Kristin Gabriel - Seduced In Seattle

The door was finally opened by a grinning Zach. Chelsea pulled Kate toward the reception hall. “Let’s go. Hurry!”

Kate kicked off her remaining shoe, then rushed out into the decorated hall, noting the excited group of women gathered in the center of the room. She could see Gwen standing on the balcony above them, her new husband next to her.

Elbowing her way through the crowd, Kate did her best to ignore the growls of displeasure and dirty looks all around her. Gwen gave her a relieved smile when she finally saw her, then tossed the skirt high in the air.

Kate watched it float toward her, almost in slow motion. She boxed out her competition, just like her big brother had taught her to do when going up for a rebound in basketball. Adrenaline and hope fueled her leap as she reached up to snatch the skirt out of the air. She pulled it down. The unusual fabric felt soft and silky in her hands.

Victory.

Until the woman standing next to her, a buxom blonde wearing a gown with huge shoulder pads, tried to grab it. “That skirt should have been mine.”

“Sorry, it’s mine,” Kate said firmly, tightening her grip on the skirt. “I caught it.”

“Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” the woman said through clenched teeth, giving it a hard tug.

“Be careful!” Kate exclaimed. “You’re going to…”

The sound of tearing fabric made the words die on her lips.

Chelsea arrived, her eyes wide with horror. “What happened?”

The blonde dropped her end of the skirt, then pointed accusingly at Kate. “She tore it. Now it’s probably ruined.” Then she stomped away.

Kate held up the skirt to survey the damage. “It looks like it’s just ripped a little at the side seam. All it needs is some mending.”

Chelsea nibbled her lower lip. “I’m not so sure, Kate. It’s the thread that makes it special. I don’t know what will happen if you mend it with plain old cotton thread.”

“Don’t worry.” Kate squared her shoulders. She had the skirt and that’s all that mattered. “I’ll think of something.”

BROCK GANNON walked into Dooley’s Bar and looked through the smoky haze. He didn’t feel any of the old excitement at embarking on a new mission. Maybe turning thirty had something to do with it. Or the fact that nothing seemed to challenge him anymore. He specialized in recovering stolen goods that the police couldn’t, or wouldn’t, find. Of course, sometimes the clients didn’t want to involve the police, especially if a relative was involved in the theft.

Working as a mercenary had taught Brock to suspect everyone and trust no one. It was a cynical attitude, but it had kept him alive and well for the past eight years. His occupation was a dangerous one, since it often brought him into the company of thieves and other lowlifes. But it had made him a very wealthy man and had taken him all over the world, including exotic places where few civilized people ever ventured. But somehow, he always found his way back here to Boston, to Dooley’s, although he didn’t really have anywhere that he could call home.

Brock’s boss worked out of this bar, owned it in fact, having retired from the mercenary field himself. Now Sam Dooley simply supervised the missions, assigning the best man or woman in his employ to the job, and taking a small percentage of the fee for himself.

A haunting Irish melody emanated from the jukebox and two men sat at the long oak bar, each of them staring into his mug of dark beer. The sound of a woman’s laughter drew Brock’s attention toward the back of the bar. A billiard game was in progress and he spotted the snow-white hair of his boss as he bent over the table to rack up the balls.

Brock ordered a beer, then ambled over to an empty booth to wait until the billiards game ended. He wasn’t in any hurry. He’d spent enough nights in empty hotel rooms to appreciate the change of scenery.

Thirty minutes later, Dooley approached the table. “Well, hell, Gannon. Why didn’t you let me know you were here?”

Brock nodded to the two women at the billiards table. “Looked to me like you were busy.”

“You could have joined us.” Dooley sat down across from him, raking his shaggy white hair off his forehead. “Made it a party.”

Brock shook his head. “I have to catch a plane early tomorrow morning. Although you didn’t mention where you’re sending me this time.”

“Seattle.”

Brock picked up his beer and took a long swallow. He knew Dooley was watching him, waiting for a reaction. Too bad he’d be disappointed. Seattle was now just another pit stop in a long line of cities. London, Chicago, Toronto. They all blended together after awhile.

He’d grown up around Navy bases in different parts of the country, including Whidbey Island. His mother was a Navy groupie, taking dead-end jobs in towns near a base in hopes of enticing an enlisted man into marriage. She’d caught five, but thrown them back when they’d failed to make her happily ever after. His own father hadn’t even bothered to stick around long enough to see Brock born. Dooley was just one of the four stepfathers who had tried to fill the void. His favorite one.

“Speaking of Seattle, I talked to your mother on the telephone yesterday.” Dooley motioned to the waitress for another round of beers. “She told me she received an invitation to the Talaveras fortieth anniversary party. You’re invited, too.”

Brock nodded, though he had no intention of going. He’d cut all ties with Seattle the day he’d left twelve years ago. Dooley knew all about the Talaveras. Knew how close Brock had been to them before he enlisted in the Navy in the middle of his senior year. Tony Talavera had been his best friend the three years Brock had lived in Seattle. Tony’s family had opened up their home to him.

He stared at his empty beer mug, remembering Sid and Rose and Katie the Pest, Tony’s little sister. She used to have her nose buried in those gothic romances, escaping to her room whenever Tony would tease her about them. It all seemed like such a long time ago.

Their waitress approached, breaking his reverie. Brock sat back and waited until she had set the frosty beer mugs down in front of them and walked away again. “So tell me about this mission.”

One corner of Dooley’s mouth twitched. “It’s a little unusual.”

“Then it sounds like my kind of job.” Brock’s special skills as a military tracker had made him one of Dooley’s best operatives.

At first, Brock had thrived on the recovery work. The travel to exotic locations. The one-night stands with beautiful, mysterious women. But somewhere along the way, his job had lost its allure. It all just seemed so pointless.

He’d thought about quitting, since he didn’t really need the money anymore. But then what? Brock knew he was at a turning point in his life. Unfortunately, he had no idea which direction to go.

He leaned back against the booth. “Who’s the client?”

Dooley took a swig of his beer, then wiped the foam off his upper lip. “A native of Calabra.”

Brock knew about the tiny island nestled in the Caribbean. The people liked to keep to themselves, never exploiting their beautiful beaches or tropical forests for the hordes of tourists that flocked to the other, more well-known islands. Few people even knew of Calabra’s existence.

“This woman is one of the candidates in a special election there,” Dooley continued. “Apparently, she believes recovering the item will win her votes. She promised to pay top dollar and kept emphasizing the importance of keeping this transaction confidential.”

Brock arched a brow. “Don’t we always?”

Dooley nodded, then picked up his mug and grinned. “But guess what she wants?”