’ll meet you at the garage in ten.” She walked away.

He bit back a growl and headed up to his room in the center area. The boys’ dorms extended down one wing, the girls’ along the other. He unlocked his room and opened it to a small but tidy room with an adjacent bath, a single bed, desk, standing wardrobe, and a glorious view of the sea below. Looming over it all was the Cumbre de Luz, the dormant volcano that lumbered along the north side of the island.

The smells from the surf and the lush rainforest vegetation that swept down from the volcano filtered into his room, and he breathed them in as he stripped off his shirt.

If he wanted a fresh start, he’d have to let Tia’s cynical words roll off him.

He stepped into the shower, braced his hands on the tile walls, and let the cool water revive him. Who knew what Tia might be trying to escape in the States? He knew very little about her.

Except that she could drive him to his last nerve.

He stepped out, toweled off, pulled on a clean pair of jeans, boots, and a white oxford, rolling up the sleeves. He didn’t bother to shave—most of the men on the island wore scruff, many of them fishermen. Others worked in the fledgling tourist industry, hosting divers who came to the island in search of the fabled gold treasures located in the thirteen wrecks caught in the coral reefs offshore.

He raked a hand through his short hair— good enough —and headed down to the garage, a building outside the monastery that Declan had added when he’d upgraded security. The garage also housed small security offices, with monitors that captured all corners of the building, as well as a corridor and the main hall.

Thank you to the S-7 crew, whose terrorizing of the locals had only increased after the hurricane five years ago that had left so many of these kids without parents.

Not anymore.

He didn’t care what Tia said. He planned on finding homes for every one of these kids. It was the least he could do for the woman he’d once loved. Still loved, but... he was moving on.

Trying.

Tia leaned against a lime-green 1960 F-100 pickup, the straps a jumble in the middle. She glanced at her watch. “Twelve minutes.”

He shook his head. “Let me drive, and we’ll make it up.”

She rolled her eyes and walked around to the driver’s side.

He took a breath. Exhaled.

Maybe it wasn’t so much trying to start over as it was focusing on something new.

He forced a smile and got in.

Like not strangling his codirector.

* * *

She refused to listen to fear.

No. fear.

It helped to have Doyle sitting beside her. For all his annoying, too-easygoing, charming ways, Doyle was built, and she’d seen him pop back up after Kemar had slammed into him.

Not a guy who stayed down easily.

Even if he should back away from his big, unrealistic dreams.

But if Sebold and his S-7 crew showed up at the port, having Doyle around might... what?

Yeah, she should have brought Keon. Their security guard had about fifty pounds on Doyle, and sure, he possessed the personality of a Brahman bull, but maybe that’s what she needed.

Power over personality.

Tia blew out a breath as she bumped down the dirt road on the way to Esperanza, the town at the base of the massive volcano, dormant for centuries now, just a few ridges of black lava that spilled into the sea.

The village sat in a pocket between ridges, largely protected from hurricanes—although they’d taken a direct hit some five years ago, according to her research.

It had devastated not only the village but also the sugar and cocoa plantations northeast of town. And birthed the S-7 gang.

Namely, its leader Sebold Grimes.

She blew out a breath, gripping the steering wheel of the old Ford. Hope House needed a fleet of new vehicles, starting with a supply truck that didn’t have gears that slipped and fought her as she downshifted.

“Easy on the clutch?—”

She shot Doyle a look. He’d put out his foot, held on to the handle over the door. There were no seatbelt laws in Mariposa, but she guessed he wouldn’t wear one anyway.

Doyle Kingston followed his own rules. Like playing soccer with the kids when they needed to prepare the grounds for the upcoming Hope House fundraising weekend. It wasn’t every day that twenty or so multimillionaires showed up to tour their facilities and consider taking on their tiny project.

“Listen, this weekend has to go well. Just a few big donors could change the entire outlook for these kids. Give them education beyond what the nuns at the school can provide.”

“The nuns are fantastic.”

“They are. But they also teach in giant one-room classrooms. They can’t possibly prepare these kids for colleges like St. George’s University in Grenada or even the School of Medicine in Sint Maarten.”

