Never Surrender (Task Force Eagle) (7 page)

“Easy for you to say.” She twisted in the seat to face
him. “Tell me something, Agent Cruz, with all the slime you see in your
business, how do you maintain such an upbeat attitude? Or is it a cover for
your real feelings?”

Her perception surprised him. Not something he’d put
into words. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you could see inside me.”

“So you do have a dark side?”

“Not really. At least, not for long. Sometimes looking
on the bright side slides me past the dark patches. But it seems natural. Keeps
me going.” He slipped off his sunglasses and winked. “You, on the other hand,
would make lemons out of lemonade.”

Her chin shot up in a familiar gesture of pride. “I’m
simply concerned about my brother.”

“It may take us awhile but we’ll find Jordan.”

“Guess I’ll have to trust you. Some.” She busied
herself with her planner, checking off items on one of her lists.

The highway took them north through Portland to the
ship-building town of Bath, where four lanes funneled into two. Dirty snow
clumped on the shady roadsides. White frame houses and steepled churches and
rambling farmhouses linked to enormous barns were sure as hell different from
anywhere else he’d lived.

In Rockland, they found the fish buyer, but
Sea
Worthy
had already come and gone.

“No message neither,” said the man slinging ice over
bulging-eyed fish in plastic bins. “Funny thing, though. You’re the second
folks today to ask ‘bout that Finny fella.”

Rick lasered to attention. “Who were the others?”

The man shrugged. “Never give their names. Dark,
foreign guys with accents. Left a couple hours ago.”

“Any idea where they were headed?”

“Didn’t say.” The man returned to icing down the fish.

Rick thanked him and hurried a sputtering Juliana back
to the truck.

“Olívas’s men were here ahead of us? How did they
learn about Finny?” She clicked her seat belt.

Olívas’s discovery of Finny’s existence reinforced his
other suspicions. Later he’d call Donovan, but he didn’t want to frighten
Juliana more. “Wish I could answer that. Let’s find your uncle.”

She slashed a line through an item on her list. “That
fish guy said he received no message for Finny.”

“Not everyone’s as organized as you. Any number of
reasons the phone call didn’t happen. That seemed like a loose operation. Maybe
they lost the message or Finny didn’t want to call, and those guys didn’t want
to tell you. Mayb—”

“Maybe Wes forgot to give them the message for Finny.
I could telephone him.” She opened her flip phone.

Shit. He was slipping. He covered her hand. “No. No
calls. And turn off your phone. These days anybody can find directions for GPS
tracking on the Internet. You tell anybody where we’re headed?”

She startled but didn’t pull away. “I . . . I had to
explain part of the situation to Venice because of my cat, but I said only I
had to go out of town for the day.”

It would have to do.

In early afternoon, they reached the village of Bar
Harbor on Mount Desert Island. They parked, then trooped to a shed at the pier’s
edge.

The dispatcher who worked for the boats that plied the
island trade shook her head. “Beal won’t return to port until tomorrow morning.”

“Has anyone else been here looking for her uncle?”

“No, deah. Except for fishermen, there’s no boats in
the water.” The woman spoke with a thick Down-East accent. “Hardly any docks.”

At least the assholes hadn’t arrived here ahead of
them. But Rick wouldn’t relax yet. The notion that somehow they knew more than
they should had him gritting his teeth.

When they returned to the Silverado, Juliana directed
him to her uncle’s house, only a few blocks away. They found the small white
Cape deserted and undisturbed.

“Locked up and the shutters are all closed,” she said.
“He stays here only in winter. He lives in the family’s seaside cottage in
warmer weather. I’m surprised he’s moved already but we can try. All the
property around the cottage belongs to Acadia National Park. The only access is
by boat or on foot.”

“Could Jordan be hiding there?”

She turned to face him, her gamine face hopeful. “I
suppose, but Uncle Grady would have to help him. Provide food and such.”

He turned the ignition. “Let’s go. I could do with a
walk after this long ride.”

“Walk?” She grinned. “When I said inaccessible, I
meant it. Reaching Beal Cottage is a hike, not a stroll.”

