Chapter Two

Devereaux Shepherd stood ready to fight, not run. Never would she run from a bully again. Never! She knew she wasn’t making sense, but she’d had enough of arrogant assholes to last ten life times. If this guy wanted his name added to the list, bring it on! She might be small in stature, but she packed one helluva punch, and she knew where to hit. Throat. Eyes. Balls. Never strike first, but when forced to engage, always aim to maim or kill. Preferably to kill, damn it! Cord’s last words to her.

This guy didn’t strike her as a bully, though, not the way he lowered that pistol and aimed it at the sand. But she’d studied life in the school of hard knocks. Looks were as deceiving as what came out of most men’s mouths. They were all liars, but some were worse. This day had been the worst in a long time, and she wouldn’t be shoved around one more time, damn it!

“You know George?” her midnight stranger asked, his head canted as if studying her for deceit. Let him look all he wanted. She wasn’t the liar here, and she owed this jerk-off nothing.

“Everyone knows George,” she told him tersely. “He owns this island. I haven’t seen him around lately, but I know him. He’s a nice guy.” One of few in the world. “He wouldn’t mind that I buried Gru here. He’d like that I thought of his island for something like… this.”

Her lashes dropped to the packed mound of moist beach sand at her feet. She’d only chosen George’s tiny island for Gru’s final resting place because of its remoteness. George owned this tiny patch of sand and palms. Very few tourists, fishermen, or drunks visited it. Not only that, but this stretch of shore faced south to Cuba, and Gru would’ve liked that. And because she’d needed a quiet place where she’d be left alone for a day or two of fasting, praying, and tearing her hair out when her waitressing job allowed it.

A sob snuck up on her, lurching up her throat and out of her mouth before she could catch it. She’d failed Gru, and now he was dead because of her. Never in her wildest dreams had she expected to be burying his sad lifeless body, but now that she’d been caught in the act, she had to admit this was one of her crazier solutions for a life gone horribly wrong. Well, not completely horribly wrong. She still had Scottie. But Christ! She was in over her head, and so was Cord. He’d never admit to it, but she knew he was.

The guy eased his weight to the balls of his bare feet, still eyeballing the grave. “Who’s Gru?” he asked, his voice devoid of the pushy authority most males in her life had led with when confronted with an angry woman.

Belligerently, Devereaux stepped into his line of sight. Gru deserved respect! Not ogling! “What do you care?” she bit out as harshly as she could. “Just go. This is none of your business. Leave me alone. I’ll leave as soon as I’m ready.” That ought to do it. Men—even armed men—hated mouthy women.

The annoying stranger wiped his free hand over his face like he was upset, but ended up cupping his chin, more like he was—thoughtful. Okay, that was different. Clean cut, wide-shouldered, and built like one of the panthers out of the Everglades, all ropey muscle and sinew, he took a step from her as well. “You’re hurt.”

The space he’d just relinquished spoke volumes. He might not be just like all the others.

“So?” she asked, annoyed she couldn’t shake this guy, and that the mellow, baritone he’d used sent tiny shock waves coursing straight to her stupid heart. His voice seemed to have grown deeper. Kinder. Well, too bad. Once upon a time, she’d believed in fairytales, but no more. Men didn’t wear white hats and they didn’t ride in to save the day on dashing silver steeds. Every last one of them was an asshole in the making.

The guy stabbed both palms down his thighs as if searching for pockets, maybe his holster, but—he was wearing only boxers, probably because he’d been sleeping. He must’ve realized his state of undress the same moment she did. He took another step back, into moonlight. Seeing more of him was no help.

Her breath caught at the sheer wall of straight up male muscle. Moonlight glistened off the curve of wide shoulders, and instinctively, her nostrils twitched for the telltale hint of bug repellant or suntan lotion on that gorgeous expanse of exposed skin. Only manly musk, the slightest hint of tangy spice, and a definite hint of booze answered her call. Whiskey, maybe?

But those shoulders were massive and so was the thick neck between them. The weapon in his hand seemed to fit the image he projected. Capable. Confident. Not drunk, which only meant he might be a practiced alcoholic, adept at hiding his addiction in plain sight. That tender picture tugged at her heart. Proud men bragged about their drinking adventures, but she hadn’t sensed that depth of ego from this guy. Yet.

The silver moon rising behind him cast his face in shadow, but she could see enough. Short, cropped hair topped his head, dark brown maybe, not black. Tattoo on his left bicep. No sleeve, just a simple—heart? She peered closer. Nine to one, she’d find ‘Mom’ inked in the center of that heart. Who does that anymore? So, he’s an alcoholic and a sap. Who cares?