He sighed. “I know. Gabriella has the smarts to go to medical school. Did you know that Dr. Julia Tremblay, our local doctor, attended there?”

“I do.” In fact, Tia’s head was too full of ideas that ran through her mind every night as she lay on her bed, staring at the whirring fan, the sounds of the sea outside her window.

Yes, here maybe she could shake off the last three years, find herself again. She just needed to stay focused.

Doyle held up his hands. “I’m not saying they’re not smart enough, but kids have a much better chance of success with a loving family behind them.”

She refused to argue with him. Yes, family helped. But so did determination. Edward had taught her that.

And in the end, his connection to her family had gotten him killed. So, there was that.

They came into town, passing a fruit stand with fresh mangoes, papayas, passion fruit, and guava.

“Let’s stop there on the way home,” Doyle said, clearly reading her mind.

“Yeah, if we’re not on the run from a gang of thieves.”

“Wow. And me without my machete. Listen, it’s going to be fine.” He looked over at her. “You brought some cheddar, right?”

She frowned at him. “What?”

“A bribe?”

Her mouth opened.

He shook his head. “You’ve been here nearly two months and you haven’t figured that out yet?”

“I don’t bribe people.”

“For the love—it’s the culture. Think of it as a tip .”

“It’s dishonest.”

“Yeah, we’re not getting that X-ray machine.”

She nearly slammed on the brakes and told him to get out. She drew in a breath. “If we don’t try, then it’ll end up in the hands of the S-7 crew, and buh-bye any more donations.”

“I thought they only worked on the other side of the island.”

“According to Dr. Julia, they stole an entire pallet of medical supplies from the harbor—and then offered to sell it to her for a ransom.” She looked at him. “Or should we call it a tip ?”

“That’s different.” He folded his arms. “Okay, we’ll get the X-ray machine. Don’t worry.”

Oh, she was plenty worried. “Just... let me handle it.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Okay, boss .”

For the love, as he would say.

They entered a neighborhood, and after a moment he said, “Is Declan coming to the fundraiser?”

“I don’t know.” It was hard not to glance at Declan’s home, settled above the town, a sentry. If it hadn’t been for his generosity after the storm, the monastery would have stayed destroyed, the children homeless. He’d put hope back on the map, literally.

She’d discovered that back in Minnesota after he’d offered her the job. Did her research and decided this could be her chance.

No more murder, no more grief, no more wishing she’d listened to her head instead of her heart years ago.

Never again.

Which was why it didn’t matter how handsome, or charming, Doyle Kingston might be with those deep-blue, nearly hypnotizing eyes, that short dark-brown hair, all tousled on his head, the thin layer of dark whiskers, the white oxford that showed off his tanned forearms, and the smell that drifted off him—the fresh shower, the soap, a hint of sandalwood, and maybe a little ocean breeze?—

Stop.

Why Declan Stone had hired him—well, he certainly hadn’t told her. And it had felt a little like a slap when she arrived to find Doyle wondering the same thing.

Codirector. She didn’t codirect anything. Hello. Why Declan had left that tidbit of information out of his offer, she didn’t know.

But she wasn’t turning around, thanks.

Boss was right.

Now, Doyle nodded, his elbow out the window. “I think Declan’s back on the island. My brother Stein works for him—personal security—and sent me a text saying he was here.”

“I send Declan a weekly report, and he mentioned that.” She lifted a shoulder.

“You send him a weekly report?” He looked at her.

“Don’t you?”

He raised an eyebrow.

She refrained from shaking her head.

“Maybe Declan will get smart and give the entire operation to me.” Words she’d said to her sister Penelope, back in Minnesota, a couple weeks ago on the phone.

“I don’t know, sis. Conrad says his brother is pretty good at these humanitarian gigs. Spent a lot of his time on a disaster-relief team over the years, raising money and working with the locals.”

At the time, Tia had pictured her sister in her cute remodeled bungalow in Minneapolis, probably poring over research for her newest murder podcast. No doubt wearing the hockey jersey of her boyfriend, Conrad Kingston, who inconveniently had to be the older brother of said Doyle.

