Chapter Ten
Friday, July 24
12:35 a.m.
Trinity Sands Resort
Main Building
Some vacay this turned out to be.
Jean-Luc turned off the TV as a ridiculously happy hype man tried to sell him on the virtues of Sauna Pants. Because, yeah, some couillon thought it was a good idea to turn your shorts into a working sauna. Who doesn’t love sweaty balls?
Merde.
He was going to jump out of his skin if he stayed in this room watching infomercials a second longer. He tossed the remote aside and rolled off the bed. After the intense week of training, the rest of the team was probably asleep, so he wasn’t going to have much luck talking any of them into looking for trouble. In truth, he should be as exhausted as the rest of them. Jesse, out of some twisted need to prove himself, had tortured them throughout the week. At times, only the thought of this weekend island retreat—and maybe a chance to break the voodoo curse—kept him going.
And yet here he was, alone in his room watching infomercials. It was like the gazillionth level of hell.
But, c’mon, he was on a Caribbean island. There had to be good times rolling somewhere around here, despite the late hour.
He snagged a clean New Orleans Saints T-shirt from his bag and pulled it on. He’d showered earlier and his hair was still damp. He scooped it up and tied it back from his face as he slid on a well-worn pair of flip-flops. He wasn’t usually one to rock the man bun and beach bum look, but tonight he wasn’t expecting to impress anyone. Not with the fucking curse following him around like a fart cloud.
No, he wasn’t even going to try prowling for a woman tonight. He’d hit up the bar, have a drink or two. Maybe he’d wander down to the nude beach for a night swim. He just needed to move, or he’d spontaneously combust from boredom.
His mamere had always said boredom was a dangerous thing for him, which was why she’d encouraged him at age eight to learn a language besides his native Cajun French and English. He’d chosen Spanish and had been fluent within a year. The rest, as they say, was history. The more languages he’d learned, the more he wanted to know.
But Mamere was right about him and boredom. He was well aware it made him reckless, stupid, and got him into trouble more often than not.
“No trouble tonight,” he promised her spirit, because he felt her with him as surely as the curse hanging over his head. Hell, she’d probably asked the voodoo queen to magically castrate him. He had fucked his way through the female population of New Orleans in the months after her death. She’d probably been appalled by him.
He rubbed a hand over his face to push back the rush of tears that thought brought to his eyes. He still couldn’t believe she was gone. Six months—no, almost seven since she’d died at age seventy-five from a brain aneurysm. Nobody had seen it coming. Edmee Cavalier had been the definition of health—until she wasn’t.
He missed her.
And now his mood was even darker than it had been moments before. Maybe he should go back to his room. Exhaustion had made him maudlin and he wasn’t fit for public consumption tonight.
He stopped just outside the hotel’s side door and scanned the outdoor bar. The place was nearly empty. A few people still hung out around one of the many fire pits, and only one woman sat at the bar. The woman from the lobby, he realized as he approached. The cute blonde who had barely glanced at him before shooting him down.
And, yeah, that had stung. He was still getting used to this whole rejection thing. He didn’t like it.
But no meant no. He’d respect her wishes and leave her the hell alone.
He chose a seat at the other end of the bar and flagged the bartender. He was in a coconut kind of mood and hummed the piña colada song to himself as he waited for his drink.
“You’re off-key.”
His gaze wandered back to the blonde. Focused on the screen of her phone, she wasn’t looking at him, but she had to be the one who had spoken because there was nobody else around. “No, I’m not.”
“Are, too.” She hummed the chorus, proving that, merde, he had been off-key.
“I’ll have you know I’m an excellent singer.”
“Uh-huh.”
There was something intriguing about her. She wasn’t qualifying for the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition anytime soon, but he didn’t put much stock in that narrow definition of beauty anyway. All women were gorgeous in their own ways, and she had a clean, au naturel thing going for her. Her face was without make-up and ever so lightly freckled. Her nose had a slight upturn at the tip. He’d noticed in the lobby that her eyes were blue, but more sapphire than the gunmetal-blue peepers he saw in the mirror everyday. Earlier, she’d worn her hair in a ponytail with pieces arranged artistically around her face, but now it was all loose, hanging straight in a sharp bob that ended just above her petite shoulders. Instead of the blouse and skirt she’d had on, she now wore a white tank top, jean shorts, and sandals. All of it very practical, no fuss or frills. She ignored her drink, which had been sitting there for a while judging by the pool of condensation around the base of the margarita glass, and kept checking her phone with a frown. Twice she tried to call someone, but whoever was supposed to be on the other end didn’t answer.
