Charlie St. Croix was on a mission. Not the normal kind, with GPS coordinates, a midnight deployment and sixty pounds of gear strapped to his body as he led his SEAL team toward a come-to-Jesus with a nasty knot of ISIS extremists. He’d had enough of those missions—for the time being, anyway—and he needed a break.
His current mission? Check off the top five items on his Caribbean vacation to-do list, one by one. First up: parasailing. Hokey, touristy, and yeah, he’d spent a fair share of his life strapped to a parachute, but this was his vacation and he wanted to have fun.
His guys called him the Saint. A dubious nickname, for sure, but Charlie was the guy in charge. Someone had to be the example, and he always strived to do the right thing.
Until now. He’d left his SEAL platoon and his dog tags behind for two much-needed weeks of downtime. The Saint was ready to raise some hell. The more physical, adrenaline-producing, and wicked, the better.
His buddy, Jared Anderson, owned a resort on a small private island off the coast of Abaco in the Bahamas, and Charlie hadn’t hesitated to take him up on the offer to stay at Duchess Island resort. The view from his room rocked—the entire stretch of sandy beach unrolled for a mile below his balcony, and it was often lined with oiled women in tiny bikinis. He’d spent a very nice thirty minutes enjoying that view while downing the first of many beers.
But you couldn’t beat the view from the parasailing boat. A hot redhead had joined the group at the last minute, towing a gangly teenaged boy with hair almost the same color—her brother, most likely, as they had similar features and builds. Charlie had a lot of experience sizing up a situation on the fly, especially when it came to something as critical as intel on a hot redhead in an even hotter green bikini.
As the boat driver prepared to cast off, Charlie waited until the redhead settled in across from him and lifted his chin. “First time?”
She took a moment to let her gaze wander across Charlie’s bare torso and abs. Sunglasses covered her eyes but the small tilt of her head gave away the trajectory. He let her look. Nothing wrong with a woman gathering her own intel, provided she didn’t mind a man with lived-in skin.
Women dug his scars. As long as they didn’t ask too many questions, it was all good.
“It’s his.” She jerked her thumb at the kid next to her, who did have that first-timer’s combination of glee and terror flitting through his expression. “But I’ve been a bunch of times. It’s one of my favorite highs.”
Her American accent had a hint of the south but not enough to place her origins. Guess he’d have to keep talking to her in order to find out where she was from. Charlie nodded with a grin. “You’re a regular thrill seeker then.”
Shrugging, she smiled back, and he liked that part of her the best.
“You could say that. You?”
She might have just been added to his must-do list. Adventurous women equaled a huge turn-on. “I eat danger for breakfast. But it’s my first time parasailing.”
That got a laugh from her, as intended. Nice. The low throaty note of interest winding through it hit all his buttons. He liked a woman who knew what she wanted and had no problem taking it.
She held out a hand. “Audra Reed.”
“Charlie.” He took her hand, held it for a beat too long—on purpose—to distract her as he deliberately left off his last name. Outside the States, the odds of people recognizing his name were slim, but she was definitely American. And not easily distracted.
“Nice to meet you Charlie with no last name. So you’re just going to throw that mystery down between us right from the start, huh?”
He grinned because her teasing tone was infectious. Yet another thing in the plus column, and Charlie did like things organized. Hell, while he was at it, he might as well add the fact that she’d alluded to this conversation being the start of something. It most certainly was. What, remained to be seen.
“Last names are a second-date kind of thing in my world.” Usually he steered clear of that conversation because he didn’t like lying, but neither did he deal well with claiming to share the same DNA as a cheating, coldhearted bastard like Montgomery St. Croix. “But don’t worry. I’m still a nice guy.”
Only because he’d jumped from the St. Croix ship long ago and landed in the Navy, where he’d managed to hang on to his soul. Not one dollar of his father’s billions would ever grace a bank account with Charlie’s name on it.
The speedboat driver picked that moment to interrupt. He launched into a litany of safety instructions, and the kid by Audra’s side got a little green, his chest rising and falling more rapidly the closer he got to full-blown panic. Charlie leaned forward and caught his gaze, holding it fast. It was a little trick he pulled from his bag occasionally. It only worked on someone who wanted a reason to calm down.