But scars. The moon also revealed thin lines of silvery white running down his biceps, forearms, and ribs. They webbed his massively muscled thighs as if someone had played a game of hopscotch there.

Calmer now, Devereaux looked with better eyes, finally seeing her intruder. He had scars everywhere. It was no wonder he drank—if he did. He’d obviously survived some horrendously painful event, an accident maybe, or an improvised explosive device, the bane of all American warriors in the sandbox—if he were military. Or torture.

Her heart softened at whatever must have happened to him. Poor guy. He still presented a definite wall between her and the ocean, though. Not that she’d run into the water to escape him, but she could swim to Molly’s dock if she had to. She’d done it before.

Her tongue slipped over her swollen bottom lip as if it detected a tasty meal. This guy? Not hardly. So why was her brain sending wrong signals? Sympathy, maybe empathy for a stranger. Why the need to cradle him in her arms and tell him everything would be okay like she did with Scottie? Why should she care about this stranger now, here at Gru’s grave?

Dev tossed her head at that notion. I don’t care about this guy. Not at all.

He tried again. Patiently. “You’re bleeding.”

Devereaux shoved a hand through her hair, irked she’d been caught and had to explain herself to this, this—guy. How stupid was he? Stiffening her spine, she told him, “It’s not my blood.” You’re cute, but you’re stupid.

“Who’d you bury?” His question came out soft and curious instead of demanding or accusing. His shoulders shifted, angling his wide body to the side as if he meant to give her an exit should she choose to run.

That actually changed her mind. As big as he was, this stranger exuded concern for her and the sad crumpled body in the grave. There was genuine kindness glimmering in his eyes. This guy was no drunk or doper. He was just being nice, but she could use a dose of nice.

Devereaux decided she’d stay. “You know George?”

“Yes, ma’am, George McCray’s my uncle. He had a stroke, so my dad and his other brothers put him in an assisted living home up in Pensacola until he recovers. Dad wants to take him home to Illinois. He can take better care of George, but he’s worried the trip will be too hard on him. So, yeah. Pensacola.”

Devereaux sank to her knees in the sand, the fight gone out of her. First Gru. Now George. He had brothers? He’d never mentioned family. “A stroke? When?”

“Three weeks ago.” The gentle giant crouched in front of her, his hands dangling between his knees and the pistol now on the sand at his side, still keeping his distance and still too nice. That he’d placed his gun on the ground wasn’t a smart move for a trained military guy. Cord’s number one rule: Care of your weapon comes first. Before downtime, grub, or games. You take care of your piece, it’ll take care of you.

But Devereaux suspected this stranger had done that more out of respect for her than for any other reason. He meant for her to trust him. What a startling revelation. Rude and crude, she could’ve dealt with. Not kindness and deferential treatment. Not from a guy.

“How bad was it?”

“Massive. He’s paralyzed on his right side, and he’s blind for now. But I’m not worried. Uncle George has always been the feisty one on my dad’s side of the family. His brothers will take up the slack until he’s on his feet. Just wait. He’ll be back before you know it.”

“Can he talk? Is he still sweet?” Will he remember me? Strokes were powerful game changers in a person’s life, not only crippling once strong bodies with paralysis, but addling brain functions. Changing personalities. Destroying memories.

Devereaux wanted to cry for the gentle man who’d befriended her in her most desperate time. She’d met him when she’d first come to Florida to be near her brother. George had been her rock, and, yes, her salvation. Why do bad things always happen to good people?

His nephew’s lips narrowed as if holding back more bad news. “You said he wouldn’t mind you burying Gru here. If you don’t mind me asking, how’d you know my uncle?”

She didn’t blame him for not answering her questions, for withholding further personal information. Why should he? She hadn’t revealed much, either. But lives depended on her discretion, and this guy was just here to wrap up his uncle’s estate. He’d be gone the moment this chance meeting was over. Gone like the wind…

“I waitress at the Conch Shack. George is, umm, was a regular. ‘One daily special, one extra-large conch chowder, and a frosty PBR, hold the glass, thank you ma’am’. Everyday around four o’clock, he… he…” She bit back the words on the tip of her tongue. Everyone called him Uncle George or just plain George. He was the kindly older gentleman who’d looked out for her, and the first to tell her that she was a good girl who worked too hard. Who said she deserved better.