That was an unlucky coincidence. The last thing Tia wanted was for her complaint to make it to Doyle via her sister, via her boyfriend, via... whomever. His family seemed closer than most. You never knew when a Kingston would pop up—case in point, his brother Stein working for Declan.

She seemed to be surrounded by Kingstons.

“Just try to not be so bossy. Get along with him. You’ll find that he has more in common with you than you think.”

Doubtful.

At best, he would charm the donors, prime them for her big ask—to upgrade the medical clinic with a three-million-dollar renovation and equipment donation.

They bumped along on the coral-encrusted roads, past reconstructed neighborhoods, all the way to the city center, also rebuilt, with new two-story, Louisiana-style storefronts, metal roofing, and charming galleries with pillars supporting the long second-story balconies. Freshly planted palm trees edged the boardwalk, from which stretched the black sand beach. Hand-painted store signs gave the village a quaint feel, and with so few cars on the island, the cobblestone streets held mostly scooters, a few bicyclists, and a number of food carts.

Out in the harbor, sailboats attached to mooring balls stretched into a blue sky, and farther out, a cruise ship sailed south, probably on the way to St. Kitts.

She spotted the shipping harbor, a deep-water harbor, dredged out after the hurricane, that allowed for yachts and supply ships.

“There’s the Invictus ,” Doyle said. “Whoa, she’s pretty.”

“Where?”

He pointed to the one-hundred-and-fifty-foot yacht owned by Stone, moored at his private dock in a channel cut out into the harbor.

“Wow. It’s three stories.”

“And has a helicopter. Holy cannoli. I can’t even imagine being that wealthy.”

Right. She glanced at him, said nothing. But yes, even her father, billionaire owner of the Pepper fortune, didn’t have his own helicopter, although he did own a nice chunk of a Caribbean island and a small yacht. And sure, she could ask her father for the money for the hospital. But he had his own charitable organization he was trying to keep funded, and frankly...

Frankly, she wanted to shake off everything that had to do with the Pepper name. Not forever... but... reasons.

She was lucky to have made it out without a cadre of security agents.

So she kept her mouth shut and pulled up to the gates guarding the harbor. A man emerged from the security booth.

“Tia Pepper, with Hope House. I’m here to see the harbormaster.”

He stepped back, called in clearance on his radio, and in a moment, the gate shuddered open.

She drove in, up to the three-story building-slash-warehouse. Got out. “I’ll go talk to the harbormaster”

“I’ll check on the shipment.”

She glanced at Doyle, a chill brushing through her.

No fear. She could handle Mr. Harbormaster.

“Please don’t get us in trouble,” she said to Doyle.

“Oh ye of little faith.” He held up his fist.

She looked at it. “What’s this?”

“A fist bump.”

She shook her head. “No, I don’t... Doyle, we’re not buddies . We’re workmates.” Or really, maybe rivals, but she wouldn’t go that far because in truth, he stayed out of the financial running of the orphanage. But he did have a different agenda for the week with the donors, so maybe.

“We’ll fix that.” He pointed at her, then headed around the building.

She didn’t need fixing, and she nearly shouted that, but the door opened, and a large man, clearly a descendant of the island inhabitants, smiled at her.

“Miss Pepper, right?” He stuck out a beefy hand.

Seemed nice enough. “That’s right. I’m here to pick up our shipment.”

“Mr. Nevo Baptiste. Come in, then. Let’s get the paperwork started.”

See? Nothing to fear. She’d overthought everything until she tied herself into a knot.

She walked inside, past an empty reception desk, into an office, all windows except for the back wall, which held shipping schedules and mapped routes. He motioned to a rolling chair, then leaned against the front of his desk, arms folded. “So, unfortunately, there are fees attached to the storage of your pallet.”

“It just got here yesterday.” She sank into the chair. A metal fan hummed from the top of a filing cabinet, stirring stale air, the lingering memory of a cigarette, lifting a couple of papers on the desk.

He sighed, his barrel body rising and falling. “Yes, but we had to unload it and store it in the warehouse, and... so much trouble.”

