Chapter 6
CHAPTER
SIX
DEAN
The roar of the Jeep’s engine goes quiet and I take the key out.
I count down from ten. Except that little therapy trick doesn’t work so well when it comes to a raging libido.
Beside me, June breathes rapidly, her chest rising and falling, the damp material of her shirt clinging like a second skin.
I rub my hand across my forehead, shaking the image of her from my mind. Concentrate .
Her breathing’s too quick, near hyperventilation.
She’s panicking.
“Are you gonna be sick?” I lean in, trying to gauge her expression.
It takes all my control to keep from touching her. I almost lost it when she inspected my tattoo on the drive here. It took everything I had to act like it was no big deal, like her hand whispering against my skin wasn’t burning me, wasn’t branding me.
I can’t question her like this.
I’m too worked up over her, too affected by her proximity, the way her body felt as I carried her away from the Russian hitman.
One thing at a time, I tell myself.
We both need to calm down. She needs food.
“No. The protein bar helped. So did the water.” Her voice is a breathy whisper. “I just uh, I want to know why you think someone is following us.” The handle clicks as she opens the door, and she slides from the seat.
Well, at least she’s recovered most of her motor control. That’s a good sign.
The sooner I get this over with and get away from her, the better, because I’m not sure I can tell myself I’m not attracted to her much longer, and that shit will only complicate an already fucked up case.
I tear my eyes away from the soft curve of her ass and swallow, glancing at the rifle case in the back seat.
I shouldn’t need it inside. We won’t even be inside long enough to need it. I need to get in, get out, and keep this op on track.
June’s already halfway up the steps of her small bayside bungalow, perched on stilts like an overgrown bird, before I make it out of the Jeep.
A massive boat is tethered to the dock. Her father’s boat, according to the DEA file on him. It’s older, but seaworthy and legal, and she inherited it when he died.
I need to look in that boat. It’s one of the things Charlie and the DEA flagged as likely having info on the lost drug sub in it, and if June’s a dead end, then the boat might not be.
The more I spend time with June, the harder it is to think she has a hand in this.
I don’t know if that’s wishful thinking or instinct, or both.
Palms and flowering bushes flank the front of the house. Water lapping at the dock, a constant whirl of noise alongside fish splashing in the canal waters. In the dusk, the light blue house fades to charcoal, violet bougainvillea turning black where it climbs against the stairs.
It would be a perfect place to relax.
That is, if I was here for a completely different reason.
My chest tightens. I’m here… with June. The target I’ve been watching day and night. The key to getting the shipment, to getting respect and getting my goddamn business more work.
Taking the stairs two at a time, I catch up to her as she steps onto the fenced porch, teetering unsteadily. I catch her elbow, and she looks back quickly, the sudden flash of fear in her eyes chased away by a soft word.
“Thanks.”
“You okay?” I frown.
In the fading light, the shadows obscure the light in her eyes.
“Dean…” She shakes her head, fishing for her keys, and stops. Her mouth is a pretty ‘o’ of surprise. “Charlie has my keys. Shoot.”
I step closer, hating the look of irritation sweeping across her features, wanting to wipe it away.
Maybe I’m half-drunk from the half-beer.
Maybe it’s her.
Leaning down, I lift the ‘Hey Y’all’ mat from the porch, picking up the extra key.
June stills beside me.
Dammit. I overstepped. I clear my throat, trying to figure out how to smooth this over.
“You should probably find a less obvious place to hide your key,” I say quietly, hiding the disgust I have for the blatant lie, but she returns the smile slowly.
She plucks the key from my hand, her eyes still too narrow for my liking.
I push a hand through my hair. God, I’m fucking this up.
Establishing trust is a pretty clear directive when dealing with potential assets, and I’m shit at it. Especially when all I can think about are her assets.
She clears her throat, unlocking the door before stepping inside and flicking the switch, illuminating her small house.
I know the layout, but habit makes me assess the exits anyway. The front door we stepped through. Two windows in the bedroom to my right. The kitchen in front of me, leading out to a back porch and those stairs lead down to the dock and the boat. And another window in the small half-bath directly to my left.
