Cara Lockwood - Shelter In The Tropics

“Where did you learn how to pilot a boat?” he called over the roar of the engine. Of course, he already knew the answer. He’d done his homework on Cate long before now. He already knew she’d grown up in a small town in Louisiana, near Cado Lake, known for cypress trees and a few alligators. While trying to track her down, he’d damn near interviewed every one of her relatives and nearly anybody else who’d ever known her.

Her dad scraped by repairing boats, and probably took her out on the lake more than once. Her mother worked various waitressing jobs. She came from no money. Hers was a typical Cinderella story, if Cinderella tried to murder Prince Charming.

Cate kept her attention on the water. “My dad,” she said. “Dad loved to fish. He taught me how to do both.”

Tack already knew that. He’d interviewed the man, a tattooed sixty-four-year-old who drank beer for breakfast, cursed worse than a sailor and still ran a tiny little bait shop off the small, dirt turnoff for the lake. It had been a shock to his system trying to imagine the spoiled, greedy socialite living in the bayou. Her father, and everybody else he interviewed from her childhood, praised her as having a heart the size of Texas. Tack never could make sense of how she’d gone bad, except that money did funny things to people. Even nice people.

Rick Allen had told him that she plotted to kill him because a prenup meant she’d get nothing if they divorced. His death was the only way she’d get out of the marriage with a single cent.

Cate’s father had told him in no uncertain terms that he had no idea where she’d gone. Hadn’t heard from her since she’d disappeared and hoped she was doing well, wherever she was.

Tack had assumed, given how drunk the man was by the end of the interview, that her daddy issues ran deep. Probably what made her so focused on squeezing her husband dry.

“Your dad taught you?” Tack still couldn’t see how the old man managed it. Unless he wasn’t drinking so much then. “That must’ve been nice.”

“Well, sure, but Dad always got so drunk he’d pass out, and I’d have to steer the boat back to the dock. What I really learned was how to handle a boat,” she said, without a trace of self-pity, which Tack found remarkable. Tack grew up on a farm in Iowa where self-pity was about the worst sin you could manage. Despite his better judgment, he found himself admiring Cate’s no-nonsense approach to her clearly less-than-stellar childhood.

“You don’t sound mad about it.”

Cate shrugged. “Just the way things were. Like my gran said, ‘You can cry about it, or you can get over it.’ And I never much liked crying.” Right then, Tack heard just the faintest trace of Louisiana in her accent, which in other times she so carefully tamped down. Before now, he never could imagine Cate fitting in down in the bayou, no matter the old picture her father had shown him of her in cutoff jeans and bare feet.

Of course, this Cate before him, the one who kicked off her flip-flips now and stood barefoot in her boat, maybe this Cate could’ve come from the bayou. He could imagine her, maybe, walking barefoot down by the muddy lakeshore.

This Cate reminded him of the girls back home in Iowa. Unassuming, no makeup, living on the family farm. It was the kind of girl he’d had a weak spot for since eighth grade.

He saw her shift her weight, the deliciously firm muscles in her calves rippling ever so slightly. He imagined what they’d feel like wrapped tightly around his waist, and felt himself becoming aroused. This woman was a walking visa to the United States for a brave man and his family, and he couldn’t forget it.

He rummaged around in his bag and dug out the waterproof camera and began clicking pictures of the resort. His mission today was to get as many of Cate as he could. He’d need some to send to his employer, to see if he thought the resemblance was as strong as he did. Granted, Mr. Allen had asked for a DNA sample, which Tack had yet to get, but in the meantime, pictures would be a start. He turned the camera toward Cate, and instantly she held up her hand in front of her face.

“Not me! You don’t want me in there ruining your shots.” She laughed, but there was a hard edge to her voice, a warning.

“But you’re the prettiest thing out here,” he said, and for a second she hesitated.

“I hate having my picture taken,” she said. And he knew it wasn’t a lie. You couldn’t hide too well if people started posting your picture on Facebook. Not when there’s a ten-million-dollar bounty on your safe return to the States.

Tack tried to click a few more, but she’d turned, showing him her back.

Cate kicked up the motor, making any more conversation futile as the wind whipped across the bow of the boat and the maw of the engine buzzed loudly in his ears. Soon enough, Cate turned the boat into a small cove and slowed.

“Welcome to Blue Bay,” she said, cutting the engine as the boat pulled into the small inlet, where she let it drift about twenty feet from shore. She released the anchor to steady the vessel. The bay was aptly named—the clear water looked more blue than green here, and when he glanced over the side of the boat, he could see brightly colored fish darting just below the surface along a large expanse of blue coral reefs.

Cate threw down the ladder from the back of the boat.

“Help yourself,” she said, gesturing to the water. “We can stay here as long as you’d like.”

Tack whipped off his T-shirt and noticed that Cate gawked at his bare chest before she quickly turned away. He worked hard keeping himself in shape, and he smiled to himself as he noticed her flushed face.

“You’re not coming in?” he asked.

“Oh...” She looked genuinely taken off guard. “Well, I...”

“I thought I paid for a guided tour.” He sat on the bench at the back of the boat, slipping on his flippers.

Cate studied him a moment as if trying to figure out a problem. “Sure. I’ll join you.” She kept her voice neutral as she unbuttoned her cutoffs and slipped out of them. She pulled her tank over her head and now it was Tack’s turn to stare. The woman was a tanned, toned masterpiece in perfect symmetry. He couldn’t help but stare at her belly button and the firm stomach that slipped down into her bright blue string bikini bottom. She sat and busied herself putting on her own gear. She attached a small knife belt to her thigh, and grabbed a small mesh bag.

“Fish food,” she explained as she held it up. “You ready?” He swallowed, his mouth suddenly very dry as he tried his best not to look at how well she filled out her bikini top.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” he said as he maneuvered to the end of the boat, bypassed the ladder and leaped into the warm Caribbean Sea.

The rush of warm water enveloped him, and when Cate jumped in a few feet nearby, he swam to her, playfully splashing her with water.

“Hey!” she called, retaliating by slapping the water up to his face. He coughed and swiped at his eyes, and as she advanced, he caught her off guard by diving beneath the waves and grabbing hold of her waist.

He realized how fit she was, how taut her skin felt beneath his hands. When they came up for air, their bodies pressed together, water ran down their faces. All he really wanted to do was kiss her.

CHAPTER FIVE

CATE FELT TACK’S strong arms around her. For a second, she froze, wondering what would happen if Tack pressed his lips to hers. Would she let him kiss her? Would she slap him? Did she want him to kiss her? Then she got the impression they were both starting to sink. With neither of them able to touch bottom, kicking alone—even with fins—would not keep their heads above water for long.