A tear got away from her, but Devereaux caught it before it let loose the flood she’d been fighting since she’d come home from swing shift to find a murderer in her backyard. Crying would make her look just as weak as expressing her feelings. The last thing she needed was this guy’s misplaced pity. He’d already made inroads into her soul she hadn’t been able to deflect. His kindness had to stop.

Yet when he turned to face the sea, the strong profile he presented struck her heart hard. This was no college kid come to play in the surf and sand. This was a proud man who seemed capable of taking on the world alone and whipping its ass. Square chin. Head held high. Shoulders back. A straighter-than-straight spine that indicated discipline and self-control despite his crouched position.

His nostrils flared to the scent of sand and sea, her personal favorite perfumes. His short hair spiked at odd angles as if he’d been sleeping, which stood to reason. It was well after midnight. His massive shoulders and biceps screamed power-lifts. He had to be military if that noble bearing meant what she thought it did. Cord looked that same way when he’d been in the Corps.

The guy turned, his gaze reconnecting with hers. “You stop by here to bury” —he cleared his throat— “things often?”

Her lashes hit the sand at his big bare foot, the other in the sand behind him since he was still kneeling. From there her gaze drifted up to muscular calves that supported the hefty weights his shoulders obviously loved to lift. No doubt this outstanding, entire male body was bronzed, tanned, and tasty, too. An inward cringe at what her tongue wanted to do with him rattled her self-control.

“I had nowhere else to take him,” she admitted, her hackles flattened for the first time since she’d found Gru.

He extended his free hand, palm open as if it were a peace treaty. “Name’s Seth McCray, ma’am. Sorry for not leading with that. If I had, we might’ve gotten off to a better start.” The baritone notes in his easy statement rumbled over her last line of defenses. “My dad’s Maxwell McCray. My other uncles are Michael and Matt, in case you want to check my story. Should be easy. They’re old farts, but they’ve all got Facebook and Twitter accounts.” Grunting, Seth scratched his eyebrow again. “Uncle Matt may even be on Instagram. I swear, the guy gets around almost as much as George did.”

The mental image he’d just planted of three silver-haired elderly gentlemen posting Facebook memes curled the corners of her reluctant mouth. If he was as nice as he seemed, Seth McCray seemed like one of the very few good guys left in the world. He gave off no vibes of being a snake in disguise, so she took a chance and asked, “Maxwell, Mike, and Matt, huh? How’d you and Uncle George escape the M moniker?”

One side of his mouth tweaked into an endearing smile. “Mom’s not into fads, and my dad always says Mom gets what she wants.” Both shoulders lifted. “Or else I’d be Mark or Milton or…” Another shrug. “…something not Seth.”

“Devereaux Shepherd,” she said meekly, releasing a measured breath of relief. “My friends call me Dev.” Why that blurted out of her mouth, she had no idea, but she couldn’t call it back, so she grabbed the manly hand and squeezed it. He might as well know she always gave as good as she got.

The instant she made contact with his much larger and very callused palm, he had her. An electrical shiver slithered up her arm, over her shoulder, and down her spine. Her breath caught up high in her throat. I should run, she thought. Devereaux pulled her fingers out of his, blinking at the thrumming sensation that settled like a burning ember in the pit of her stomach.

How’d he do that? This guy wasn’t dangerous—yet he was. Kindness. Like the sea behind him, the ebb and flow of his relentless kindness was on the verge of wearing her down. Pretty soon she’d think he actually cared, that she could rely on him, and it’d be downhill from there.

Seth seemed not to have noticed her reaction. He nodded at the fresh grave where one of her faithful friends rested. “You mind telling me who Gru is now that you know who I am? Uncle George must’ve meant something to you if you felt you could bury a friend... or someone, on his island. He was a friend, that guy you just buried, right?”

She nodded, the sadness of the night choking her. Whatever had just happened between Seth and her was frightening, but she had felt something more than male ego between them, not that she’d admit it. Not out loud. She was emotional. That was all. It had been a really long, hard day.

“When I first came to the Keys, he was the only friend I had until I met George.” Gru was a hard-bought friend, at that.

She gulped, remembering. The ban on Americans traveling to Cuba had just been lifted. She’d always wanted to see the romantic side of Havana, so she’d foolishly saved her dollars and made the trip. Alone. How Cord had chewed her butt, when he’d rescued her, mostly from herself. Her and Gru.

