Chapter 8
EIGHT
The disposable phone felt like a grenade in Britta’s hand.
She sat on the narrow bunk in the cabin belowdecks, staring at the black screen. Cheap plastic casing. Cracked corner. The kind of phone sold at gas stations to people who didn’t want to be tracked.
Perfect for calling the president of the United States.
The boat’s motor hummed as West moved them out of the harbor, up the shoreline, looking for a place to anchor.
Britta’s thumb hovered over the power button. Her pulse hammered in her throat. Sweat slicked her palms despite the warm air filtering through the open hatch.
Just make the call. Tell him you’re safe. Negotiate West’s freedom.
Simple.
Except nothing involving her father was ever simple.
She pressed the power button. The screen lit up—harsh white light in the dim cabin. Her hands shook as she pulled up the dialer and typed in the number she’d memorized years ago. His private line. The one that bypassed switchboards and Secret Service filters and went straight to him.
The one she’d only used twice before. Both emergencies.
This counted as an emergency.
The phone rang once.
“Britta?”
Her father’s voice slammed into her chest. Rough. Desperate. The sound of a man who’d been waiting by the phone for twelve-plus hours, terrified of what he might hear.
“Dad.” Her voice cracked. “I’m safe. I’m okay.”
Silence. Then an exhale that sounded like it had been locked in his lungs.
“Thank You, God.” Another breath. “Britta, where are you? Are you hurt? Martinez said you’d vanished from the boat—that he got a call from one of the operatives on scene.”
“I’m not hurt. I’m fine.”
Another pause, then, “Britta. Please tell me you didn’t run away from your detail again.”
Oh. “No, Dad. I got thrown off the boat and rescued by…well, a former Marine. West Young. He’s been protecting me.”
She could hear the breath expel from his nose, like a bull.
“Where are you?” Command mode now. The president, not her father. “I’m sending your detail. We’ll have you extracted within the hour.”
“No.”
The word came out stronger than she’d expected. Firmer.
“No?”
“I’m safe where I am, Dad. I don’t need extraction.”
“You’re with that man. West Young.” Not a question. A statement loaded with disapproval. “Britta, I’ve looked into him. He was rejected by the Secret Service for insubordination. Multiple protocol violations. He’s unstable. Unpredictable. He can’t be trusted to keep you safe.”
Oh. So all of her voluntary information was for nothing. Just when she was trying to be transparent. Figured. Britta’s jaw tightened. “He’s not like that.”
“You’ve known him for two days.”
“He saved my life. Multiple times.”
“He’s gotten you involved in violence. Explosions. Gunfights.” Her father’s voice rose. “Britta, someone bombed a yacht you were on. This man has compromised your safety—”
“He didn’t compromise anything.” Heat flashed through her chest. “He’s the reason I’m still alive. The reason I’m not dead or kidnapped.”
“You don’t know that. You don’t know what would have happened if you’d stayed with your detail—”
“My detail disappeared, Dad. Martinez was nowhere to be found.”
Silence.
Then, quietly, “We don’t know Martinez was involved.”
“No, we don’t. But…I trust West.”
“You trust a man you’ve known for two days over the Secret Service? Over me?”
“Dad. Seriously. You sound like a soap opera. It’s not about trusting him more than you. But maybe you should trust me a little.”
Silence.
Britta closed her eyes. Her free hand fisted in the thin blanket covering the bunk.
“Dad. He’s been honest with me. He hasn’t lied or manipulated or tried to control every decision I make.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
When her father spoke again, his voice had shifted. Softer. The tone of a man asking, not ordering.
“Britta, sweetheart. I know you’re scared. I know you’re exhausted. But you need to come home. Let the professionals handle this. You’re not equipped—”
“I’m equipped enough to still be breathing.”
“Martinez is ready to deploy to the Fisher Island estate tonight. We’ll bring you home. Get you medical attention. Debrief you properly—”
“No.” Britta opened her eyes. Stared at the water-stained ceiling above the bunk. “I’ll see you at Melbourne Beach. Saturday. After the wedding.”
“Britta, this isn’t negotiable—”
“It is. I’m an adult. I’m making my own choices. And I’m telling you—I’m going to the wedding.”
“Britta—”
“I love you, Dad. But I’m okay. I promise.”
She ended the call before he could argue. Before he could use that voice—the one that made her twelve again, desperate for his approval. Before she lost her nerve and agreed to whatever he demanded.
The phone screen went dark.
Britta sat there, staring at it. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Her hands trembled. Her breath came too fast, too shallow.
