One

STORNOWAY, SCOTLAND

TWO MONTHS LATER

Annie Henderson definitely wasn’t in Kansas anymore. Or Louisiana, for that matter. Edge of the world was more like it.

Seated in the guest house pub (or more accurately, the pub with a few rooms above it) in the small seaport village on the Isle of Lewis—at least she thought it was the Isle of Lewis, but it could be Harris, as the two islands were apparently connected—after three flights, including a harrowing, white-knuckled forty-five-minute ride from hell in a plane not much larger than a bathtub, Annie was feeling a long way from home and distinctly out of her comfort zone.

But that was good, right? Doing something important and making a difference couldn’t be done from her living room couch by getting upset with what she saw on TV. She had to get out there. Do something.

“It will be an adventure,” her boyfriend, Julien, had assured her. “Don’t you want to help? Do you want to see more dead dolphins and seabirds covered in oil?”

The memories brought her up sharp. Of course she didn’t. What she’d seen on the Louisiana shoreline after the BP oil disaster had moved her so deeply it had changed her life. The wide-eyed Tulane freshman who thought she wanted to be a veterinarian had switched her major to environmental science, and after graduating pursued a PhD in marine ecology. When Annie hadn’t been studying, most of her free time was devoted to the ongoing cleanup effort and the attempt to return the local habitat to its natural state.

She never wanted to see anything like that happen again. Which was why she was here. Although initially when Julien and his friends announced plans to go to Scotland to join a protest against North Sea Offshore Drilling’s exploratory drilling west of the Scottish Hebrides, Annie had refused. Activism wasn’t new to her, but it wasn’t like her to follow a man she’d known only a short time four thousand miles away from home to a place she’d never heard of before.

But after Julien had shown her pictures of the white-sand beaches of Eriskay, the rocky promontories and seashores of Lewis, and the giant granite rock outposts in the open waters of the North Atlantic such as Rockall and Stac Lee near St Kilda that served as nesting places for fulmars, gannets, and other seabirds, she knew she wouldn’t be able to enjoy the vacation she’d planned to visit her mother in Key West. So she’d thrown caution to the wind and joined her new boyfriend and his friends.

Just because so far her “adventure” wasn’t exactly what she’d expected didn’t mean she should overreact. She hadn’t made a mistake in coming. So what if she felt a little bit like Dorothy wondering how the heck she’d gotten here? Scotland wasn’t Oz and Jean Paul La Roche wasn’t the Wicked Witch of the West—even if right now they both kind of seemed that way.

She supposed she couldn’t really blame the Islanders for not holding out the welcome mat to the activists who’d descended en masse to the remote island. Oil brought jobs, and the Islanders considered the drilling a local matter. The activists were outsiders—who were they to interfere? But Annie hadn’t expected to feel quite so . . . conspicuous. Which was a nicer way of saying “pariah.” Her group stuck out even in the height of the summer tourist season. The dour, unsmiling locals had turned to stare at them as they entered the bar, and although they’d eventually turned away, it still felt as if their eyes were on her.

But it wasn’t just the locals. The man whom Julien had been so excited for her to meet, his mentor, and the person he spoke of with such reverence she’d half expected the pope to walk in, had been a shock. She didn’t know Jean Paul well enough to dislike him, but her first impression of a weasel or a ferret hadn’t improved any in the two hours since they were introduced. “Bad vibe” was an understatement.

She also didn’t like how he was staring at her. It was as if he was sizing her up for something. Coldly. Mercenarily. In a way that a pimp might size up a prostitute.

It made her uneasy. He made her uneasy.

Julien Bernard, the French graduate student who’d swept her off her feet when she met him two months ago, seemed to have picked up on his former teacher’s disapproval as well. He seemed to be trying to “sell” her to Jean Paul by singing her praises. If he mentioned her “brilliant” PhD dissertation—which was the last thing she wanted to talk about after just defending it—one more time . . .

On cue, Julien said, “Did Annie tell you about her research—”

Annie looked around for a distraction—any distraction—and her eye caught on the headline of a newspaper left behind by the prior occupants of the wooden booth. “Look at this,” she said, holding it up and cutting him off. “The story has made it across the pond.” Did people still say that? She started to read from the article. “The Lost Platoon. Like Rome’s famous lost Ninth Legion, the secret SEAL Team Nine has disappeared into thin air.” Annie put the paper back down on the table. Allegedly the navy didn’t have a SEAL Team Nine, although suspiciously they acknowledged the existence of every other number from one to ten. “I wonder what happened to them.”

