Chapter 9 #2
A man walked in. Fraser Marshall, Imani’s personal security. Tall. Serious. Former-Navy-SEAL energy radiating from him. He saw Britta and stopped.
He glanced at Pippa, back at Britta.
“I was going to call you,” Pippa said.
“How—”
“Long story.” Pippa touched his arm. “She’s safe now.”
Fraser’s jaw flexed. His hands fisted. Then he pulled Pippa aside—three steps away, like that created privacy in a hotel room. “Alan Martin is in custody. And he says that Britta is still in danger.”
And weirdly, all the air went out of the room.
Britta frowned.
Especially when Imani stood up. “What do you mean in danger?”
“Who is Alan Martin?” Britta said.
Fraser turned to her, his expression grim. “It’s a long story, but he’s dangerous. York cut a deal with him to find out exactly what the Bratva is planning, but until then…you stay right here.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“This resort is secure. Pippa and I are here. You’re staying until we figure this out.”
“Fraser—”
“Not negotiable.”
He pulled out his phone. Dialed. Waited.
“York?” His voice shifted. Professional. Urgent. “Fraser. I need you to find West. Now.”
Britta’s stomach dropped. Her hands shook. Her pulse hammered.
No.
“Tell him Britta’s with us,” Fraser continued. “Bahama Mama Resort. Room 212.”
He ended the call. Looked at Britta.
Great. Just great.
Her chest tightened.
So, this would be fun.
The president’s daughter had leaped from a boat into dark waters. Under West’s protection.
If she was dead, West was going to jail. If she was alive, he was going to kill her himself.
Okay, probably not, but he did want a moment with her. One that…well, he didn’t know. Maybe he’d just pull her into his arms, hold on, and wait for his heart to shift down to DEFCON 2 or maybe just 3.
The boat hit a wave and went airborne. West didn’t slow down. The bow slammed back into the water—a jarring impact that rattled his teeth. Salt spray hit his face. The wind tore at his hair.
Britta was somewhere out there—dead or alive, taken or hiding—beyond his reach.
And that was unacceptable.
York’s words kept replaying in West’s head: I know what it’s like to love a woman who’s in constant danger.
Love.
Nope. Except…West had told himself the kiss was simple attraction.
Chemistry. Three days of proximity and adrenaline.
Stockholm syndrome. Clients developed feelings for their protectors all the time.
Stockholm syndrome in reverse. It didn’t mean anything.
It would fade once she was back with her father, back in her real life, back where she belonged.
As for him…yeah, the terror that had seized him when he found the empty cabin—that hadn’t been professional concern.
That had been something far more dangerous.
His mind supplied worst-case scenarios on a loop: Britta taken by Martin’s operatives while West had been distracted. Britta drowning trying to swim to shore in the dark, exhausting water. Britta turning up somewhere without him, no way to know if she was safe.
That last one would almost be a relief.
Lights from the coastline reflected on the dark water. West adjusted course—heading for the marina, the closest dock, anywhere he could tie off and start searching.
What kind of idiot let the president’s daughter climb out a cabin window?
The marina appeared ahead. West cut the engine. Let momentum carry him to the dock. The boat bumped against the wood—too hard, too fast. He grabbed the railing before the hull could grind into the pilings and damage Hawkeye’s boat.
Then he jumped onto the dock and tied off the bow, then the stern.
The phone was gone—maybe she’d taken it—so he had no way to call Ham. No way to coordinate a search. No way to confirm whether Britta was safe or taken or dead.
A motor sounded behind him.
West spun, hand going to his hip—no weapon, still shirtless, still useless.
York’s powerboat cut through the water. Pulled up to the dock.
“West!” York killed the engine. “We found her.”
The words hit like a physical blow, took out his breath.
“Get in!”
West jumped into the boat. York hit the throttle before West even sat down. West caught himself on the console. His breathing stopped. Then restarted.
“Where?” His voice came out rough. Raw.
“Bahama Mama Resort. She’s with Imani, Fraser and Pippa Marshall.” York’s gaze stayed on the water ahead. Navigating through the dark. “She’s safe.”
Safe.
The word—warm, overwhelming, weakening—settled in West’s chest even as he collapsed onto the bench seat, then ignited into fury.
“What was she thinking? She climbed out the cabin window and into the ocean and thank God she didn’t get caught by a rip current or worse—she’d be halfway to the Gulf Stream, shark bait.”
York stood at the helm, his mouth tight.
And then it hit him.
She must have overheard the conversation.
Heard him agree to bring her in.
So she’d decided to run instead of trusting him. Instead of letting him explain. Instead of giving him five minutes to tell her he was trying to keep her alive.