“I’m uh, I’m going to go uh, freshen up. Um, make yourself at home.” June fidgets with the top button of her shirt. Causing my eyes to dive to the silky column of her neck, the curve of her collarbone. The lush expanse of breasts.
“Okay if I make you a sandwich? Or something? That protein bar won’t be enough.” I cross my arms, trying to slow my heartrate. Something about being here, in her house, with her looking like that, with the damp shirt clinging to her curves.
She cocks her head, eyes wide. “Yeah, okay.” Her gaze dips to her bedroom, and her smile turns slightly suggestive.
Does she think I want to hook up?
I can play that part. It would be all too easy to play that part.
I school my face, internally shaking the thoughts away, making myself focus. This isn’t about the way she looks, the way her house feels less like a front and more like a home.
Shifting on my feet, I take a deep breath and June exhales, sending a wisp of hair flying around her face. It lands on her nose, and it makes her twitch adorably.
Surprising myself, I reach forward, tucking it behind her ear. My hand grazes her cheek, and she shivers the tiniest bit.
Yeah, I can definitely play this part.
I lean in, her focus dropping to my mouth. A pink tongue darts out as she licks her lips. I’m so close now, all I’d have to do is lean down to steal a kiss.
My hand lingers at her neck. I can’t do it.
I shouldn’t do it.
Thankfully, she ducks away.
At least, I think I’m thankful.
“I’ll uh, I’ll be right back. There’s bread in the pantry. Help yourself to whatever.”
Disappointment and relief war in my chest, but I stand taller, rubbing a hand down my face.
She disappears into the bedroom, and I catch a glimpse of white linens and bare floors, clean save for a hot pink bra strewn across the bed.
I turn on my heel as her bedroom door closes with a click and head to the pantry. The kitchen light hums overhead when I flick the light switch. The pantry’s full of pristine labeled baskets. Every snack is organized by type and color. My eyebrows lift in surprise.
It appeals to the military part of me that craves order a little too much for my own comfort.
I grab what I need and turn to the fridge, and blink in an effort to take it in.
Nearly every square inch is covered in maps. Old and current calendars and tide timetables compete for space.
I lean in, the sandwiches momentarily forgotten.
Notes scrawl across a page torn from a book, and a portrait of some old guy in a crown stands out in stark relief against the chaos. Exclamation marks, circles. Arrows on maps, Post-its written in some kind of code.
What kind of researcher writes in code then puts it on her fridge for anyone to find? I squint at the papers, suspicion gnawing at me, tightening my ribs.
I trail one finger across a neon orange Post-it.
None of this makes sense. I glance back at the tide charts. They aren’t from this year. Or last.
Five hundred years ago?
What kind of woman works with Russian smugglers and uses tide and current maps from four centuries ago?
My gut sinks.
Maybe the DEA analysts were wrong about how much she knows. Maybe I was wrong about her working with the cartel. Maybe this is all a damn waste of time.
I should have made contact with Charlie earlier.
Something about this, about June, is off.
I swipe a spreadsheet and currents map, folding and tucking them into the cargo pocket of my pants. The picture and textbook page come next, along with a list marked ‘fishing spots’ in an untidy scrawl.
I shift a few things to hide the blank spaces and refocus.
Sandwiches. I’ll distract her with food, with questions, with whatever alcohol is lingering in her system.
She’ll never notice something’s missing.
Digging into the fridge, I locate the deli meat and cheese, along with a half-empty jar of grape jelly. It isn’t hard to find, considering the woman seems to live off Goldfish, popcorn, and cheese sticks.
I shut the fridge with a foot and lay out the supplies. Untwisting the bread bag, I line everything up precisely, making two of each sandwich, using up the rest of her food. The bedroom door closes just as I’m about to grab the Goldfish from the pantry.
Looking up, my whole body goes tense with anticipation.
Time for some answers.
June’s dressed in a short, flowery dress and sneakers. Her dark hair falls around her shoulders, grazing the tops of her breasts.
And grazing the butt of the black shotgun pressed to one shoulder.