“What do you mean it isn’t available?” Julien demanded angrily. She couldn’t recall ever seeing him lose his temper before, but he clearly was about to do so. He, too, must haverealized that the guy was lying and refusing to rent to them because of who they were. Julien’s dark eyes were narrowed to pinpricks, and his mouth had curved into an ugly sneer. “We had a deal.”
“Not with me, you didn’t.” The man hadn’t moved an inch. There was nothing combative in his stance, but the threat was there all the same.Don’t fuck with me.
Annie picked up on it, even if Julien didn’t. She knew that despite the idyllic look of some of these harbors, some hid a booming illegal drug trade. Was Island Charters a cover? And if so, was he the muscle? It wouldn’t surprise her; he had dangerous written all over him. Nor would it surprise her that Jean Paul would have hired a less-than-reputable charter company. What they were doing would be much easier without someone asking a lot of questions.
“Come on, Julien. Let’s go,” she said, pulling him away. “There’s obviously been a mistake.”
Julien looked as though he was going to argue, but maybe her pleas gave him the excuse to back off without losing face. Although in a contest between the two... there wouldn’t be one.
Julien slid his arm around her waist and drew her against him protectively. But before they turned around to go, he had to get in one last comment. “Your boss is going to hear about this.”
Three
Fucking douche bag.
The man the locals knew as Dan Warren watched the two protesters walk away, glad to see them go. For a minute he thought—maybe even hoped—that the feisty little American whose hand had landed in his lap the night before was going to argue with him. And even though do-gooder, antimilitary, idealistic graduate students weren’t exactly high on his list, sexy, dark-haired, green-eyed, full-mouthedVampire Diarieschick look-alikes—with the killer body to go along with the rest—definitely were. He could still feel the heat of her hand on him. The speed of his body’s reaction was a painful reminder that he’d neglected certain areas for too long.
The instant attraction had been as surprising as it had been unwelcome—especially after that “machine” comment.
He’d noticed her the moment she walked in. Hell, every straight man in the bar had noticed her. Long, wavy dark hair, big green eyes, flawless suntanned skin, sultry red mouth, and the previously mentioned killer body. Tight ass, long legs, and a good-sized rack—a winning trifecta in his book.
But he’d quickly lost interest when he realized she was with the protest group—and the French guy. Until she’d mentioned that damned article. And her boyfriend and his friends had started in on the “hired killer” crap. He might haveappreciated her defense a little more were it not for the “programmed machine too brainwashed—and stupid—to realize what they were doing” angle.
The last thing he wanted to hear was some clueless academic giving his or her point of view on what others did. On what othersdiedfor, damn it.
But what the hell was she doing with a little turd like that? Dan didn’t like the looks of him—Julien(talk about a “take my lunch money” name)—and not just because he was French. Although that certainly didn’t hurt. He didn’t usually rely on stereotypes—unless they happened to fit. Dan was good at sizing up people, and everything about that guy rubbed him the wrong way.
He knew the type too well. Smug and condescending, Julien thought culture and education only existed in smooth-talking, upper-crust circles populated by people who liked to hear themselves talk and thought they were smart because they could quote Kierkegaard or listened to opera.
Dan had learned far more working in the real world. He had no use for passive, pretentious pseudointellectuals who probably couldn’t tell north from south on a compass and did nothing for all the freedom they took for granted and let others defend. A jackass like Julien would be the last person Dan would want in his lifeboat when the shit hit the fan, but God knows the little prick would be the first one to knock everyone out of the way to get in.
He wondered what Julien and his buddies were up to. But it wasn’t any of his business. And minding his business was exactly what “Dan” was going to do.
Even if it was driving him fucking crazy.
But he was still pissed off. Probably because the douche bag had gotten the last word—and guessed correctly that Dan was taking orders.
Julienwas right. The boss wasn’t going to be happy.
Which was confirmed a short while later when Malcolm MacDonald yelled down the hatch to the engine room, where Dan was working, for him to come up.
The man the locals referred to as “Old MacDonald”—youcouldn’t make this shit up—had spent the better part of his sixty-eight years at sea as a fisherman. It was a tough life, and he wore the hardships of it on his face. Grizzled, about a hundred bills overweight—most of it in his gut—and rarely without a cigarette hanging from his mouth, in between coughing fits that made Dan think Old MacDonald would be buying the farm before he saw the other side of seventy, he conversed in grunts, curses, and glowers. Usually.
“You want to explain why I just got off the phone with an angry customer who said you refused to take them on the charter I told you about?”
Dan shrugged. “The guy was an asshole.”
MacDonald exploded. “An asshole who was about to pay two thousand pounds cash for less than two days’ work!”
Dan’s eyes narrowed. “That’s a lot of money. I told you I wouldn’t run drugs for you.”
It had been his one stipulation. What MacDonald did on his own time to make ends meet, he wouldn’t ask. The old guy’s less-than-stellar reputation in town had been one of the reasons Dan had sought him out for employment. People engaged in less-than-legal activity tended not to ask too many questions.
MacDonald’s gaze narrowed right back at him. “Who said anything about drugs? They want a ride out to the drillship.”
“Why?” Dan could think of a handful of reasons—none of which were good.
What was the feisty little American messed up in?