*****

At the trail’s small parking area, Rick eased the
Silverado behind a tangle of tall shrubs. Mostly hidden from the road, he
decided. It’d have to do.

Juliana climbed into the back of the pickup to change
from her jeans. He stared into the woods while counting backward from a hundred
and trying not to visualize her stripping down. Having seen the hiking boots on
her to-bring list, he packed his. He’d also worn a fleece pullover beneath his
leather jacket, ready for temps in the thirties.

She emerged in fleece-lined jogging gear and shrugged
into her backpack. She strode to the trail head, marked by a wooden sign on a
pole. “We can see the cottage from the west face of Otter Mountain. We’ll see
smoke from the chimney if anyone is there. If not, we don’t need to go farther.”

He grinned at her expectant gaze. Did she have any
idea how sexy she looked? Tendrils had escaped from her ponytail and curled
around her face. Her eyes sparkled with the intensity he liked about her, and
her complexion glowed. She worked and studied hard, like his parents when he
was small, but she had too much zest for life to be called a drudge.

The trail marker described the West Face Trail as
strenuous. Towering evergreens and birches lined the steep path. “You sure you
want to lug that duffel bag?”

“You have your gun?” She hooked one hand on a hip.

She had no idea how provocative that question was. He
bit back a smart-ass answer and patted the holster at his back. “Always,
mi
amor
, but no one followed us.”

“It’s not that. You have your standard equipment. So
do I. You never know when we might need something I have in here.”

“Let’s see. A complete first-aid kit with an
expandable stretcher? How about—”

“Water.” She shook a finger at him. “Never go on a
hike without water.”

“It’s your other standard equipment I appreciate more.”

A flush pinked her cheeks. “Snow and ice stay until April
on some of the trails. So watch your step. And it’s pretty steep.”

“Don’t worry. I stay in shape.” The warm-up pants
concealed her sleek legs, but hugged other places. The view of her cute little
butt would keep him going. “You first.”

She checked her watch. “Right. DEA, former SEAL and
all that. Okay, let’s see if you can keep up. My best time on this trail is
forty minutes.” With that, she set out up the rocky path at a rapid clip.

Chapter 7

Rick stood rooted to the spot. He stared at her disappearing
backside. The woman was running up the mountain trail and timing it. He bounded
after her.

The path rose straight and steep at nearly a
forty-five degree angle through dense trees and undergrowth. Blue trail arrows
marked boulders the size of SUV’s along the way. He easily skirted the few
patches of ice. By the third trail marker, he caught up to her.

“Whoa, Ms. Marathoner, what are you doing?” He tried
not to sound breathless, though San Francisco was the last place he’d raced
uphill. Everything there was on a damn hill.

“Hiking the trail, of course.” She bent to adjust her
socks. “What’s the matter?”

“How can you look at the scenery if you move at mach
five?”

“If you haven’t noticed, we’re surrounded by trees and
rocks. The real scenery appears above the tree line.”

“Last I knew rocks and trees
are
real scenery.”
He waved toward the trees. “I’ve traveled the globe, but I can’t help the
comparison to my native Miami. This is as different from palms and hibiscus as
the Metropolitan Opera is from indie rock. I want to enjoy it.”

Juliana glanced from the brown leaves underfoot to the
cedars and naked maples and birches around them. “Sorry. I’m so used to these
trails that I make it a contest with myself. It’s fun trying to beat my times.”
Her contrite smile disarmed him.

“Always lists and numbers, Juliana.” He grinned. She
was unique. In more ways than one. “You’ll be a hell of an accountant.”

“The best views are up where the trees stop and the
mountain is nothing but slabs of pink granite. Like the song says, you can see
forever on a clear day. Like this one.” Clearly eager to get moving again, she
jogged in place. “And I might find Jordan.”

“You win. We’ll race up, but let’s cool it on the
return. Check out the trees. Listen to the birds.”
Steal a few kisses.

“It’s March. Most birds are still in Miami. But it’s a
deal.” With a pure, happy smile that rocked him, she sprinted uphill.

He raced after her. Halfway up they shed outer
garments and knotted jacket sleeves at their waists. In five minutes over her
previous record, they reached the end of tree cover and their destination.

