Navy SEAL Seduction (15 page)

CHAPTER 13

F
leur was in a good mood when he met her at school. She chattered about her day, playing jump rope at recess, and showed him the drawing of the bird she’d done in class.

Jarrett hugged her and then helped her into the SUV, making sure she was buckled in. As he pulled out of the school yard, he was glad to see her so animated. This past week he had grown fond of the little girl, and she was beginning to mean a lot to him.

Not only because she was Lacey’s daughter, but because she was a tough, spirited kid who had been through hell. And she had a survivor’s spirit.

Traffic crawled as Jarrett drove. He navigated past a slow-moving caravan of donkeys laden with woven baskets. A few men and women hawked wares along the roadside, but the market wasn’t as crowded as it had been the previous day. Jarrett kept his gaze sharpened. Vendors sat beneath faded beach umbrellas as they sold bright yellow bananas, tasty-looking mangoes, packs of gum, sweets or fried chicken on the sidewalk.

It was too easy to lose oneself in the frantic explosion of noise, smells and color, but he’d learned to train himself to spot lurking threats hidden by a cacophony of human activity. The banana vendor with the wide straw hat who seemed to be haggling with a customer over his wares could have a pistol tucked beneath his faded T-shirt. The weary-looking farmer nudging his mule past the line of vehicles stuck in traffic might use that machete as a weapon.

He always remained on guard. It was ingrained into his nature. Paranoid, his ex-father-in-law once called him. Well, hell yeah, with good reason. Lacey’s old man had never served in a country where insurgents planted IEDs in the road, or an innocent-looking child lobbed a grenade at you as if it was a softball. Cold sweat trickled down his neck as he scanned the market. All his instincts tingled.

Never one to ignore that little tingle, for it had saved him many times, he hung back as the traffic inched forward like a caterpillar. Gave himself enough room to cut out and not be blocked in. The truck in back of him honked impatiently, but Jarrett ignored it.

Finally, the traffic began to move forward, and the bus in front of him belched black smoke. The truck behind him pulled out and passed him on the left, almost clipping a car coming from the opposite direction.

Fleur pointed. “Look, Uncle Jarrett! Mamma says drivers like that are cray cray.”

A half smile touched his mouth, but it dropped. Now that the truck no longer blocked his rearview and side mirrors, he saw the bike.

Not just a bike, nor a typical scooter seen around the island. This was a sleek black crotch rocket coming up fast behind him on his right, weaving through the traffic like a sewing needle piercing fabric. All his instincts roared to the surface. Black helmets hid the faces of the riders.

And then Jarrett saw the passenger on the bike reach into his leather jacket. The motorcycle sped up on the right. Sunlight glinted on the metal the passenger held, the barrel gleaming wickedly in the bright sunlight.

Damn it!

He unhitched her seat belt with his thumb and pushed Fleur down roughly to the seat. “Stay down,” he roared in French.

The passenger fired, and a hail of bullets pierced the back window. Glass showered the backseat. Fleur screamed and climbed off the seat, squeezing herself onto the floor. Jarrett gunned the engine, but the SUV wasn’t built for speed. Still, he had to outmaneuver them. A narrow lane was about one hundred feet to his left, but it was blocked with market stalls and vendors.

His mind kicked into automatic, even as the assassin fired the assault weapon again. He barely heard the glass shattering in the front window, felt the stinging kiss of the bullet as it scraped his right pec. He jerked the wheel hard right, hoping to ram the assailant, but the biker braked, skidded and then maneuvered around the side, still firing. By now people were screaming, abandoning their wares and running everywhere like a mass of ants streaming from an anthill.

He reversed with one hand, pulled his sidearm free with the other and fired at the bike’s driver. Three quick pops and he heard a scream as the bike tore forward. Jarrett shot again, and the biker lost control, skidded sideways on the loose gravel and crashed into a stall filled with bright orange mangoes.

Thank you, sweet Jesus, for mangoes.

Jarrett gunned the engine, found a side street and plowed through it, crashing into now-empty market stalls. He tore down another street, then onto a dirt road leading to the main road. As he reached the main highway, he glanced left once and saw the traffic jam at the marketplace, but the road was clear ahead of him.

Speeding toward Lacey’s home, he glanced down at Fleur crouched there, head buried in her arms, blood covering her yellow checked dress.