West’s hands fisted. “She could have been taken.” His voice came out flat. Dead. “While she was swimming. While she was vulnerable. They could have grabbed her and I wouldn’t have known until—”
“But they didn’t.” York glanced at him. “She made it to shore. Fraser found her. She’s safe.”
“She got lucky.”
“Or God protected her.”
West stared at the lights of the shoreline as York drove them to the north side of the island. The Bahama Mama Resort appeared ahead. Lights blazing over the white sand, a large harbor bay for private boats. York pulled up to the private dock.
West was out before the boat stopped moving. His feet hit the dock. He ran.
Through the side entrance. Across the lobby. Marble floors. Crystal chandeliers. People staring as a shirtless, barefoot man sprinted past.
West didn’t care. Didn’t slow down.
He spotted Fraser standing outside a room on the second floor.
West hit the stairs. Took them two at a time.
Fraser held out his hand to stop him as he thundered down the exterior landing. “Calm down. She’s safe.”
“She swam to shore.” West’s voice echoed in the open-air corridor. “Alone. In the dark. She could have drowned.”
“But she didn’t.”
“She could have been taken. Martin’s people could have grabbed her.”
“But they didn’t.”
Fraser met his eyes, his own dark.
It had the effect of a cold wash over West.
He swallowed, bent over, and grabbed his knees.
“You might want to put a shirt on,” Fraser said.
West looked up. Fraser glanced over at another man and nodded to him. The man headed down the hallway into a room. West stood up.
“She showed up about an hour ago, soggy, upset.”
“You know how far out we were? Far. A mile, maybe two.”
Fraser nodded, glanced down the hallway, then back to West.
West spotted York quick-walking through the courtyard below.
Fraser’s man appeared and handed West a button-down oxford. Ho-kay. West pulled it on, buttoned it up. “Am I going to prom?”
“Britta is with Her Highness Princess Imani of Lauchtenland,” Fraser said. “You need to be properly attired.” He glanced at West’s shorts, sighed. “This’ll have to do.”
“You’re darn right. Let me in.”
Fraser gave him a look.
West swallowed. “Please.”
Fraser nodded and knocked on the door. A woman answered, glanced at Fraser, then opened the door wide.
Britta sat on the couch wearing borrowed clothes—leggings, a T-shirt, a blue hoodie that only deepened her eyes. Her hair hung in damp waves around her face. A scrape marked her shoulder. Dark circles shadowed her eyes.
But alive. Whole. Safe.
He couldn’t move, his pulse hammering.
Then she looked up and she physically stiffened.
Their eyes locked.
Everything West wanted to say—every word, every accusation, every confession—jammed in his throat.
He crossed the room in three strides.
Pippa followed him. “West—”
He ignored her and stopped in front of Britta. Oh, he wanted to reach for her, pull her up to himself. But she swallowed and for a second looked—afraid?
Oh. No. Never. Not of him. He blew out a breath, closed his eyes, then opened them and schooled his voice. “Can we talk?”
The woman next to her—yes, he recognized Princess Imani—reached out to take Britta’s hand. “You don’t have to go.”
“It’s fine,” Britta said, and stood. “Balcony.” She gestured to the sliding door that overlooked the ocean on the other side of the suite.
Right. Privacy.
He followed her, his words gone.
She opened the balcony door. The night air rushed in—soft, salt-scented, carrying the sound of the waves below. Britta stepped out and he followed her.
Closed the door.
The balcony was small. Secluded. Just them and the darkness and the ocean stretching out forever.
Britta stood, her back to him, arms resting on the railing. Sighed.
He found the words. “Do you have any idea—” He stopped. Took a breath. Another. “Do you not understand the danger?”
“I’m not a child,” she said into the wind.
“Then stop acting like one!” The words tore out louder than he intended. “You swam to shore. Alone. In the dark. You could have drowned. You could have been taken. You could have—”
“I’m sorry.”
He stilled. What?
She turned to him, and clearly she’d been crying, because her cheeks burned red in the light. “I’m sorry I caused you so much trouble.”
He had nothing. He managed to shake his head. “No, Britta—”
“Yes. From the moment you saw me at the airport, you’ve been trying to protect me and…I guess I thought I could trust you.”
He blinked at that. “You can trust me.”
She drew in a breath, met his eyes.
No words, but the accusation hit like a blade between his ribs. “You heard.”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “I heard you agree to hand me over. After I…” She stopped. Looked away. She drew a shaky breath and swallowed.
After she’d kissed him. After she’d made herself vulnerable.
West shook his head. “I was trying to keep you safe.”
“By making decisions for me? Without asking what I wanted?”
“The Russian Bratva wants you dead!”
Oh, he hadn’t meant to raise his voice quite so much. Especially when she recoiled.
Britta’s face went pale. “Why?”