LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter 2

      “Those shots were in the neighborhood below the hotel. It’s nothing, Jarrett.”

      Twenty minutes after the gunfire, after the hotel manager had walked around and assured everyone there was “nothing” to worry about, Jarrett perched on the edge of his chair. His Sig Sauer tucked back into his holster, he stared at Lacey. His ex-wife’s words didn’t comfort him. “Nothing? With the president of the country dining within bullet range? Don’t think so.”

      Lace shook her head, pushed back at the long fall of her hair. “I’m starved. I hope their griot is good here. It’s expensive enough.”

      Hungry. She wanted fried pork and he wanted the hell out of here.

      But he’d talked her into having dinner with him while she waited for her donor to arrive at the hotel for drinks later. And that particular donor wasn’t getting within ten yards of Lacey.

      He’d make sure of it.

      He should have left her pinned to the ground, then tied her up with the linen tablecloth and carried her to his hotel room, trapping her there until morning.

      Jarrett grunted as he sipped the bottled water the cheerful Ives delivered to their table. Lace had been in St. Marc far too long. Too easily dismissive of gunshots. He partly admired her cool aplomb under pressure when everyone else had run off screaming, and partly wanted to shake sense into her.

      All those tours he did in the Middle East, despite the strain on his marriage, he’d never worried about Lace. Lace was safe, back in the United States. No one could hurt her. The marriage had died, but his protective streak and his feelings had not. Now she was in this place, with riots popping up like sniper fire, and he’d be damned if he turned his back and left her.

      He’d feed her and stall her leaving the hotel. What if she’d driven off, headed down that same street where the gunfire erupted? A stray bullet could have hit her...

      The grim image of Lacey slumped over the steering wheel, blood streaming down her head, turned his stomach into ground glass. Forget the danger Ace had mentioned. There were hot spots all around that could kill her.

      Jarrett gave the menu another glance and as Ives returned, ordered in fluent French one order of griot with rice and beans, an order of broiled grouper for himself and a bottle of Bordeaux. Beaming, Ives walked off.

      Lacey seemed paler at the order of French wine than she did at the gunshots. “I really don’t need to drink and I’m really not that hungry after all...”

      “My treat.”

      She sat straighter. “I have money.”

      “No worries. I’ll pay for dinner. Call it a peace offering.”

      “Why are you here, Jarrett? You didn’t just come to this hotel and find me because you have nothing better to do with your vacation. What’s the deal?”

      “I have leave and came here to visit Ace.” At her confused look, he added, “Kyle Taylor. He’s staying with his sister Aimee at the resort she runs on Paix Beach.”

      “I didn’t know Kyle was here. I see Aimee from time to time.”

      “He’s on medical leave. Busted his knee on his last deployment so he came here to visit Aimee and her kids.” Jarrett’s jaw tensed. “And keep an eye on her because of the increasing violence.” He looked around. “When is Augustin getting here?”

      “Paul said he’d phone and let me know. What’s going on, Jarrett? Why all the secrecy? Does this have to do with my dad?”

      Jarrett nearly laughed. The venerable Senator Alexander Stewart had refused to speak to Jarrett after they’d announced their elopement years ago. Her old man still blamed Jarrett for the marriage and the eventual breakup, calling him an “adrenaline-seeking hot dog.”

      “Your father doesn’t know I’m in St. Marc. But he’d agree with me that it’s not safe for you here, Lace.” Jarrett leaned on the table and locked gazes with her.

      “I’m not part of your life anymore, Jarrett. You never cared what happened to me before.”

      The accusation stung. “You were once part of my life, and I did care,” he said quietly. “I care what happens to you now, Lace.”

      She looked troubled at the thought. “You really think the country is headed toward another civil war? Everyone is hopeful that the elections will change that.”

      “If the current regime, and the military, allows a new president to take over.”

      Lacey gnawed at her lower lip. Jarrett watched, both sorely tempted by her lush mouth and worried as hell. He hoped she realized what he didn’t say was more important than the information he offered. The White House had been closely watching the sitch here and was prepared to order US military intervention if a military junta seized control of St. Marc. It had happened in the past, so the possibility was quite real.

      One reason he’d chosen St. Marc as his destination. He wanted to check on Ace and nudge Lacey into leaving before the country exploded and it became harder to hustle her pretty rear end off the island.

      “What have you heard from your sources?”

      Jarrett drew in a deep breath, not daring to say more. “Things are heating up a little too much.”

      “This is the city. The countryside is different. Quiet, peaceful, where I live.”

      He knew the stubborn line between her two silky eyebrows. Hell, he should have tied her up and carried her away.

      Jarrett sipped his water, studying his ex. Her hair was longer now, and she had shadows beneath her eyes, and looked too thin, but she was still lovely. She no longer wore floral perfume, but he could smell the apple shampoo she used when he’d tackled her to the ground.

      She smelled like home, and it amplified his sense of loss.

      “You’ve changed. No more designer outfits?” He eyed her worn khaki backpack. “Or purses?”

      “My priorities changed.” Her mouth lifted slightly. “But I still have my pink Michael Kors bag. It’s in storage. Doesn’t go well with T-shirts and worn denim jeans.”

      “I remember that bag,” he mused. “You bought it shopping the day I returned from Iraq.”

      His body tightened as he remembered. He’d returned from a grueling deployment, drained and numb, the images of what he’d done haunting him. Jarrett had showered twice, scrubbing his body until the hot water ran out, still feeling the sand between his toes, the grit in his teeth. And then he’d sat in the living room, staring at the walls.

      Lacey had walked into the house, the pink Michael Kors bag hanging from one slender shoulder, her lithe body covered in the sweetest pink sundress, her feet stuffed into pink designer sandals. Even her toenails were painted pink. She looked so cute, sexy and so American that all the pressure in his chest finally eased, morphing into pure sexual interest.

      She’d dropped the bag in the living room, run into his arms. And then she’d looked into his eyes, really looked at him, and saying nothing, led him straight into the bedroom. The sex had been hard and rough, a purging of every damn thing he’d seen and done. Then they’d showered together, and had sex again, and afterward, they’d grilled burgers and she sat on his lap as they finished a bottle of white wine, and before they’d fallen asleep, they’d made love three more times.

      Six weeks later the little white stick she’d taken into the bathroom showed two pink

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