The last Ice Age had scraped the mountain’s heights to
bedrock, endless slabs of pink and gray granite frosting on a rounded cake. The
wind carried a salty tang. Scraggly bushes and stunted evergreens sprouted here
and there, but nothing blocked the panorama. The view stole the remainder of
his breath. He sank onto the low branch of a gnarled cedar.

From the West Face the trail led them to the south
side of Otter, facing the vast indigo expanse of the Gulf of Maine. “When Dad
died and the family was in turmoil, I came up here to find balance. I feel
close to Heaven on this mountain.”

“I see what you mean. I’ve always lived by the water,
but I’ve never looked down on it this way. Not even in San Francisco, where
city streets and buildings interfered.”

“The cottage is just down there on the shore, white
with double chimneys.” She offered him binoculars, but the sag in her shoulders
told him what he’d see.

Rick adjusted the focus. “No boat. No smoke from
either chimney. All quiet.”

She sighed and her chin trembled. “No Jordan. And
Uncle Grady’s still out delivering wood or windows or groceries to the islanders.”

He felt her disappointment all the way to his toes. “Look
at it this way. Now Olívas and company won’t find him here either.”

She plucked the water bottle from her backpack and
offered it in exchange for the binoculars. She pointed beyond the shore. “Look
out there. Those islands. That’s Great Cranberry and Black and Swan.”

He imagined he tasted her on the bottle’s lip. He
thirsted for her, not water. Her nipples puckered against her tee. She slipped
on her jacket before he had to start counting again. Damn, was she trying to
kill him? Temptation to the last thread of endurance.

He squinted in the general direction she’d pointed. “I
can’t see exactly where you’re pointing.”

She raised her right arm again. “This way.”

He rose and stepped close behind her, circling her
waist with his left arm. “This way is just fine.” Bending to position his head
beside hers, he slid his right hand along her pointing one. The peach fragrance
of her curls tickled his senses. When he grazed his lips along the rim of her
ear, she went as still as the mountain.

“Ah, now I see the islands.” He tongued his way around
her ear and sucked the lobe. One of her curls brushed his nose.

“Um, Rick?” Her voice came as a thready whisper.

“Mmm,
querida
?” He licked downward, along her
smooth neck. At the hitch in her breath, he smiled against her skin, salty from
the climb. She was warm and sweet and responsive as a blossom in the sun, and
he wished it wasn’t fucking March in New England and they weren’t standing on a
damn pile of stone.

“The scenery?” She sighed and leaned into him. As
though to give him better access, she arched her neck.

“This view’s fine. Closer.” He nuzzled the hollow by
her collarbone. “Don’t you like this?”

“Oh . . . yes, but—”

“Well, then.” He shouldn’t. He had to. He turned her
in his arms and found her mouth. The taste of her lips steamed the blood in his
veins. When she twined her arms around him and parted her lips, he hardened
with a rush, intense and aching.

“Juliana.” He sat on the boulder behind him and pulled
her between his thighs so they were flush together. His body quivered with a
need for her so intense it seared him to his soul.

He craved her like a parched man did water. He ached
to dive into her and see her eyes flare with passion, feel her clench around
him. Maybe that would cleanse her from his system.

He spread his left hand across her firm bottom to mold
her against him. She undulated against his arousal, pressed her breasts against
his chest. Angling her sideways he slipped his other hand under her shirt to
cup one firm globe.

She sucked in a ragged breath and leaned into his
hand.

His body pulsed with jagged need.

With one last savoring sweep of his tongue, he set her
away from him. “If we don’t stop now, I’ll embarrass myself.” He pressed a kiss
to each of her palms. His hands shook as he released hers. If only he had a
cigarette. “Tonight. Tonight I’ll make love to you in a bed until we’re both
senseless, but this mountain is too hard.”

If the stones beneath her feet had erupted, she couldn’t
have looked more shocked. Embarrassment flamed her face. “No.”

“No, you don’t want me to stop? You don’t want to
wait?” His lips twitched with a grin. “Then we can try that low branch.”

She backed away, apparently too dazed to spell it out.
“No . . . I mean
no
.”