After the second time she hung up, she finally reached for her glass and caught him staring. She set the glass down with a thunk. “You again.”
He held up his hands. “Only here for the alcohol.” As if on cue, the bartender returned right then with his drink. “And, apparently, a schooling on the piña colada song.’”
She’d eyed his drink warily. “You needed it.”
“This?” He lifted it in a salute before he took a sip. “Oui.”
“No, the lesson. You were off-key.” She went back to frowning at her phone, but he wasn’t ready to give up on the conversation yet. He was enjoying himself for the first time in months.
“Besides,” he added, unable to help himself, “I don’t hit on women who look like they lost their puppy.”
Her gaze snapped up. “I didn’t lose a puppy.” Back to her phone. Another frown. “It’s my partner.”
“Partner?” Merde. The curse was still in full effect…
“Business partner.”
…or maybe not. He knew women, and they didn’t make those kinds of distinctions if they weren’t interested. Maybe the curse was lifted. Maybe he’d get lucky tonight after all.
He picked up his glass and walked around the bar to the seat beside her. This close, she smelled good, like vanilla and spices. “How do you lose a business partner?”
She bit her lip, drawing his gaze to her mouth. Her upper lip was fuller than the bottom. She probably hated it, maybe even thought she had a duck mouth. He thought it was an interesting feature that made her unbelievably sensual.
“I didn’t lose her,” she protested. “I just haven’t talked to her.”
“Why not?”
“I was in Brazil until today. Spent most of my time there out in the rainforest where there isn’t precisely a cell signal.”
He studied her. She didn’t look like the type of woman to go backpacking in the rainforest for sport. She had a shine to her, the elite polish of city-born and highly educated. And although her accent was American, there was something faintly upper-crust British in the way she formed her words.
“Research?” he guessed. It was the only reason someone like her would be traipsing around in the jungle.
“Huh?” The screen of her phone lit up. Distracted again, she picked it up. Frowned. Put it down. “Oh. Uh, yes. Viral epidemiology. I was studying Zika.”
Mmm. Sexy and intelligent. Now he was intrigued.
“Here for the conference?” He’d seen a sign in the lobby about the Global Infectious Diseases Summit and Expo taking place in the hotel’s convention center starting tomorrow. Or, today, since it was after midnight.
She nodded. “Tiffany was supposed to meet me here this evening, but…” Another puzzled glance at her phone’s screen, then she finally slid the thing into her purse. “She didn’t show and I can’t get through to her. It’s not like her.”
“Maybe her flight was delayed. There’s a hurricane brewing off the coast of Florida.” He’d seen a news flash about it while moping in bed. “If she’s coming from up north, it’s very possible she’s delayed.”
“Maybe.” Again, her teeth sank into her lower lip. Then she seemed to realize she was doing it, picked up her drink, and took a small sip. “The odd thing is she usually doesn’t come to these things. She likes lab work and staying out of the spotlight. But her fiancé just called me this afternoon and said she’d had a breakthrough in the lab and she was one her way down. It’s just not like her to—” She stopped short, set her drink down. “Why am I telling you this?”
“I’ve been told I’m a good listener.” He winced. “Mais, that’s not true. I’m a horrible listener. Like the sound of my own voice too much.”
She cocked her head to the side. “Are you French?”
“Do I look French?” he asked in the language.
“You look like trouble,” she said in the same language.
He grinned. Judging by her easy pronunciation, she was fluent, and he swore he felt his heart melt inside his chest like bananas foster left out too long in the Louisiana sun.
“Ah, cher. Run away with me now. We’ll grow fat and old together and have lots of babies.”
“See, you’re trouble.” She pointed a finger at him. “And not French. Cajun.”
“What gave me away?” Though he knew. Language was his thing, after all, but he was curious how she’d guessed it.
“Cher,” she repeated, pronouncing it sha like he had. “That’s a Cajun endearment. Pronounced differently from the classic French word, chérie.”
Color him impressed. “You know your languages.”
“It’s a necessity,” she said simply. “My work takes me all over the world.”
“Likewise. How many are you fluent in?”
“Counting English, five. You?”
“Fifteen.”
She choked on her drink. “Fifteen?”
“F’true.” He was enjoying himself, he realized, and he wasn’t even buzzing from his drink yet. Somewhere along the way, he’d forgotten that a conversation with an intelligent woman could be almost as stimulating as sex. Almost.