“Who cares?” Julien said. He gave her that charming and oh-so-French shrug and raising of the brows that made him look even more like his countryman, the actor Olivier Martinez. She’d always thought Halle Berry’s ex was incredibly sexy and could admit that that might have been what initially had caught her eye at the fund-raiser a couple of months ago. But it had been their shared passion for the environment and horror at the devastation wrought on the Louisiana coastline after the disaster that forged the real bond between them.

“You shouldn’t read that trash, ma belle. It’s all lies and gossip.”

At least it was entertaining. Which was more than she could say about the independent newspapers and political publications that he and his friends devoured. Annie did enough scholarly reading for her research; she didn’t need it for her pleasure reading, too.

Although Julien’s European charm and modern-day beatnik intellectualism were what had drawn her to him—she’d never met anyone who seemed to know so much about everything—he could definitely be a cultural snob sometimes.

She couldn’t help teasing him a little. “I don’t know.” She flipped the paper back to the front. “The Scottish Daily News looks pretty good to me. And they have lots of pictures that make it so much easier to follow along.”

Only Julien realized she wasn’t serious. The others at the table looked alternatively appalled and embarrassed—except for Jean Paul. He looked . . . wicked.

“I’ll get you, my pretty, and your little dog, too!”

Maybe if she tried imagining him with a green face and a pointy hat—he already had the long nose and beady eyes—she would stop thinking about far more nefarious bad guys from Mafia and cartel movies.

No luck. At least a handful of years older than the rest of them, who were all in their mid-twenties, Jean Paul looked like a villain right out of a mob movie, even down to the slicked-back hair, mole, leather jacket, and gold chains.

Men shouldn’t wear bracelets. It should be a rule.

As for the others at the booth, she didn’t really know any of them that well. She’d met Marie, Claude, and Sergio at Julien’s apartment in New Orleans many times before they’d all traveled to Scotland together, but they’d never really welcomed her into their cabal. They weren’t rude or unfriendly, just not inclusive. She took it to be a foreign thing, as they were all international graduate students like Julien, who was also a teaching fellow at the University of New Orleans.

Despite her eight years at Tulane, she hadn’t held that against him for too long.

Julien smiled and shook his head, reaching for her hand to bring it to his mouth. “Forgive me. I was being a little condescending, wasn’t I?”

She gave him a look that said, You think?

He laughed and picked up the paper. “Very well. We will discuss these missing soldiers.”

“SEALs,” she corrected, and then explained at his befuddled expression. “Soldiers are army. In the navy it’s sailor, but SEALs are their own breed.”

“Well, with any luck your SEALs are at the bottom of the ocean somewhere.”

Annie knew that Julien had strong feelings about the US military—some of which she shared—but it wasn’t like him to be so bloodthirsty. She frowned, noticing him sharing a look with Jean Paul. Was that it? Was he trying to impress the other man?

“Don’t you think that’s a little harsh?” she asked him.

Julien would have responded, but Jean Paul spoke first. “Harsh? I’d say it’s justice. SEALs are nothing more than hired killers. Just because the government is their employer does not excuse what they do.” He gave her a pitying look—as if she were either the most naive woman in the world or the most stupid. “Do not tell me you approve of their methods or the shadow wars that they fight? I thought Julien said you went with him to the recent rally to protest military action in Russia after your fighter pilots were caught spying.”

Allegedly spying. Although the “accidentally straying off course” excuse had sounded a little suspect to her as well. The incident had nearly caused war to break out between America and Russia—the situation was still precarious. It was a game of nuclear jeopardy with the two players ready to pounce on the button.

“She did,” Julien said, immediately jumping to her defense.

Though she knew the impulse had been well-intentioned, she didn’t need Julien or anyone else to speak for her. She wasn’t going to let his friend intimidate her. As she didn’t have a bucket of water—the thought made one side of her mouth curve—she looked Jean Paul right in his mobster hit man eyes. “Just because I do not want to see us embroiled in another war does not mean I want to see innocent men killed.”

Jean Paul smiled with so much condescension she was amazed he wasn’t choking on it. Or maybe that was just her wishful thinking.

“I assure you that if there is any truth to that reporter’s story, those men are not innocent. What do you think they were doing when they ‘disappeared’? If it was legitimate, why would your government keep silent? Perhaps they do not acknowledge these men because doing so would expose their illegal activity?”

He had a point, but that didn’t mean that American servicemen should be the ones to pay the price for the government’s failures. “I do not like the shadow wars being fought by our Special Forces in many of the hot spots around the world any more than you do, but that’s because I don’t want to see any more of our servicemen who think they are doing the right thing and are only following orders killed or destroyed by war and a government that has turned them into highly skilled machines who can’t adjust to real life when they return. The psychological toll it takes on them is horrible. War is all these men know how to do. Special Forces like SEALs only have it worse.”

