Chapter 10

Dagan Zoelner had kissed her and then immediately been horrified by it. Now he was holding her hand as they made their way up the stairs to the docks, and Chelsea couldn’t help but wonder if in two minutes, he would be horrified by that too.

Okeydokey. Forget two minutes.

Dagan dropped her hand like a hot potato when Christian turned from his spot at the top of the steps, looking down at them with a raised brow and a knowing smirk. She frowned as she climbed the treads and made her way down the wooden dock toward the large twin-engine catamaran Rusty had stopped beside.

The fisherman had a presence as big as all outdoors and a smile to match when he offered her a hand aboard. She thought she heard Dagan mutter a profanity but couldn’t be sure. She was too busy getting her footing on the wide gray deck as it shifted gently up and down with the tide.

It occurred to Chelsea that the entire day had been like a bad episode of The Twilight Zone. One minute, Dagan was suffering an invasion of the body snatchers, acting uncharacteristically affectionate. The next, he was back to his solemn, annoying self. And the change from one state to the other kept happening so fast that she was suffering from emotional whiplash.

“Set your stuff anywhere you like inside, and grab a seat,” Rusty instructed after they were all aboard. He threw off thick, heavy mooring lines as if they weighed no more than jump ropes. “We’ll be underway in a jiff.”

Dagan passed her, heading toward the wheelhouse. She scowled at his broad back before following him inside. The place was spacious and housed the electronics and steering for the vessel. The white walls were bedecked in bright-orange life jackets on hooks. And two rows of bench seats were bolted into the decking behind the captain’s chair.

The boat was immaculate. Not a stray fish scale or vagrant speck of oil marred any surface. And the air spelled of bleach and industrial-strength soap. Rusty was obviously a fastidious boat captain.

What’s his story? Chelsea wondered. Not many Americans became English cod fishermen, she would bet, and—

“Come with me.” Dagan tugged her backpack from her shoulders. He set it beneath one of the bench seats, scooting it next to his own.

“Come with you where?” She lifted a brow. “Overboard? Because I reckon that’s the only place left to—”

“Belowdecks.” He grabbed her hand and towed her toward the stairs to the left of the captain’s chair. “We need to talk.”

“Oh goody.” She made a face. “All truly awesome conversations begin with those four words.”

Before descending the six metal steps that led into the catamaran’s hold, she stopped to see the others settling onto the bench seats. All three of them were watching her curiously. Chelsea caught Emily’s gaze, lifting her brows as if to say, Any idea what the heckfire is up with Z today?

Emily shrugged, and Chelsea was left with no recourse but to follow Dagan down into the belly of the ship.

He wanted to talk? Fine. Good. Because she had a couple of things she wanted to say to him.

“Here’s good.” He stopped next to a stack of boxes. Their labels read Skimmer Clams. Chelsea assumed they were the bait Rusty used to catch cod.

The hold was as clean as the rest of the boat: pristine floors, neatly stacked gear, and the aroma of strong soap mixed with the more common maritime smells of anti-fouling paint and marine fuel. A single bulb in a yellow plastic cage lit the space, creating long shadows, especially across Dagan’s face. They made him look even more mysterious. Even more fierce. Even more…delectable.

Chelsea turned away, refusing to look at him, hoping to find something to distract herself from his nipple-tightening presence. Then he blurted, “I’m sorry,” and she swung back to face him, blinking.

There were a few things to know about Dagan Zoelner. Number one, he had an uncanny ability to blend into a crowd. Number two, there was that odd statue-stillness that came over him right before he was about to do something of grave importance—or right before he was about to lay into her for something. And number three, in all their years working together, and all the times they had verbally tanned each other’s hides, he had never, not once, apologized to her.

Which was probably why she stood there, her mouth opening and closing like the catfish her father had loved to catch out of Old Man Miller’s pond. When she finally found her voice, it was to respond with an oh-so-intelligent “Huh?”

Dagan ran a hand over his beard, looking away from her into the middle distance before finally turning back. “For kissing you when you hadn’t invited me to and when you couldn’t push me away,” he said.

Aha. Well, that explains the look of horror on his face.

Did he really believe for even one second that she might not have welcomed his kiss? Before she could speak the thought aloud, words gushed out of him like the water that had rushed out of the backyard spigot when she was fifteen and accidentally ran into it with the riding lawn mower. Holy Moses, her mother had been madder than a wet hen. But her father? He had just laughed at her soaked hair and clothes before shutting off the main water to the house.

“It’s just that when you sent that Mayday, I was terrified what might’ve happened, what might be happening to you. And then to get to Morrison’s penthouse and find that you had not only managed to get yourself caught, but that you were foolish enough to think you needed to sacrifice yourself and—”

Chelsea stopped listening right then and there. Probably because she couldn’t hear over the blood pounding angrily through her ears.

