Under the Surface. Kira Sinclair
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his arms over his chest, Jackson leaned against a low railing and settled in to wait. This was something he was comfortable with, trained to withstand the kind of boredom that could drive most men crazy.
He watched the ships coming and going from the marina so that anyone who noticed him would just assume he was a tourist taking in the native color. But he never lost sight of Lancaster’s ship.
Luckily, his wait wasn’t very long. An hour later Loralei emerged, Brian still glued to her side.
She kept her head high and her focus squarely in front of her. Brian’s mouth moved, but Jackson couldn’t hear what the man said. Not that it particularly mattered. Loralei was either bored or unimpressed because she didn’t bother responding. Her mouth was pulled into a tight line and her body strung with tension.
Her long black hair swirled in the soft breeze blowing off the water. For some reason he’d expected her eyes to be deep brown, but as she drew nearer Jackson realized they were actually a pale green. Like her father’s.
It was about the only resemblance he found between the bear of a man with red-tinged skin permanently burned from too many years in the sun and harsh sea air, and the woman striding ever closer.
Jackson didn’t bother moving as they drew even. Both of them were absorbed. Brian didn’t notice him at all.
Loralei’s gaze, though, brushed over him. And lingered. Not on his face, but on his body. He knew what she saw. He’d spent years honing his form into the weapon he needed it to be. He depended on strength and mobility to get the job done.
He was used to women noticing him. And he had to admit, the danger and secrecy of being a SEAL helped build a reputation many women found appealing. Over the years Jackson had been happy to take advantage of that job perk.
It had been months since he’d had the time to indulge, though. All his focus and energy had been going into opening Trident, building a reputation and client list, and gathering the research and capital to fund this search for the Chimera.
It irritated him that Loralei Lancaster stirred to life the first hint of awareness he’d felt in eighteen months.
Apparently, his dick didn’t feel like being picky. Good thing his brain had better sense.
Her perusal only lasted a few moments, enough time for her to walk past him and then it was gone. But the sensation she’d awakened lingered, an unwanted buzz beneath his skin.
Clamping his fingers around the railing, Jackson forced himself not to turn and watch her walk away. There was no point. He knew exactly where to find her.
* * *
LORALEI NEEDED A DRINK. Or several. Yep, definitely several of those pretty orange and pink things every restaurant and bar seemed to offer. Fruity concoctions with enough alcohol to help her forget that tomorrow she would be on a ship surrounded by nothing but ocean.
God, she wished Melody was here. Her best friend had offered to come, but she couldn’t get the time off. Melody was about the only person who knew of Loralei’s phobia. She supposed it wasn’t that important to keep it a secret, but she didn’t like weakness—especially in herself. And it was difficult to look at her fear as anything but that. Over the years she’d tried to logic herself out of the irrational reaction, but nothing seemed to work.
Melody had discovered the truth by accident several years into their friendship. Even then, Loralei had been reluctant to admit the extent of her phobia until her friend had backed her into a corner, unwilling to accept her lies.
She didn’t bother changing clothes before heading down to the bar attached to the hotel. She wasn’t in the market to get picked up so she didn’t care if her makeup was smudged and her clothes wrinkled after a long day of traveling.
She honestly didn’t care about anything aside from settling her nerves.
Walking across the plush carpet, she let the dim light and soft sounds wash over her. If not for the calypso music and beach-chic decor, she might have been able to convince herself she was home in Chicago, which is where she’d much rather be, instead of on a Caribbean island.
Sliding into a booth in the far corner, she placed her order and then drilled her fingers into the table while she waited for it to be delivered. She should probably order food, too, but she didn’t. Maybe in a bit, when her stomach stopped churning.
Her waitress dropped a heavy margarita glass onto a tiny white napkin and then slipped away. Loralei brought the drink to her lips and sipped, closing her eyes in pleasure as the fruity taste of it exploded across her tongue. Pineapple, strawberries, possibly mango.
When she opened her eyes again a man stood at the end of her table watching her. She started. The slushy contents of her glass rocked over the edge, sliding thickly down the angled curve to pool on her fingers.
With a frown, Loralei switched hands, brought her fingers to her mouth and sucked.
The man groaned low in his throat. Uneasiness crawled up to settle right between her shoulder blades.
“Do you mind if I sit?” he asked, folding his body in half before he’d finished the question.
“Yes, I do mind. Nothing personal, but I’m not looking for company.”
His body stalled, shock crossing his face for the briefest moment before it was gone again. She supposed he was the kind of guy who didn’t hear the word no often. He was handsome enough in a professional kind of way. Probably on vacation. Possibly with a wife upstairs.
A smarmy smile replaced his startled expression, as if he expected she would change her mind at any moment.
Something about this guy made her seriously uncomfortable. And that was saying something considering the emotional turmoil she’d already been struggling with.
At least he straightened, keeping his rear from occupying the seat opposite her. “Let me buy you another drink.”
“Nope, I just got this one and I plan on nursing it for a while.”
She hadn’t been, but what was a little white lie in the grand scheme of things? Nothing if it kept his guy away from her.
Out of the corner of her eye, Loralei watched a man she’d noticed on the docks stalk across the bar. Over her admirer’s shoulder, she saw him walking in their direction.
Now he was gorgeous in a blond-surf-god kind of way. Tall, if she had to guess, several inches over six feet. Being five-ten she was used to looking most men in the eye. But not him.
If she’d been here to pick up someone, he definitely would have been on her list of prospects. Tall and muscular. The kind of guy whose mere presence commanded attention.
Yummy on a stick, as Melody would say.
He was wearing a pair of khaki shorts with about a million pockets sewn up and down the thighs. A pale blue polo stretched taut across his broad chest, the soft material doing little to conceal the swell of pecks and dip of abs. He hadn’t bothered to fasten the three tiny buttons, and she could see a dusting of pale blond hair that swept across his chest.
The color perfectly matched the honey-toned, tousled hair on his head, which looked as if he, the wind or some red-lipped siren had just been ruffling through it.
Loralei’s mouth went dry. Bringing the glass she still held to her lips, she gulped down a huge swallow of the slushy goodness to try to relieve the pressure. It didn’t quite work.
Especially when she realized the bronzed god was heading straight for her and not to one of the nearby tables.
She barely had time for a full breath before he was pushing the guy she’d completely forgotten out of the way.
“Excuse me,” he said, drawing close to her.
Leaning down, he brushed his mouth against hers, warm and soft. All Loralei could do was sit there and stare up at him.