Chapter 3
Stress Management
Emma didn’t hear him arrive.
The back of her neck prickled—a subtle indicator that someone had invaded her space.
Someone large. Someone who took up more than his fair share of the atmosphere.
She glanced up. Zach Steele stood inside the HR suite doorway, silent as stone, sharp eyes scanning the room the way soldiers did when entering unfamiliar territory: cataloging exits, obstacles, people.
His gaze swept once across the filing cabinets, Morgan’s workstation, the bulletin board with the staff birthday calendar, before settling back on her.
His attention locked on her, eyes the color of winter mornings. Unsettlingly direct.
She’d met him months ago, of course, when she was promoted, but she’d been too worried about Lena then to notice much about him other than his size.
Zach wasn’t just tall; he was built—solid from years of physical discipline, not gym vanity. His shoulders filled the door frame, but without the swagger some men adopted. His tactical security shirt fit well enough to suggest someone knew his exact measurements.
Morgan looked up from her desk, undoubtedly feeling the weight of his presence. “Uh… hi.”
He gave her a brief nod—polite, economical—but his eyes didn’t waver from Emma as he prowled into the room with no wasted energy. No shuffle or hesitation. Only controlled, deliberate motion that suggested a man accustomed to calculating every step before he took it.
“We have a problem with one of your hires.”
Emma folded her arms—not defensively, just anchored—and raised a brow. “Well, good morning to you, too.” She gestured toward the small conference table near the window. “Which one?”
Zach’s focus drifted to the tray on the counter beside Morgan’s desk where a half-empty loaf pan emitted the luscious smell of warm banana bread.
Morgan followed his gaze. “Emma baked, if you'd like some.”
“Stress management,” Emma offered dryly.
Zach crossed the room in three strides, cut a slice, and took a bite.
Emma studied his face as he chewed—all masculine angles with a nose that looked like it had been broken. His expression didn’t change, but she detected the faintest lift of one eyebrow. Approval. Subtle, but unmistakable.
The slice vanished rapidly.
He had good hands. Strong, scarred along the knuckles, nails trimmed short. The hands of someone who worked with them. Built things. Or broke things. Rolled-up sleeves revealed forearms corded with muscle and marked with a few pale scars.
“Luis Navarro,” he said, wiping his fingers on a paper napkin Morgan silently offered. “Groundskeeping.”
He placed a printed report on the table between them, pages clipped together, several sections marked with hard, precise strokes of red ink. The handwriting—his, she assumed—was small, neat, uncompromising.
Emma picked it up, scanning quickly. Her pulse quickened as she processed the information.
“Navarro came through a regional subcontractor Gail found,” she said. “Standard procedure.”
“The ID used for clearance doesn’t match the biometric records pulled during orientation.”
Emma’s gaze sharpened as she reviewed the data again, cross-referencing dates and codes automatically. That wasn’t good.
“This passed third-party verification last week,” she pointed out, frowning slightly.
“Your third party missed something.”
Emma lifted her head, meeting those slate eyes directly.
Up close, she could see the color was a mix of blue and gray, and tiny lines creased the corners—laugh lines on someone else.
She doubted this man laughed often. More likely the result of squinting into too many hostile suns.
A small scar bisected his left eyebrow. Another along his jawline, barely visible beneath the stubble that implied he hadn’t found time to shave this morning.
He’d been in the field. Wherever that field had been.
Something about the way he stood—weight balanced, hands loose at his sides, utterly still—told her he could move very, very fast if he needed to.
“I’m sure that’s possible,” she replied evenly. “However, marching into my department assuming incompetence isn’t the best way to start a conversation.”
“I’m not assuming anything.” His voice was low, rough-edged. The kind that didn’t rise even when delivering bad news. “I’m identifying a problem.”
“And we’ll verify it through the proper channels before any action is taken.” Emma kept her tone calm and deliberate, the way she did when dealing with men who mistook volume for authority. “No one benefits if we escalate every discrepancy into a crisis.”
Morgan shifted in her chair behind them, doubtless sensing the rising pressure in the room. Emma glanced over at her with a raised brow and a slight nod. Morgan nodded and turned to her computer. Secondary verification started.
She returned her focus to Zach.
The air between them tightened.
Emma met his eyes. Watched the muscle tick once in his jaw. Noticed the way his shoulders stayed level, his breathing even. He wasn’t angry or upset. Just… immoveable.
It should have been irritating.
It was irritating.
There was also something oddly compelling about it. About him. Not in the easy, surface way she might acknowledge an attractive man in passing. This was different. Deeper. The uncomfortable recognition that Zach Steele wasn’t just physically imposing or professionally competent.
He was present, in a way most people weren’t, filling the room like a low-frequency hum she could feel more than hear.
His eyes sharpened. “He hasn’t shown up at his bunk in two nights.”
That gave her pause. Emma laid the report down. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Did you check with the subcontractor?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“No response.”
Emma exhaled to a count of three, forcing herself to stay measured as her mind began connecting dots she really didn't want to connect.
“Someone else is missing. Javier Ramos. He was due on the 3 pm boat yesterday. His duffle arrived without him.” She rubbed her temples as she spoke. “Javier dropped his bag off, said he’d forgotten something, and ran home to get it. He never returned.”
