Breakwater

18

As he led Quinn back across the lawn, Huck was relieved no one joined them. He was thinking that one more word out of her and she’d have everyone pissed off, and someone would start shooting. Then he’d have to blow his cover and say he was a deputy U.S. marshal and get her safely away.

He didn’t need a shivering kayaker poking around in his investigation.

Not that she was just some black-haired, slim and sexy yahoo out for the afternoon. He wasn’t that lucky. Nope. His kayaker had to be Quinn Harlowe, an expert in transnational crime who had recently worked for the Justice Department and the best friend of Breakwater Security’s owner.

For all Huck knew, she was more familiar with his psycho vigilantes and how they operated than he was.

Whose side was she on?

If a vigilante mercenary ring was using Breakwater Security as a front for smuggling weapons and training a private army-helping murderers escape custody-Gerard Lattimore would look bad, even if he wasn’t involved. He and Oliver Crawford were friends. It wouldn’t matter what either man knew. Appearances were everything in Washington.

Quinn, too, could get burned.

Not your problem.

“You’re in no shape to kayak back to your cottage,” Huck told her. “We can grab your boat and throw it in the back of my Rover.”

He could see her stiffen, her eyes, red-rimmed and puffy from fatigue and grief, focused on something in front of her, determinedly not focused on him. “That’s not necessary. It’s just cold. There’s no fog or thunder and lightning. No rain. Not like Monday. I’ll be fine.”

She shot ahead of him, jumping over the barbed-wire fence. She picked up her kayak by a short line tied to the bow and started dragging it toward the water, her soaked shoes sinking into the sand.

Huck remained on the other side of the fence. “You’re already a candidate for hypothermia.”

She dropped the kayak and put her hands on her hips, then, heaving a sigh, let them drop to her sides. “All right. You win. If I get into trouble out there, I don’t know if I’d have the energy to blow my whistle. And Buddy Jones would tack my picture up on the bulletin board behind his front desk as a warning to others. He thinks most of us kayakers are idiots.”

“Buddy Jones is-”

“The owner of the shabby little motel on the loop road.” She raised her eyes. “I’m sure you’ve seen him on your runs.”

Diego’s motel. Huck didn’t react. “I’ve only been in town a few days.”

“You stopped there on Monday before the bad storms hit. You chatted for a couple of minutes with a fisherman named Diego Clemente. He was having a cigarette.”

For two cents, Huck thought, he’d shove Quinn Harlowe’s butt into the back of his Land Rover and drive her to Nate Winter and have him put her in protective custody. Or some kind of custody.

Better yet, he’d leave her with Diego and let him deal with her.

Since he didn’t know what role, if any, she had with Breakwater-since he didn’t know if she’d been on the straight and narrow about her friend’s death and had nothing to hide-Huck put one foot on the barbed wire and pressed it down. “Coming?”

“I’m almost certain this Clemente character is the one who phoned in the anonymous tip about Alicia’s car.”

Sweet pea, Huck thought, you’re lucky I’m not wired, because if Diego were listening in, he’d be on his way.

He kept his foot steady on the barbed wire. “I’m not surprised. These fishermen can see things from their boats that other people might miss.” Especially with high-powered binoculars and night-vision equipment. “Why don’t you leave your kayak. I’ll bring it by your cottage later.”

“I think our Special Agent Kowalski should talk to this Clemente character, don’t you?”

“I don’t tell the feds what to do.”

She shrugged. “They don’t intimidate me.”

Huck wished to hell they did. But he found himself almost smiling. Traumatized and half-frozen, Quinn still was paying attention to details, processing, analyzing, thinking. The woman had guts.

She glanced down at her kayak, then let her shoulders slump as she muttered something under her breath. Leaving her boat behind, she walked back to the fence. “If you all can hold on to my kayak, I’ll stop by and get it when I come back down here.”

“Don’t want to give me the key to your shed?”

“No, I really don’t.” She smiled. “No offense.”

As far as Huck was concerned, her reluctance to give him the key demonstrated that some of the shock of her friend’s death was easing and she was thinking more clearly.

It was a big step for Quinn to get over the barbed-wire fence, but instead of putting a hand on his shoulder to balance herself, she reached to her right and held on to a fence post that was about eight inches too far away.

Huck could see she was tilted too far to the right but said nothing.

She got her left leg over the barbed-wire fine, then lost it with her right leg and plunged directly into him. He caught her around the waist, breaking her fall, and set her on the wet grass. She didn’t weigh anything, but she was fit.

He grinned at her. “Your stubbornness just cost you, didn’t it? If you’d just hung on to my shoulder-”

“I wasn’t being stubborn. I’m tired. That’s all.”

“Uh-huh.”

She changed the subject. “What did you do before you became a bodyguard? Were you in the military? Law enforcement?”

“I played a lot of video games.”

With a skeptical look, she started back across the lawn. She didn’t seem quite as distracted. He got a step ahead of her, leading her to the gravel parking area near the converted barn. When he pointed at his Rover, she opened the passenger door and took a step backward, as if she’d been bit.

Looking over her shoulder, Huck noted his locked gun box in back, his bulletproof vest, various holsters and other gear a well-equipped law enforcement officer or private security expert would need.

Blue-lipped and pale, Quinn gestured at the stuff. “Your personal equipment?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He reached past her and grabbed a fleece pullover, handing it to her. “Put it on before you freeze.”

