Going Dark Read online

  Julien looked as though he was going to argue, but maybe her pleas gave him the excuse to back off without losing face. Although in a contest between the two . . . there wouldn’t be one.

  Julien slid his arm around her waist and drew her against him protectively. But before they turned around to go, he had to get in one last comment. “Your boss is going to hear about this.”

  Three

  Fucking douche bag.

  The man the locals knew as Dan Warren watched the two protesters walk away, glad to see them go. For a minute he thought—maybe even hoped—that the feisty little American whose hand had landed in his lap the night before was going to argue with him. And even though do-gooder, antimilitary, idealistic graduate students weren’t exactly high on his list, sexy, dark-haired, green-eyed, full-mouthed Vampire Diaries chick look-alikes—with the killer body to go along with the rest—definitely were. He could still feel the heat of her hand on him. The speed of his body’s reaction was a painful reminder that he’d neglected certain areas for too long.

  The instant attraction had been as surprising as it had been unwelcome—especially after that “machine” comment.

  He’d noticed her the moment she walked in. Hell, every straight man in the bar had noticed her. Long, wavy dark hair, big green eyes, flawless suntanned skin, sultry red mouth, and the previously mentioned killer body. Tight ass, long legs, and a good-sized rack—a winning trifecta in his book.

  But he’d quickly lost interest when he realized she was with the protest group—and the French guy. Until she’d mentioned that damned article. And her boyfriend and his friends had started in on the “hired killer” crap. He might have appreciated her defense a little more were it not for the “programmed machine too brainwashed—and stupid—to realize what they were doing” angle.

  The last thing he wanted to hear was some clueless academic giving his or her point of view on what others did. On what others died for, damn it.

  But what the hell was she doing with a little turd like that? Dan didn’t like the looks of him—Julien (talk about a “take my lunch money” name)—and not just because he was French. Although that certainly didn’t hurt. He didn’t usually rely on stereotypes—unless they happened to fit. Dan was good at sizing up people, and everything about that guy rubbed him the wrong way.

  He knew the type too well. Smug and condescending, Julien thought culture and education only existed in smooth-talking, upper-crust circles populated by people who liked to hear themselves talk and thought they were smart because they could quote Kierkegaard or listened to opera.

  Dan had learned far more working in the real world. He had no use for passive, pretentious pseudointellectuals who probably couldn’t tell north from south on a compass and did nothing for all the freedom they took for granted and let others defend. A jackass like Julien would be the last person Dan would want in his lifeboat when the shit hit the fan, but God knows the little prick would be the first one to knock everyone out of the way to get in.

  He wondered what Julien and his buddies were up to. But it wasn’t any of his business. And minding his business was exactly what “Dan” was going to do.

  Even if it was driving him fucking crazy.

  But he was still pissed off. Probably because the douche bag had gotten the last word—and guessed correctly that Dan was taking orders.

  Julien was right. The boss wasn’t going to be happy.

  Which was confirmed a short while later when Malcolm MacDonald yelled down the hatch to the engine room, where Dan was working, for him to come up.

  The man the locals referred to as “Old MacDonald”—you couldn’t make this shit up—had spent the better part of his sixty-eight years at sea as a fisherman. It was a tough life, and he wore the hardships of it on his face. Grizzled, about a hundred bills overweight—most of it in his gut—and rarely without a cigarette hanging from his mouth, in between coughing fits that made Dan think Old MacDonald would be buying the farm before he saw the other side of seventy, he conversed in grunts, curses, and glowers. Usually.

  “You want to explain why I just got off the phone with an angry customer who said you refused to take them on the charter I told you about?”

  Dan shrugged. “The guy was an asshole.”

  MacDonald exploded. “An asshole who was about to pay two thousand pounds cash for less than two days’ work!”

  Dan’s eyes narrowed. “That’s a lot of money. I told you I wouldn’t run drugs for you.”

  It had been his one stipulation. What MacDonald did on his own time to make ends meet, he wouldn’t ask. The old guy’s less-than-stellar reputation in town had been one of the reasons Dan had sought him out for employment. People engaged in less-than-legal activity tended not to ask too many questions.

  MacDonald’s gaze narrowed right back at him. “Who said anything about drugs? They want a ride out to the drillship.”

  “Why?” Dan could think of a handful of reasons—none of which were good.

  What was the feisty little American messed up in?

  “I didn’t ask. And neither should you. Asking questions isn’t part of my business—you should know that.” The less-than-subtle reference to Dan’s own hazy background was well-taken. “They hired us to take four of them and an inflatable on an overnight dive. I hired you to captain the fucking boat, not make decisions. You got that?”

  If this job wasn’t so good—pretty damned perfect actually—Dan would remind the old buzzard that any scrutiny into Dan’s background was likely to provoke scrutiny into MacDonald’s own business “enterprises.” But deciding not to press him, Dan nodded.

  But he nearly reconsidered when MacDonald added, “Then I will leave it to you to find them and fix it before they hire another company to take their money.”

  Dan knew exactly what “fix it” meant, and every bone in his body balked at the idea of apologizing to that smug asshole. But if he refused, he had no doubt that MacDonald would fire him. He weighed the likelihood of finding another job as good as this one and swore.

  Looked as if it was time for him to eat some shit.

  • • •

  This sucked. Dan stood in front of the door with a brass “2” staring at him. It hadn’t been difficult to find out where they were staying. When he hadn’t seen them at the protester camp at the port, he’d guessed that they were at the Harbour Bar & Guest House. He’d wager what he had in his pocket—which, as he’d just cashed a check, was about two weeks of work—that Julien didn’t do roughing it.

  He lifted his hand to knock and hesitated. He didn’t need this shit. He could find another boat.

  If the door hadn’t opened, he might have turned around.

  The gorgeous brunette nearly ran into him. She gasped and then just stood there, clearly surprised to see him, with her killer mouth parted in a way that made him think of all kinds of really inappropriate things.

  “Hi,” he said a little more softly—and huskily—than he’d intended.

  The simple greeting seemed to take her aback. It was as if she didn’t know what to do with it. He supposed that was his fault. He hadn’t exactly encouraged conversation in their prior exchanges.

  She didn’t respond right away. Their eyes met and held—and didn’t let go. He felt the buzz of something hot and unwanted. But the physical attraction was there. From the uncomfortable pause, he guessed that she had felt it, too—and didn’t like it any better than he did.

  “Hi,” she finally said.

  Christ, her voice was insane. Low and throaty, and sexy as hell. She’d make a killing in phone sex.

  The vaguely intimate moment was ruined by the arrival of Julien.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded, stepping in front of his girlfriend. From the frown on her face, Dan took it she didn’t appreciate the show of masculine posturing.

  Dan kept his express