“Damnit, Z!” she snarled. Her fisted hands landed on her hips as she thrust her chin up at his damnably handsome face. “Just once, just one friggin’ time in your life, could you, oh, I don’t know, say something nice to me?”

His chin jerked back. Or rather…the Beard jerked back. His gray eyes narrowed as he blinked at her. There it was again…his Clint Eastwood gunfighter squint. And he got very, very still.

She braced herself for a verbal assault. Thankfully, it never came.

“Chels, I…” He stopped and swallowed. The expression on his face morphed from an impersonation of ol’ Clint into something he might have worn if she’d started growing a third nipple. On her cheek.

And, okay, so maybe she could understand some of his assessments. For most of her career, she had ridden a desk. She was only an inch over five feet tall, not an imposing figure. She was a woman in a man’s world. And she made sure to speak to her mother twice a day. No doubt, he saw all those things as disadvantages, as…weaknesses.

He was flat-out wrong. Riding a desk had taught her patience and had given her the ability to view situations and Intel from all sides. Her small stature made people underestimate her. Her sex meant she was naturally sympathetic, which had allowed her to put herself into the shoes of America’s enemies and accurately guess what their next moves might be. As for her relationship with her mother? Well, he might think Time to cut the apron strings, but the truth was that Grace Duvall made Chelsea a better person. She kept Chelsea honest. Made her strive for higher standards. But also reminded her to enjoy the little things in life.

Yup. Chelsea was stronger, smarter, tougher than he had ever given her credit for. And as far as she could figure, him not giving her credit stopped here. Today. As Hagrid said in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, “I am what I am, an’ I’m not ashamed!”

“Land sakes alive,” she said through gritted teeth when he seemed fine and dandy just standing there looking at her like she was the crazy one. “Are you telling me you can’t think of one single, solitary nice thing to say?”

“I… You’re…” He stopped, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “It’s not that you’re…not one of the most courageous people I’ve ever worked with.” When the words were out of his mouth, he looked ridiculously pleased with himself.

She, on the other hand, was sorely tempted to slap him upside the head. Really? After everything she’d accomplished today, that was the best he could do?

“I’m sorry.” She seethed. “Was there a compliment buried somewhere in that double negative?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Chels.” He lifted his arms impatiently and let them fall back to his sides. She did not notice how it made the halves of his thick leather jacket pull wide, revealing the broad expanse of his chest covered by a soft merino wool sweater. Okay, so maybe she noticed a little. “You know what I think of you. How I think of you. I’ve made it clear for years. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Just like that, every one of her hackles was standing stick-straight. If she’d been a cat, her back would be bowed and the hair on her tail all fluffed out. She took a step forward and shoved a finger into the center of his chest.

“You’re right,” she snapped. “You’ve made it crystal clear that you have no respect for me. You’ve gone out of your way to block me from doing the jobs I’m assigned. You tell me all the time that I’m not good enough. And why in the good Lord’s name should I think you might have the decency to come up with just one thing that…that…that…”

She was so worked up, she was tripping over her own tongue. Then she nearly swallowed that same tongue when he grabbed her shoulders in a hard grip and ducked down so that he was on eye level with her.

“Christ, Chels.” His smooth moonshine voice had turned hoarse. “Is that what you think?”

She was tempted to shrug off his hands. But sweet Lord, she liked it when he touched her. “It’s not what I think, you big, hairy jackass. It’s what you do. It’s what you say.”

He straightened and stepped back, running a hand over his beard and shaking his head. “You could not be more wrong.”

Ha! She rolled her eyes. “How in blue blazes do you figure that?”

“I respect the hell out of you, Chels. I think you’re…amazing.” Just like that, he had suffered another invasion of the body snatchers, and she was back in The Twilight Zone. She looked around, half expecting to hear Rod Serling say, You unlock this door with the key of imagination. Beyond it is another dimension… “You have steel in your spine, fire in your brain, and grace in your heart.”

Okay. And that wasn’t just nice. It was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her.

Dagan had always been an overachiever. Damn him.

“If I’ve tried to block you from doing the jobs you’ve been assigned recently, it’s only because I know you weren’t given the right fuckin’ training for them.”

Dagan was a born-and-raised Midwesterner, which meant he had no noticeable accent—a trait she had spent years trying to mimic since having an accent was a tell in and of itself. But anytime he used the word fucking, he always left the g sound off the end.

“And if I’ve made you feel like you’re not good enough,” he continued, “that wasn’t my intention. I care about you, Chelsea. And that caring makes me absolutely terrified something could happen to you on my watch. So I’ve tried to remind you to always be careful, to be vigilant, to never lose sight of the fact that this is incredibly dangerous work and that you—”

He cared about her? Oh, how she had longed for this day. And dreaded it too.

Stepping forward, she wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed him tight. Never one to couch her words, she gave him the truth. Her truth. Even if she knew she would be damned for it. “I care about you too, Dagan.”