A shot of pure sexual awareness buzzed into the center of Jackie’s solar plexus. The sensation was so intense that she gulped to keep from taking an involuntary step backward and she brought a hand to her tingling lips.
Scott’s gray eyes widened and he looked as befuddled as she felt.
Time skipped, glitched.
They exhaled simultaneously, the sound softly explosive in the balmy air. The boat wobbled. Jackie had actually been born at sea, on her father’s research vessel, the Sea Anemone, and she always felt more balanced on water than she ever did on land. But now, she felt strangely tremulous.
Withdraw! Withdraw!
But there was nowhere to go. Scrambling to find her equilibrium, she focused on her bare feet, pushing her toes flat against the bottom of the boat.
Scott ran his right hand through his hair. The gesture moved the cuff of his T-shirt sleeve upward, revealing a deep puckered scar on the underside of his upper arm. It looked like he’d been shot with a harpoon.
Startled, she felt a knot of attraction form in the pit of her stomach. Oh, this was crap. She couldn’t like him simply because he suffered. For all she knew he was a drug dealer and that’s why he’d been harpooned. Mangrove channels made for great outlaw hideouts.
But somehow she wasn’t getting that vibe from him. Then again, she wasn’t particularly intuitive when it came to people. Plants and animals and fish, yes. Human beings? Not so much.
So there was absolutely no reason for her to be wondering what he looked like without a shirt on. His biceps were hard as baseballs. If his arms were that awesome, chances were his abs were equally spectacular.
She did not want to go there, but her rebellious stare slipped from his arm to his chest and on down to—
Jacqueline Michele Birchard you will not look at that man’s crotch.
Then something alarming occurred to her. What if he was spying on her? Oceanography was a viciously competitive field. Could he be out to steal her research project?
Don’t be so mistrustful. How likely is that?
Not likely at all, but she was her father’s daughter. She knew what kind of tricks people pulled to get a leg up in this cutthroat business.
Jackie snapped her gaze back to his face and said curtly, “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Everly, I have things to take care of.”
“You never did tell me your name.” His voice was low, teasing.
And she didn’t want to tell him now. She didn’t trust him any farther than she could toss him. “Jackie,” she said.
“No last name?”
She hated dropping the Birchard name, but maybe if she gave him a name, he’d go away. “Birch. Jackie Birch.”
Only half a lie. Still, she didn’t like fudging the truth.
“Well, Jackie Birch, you have a nice morning.”
“Thanks. You, too,” she said automatically. All she wanted was for him to go away so she could get back to work.
“And seriously, do bring someone with you the next time you’re on the water. The buddy system works best out here.”
“Yes, yes.” Beat it, Skippee.
“I’d hate for anything to happen to you.” His smoky voice caressed her ears.
Then there she was again feeling completely unbalanced.
Without another word, he put his oar in the water, turned his kayak and paddled away, leaving Jackie stumped, stymied, suspicious and more than a tad sexually attracted to a total stranger.
She didn’t like it. Not one bit.
2
The Coast Guard is the shepherd of the seas.
—Late Chief Warrant Officer Benjamin Everly
UNITED STATES COAST GUARD Station Key West was a major base in the 7th District founded in 1824. Sector Key West was a unified command consisting of two patrol boats, eight duel boats and three small boat stations. Even though it was a small unit, Sector Key West’s responsibilities encompassed 55,000 square miles of territory, including the borders of Cuba and the Bahamas.
Every time Scott walked into his father’s old headquarters, a thrill ran through him. This was where he’d first fallen head over heels for the Coast Guard. His love for his chosen career had only deepened with time. He was living his father’s legacy. You couldn’t put a price on that kind of pride.
Although now he worked out of D.C., his heart still belonged to Sector Key West.
The place always stirred memories, but today his thoughts stayed anchored on the woman in the red bikini. In his mind’s eye he kept seeing her standing in the boat, vulnerable, fierce and sexy as hell. She’d said her name was Jackie Birch but that did nothing to alleviate his curiosity.
Who was this Jackie Birch, besides a pretty woman who swam alone in the mangroves? And why did he keep wondering what she would taste like if he kissed her?
“Scott!” Marcy Dugan, the civilian public relations liaison, exclaimed. Marcy was in her mid-forties, almost as tall as Scott, with a whip-thin figure from running marathons. “It’s so good to see you.”
“Don’t I get a hug?” He held out his arms.
“Of course.” She embraced him. “It’s so good to have you home.”
His strongest memory of Marcy was at his father’s funeral ten years ago. At the graveside, she’d placed a palm against his back and whispered, “Your father was so proud of you. I know you’re going to live up to his expectations.”
He’d done his best to do just that.
“How’s Megan?” she asked.
“Flustered. She keeps second-guessing herself on every decision.”
“All brides are nervous before the wedding. There’s so much pressure.”
“She really seems happy, though.”
“Dave’s a good guy,” Marcy said, referring to Megan’s fiancé.
“I’m glad to hear he gets your stamp of approval. I haven’t had a chance to really get to know him yet.”
Marcy smiled. “You’re having a hard time letting go of your baby sister.”
“Am I that transparent?”
“Yes.” She linked her arm through his. “But that’s okay. You’ve always looked after her.”
“Except she doesn’t need me to take care of her anymore.” He was surprised to hear a wistful note in his voice.
“It’s time for you to find a wife who will appreciate your protective qualities.”
“Too bad you’re not available,” he teased.
“Flirt.”
“If you ever get tired of Carl—” he winked “—you know where to find me.”
“Hitting on my wife again, Everly?” Chief Warrant Officer Carl Dugan drawled as he came down the hall toward them. Carl had been born in Corpus Christi, Texas, and although he’d lived in Florida for most his life, he never lost his Lone Star accent. “You’re late.”
“Normally, Carl eats breakfast at 6:00 a.m. sharp,” Marcy said, slipping her arm around her husband’s waist and patting his flat belly. “He held off for breakfast with you, so he’s bit cranky.”
Carl,