She’d go with him back to his room if he asked her to. He saw it in her eyes. She was as delightfully intrigued by him as he was by her. But when he opened his mouth to suggest they take their conversation somewhere more private, no words came out. Him, Jean-Luc Cavalier, with no words.
Damn that voodoo queen to hell.
The moment passed—and his chance to get laid went with it. He knew it the second she broke eye contact and reached for her phone as it buzzed.
“Oh,” she said with a soft sigh of relief. “Finally. She’s here. I have to go let her into our room.”
Jean-Luc couldn’t say why, but his spidey senses started tingling and he knew better than to ignore them. He leaped up when she stood. “I’ll walk with you.”
She stared at him like he had just spouted a second head. “To my room?”
“Maybe I’ll still convince you to run away with me.” He shrugged and flashed a smile that usually melted women’s panties. All it got from her was a raised eyebrow and a shake of her head as she walked away.
Of all the times to be cursed.
He should let her go. Just give up, go back to his room, and take the loss like a man. But he couldn’t ignore the creeping sense that something was…off. A quick study of his surroundings didn’t show him anything amiss.
And still.
He dogged her heels and stopped the glass exterior door before it closed in his face. “Have her meet you in the lobby.”
Again, she gave that look like she thought he might be an alien. “Why?”
Bad, bad feeling.
And she’d probably start looking at him like he needed a straightjacket if he admitted that out loud. “I can…help carry her bags.”
She narrowed her eyes, studied him for a solid fifteen seconds.
He shrugged. “Free labor.”
“All right. Fine.” She grabbed her phone again and tapped out a text. “But I’m not tipping you.”
Whew. Why the hell did it seem like they’d just dodged a bullet? He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to shake off the creeping dread. Didn’t help. The air was charged with energy. The way wrong kind. He’d experienced this same feeling a couple years ago in Afghanistan moments before he and the guys were ambushed.
He realized the blonde had gotten nearly half a hallway ahead of him and chased after her. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“I imagine because I didn’t throw it.”
“I’m Jean-Luc.”
She finally stopped by the elevators and turned to him. “Picard?”
He grinned. Harvard, HORNET’s resident genius and fan of all things geek, would love this woman. He’d asked Jean-Luc the same thing when they’d first met years ago. “Nah, I’m more of a Star Wars fan.”
She snorted and hit the up arrow to call the elevator. “You would be.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She didn’t respond. Just watched the elevator bank like it would give her the answers to the universe. When the doors slid open, he went in ahead of her and held the door. She sighed and stepped in. He decided that was a victory. Small one, yes, but he’d take them where he could get them at this point.
“You still haven’t told me your name.”
“Nope.” She hit the button for the lobby. “I haven’t. You’d think that’d be your first clue.”
He opened his mouth, but again found he had no words. Why did that keep happening?
The doors opened to the lobby, and the woman stepped out. He really should go back to his room before she accused him of stalking or sexual harassment or something…
But there was still that tickle at the back of his neck and until he was sure he was only imagining it, he wasn’t going to let her out of his sight.
He scanned the lobby as he followed her toward the front desk. More people here than he expected, considering the time of night. He counted four men, a bellhop, two desk clerks, and a fidgety brunette in a Wonder Women shirt standing beside the water fixture in the middle of the lobby. She fiddled with the handle of her suitcase, and her gaze kept flicking over to a man seated at the computer banks where guests could print off their boarding passes.
The blonde went straight for her. “Tiffany?”
The scared woman straightened. “Claire.” Again her gaze flicked toward the computer guy—a big thug of a man with blond hair and a reddish beard. He shifted in his chair slightly, and Jean-Luc glimpsed the butt of an AR-15.
Oh, this was FUBAR.
Jean-Luc reached under his shirt for his knife, thankful he’d strapped it on before leaving his room. A force of habit that had saved his ass many times before, and looked like it would again tonight. He was already moving toward Red Beard by the time he spotted the second gunman hovering within arm’s length of Tiffany.
“Claire,” the woman choked out and tears spilled from her eyes. “They want Akeso. Run!” Then she shoved her suitcase toward the second gunman.
The man tripped on the rolling bag and his finger tightened on the trigger, sending a wild stream of bullets into the air, the floor, the wall.
Tiffany crumpled. Whether or not she’d been shot, he didn’t know, but he had to stop the spray of bullets before anyone else ended up dead. He launched at the guy—a weaselly looking Hispanic man—hitting him hard enough to knock the gun from his grasp.