A tremor rattled her bones at the memory of that last frantic dash to freedom. Now freelancing as an undercover agent, and rescuing women and children from the sex slave industry booming in Cuba, Cord had shown up with three of his former USMC buddies, one overloaded CRRC (Combat Rubber Raiding Craft), and a helluva lot of nerve.

She’d been so proud of him, yet scared for him, too. He’d taken out the three Spanish-speaking thugs holding her prisoner. They’d thought they were tough until Cord let loose on them. While he’d worked the guys over with his bare fists, his buddies extracted the three other women and four young girls Dev had been trapped within that filthy, abandoned warehouse basement. She’d barely had time to rescue Gru from the tiny wire cage he’d been stuffed in, waiting his turn for fun and games. Roland Montego, the master pervert behind those games, would’ve tortured Gru just to watch her squirm and scream. What a mess she’d made of her life, but every day now, she thanked God that she’d done one thing smart on that fateful excursion. She’d left Scottie at home with Trish.

“He came over with me from Cuba the one time I visited his island,” she informed Seth. “We were a match made in heaven. He was quiet, watchful. I was Chatty Cathy.” And I still am.

Dev swiped a quick finger under her eyelid to catch another stray tear. Gru had been pure joy and a true friend during her worst days. Realizing now that she’d never have that unique companionship again was a hard fact to bear.

“Listen. I have to go, but…” She bit her bottom lip, needing someone to confide in with all her beat-up heart and sad that it wouldn’t be this guy. Cord would chew her ass if he knew she was out here by herself, talking with some stranger she’d just met and didn’t really know. Again.

Seth’s elegant brows dipped in a gentle V. “Shouldn’t we at least give your friend a decent burial? Say a prayer or something?”

“No, he’ll be okay.” She gulped. “On a sunny day, he’ll be able to see home from here.”

Seth cocked his head at her as if he didn’t understand. Endearing. That was the best word for Seth McCray. As ripped as his taut abdomen looked, as impressive as his fine, bare chest was, this tough man exuded a serenity she hadn’t felt in a long while.

Plus, his boxers hadn’t tented like most guys’ underwear would have, which either meant Erectile Dysfunction or he wasn’t attracted to women. Not that she cared. About Seth anyway. She had enough on her plate. But wasn’t it sad when a gay man stole a woman’s heart the way he did? Not that he’d stolen hers or anything even remotely like that, but still. Mother Nature had one twisted sense of humor.

Her silly mind wandered. Or maybe Seth was on some kind of medication that caused temporary ED. That would explain his lack of, umm, interest.

She breathed easier, relieved to be thinking about something as easy as a handsome man’s libido for a change. But look at him. Seth was confident to kneel there so brave against a world that could be as harsh and unrelenting as a hurricane. The way he cocked his head as if he had to think about what she’d said. That adorable little boy glint in dark eyes she couldn’t yet detect the color of. The way he’d squeezed her fingers firmly yet softly when he’d shaken hands, like he wouldn’t think of hurting her. Like he was apologizing for frightening her. That, like it or not, he cared.

And that was the problem of the night. Seth McCray seemed to be as kind as his uncle, but he was too late to the game. What was done was done, and all the kindness in the world wouldn’t bring Gru back. Time to go.

“You’re a stubborn woman, Devereaux Shepherd,” he said softly, his head canted again as if he had yet to unravel the mystery of her.

“Your uncle used to tell me that all the time,” she admitted.

“But the authorities…” Seth murmured. “Shouldn’t you at least inform someone that Gru passed away?”

“He didn’t pass away. He was murdered.”

“Okay, then, shouldn’t we call the police to report his murder? You know who did it, don’t you? Don’t they deserve to be caught, arrested?”

Ah, this man. Dev’s lip softened into a demure smile. “You think I’d drag a full-grown man out here? All by myself?” She should’ve led with that.

Seth’s brows drew together thoughtfully. “That’s what doesn’t make sense. You keep saying you buried him. Was Gru, umm, vertically challenged?”

“You mean was he a little person? A dwarf?” She couldn’t suppress the tease in her question.

“Not a child then?”

The sorrow that sparked deep within his eyes startled her. Dev hadn’t stopped to think that he’d entertained such dark thoughts, that she’d buried someone as precious as a child. Out here? No one in their right mind would do that unless… Had he buried a child, his son or daughter? Was that why he wouldn’t leave until he had an answer?

Reaching across the space between them, Devereaux circled his wrist with her fingers. Very quietly, she told him, “Gru’s an iguana, Seth.”