Zach’s eyes narrowed, and he stepped forward. “What department?”
“Housekeeping.”
His jaw clenched enough for her to catch. Enough to tell her he didn’t like what he was hearing.
“We’ll investigate Navarro,” she said. “Quietly. You check on Javier.”
“If someone is using false identification inside this site—”
“I understand the risk,” Emma interrupted gently but firmly.
She leaned in, closing some of the space between them, making sure he heard her.
“What I’m asking is we handle it in a way that doesn’t destabilize the entire staff before we even confirm there’s an issue.
Remember, this is the Caribbean, not the US. Things work a little differently here.”
For a moment, neither of them moved.
He stood close enough now that she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. Emma caught a faint trace of soap and coffee from him, and something else underneath—woodsy.
Close enough that she registered, with uncomfortable clarity, how solid he was. How warm. How totally, frustratingly certain of himself.
And—damn it—how his certainty was… not altogether unappealing.
“Well,” Nick's smooth baritone interrupted their stalemate. “I see you all are starting early.”
Emma glanced over, expression neutral, unexpectedly grateful for the interruption.
Nick leaned against the doorframe, tablet tucked under his arm, taking in the scene with the calm assessment of someone accustomed to situations precisely like this one.
“I came to give you the updated vendor schedule,” he held up the tablet. “But clearly I’ve interrupted something important.”
“Security discrepancies,” Zach said flatly.
“Background verification question.” Emma corrected, shooting him a pointed look.
Nick stepped into the room, accepting the report Zach handed him and skimming it rapidly, his expression shifting from casual to focused in seconds. “Emma?”
“Morgan has already started re-running Navarro’s verification.”
“Zach, hold off on escalating until they confirm the discrepancy.”
Zach’s eyes flicked to Emma—a look she couldn’t quite read, but landed somewhere between acknowledgement and challenge—then back to Nick. A single, curt nod.
Nick handed Emma the tablet. “Also, the province inspection meeting moved to Thursday. I’ll need you there.”
“Of course.”
Nick's eyes flicked once more between them, a hint of amusement gleaming in his eyes—the look of a man who’d seen this dynamic play out before and found it entertaining. “Carry on.”
Zach turned to the door, movements as controlled and economical as when he’d entered.
Nick trailed him, but paused on the threshold. “Emma.” His tone was quiet, meant only for her, but before he continued, Zach cut in.
“Emma.”
She froze. It was the first time he’d used her name, spoken in a rough-edged voice with an undertone of something she couldn’t quite identify. Summons? Request? Something else?
She stepped toward the doorway, keenly aware of Morgan’s wide-eyed regard.
Zach stood a few feet out, hands loose at his sides, steely eyes on hers. Nick stopped between them, looking mildly entertained.
“If Navarro’s records don’t clear,” Zach said, “I need to know immediately. Not through channels. Not through reports.” He paused long enough for the words to land. “Directly.”
It wasn’t a question.
Emma tilted her head as she considered the set of his shoulders, the absolute lack of apology in his tone. The way he stood, certain she’d agree because—in his world—it was the only logical response.
Dammit. He was probably right.
“Either way,” she agreed, her own tone cool but professional, “I’ll let you know.” On her own terms, of course.
His eyes lingered on hers for a second longer, before his expression shifted—not quite approval, but close enough. He gave a brief nod, turned and strode away, footsteps silent.
Nick lingered a moment, eyebrows lifted in a silent question Emma chose not to answer. Then he, too, disappeared down the hallway.
She dropped into her chair, exhaling slowly.
Morgan waited three seconds before speaking.
“Well.”
Emma slumped back, pressing her fingers to her temples. “That man could curdle cream with a look.”
Morgan leaned forward conspiratorially, dark eyes gleaming. “Also… seriously hot.”
“Morgan.”
“I’m just saying.” Morgan grinned, unrepentant. “All that dark, silent, competent thing he has going on? Some women find that—”
“Some women have work to do,” Emma interrupted, but there was no heat in it. Because Morgan wasn’t wrong.
Emma rubbed her temples again, staring down at the report. The disciplined handwriting. The precise red marks. The meticulous documentation of a man who didn’t miss details.
A man who didn’t assume.
A man who knew.
It didn’t sit right. A small, aggravating voice in the back of her mind whispered Zach might be correct about Navarro. That she was being careful when she should be concerned.
Which annoyed her almost as much as the man himself.
She tapped the file once against the table, decision crystallizing.
“Pull everything on Navarro,” she told Morgan. “Biometrics, background, references, the subcontractor’s verification logs. Send it all over to Phoenix, including Zach’s report. They’re his people. Let them sort it.”
Morgan spun back to her keyboard, fingers flying.
Emma scowled toward the door Zach had disappeared through.
The weight of his presence lingered in the room. Her name—uttered in a low, rough voice—echoed in her ears.
Emma.
Like he knew exactly what he was doing when he said it.
Why the conversation got under her skin so swiftly, she couldn’t say, but one thing was already clear.
Zach Steele was going to be a problem. Because he might be right.
About Navarro. About the security issue.
About the fact that something was wrong on this island, and they were only beginning to see the edges of it.