The guy was about half Jean-Luc’s size, but stronger than he looked. He landed one good punch to Jean-Luc’s kidney—that was going to suck later—but it was the first and last blow he managed. Jean-Luc blocked the next punch aimed at his jaw, shoving it aside with one arm while simultaneously jamming the knife up into the guy’s armpit. The sound he made was more animal than human and his punching arm went slack. Jean-Luc twisted the dead limb, forcing the asshole to face him. Blood pumped from the wound in rhythmic spurts, and Weasel was already half conscious, eyes unfocused. He’d be dead in five minutes, maybe less. Jean-Luc let him drop, and looked around.
The two desk clerks screamed. The bellhop lost control of his luggage-filled cart and it crashed into the fountain. Water flooded across the lobby floor. Two of the Tangos were trying to corral the employees, but Red Beard had gone for the blonde. Claire.
Mais, he’d been hoping for trouble. He’d certainly found it, and more.
He sprinted for Red Beard, sure-footed despite the blood and water slicking the floor, and slammed into the guy from behind. He was much more solidly built than Weasel and it was a bit like hitting a brick wall at full speed. Red Beard fell forward and hit a heavy stanchion chest-first. There was a crack—definitely ribs breaking. He dropped to his knees and bent double, clutching his chest, gasping like he couldn’t get a full lung-full of air.
Jean-Luc, still on his feet, jumped over him and grabbed a frozen Claire by the arm. He dragged her into one of the first floor hallways. With two Tangos incapacitated and the other two distracted by the employees, time was on his side. But it wouldn’t stay that way, especially if they called in reinforcements.
Stairs. He needed the stairs.
A young man stuck his head out from one of the rooms along the corridor. He was wearing a bellhop uniform.
“How do we get out of here?” Jean-Luc demanded of him.
The kid shook his head, not comprehending. Jean-Luc repeated the question in French and was pointed to a door the very end of the hall. He nodded, grabbed the kid, and asked if there was anyone else in room. Received an answer in the negative and shoved the kid toward Claire. “Take him and anyone else you find along the way, and run. Go out through the pool, onto the beach, and get as far away from the hotel as you can.”
“They’re after me,” she said dully. “They have Tiffany.”
“Yeah. Hey.” He clasped her cheeks in his hands, made her meet his gaze. “Listen to me, cher. You need to go. Whatever these men are after, they’re willing to kill for it. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have brought assault weapons. Get off this island. Hide and stay safe until I find you.”
Another burst of gunshots sounded from the lobby, followed by more screams from the employees still stuck there. The bellhop went white.
Claire flinched, then drew a breath and nodded. “I’ll go to—”
“Don’t tell me.” If he were caught, he wouldn’t be able to tell them anything he didn’t know. “Just go.” He had the strangest urge to kiss her, but that had to be the adrenaline talking. He stepped back and pointed her toward the door. “Go. Now!”
As she turned away, he caught her hand. Why was it so hard to let her go? Especially knowing that every second he kept her here, he put her in more danger. He made himself release her. “If you can get to Cabana 47 safely, go there. Find Jesse. Warn him the hotel is under attack and I’m inside. Have him call me.”
The dazed expression left her face, along with several shades of color. She was shaking. The reality of their situation had finally hit home and she was losing her nerve.
“Claire.” He ran a soothing hand over her sleek blond hair. “I’m counting on you to get this kid to safety and send in the cavalry. Can you do that, ma belle?”
She nodded. Drew a breath. He could almost see the steel infusing her spine as her shoulders straightened. “What about Tiffany?”
He cast a glance down the hallway. Still empty, but the noise from the lobby had died down. No more gunshots. No more screams. Either all the employees were dead, or the Tangos had managed to control them. Going back there was suicide. He looked at Claire again.
Tears glistened in her eyes. “She’s like a sister to me.”
“I’ll get her out of here,” he heard himself say and mentally swore in several different languages. He was a sap. A goddamn suicidal sap.
“Thank you, Jean-Luc.” Claire took the bellhop’s hand and murmured in coaxing French as she guided him out door. He had to stop himself from reaching out for her again. She was safer outside than in here.
He waited, guarding the door in case any of the gunman found them. Once he was sure they’d had enough time to get out of the building, he looked down at the bloody knife still in his hand. Suicidal or not, he had a job to do. His teammates—hell, his family—were scattered throughout this building, and he wasn’t about to let any of them get dead tonight.