The bikini she put on should be illegal.
“Why is that in her wardrobe?” Bones asked abruptly but Voodoo just grinned.
“Because I knew she’d look fucking fantastic in it.”
He wasn’t wrong, it was damn near the same blue as her eyes and the silky triangles barely covered her anywhere. It was probably good she did laser treatments or wax or whatever it was she’d told us about, because the one at her groin wouldn’t have hidden a single curl.
Now I kind of wondered what the all natural look would be like for her. Maybe I could tempt her into growing it out just to tease me.
Shaking off that distracting thought, I split my attention between Grace sliding on the strappy-heeled sandals and watching as Dvorak put a phone to his ear. Another man had come up on deck, but he was bringing Dvorak another drink and it looked like something to eat.
Maybe a guard. Maybe not. But definitely an employee.
Grace grabbed a beach tote from her bag and shuffled some stuff over. “Okay, good to go and the taser is loaded just in case.”
Lunchbox barked a laugh. “That’s our girl.”
Bones muttered something under his breath that I was almost sure approximated, “I’m going to lose my mind.”
Grace leaned up to kiss his cheek, and whispered, “I’ll be good.”
Bones did not believe her. None of us did. But she would be effective.
I pulled the dock schematics up on the laptop and tossed a waterproof comm to Lunchbox. “Your best angle is the rear swim deck. Cameras loop for the next twelve minutes.”
Lunchbox took the comm, rolling his neck like he was prepping for a prize fight. “Copy that.”
Bones shot us all a look, his expression blanking as he went into “go” mode. “Let’s move.”
The team scattered—Bones to the overlook, Lunchbox toward the back pathway, Voodoo toward the seawall, and Grace heading for the dock gates.
I stayed in the car with the wifi and the air conditioning, monitoring feeds and updating the team. Goblin stuck his head through the seats for a pet and I scratched him between his ears.
“I know buddy, we’re in wait mode again.”
Miami sun glared off the water. Waves lapped the hull of the yacht and Yakov Dvorak lounged like he owned the world. Not for long.
Not when Grace hit the dock like she’d been born to it.
I mean—she kind of had. She walked with confidence, and a kind of sensuous purpose that made people take notice. Her sensuality was so natural, though, none of it feigned. But this? This was a whole different level.
That bikini threatened to end a lot of lives today. I appreciated my various camera angles so I could watch her, watch her back, and on the people around her. She—well, she was always going to be the best damn part of my job.
Her hips rolled with an effortless sway, sun catching on her skin like she’d been brushed in gold, that tiny blue bikini moving like it had signed some kind of legal agreement not to slip even a millimeter.
“Jesus Christ,” Voodoo muttered over comms from his dock vantage. “She looks like trouble wrapped in sunshine.”
“Sheistrouble wrapped in sunshine,” Lunchbox said, smug as hell, somewhere in the water as he moved toward the stern. “Our trouble.”
Bones’ voice came in low, controlled, already on edge. “Three men approaching from starboard pier. All ogling. If one of them even tries to talk to her?—”
“Something-something violence?” I supplied.
“Exactly,” he growled.
Grace kept strolling.
Every yacht crew member in a twenty-yard radius forgot how to do their jobs. A deckhand dropped a coil of rope. A captain almost tripped over his own feet. Two dudes in board shorts actually walked into each other head-first.