“Are you hurt? Fleur! Answer me,” he roared.

The only sound was a small whimper.

He didn’t dare stop and check her wound until they reached home. When he pulled in front of the gate, Marcus saw him and yanked the gate open. Jarrett sped through as Marcus closed the steel gate. He parked, unhitched his seat belt and bent over Fleur.

“Fleur, sweetheart, it’s okay now,” he crooned. “Are you hurt? Let me see, please, honey...”

Marcus opened the passenger door but Jarrett was already out of the vehicle, racing around the side and scooping the terrified little girl into his arms, very gently brushing away the bits of small broken glass from her body. He heard alarmed shouts and Lacey’s voice.

Jarrett placed Fleur on the ground and examined her dress and the blood. He cradled her face in his big hands, alarmed at how quiet she’d grown. But she appeared unhurt. He breathed a small sigh of relief that the SUV had windows made from safety glass. And then Lacey was at his side. He was amazed at her cool calmness. She didn’t scream or grow hysterical, but picked up her daughter and thoroughly examined her.

Relief showed on her face as she lifted her gaze to Jarrett. “She’s shaken up, but not injured.” Then her eyes widened. “Jarrett, it’s your blood on her dress. You got shot!”

He clapped a hand to his chest, wondering why it came back stained red. The coppery scent of blood slammed into his nostrils as a brief bout of dizziness hit him. “Bullet only grazed me. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.” Still cradling her daughter, Lacey began issuing orders to the women who had followed her. “Get clean bandages and the first-aid kit.”

She went to take his arm, and he shrugged her off. He was a SEAL, damn it, not an invalid. And he’d failed to keep her daughter safe from all harm. Lace had trusted him with the most precious thing in her life, and he’d botched it. Should have shown up earlier, made arrangements to pick her up sooner and take a different route. But he had not.

Fleur wrapped her arms around Lacey, clinging to her like a limpet. He made it into the dining room before another bout of dizziness hit him. Jarrett sank into a chair.

“You’re losing blood.” Lacey set Fleur down, opened the carved sideboard and withdrew an elegantly embroidered linen table setting. He started to protest, but she silenced him with one of her signature looks. She folded the place mat into a square and pressed it to his chest wound.

He took it from her and applied pressure.

“I’m ruining your fancy place mat,” he said, hating how helpless he felt.

“I’ll buy more.”

Lacey sat beside him as the woman brought in bandages and the first-aid kit, but Fleur hooked her arms firmly about Lacey’s neck, as if the little girl was drowning. Jarrett winced, not from pain, but the terror still lingering in the child’s eyes.

“Sweetheart, I have to let you down for a minute so I can help Jarrett. He’s hurt. Sit down at the table. I’ll be right here.”

Rose came into the room and went to take Fleur’s hand. “I’ll get her changed and clean her up, Miss Lacey.”

“No,” Fleur whimpered. “Please, no. I need to stay with Mommy. Mommy!”

His chest tightened and his breath hitched. No longer was Fleur the normal, talkative child who’d chattered about her day. She had regressed back to when she’d lost her birth mother to her father’s brutal violence.

Lacey shook her head. She bent down and hugged her daughter. “I’m right here, baby. I’m not leaving you. But I need to take care of Jarrett.”

Rose’s gaze darted to Lacey and she twisted her hands.

“Rose, get Mr. Bunny and Fleur’s storybook, please. The one I’ve been using to teach her to read in French,” Lacey ordered.

The woman stood there, staring.

“Now,” Lacey snapped.

Then his ex-wife turned to her daughter and said in the gentlest voice he’d ever heard, “Sweetie, I am going to tend to Uncle Jarrett now. He’s kind of scared because he got hurt.”

Jarrett lifted his eyebrows, wondering where she was going with this.

“He needs your help to keep his mind off his injury, okay?” Lacey took the book and the bunny rabbit as Rose returned to the table. “I want you to hold Mr. Bunny in your lap and read aloud to Uncle Jarrett from your storybook so you can show him how much you’ve progressed with reading.”

Jarrett nodded in understanding. By giving Fleur a diversion, the little girl wouldn’t see how injured he was.

Hugging her stuffed animal, Fleur opened the book and began to read aloud in French. Lacey tore open his shirt and winced. He glanced down at the narrow groove scraping through his right pec and the blood streaming from it.

