Her Last Line Of Defence. Marie Donovan
French-tinged accent?
She hurried from the conference room, ignoring her father’s shouts, wanting to escape. She dashed into the humid Carolina afternoon, crossing the parking lot into a small landscaped grove with a picnic bench. The scent of pines didn’t quite cover the smell of diesel and something else pungent—explosives? She wasn’t sure. Claire climbed onto the picnic table, her feet resting on the bench.
A new scent came along, clean and masculine. She turned and stifled a yelp. Good thing Sergeant Boudreau was wearing cologne because she certainly hadn’t heard him approach. Of course, that would be a plus in his line of work. He stood next to her and stared across the parking lot, shoving his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, tightening the thin fabric across his zipper. Not that she noticed things like that.
“Don’t worry—you’re off the hook.” Claire didn’t want to meet his mocking glance again. “I’ll be fine—the Río San Lucas settlement is like a small town, running water and everything so I can wash my hair.” She gave a little laugh, trying to get him to leave her alone.
“Why you wanna go down to that jungle snake hole anyway, Mademoiselle Cook?” This time he wasn’t mocking, just curious. “You got somethin’ to prove to your papa?”
She tried to hide her flinch. “Maybe I have something to prove to myself.”
“There are easier ways to do that. Go mountain climbing or white-water rafting if you want to see how tough you are. Walk across the country to raise money for cancer, but moving to the jungle doesn’t make you tough—just foolish.”
Claire saw red. “Shut up! You denigrate my mother, my grandmother and my grandfather.” She slammed her fist into her palm as she named each of her family members. “They moved to San Lucas to serve people who had no one and had nothing. You talk to all the women who lived after my grandfather saved them during difficult childbirth—you talk to all their babies who lived because they had their mothers to breastfeed them. You ask them how foolish it is that they are alive and not buried in an unmarked jungle grave site!”
He stood in silence for a minute. “I apologize,” he finally said.
Claire almost fell off the picnic table. “What?”
He ran a strong hand through his wavy hair. “I have been extremely rude and my grand-mère and maman would pass me a slap. My only defense is that I’ve been overseas away from civilization too long.”
“How long?” she asked without thinking.
“Now that’s classified information, ma’am.”
His scornful attitude was back. “I’d say at least seven or eight months according to your facial hair,” she retorted. “If you don’t want people speculating, the least you could do is get a haircut and shave.” He did look good as a pirate—maybe he was descended from Jean Lafitte, the famous Louisianan pirate.
“Maybe you should sign up as an intelligence agent instead. It was actually eight months and ten days.” He rubbed his chin.
“Claire! Claire!” Her father’s voice echoed out the main door of the office building.
She pressed her lips together. She was definitely getting her own place, San Lucas or no. Dad had gone too far.
“There you are, Claire.” He hurried up to her, ignoring Boudreaux. “Now can you see how foolish this idea of yours is?” he asked, unknowingly echoing Boudreaux’s earlier taunt.
Next to her, the Green Beret sucked in a breath, obviously waiting for her to lose her temper with her father like she had with him.
But her will had been tempered into steel. “Who’s going to look like the bigger fool at the press conference I’ll arrange—me, for wanting to go to San Lucas, or you, for throwing so many inappropriate roadblocks into my path? Now you’re interfering with the U.S. Army.”
“And during an election year, too,” Boudreaux added helpfully. “Sir.”
“You’d do that? To your own father?” He was practically stammering in indignation.
“You were always talking about retiring.”
“Retiring! Retiring, not losing to that nobody state senator who’s running against me.”
“If your constituents don’t like your little forays into meddling, they can vote their opinion. I may endorse your opponent myself,” she added darkly.
Her father made a choking noise, but wasn’t turning any funny colors or clutching his chest so Claire figured he was only pissed off.
She turned to the sergeant. “So you’re off the hook with me. Again, I’m sorry for this mess, and I’ll make sure it doesn’t harm you or your career.”
He stared silently at her, his dark eyes unreadable.
She fumbled slightly but finally shoved her hands into two of the pants’ eight pockets.
Her father finally found his voice. “You ungrateful child!” He swung around and stomped off to where his aide stood back at the building practically wringing his hands.
“The man surely has a sense of the dramatic. I’m shocked he didn’t quote King Lear at you.”
“What?” Claire looked at him in surprise.
“I see you as more of a Cordelia type—the dutiful daughter who is the only one to stick with her cranky old dad.”
Claire blinked. “Yes, I read King Lear in college. When did you read it?”
“The army sends Shakespeare comic books overseas for us to look at the pictures when we aren’t blowing things up.” He delivered his smarty-pants answer with a straight face.
“Oh, buzz off!” She jumped off the picnic table, intending to find Janey and beg her forgiveness.
Boudreaux blocked her way so quickly she didn’t see him move. “I’ll do it.”
“Do what?” Claire turned to him.
“Train you. Get ready for San Lucas—as ready as you can be. As ready as anyone can be,” he muttered to himself.
“You will?” Claire’s heart beat faster.
“I’ll tell you right now—you’re nuts for wanting to go, and I fully plan on making you rethink your decision.” Her stomach flipped at the first smile she’d seen from him, his teeth flashing white in his black beard. “In fact, I plan on making you regret your decision.”
OLIE RUBBED HIS BARE chin, which was fish-belly pale in comparison to his sun-darkened cheekbones and forehead. He had dragged Luc off to the base’s barber shop, as well, yesterday after the colonel had yelled at them a new one for looking scruffy, especially in front of so-called VIPs. “Rage, you said she spiked her old man’s guns so he can’t cause trouble for us. We’re all off the hook—so why are you doing this?” He gestured to the bartender for a couple beers as they sat side-by-side in the Special Forces’ local hangout.
Luc shook his head, his hair now too short to brush his collar. “I’m gonna try like hell to convince her to give up this dumb idea. But if I can’t, the girl’s gonna go, whether she knows jack-shit about the jungle or not. How will I feel four, five months from now if I hear she got snakebit, got herself sick eating something she shouldn’t have, or worse, gets herself out in the jungle and doesn’t come back?”
“Been known to happen.” Olie nodded solemnly. The bartender set down their drinks.
“That it has.” Luc nodded back. They had lost a teammate in the same incident that had stranded Luc for five weeks. Luc knew it still ate up Olie, him being the commanding officer and all, even if it wasn’t his fault. Luc lifted his mug in a silent toast to fallen brothers in arms. Olie lifted his in reply and they both drank solemnly.
After a few