Walker (In the Company of Snipers #21) - Irish Winters Page 0,2
name?”
Yeah, one you’ll never know. He noticed she’d used her middle finger salute when she’d repositioned her sunglasses. And that sweet bless my heart line? It might sound endearing, but that finger was the old ‘fuck you’ salute if he’d ever seen one.
Instead of bowing to her demand, he offered his SEAL handle. “Hotrod. You?”
The evening had grown darker, the last of the day’s sunlight fading the western sky from sultry Piña Colada oranges and pinks to purpling grays and ash. Midnight shadows scuttled across the tiny island, like crabs searching for safe places to hide, where gulls couldn’t get them.
Of all the places in all the Keys to come ashore…
Reminded him of Bogart’s famous line: “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world….”
It was time to leave, even if it meant sloshing back into the surf, disappearing again, this time without wearing his wetsuit or mask. That was what he did best. Do without. Run for his life. Stick to the backroads, swamps, and alleys. Walker had places to be, other places to visit where no one knew his face or thought they knew the details of his alleged crimes. Armchair quarterbacks all of them. Bastards. Braggarts and opinionated has-beens.
And yet…
This was no ordinary woman sparring with him. Lifting his bag, he shouldered it, and like the SEAL he was and would forever be, Walker Judge walked straight into trouble.
Chapter Two
“Damn,” Persia hissed under her breath. “This guy’s got balls.”
Definitely not her type, though. He wasn’t dark-haired nor slim nor debonair like the fictitious James Bond. More muscled than lean. But unshaven. She liked her men clean, no scruff.
When this guy had first come ashore, she’d thought his hair was dark brown, but now that it had dried, it was sandy brown and too short. Military short. Overall, the guy was basically nondescript. Plain. The kind of man women looked through when they passed on the street.
Except for that tightly muscled body. Like an idiot, her heart pounded a zippy salsa beat watching the way his hips rolled with every step he took toward her. The guy had nerve. Her breath hitched. He wasn’t walking as much as stalking. There was danger in every step that brought him closer. Lethality vibrated between them. She could sense it, like a repressed bow wave, it surged ahead of him. Should she run?
Her instincts screamed, Yes! He’s dangerous. Run, run. Run! Before it’s too late!
She bantered back, Never. You know better. Send me to hell, and I’ll come up swinging. I don’t back down, and I don’t back up.
But, but, but…
But nothing. I’m staying. This is my beach. Get a grip.
As she talked to herself, Persia’s fingers curled over the ends of her armrests. Whoever he was, this guy was no wimp. He was packing, and she didn’t mean handguns, although the bag he’d slung over his shoulder looked heavy enough to hold more than a change of clothes and dive gear. There were weapons in there. She could smell them.
Every last inch of her visitor was washboard hard and solid. A scant dusting of hairs darkened his bare chest, and the rare blond or golden ones glistened in the last rays of sunlight through the trees. But I’ll bet he’s dark blond where it counts. Hmmm…
She’d already seen enough of him, aka the magnificent, carved rectus abdominus muscles that comprised his unusual eight-pack instead of a measly six. That alone had started her drooling. More impressive were the finely-crafted external obliques, the much-touted V ordinary men never acquired throughout their sedentary, fast-food, drive-through lives. She licked her lips. The level of hard core-muscles rippling in her direction meant this guy either spent endless vain hours in a gym—which she doubted—or he was disciplined as hell. Focused.
There were no islands south of hers and no boats on the horizon that she could see. This guy had obviously just swum from Cuba. Which meant he was either an Olympic swimmer, an idiot, or an operator, as in Army Ranger, Air Force Special Warfare Pararescue, or SEAL. There were few men who could’ve accomplished a long-distance swim like that. Fewer who would’ve survived the rough, shark-infested ocean.
“Who the hell are you?” she asked again, her instincts on high alert even as she maintained her cool, calm, I’m-the-bitch-of-this-beach demeanor. Cue the sandal slap. He was the trespasser, not her.
“Already told you, ma’am. Hotrod.”
Ma’am, huh? Definitely former military. “That’s just a handle. Really.”