“Right. I thought those fees were covered in the shipping costs. And were prepaid.”

He made a tsking noise and got up, shut the door.

She didn’t know why the click sent ice through her.

He pressed a hand on her shoulder, leaned down behind her, spoke into her ear. “These are island fees, Miss Pepper.”

She stilled. “How much?”

He paused. “Twenty thousand dollars.”

Okay, breathe . “That wasn’t... I don’t?—”

“Then perhaps we could negotiate.” He put the other hand on her shoulder. His low voice into her other ear. “Let me bring in my negotiator.”

Behind her, the door opened.

No fear. No ? —

As someone closed the blinds, they shook, and she along with them. She jerked away from Nevo and turned.

A man stood behind him. Dark hair, bearded, dressed in white pants, a Hawaiian shirt, and flip-flops. He cocked his head at her, smiled. “Hello, Miss Pepper.”

Sebold. Just a guess, but by the way he glanced at Nevo and smirked?—

“What do you want?”

“I think you know. Baptiste told me about your new toy.” He put a hand on Nevo’s shoulder. “We think probably you need some insurance to keep it safe.”

Insurance?

“On top of the fees, we’re going to need some... monthly attention.”

He turned her chair, crouched in front of her, his hands on hers, on the armrests. Ran his thumb over the back of her hand.

Don’t scream.

His unwashed odor swept over her.

A knock at the door, and then, suddenly, it burst open.

Doyle stuck his head in. “Hey, guys. So, I think we’re done here, Tia. Let’s go.”

She stood up.

The motion knocked Sebold onto his backside, and she stepped over him and nearly lunged for Doyle’s outstretched hand.

“Thanks, guys,” Doyle said and shut the door.

She turned to him?—

“Keep moving.” He nearly pushed her out the main door.

The truck was gone. “Where?—”

“Just keep moving.” He pushed her across the parking lot, around the back to the warehouse, where her truck sat, the X-ray machine in a box in the back, strapped in.

“My grandfather had a Ford like this. Easy to hotwire.” He clamped a hand on a skinny man, maybe early twenties. “Thanks, Ricky.”

Doyle got into the driver’s side of the still-running truck, and ahead, someone had opened another gate.

Shouts fell behind them, and Doyle floored it. Tia spotted Sebold running across the yard toward the truck.

They cleared the gate, and dust kicked up as drove up the road.

What just happened? She’d suddenly landed in a rerun of MacGyver .

Doyle gripped the wheel, glanced back, then at her.

“What did you just do?” She too shot a look behind them.

Sebold stood, gesturing, yelling at one of the guards. She winced when he hit the younger man.

“I got your X-ray machine out of hock. And I’m not sure what was going down back there in the office, but from the looks of it, it didn’t look like you were making friends.”

She gripped the overhead handle, still shaking. “They wanted twenty thousand dollars.”

“Yipe. My Seiko was considerably less, so I guess it was a deal.”

“You traded your watch? A dive watch?”

He lifted a shoulder. “Gut move. I figured, write-off, you know?” He shrugged. “Now we just have to make sure that Sebold and his boys don’t decide to pay us a visit.”

Her eyes widened, and she looked away, her heart still a hammer, her throat thick. Heaven save her from a man who led with his gut . “I don’t do impulsive, Doyle. I had a plan .”

“Which was?”

She swallowed. “I was going to negotiate.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. So that’s what that was.” He turned onto the road back to Hope House. “Sorry to mess with your negotiation, but my gut said you weren’t going to win.”

And now he’d probably ignited a small war with the local gang. And the timing couldn’t be worse.

Still, he had saved her. Sort of. Probably. She sighed. “How much trouble are we in?”

“Calm down. We have security.” He lifted his hand from the steering wheel, and for a second he looked like he might reach out to her, and maybe—touch her arm? In reassurance?

“Thanks.” She sighed. “Keon usually handled that before. I just wanted... That was a dumb idea.”

And now he did reach out, pat her arm. “No problem, partner. We’re in this together.” Then he looked at her and winked.

Oh boy. That’s what she was afraid of. Another person in her life that just might get himself—and maybe even her—killed.