She’d just hung up on the president of the United States.
On her father.
The man who’d controlled every aspect of her life for twenty-six years.
And she’d told him no.
The realization turned her a little woozy. She’d stood up to him. Set a boundary. Refused his orders.
Holy moly.
Britta pressed her palm to her chest. Her heart hammered beneath her fingers. She’d actually done it. She’d—
The boat had slowed, and now West’s footsteps moved across the deck above her head.
Her words came back to her: He’s the reason I’m still alive. The reason I’m not dead or kidnapped.
West had given her space to make this call even though it probably meant losing her. Even though the smart move would be to let her father send the Secret Service to extract her. Even though staying with her put him in danger.
Britta stood, her legs shaky, her pulse still racing. She climbed the narrow steps up to the deck anyway.
Twilight washed over the water.
The sun hung low on the horizon—the sky deep purple at the zenith, bleeding into violet, then rose, then that fierce orange-gold where sunlight splashed into the deep-blue water. Above, the clouds caught fire and the ocean reflected everything back—liquid gold and copper and flame.
It was the kind of sunset that belonged in paintings. In romance novels. In moments that changed everything.
West stood at the helm, silhouetted against all that burning color.
Shirtless.
Hello. Britta’s breath caught.
He’d stripped off the torn, bloodstained shirt from earlier. Board shorts hung low on his hips. His feet were bare. One hand rested on the wheel as he guided them along the coast, searching for the right spot. The other hung at his side, relaxed but ready.
The sunset painted him in shades of gold and amber.
The small bruise on his chin had darkened to purple.
The split in his lip was healing. Scrapes marked his shoulder from the fight on the stairs.
A tattoo on his ribs stood out stark against his skin—something tribal, intricate, wrapping around his side.
He looked like someone who’d been through a war.
He looked like someone who’d won.
The engine cut. West moved to drop anchor—muscles flexing as he worked the chain. The metallic rattle broke the quiet. Then silence. The boat settled, rocking gently on the calm water.
He’d found them a spot. Private. Far enough from shore that the coastline was just a string of lights beginning to twinkle in the gathering dusk.
Close enough that they could see civilization.
But out here, in this quiet corner of the ocean with the last of the sunset still burning around them, they were alone.
West turned. Saw her standing there.
His gaze swept over her—quick, assessing, the way he read everything else. Looking for threats, injuries, problems he needed to solve. She recognized it now.
“How’d it go?”
Britta crossed the deck toward him, her pulse still pounding—and it had nothing to do with her conversation with her father, thank you.
She kept moving until she stood close enough to see the concern in his beautiful hazel eyes, a deep green at the center, gold flickering through the irises. Complicated, intriguing.
The smell of salt and ocean lifted from his skin. Alluring.
“I told him I’d see him Saturday.”
West’s eyebrows rose. “How’d he take it?”
“How do you think? He wanted to send Martinez. Immediate extraction.” She wrapped her arms around herself. The light had started to fade with the sunset. She rubbed her arms. “I said no.”
“Britta—”
“I hung up on him.”
West went completely still. His hand tightened on the railing. “You hung up on the president.”
“I hung up on my father.”
Something shifted in his expression as his eyes widened. Surprise? Respect? Maybe even pride? He studied her face for a long moment, then nodded once, a slight smile tipping his mouth. Like she’d passed some test she hadn’t known she was taking. “That took guts.”
“Or stupidity.” Britta’s laugh came out shaky. “He’s probably calling Martinez right now. Ordering the entire Army to track me down.”
“Aw, they’d need the Marines if they want to find you.” He winked. “Oorah.”
She laughed.
His voice dropped. “You set a boundary. That’s not stupid. That’s brave.”
The word settled in her chest. Warm. Solid.
Brave.
She’d never thought of herself as brave. Careful, yes. Polite. Obedient. The good daughter who did what she was told and smiled for the cameras and never caused problems.
But maybe standing up to her father counted as brave. Maybe choosing to trust West—to stay with him despite every logical reason to accept her father’s offer—counted too.
West reached for something on the console beside the wheel. Another phone. Cracked screen. Blood smeared across the black case.
“I grabbed this during the fight. Off the operative who tried to take you.”
Britta stared at it. “You think it has information?”
“Has to. These guys are coordinated. They’re communicating somehow.” He turned the phone over in his hand. The dying sunlight caught the cracked glass. “It’s locked. But Coco can crack it. Get us intel on who they are. Who’s running them. Why they’re hunting you.”
“You really think it’ll have answers?”