“It’s just a flesh wound,” he muttered in English as she began to clean it.

“And you’ve lost blood, Lt. Jarrett Adler. Quiet while I fix this.”

The stinging pain burned, but he’d had worse. Jarrett laced his fingers around her wrist as she began to clean his wound. “I’m sorry I let this happen,” he said quietly in English.

Her lower lip wobbled, but the stubborn line he knew well formed between her silky brows. “Don’t be ridiculous. Because of you, she’s alive,” she whispered in the same language.

The peroxide stung like a bitch as Lacey cleaned his injury. Then she dressed the wound as expertly as any hospital corpsman would.

“Where did you get the medical training?”

Lace capped the bottle of peroxide and wiped her perspiring forehead with the back of one hand. She disposed of the bloodied gauze and returned to the table to pack the kit.

“I have to be self-sufficient. I spent two months volunteering at a local clinic when I moved here. I figured if anything happened, I could at least care for myself.”

She blinked rapidly. “Although I never figured on anyone I knew getting shot. Stay here.”

She went into the adjoining kitchen and returned with a sports drink and uncapped the bottle, handing it to him. “You’ve lost blood and need to replace fluids.”

“I’ll be fine.” He drank until draining the entire bottle and then turned to Fleur. “Thank you, Fleur. That really helped take my mind off getting fixed up. You read really well.”

But the child still had the same blank stare as when he’d pulled her from the car. It would take a long time, and professional help, to get her past her trauma. Jarrett glanced at Lacey, who bit her lip. She offered a bright smile to Fleur.

“Sweetheart, why don’t you get changed and cleaned up and take a nap before dinner?”

Fleur looked at Jarrett. “Are you going to die?”

Good God. Ignoring the pain in his chest, both from the bullet wound and the emotional tightness of the question, he squeezed Fleur’s hand. “No, honey. I’m a big ole tough grizzly bear and I’m sticking around, I promise. You can count on that.”

She gave a little nod and clutched her bunny harder with one hand and the book in the other as Lacey led her away. Jarrett sat again, burying his face into his hands.

Christ, what a goat fluster. And Lacey was not going to like what he had to do...

Fishing his cell out from his pocket, he called Gene.

They had been at a popular grocery store frequented by the wealthy and ex-pats, when several army vehicles had rolled by, headed south. Rumor had it the army was taking over the local radio stations and shooting journalists.

Gene and Sam had left, seeking refuge with a friendly French ex-pat who had a well-guarded house. Their American accents made them moving targets.

Damn. He told them to sit tight, explained what happened. They would return at 2200 to the compound, when everything quieted.

Minutes later Lacey returned. He looked up into her troubled face as she examined the bandage. His wound had not resumed bleeding, fortunately.

“You should go to a hospital and get an IV, but I wouldn’t take you to a hospital around here. The closest hospital is out of commission. And it’s too dangerous and you’re too exposed.”

Suspicion filled him. “What’s going on, Lacey? I called Gene and Sam and they told me the St. Marc army is shooting journalists at radio stations.”

Jarrett leaned closer. “Spill it, Lace. Why? What did you hear?”

Raising her gaze to the ceiling, she heaved a deep sigh. “There’s been a military coup. It happened an hour ago. General Georges Montana has seized control of the government and refuses to allow incoming President Salles to assume power. The national palace fell under control of the army.”

That was why the market had been half-deserted. This changed everything.

“Tell me exactly what happened. Was it a protest against the government and you got caught in the cross fire?” she asked, looking hopeful.

Jarrett understood. A direct attack was far worse than random violence.

He told her everything that had happened and destroyed that hope. Opening her eyes, she gathered his hands into hers and her fingers trembled violently. “Thank you for saving Fleur.”

Guilt pierced him. “She could have been badly hurt.”

He did not say the words hovering there.
She could have been killed.

“But she wasn’t, because you were there. If I had been driving...” Lacey bit her lip.

“Hey.” He pulled his hands free and slid a palm around the nape of her neck. “You weren’t. She’s safe for now.”

Her blue eyes glistening with tears, Lacey shook her head. “They were after my little girl. Why, Jarrett? Because I’m American and our country wants St. Marc to have a democratically elected government? Because I’m trying to help battered women who’ve been to hell and back?”