She nodded and mumbled a thank-you. The fleece made her look even smaller, but Huck reminded himself not to underestimate this woman. He walked around to the driver’s side, wondering what he’d do if he were Quinn Harlowe. Get in the Rover or make a break for it?

She got in. “The fleece’ll help,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

“You really are in the early stages of hypothermia, you know.”

“I’ll warm up fast.” She seemed to shrink into the fleece. “I apologize if I’ve seemed curt or ungrateful. You’ve been very decent.”

“Decent, huh?” He gave her a mock shudder. “I’ll have to work on that.”

She smiled a little. “You have a sense of humor. It must help in your work.”

Huck pulled the Rover onto the paved driveway, waving at Travis Lubec, looking as mean as ever in front of an azalea not quite in bloom.

When they reached the narrow road that led back to the village, Quinn wasn’t looking as frozen. She had her hands up inside the fleece’s sleeves. Its dark sage green seem to bring out the mix of colors in her pretty, hazel eyes.

But she wasn’t ready to stand down. “Did you have anything to do with Oliver Crawford’s rescue last year?”

“No.”

“Have you done anything like that yourself? Rescued people?”

He remembered what was on his Breakwater résumé. “Vern and I did a few things in Venezuela.”

“Really? When?”

“Over the winter.”

“I was at Justice until January. I know a bit about Latin American kidnappings.”

That would figure, Huck thought. “Sweet pea, the people Vern and I rescued didn’t want the U.S. Department of Justice knowing what had gone down. It’s over. The way I live, last winter’s ancient history.”

“What have you been doing since?”

“Looking for work.”

“So,” she said, “basically you’re a mercenary.”

Suddenly, Huck didn’t want to lie to her. He’d been lying to everyone for months, for good reason, but the constant deception took its toll.

Yet, he couldn’t tell her the truth.

“Yeah. Basically I am.”

He parked behind her Saab. The temperature had dropped farther, with just a few rays of sunlight breaking through the gray clouds pushing in from the west. Quinn started to take off the fleece, but Huck touched her upper arm. “Keep it. You can return it another time.”

“Thank you for your help.”

“Anytime.”

He got out of the Rover and followed her to her side door. Yesterday, he’d paid very little attention to the cottage. She’d obviously worked hard on it, kept it fun-nothing about the place was uptight, especially for a woman whose job it was to assess and analyze international criminal networks and the threats they presented.

“How long have you owned your cottage?” he asked her.

“About two years. I love it.” She turned into the wind, looking out at the cove, the water gray now under the clouds. “Even after yesterday.”

“That’s good.”

“Breakwater-it’s the most beautiful spot, isn’t it? And yet now…” She kept her gaze on the water, not looking at him directly. “It was strange seeing all you bodyguard types among the lilacs and azaleas.”

“Wait’ll they’re in bloom. We’ll look even more out of place.”

She lifted her eyes to him. “Yesterday couldn’t have been easy for you, either. I hope you get a chance to catch your breath.”

“Rescuing women with borderline hypothermia is kind of relaxing.”

“I wasn’t even close-”

“You were close.”

She held her ground. “And you didn’t rescue me.”

No, he probably hadn’t rescued her. Huck wondered if she knew just how much of a risk she’d taken in coming to Breakwater-and never mind the hypothermia.

“Not that I’m not grateful for the ride,” she added quickly.

When she pushed her door open, he saw that she’d left it unlocked. “Quinn-”

She turned to him. “It’s okay. I forgot. I’ll lock up when I leave.” She smiled, a hint of real amusement in her eyes. “You can relax, Mr. Bodyguard. I’m used to being on my own.”

Her smile, bright against her pale skin, and that spark of humor rocked Huck right to his toes. He’d have to steel himself next time he saw a smile coming his way. “Listen…” He paused, getting his feet back under him. “Oliver Crawford is a charismatic guy and richer than most, but he’s been through his own hell. I don’t know what kind of people he’s bringing into Breakwater Security.”

“Then why are you there?”

“I can handle myself and get out if I need to.”

“If you’re suggesting Crawford is overcorrecting, in a way, after what happened to him, and hiring thugs instead of professionals-okay, point well taken. I’ll be careful.” She smiled again. “I come from a family of reckless people. I’m always careful.”

“Why do I have a feeling your idea of ‘careful’ is different from most people’s?”

“Because I’m standing in my open kitchen door with you right here?”

He tucked a finger under her chin, her skin soft and not quite warm. When she didn’t tell him to go to hell, he let his fingers drift up to her mouth. Her lips were still cold. “Be sure to warm up before you go back to Washington.”

“I will.” Her voice seemed to catch. “Huck-you be careful, too.” She smiled again. “I have a feeling caution isn’t one of your top traits, either.”

“Quinn…”

McCabe-what the devil are you doing?

The woman didn’t even know his real name. But she didn’t move from the threshold of her cute little cottage, and he didn’t resist anymore. He kissed her softly, and his mouth must have felt burning hot against hers. She held on to his upper arm, and when he forced himself to pull away, he saw that some color had returned to her face. He touched his thumb to the pink in her cheek. “I’ll have to remember how best to warm you up. Never mind the ratty old fleece.”

She dropped her hand, clearing her throat, more color rising to her cheeks. “I guess it’s been a weird couple of days for both of us.”

“You can trust me. Remember that, okay?”

She just stared at him.

Before he went any further, Huck returned to his Rover and got back on the road, hoping Quinn would heed all sensible advice and resume her normal activities back in Washington. He had a job to do, and she was one hell of a distraction.