She didn’t realize how passionately—and loudly—she was speaking until she finished and realized that more than just the people at her booth were staring at her.

So much for avoiding the “Loud American” cliché.

She felt the heat of a blush stain her cheeks. Pushing the painful memories of her father away, she filled the uncomfortable silence with a jest. “Anyway, who knows? Maybe Geraldo will have a TV special and get to the bottom of it.”

Unfortunately she forgot that her audience was too young and not American, and her attempt at humor was totally lost in translation.

Her ever-gallant boyfriend tried to help her out. “Geraldo?” He picked up the paper. “But I believe the reporter’s name is Brittany Blake.”

She shook her head, deciding it wasn’t worth explaining the overly hyped TV special on the “secret” vaults of Al Capone that were opened live and contained only a couple of empty bottles. Her father used to joke about it.

In the days when he knew how to laugh.

“It was a bad joke about conspiracy theories,” she said. “Forget it.”

“Ah!” He laughed belatedly.

“You speak very passionately on the subject,” Jean Paul said perceptively.

Oddly he seemed to approve. Not that she cared. Although for Julien’s sake she wished she could like his friend. But she didn’t. She’d felt as if a black cloud had descended over them since he arrived.

In response Annie gave a Gallic shrug that a French-speaking Belgian such as Jean Paul should understand. It was none of his business. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I will find the ladies’ room.”

Making a quick escape, she heard Julien explain behind her, “WC.”

She’d forgotten that Jean Paul hadn’t spent much time in America. She’d learned from Julien that “bathroom” and “ladies’ room” didn’t translate well in Europe.

For a Tuesday night the pub was packed, and Annie had to “excuse me” her way through the crowd of men in front of the bar—there were very few women—as she made her way to the “toilet.” Given the number of locals, she assumed it was a favorite hangout. Although from what she’d seen of the town, the Harbour (with a u) Bar & Guest House probably didn’t have a lot of competition.

She had nearly made it past the long, glossy wooden bar lined with taps of ales and ciders, when the door that she’d been about to go through opened, and she had to step back to avoid being hit. Unfortunately she stumbled over someone’s foot and knocked into—nearly onto—a man who was seated at the end of the bar.

Instinctively she reached out to catch herself before she fell on his lap. One of her hands found his leg, and the other . . .

Wasn’t gripping rock-hard muscle.

“Oof.” The grunt he made gave the location away. Even through the denim of his jeans, she could feel the unmistakable solid bulge of something else. She pulled her hand back as if it—he—were on fire.

Or maybe that was just her. Her cheeks flamed with mortified heat as she hurried to apologize. “I’m so sorry! I tripped and didn’t see . . .”

The man looked up from his hunched position over his beer, and the cold, steely blue eyes that met hers from beneath the edge of his faded blue cap cut off her breath like a sharp icy wind.

Her first thought was how the hell had she missed him? Her second was What did I do?

He was a big guy. Tall—even with him seated on a stool, she still had to look up to meet his gaze—and broad-shouldered, he wore an oversized sweatshirt and puffy down vest that, had she not felt the evidence to the contrary, she might have thought hid a little extra bulk. But that bulk wasn’t fat; it was all muscle.

The guy was built like a tank. Or maybe a prizefighter. Beneath the heavy beard—what was with those anyway?—the face that met hers had the tough, pugnacious masculinity of a Tom Hardy or Channing Tatum. Sexy as hell, but maybe a little too much to handle.

She liked men a little softer. And there was nothing soft about this guy. Not just his body, but the way he was looking at her. It might be the middle of summer, but the iciness emitting from those striking blue eyes made it feel like the dark days of December.

Shiver. She managed not to do that, instead giving him a friendly smile. “I’m sorry again. I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

Which hardly seemed possible, as he was about twice her size.

She expected an immediate denial, a few assurances that it was nothing, and maybe even a return smile. That was what would have happened in any bar in America. In the South it would have been given with a lazy drawl, a charming twinkle, and no doubt a ma’am or darlin’ or two. In New Orleans, it would be “cher” or, as it was pronounced, “sha.”

What she got was a shake of the head and a gruff grunt that she assumed was meant to serve as his acknowledgment, before he turned sharply around to hunch back over his beer.

She stood there for a moment, staring at the broad back, hunched shoulders, and straight—maybe a little shaggy—dirty blond hair beneath the faded powder blue cap.

What in the world?

She shook her head at his rudeness. Maybe this was Oz after all.