She always changed inside the tent, so it was pretty PG-13 as far as perving went.
But it was still stalker-esque. And no good intel came from it. She actually spent her Saturday night and Sunday morning working, as she claimed. She moved through the rooms, cataloguing the dilapidated furniture and referencing a clipboard with only God knew what other information on it.
If he were in her shoes, it would be a list of everything that should get tossed on a bonfire. Starting with the few remaining pieces of furniture, which surely housed families of mice, and including all the interior walls, because they only looked lovely if one squinted.
Or if one were overly affected by nostalgia.
She had a computer set up in one of the upstairs rooms, and when she left for an hour on Sunday afternoon, he snuck in and checked it out.
It wasn't even password protected.
There was no wifi, and the only files on it were old copies of letters saved to the computer's desktop. A thank-you note to a donor, a dry-as-dust memo to the board of directors.
There was no drama here, other than a mix-up. One of them would get some disappointing news, and life would move on.
Until then, he had beach access and a hammock at his disposal, and he wasn't taking proper advantage of either of them. Enough of playing Spy-vs-Spy.
CARA HAD THE WORLD'S FASTEST SHOWER AT HER APARTMENT IN PETITE CIOTAT, then quickly booted up her laptop. She'd slipped away quietly enough-Mick probably hadn't even noticed her leave. And she wouldn't be gone long.
Just long enough to wash off the grime and do a little research.
Mick didn't seem to have a social media presence. No Facebook account, at least not under that name and with a picture of his face. No profiles on any of the lesser, business-oriented pages. For that matter, neither did Will Parry. But there was mention of Mick's friend, at least obliquely, in a society pages article about the Parry clan.
Twin grandsons had joined the Navy.
Will and Quinn.
And neither of them had any digital footprint, either.
Cara tapped her index finger against her lip. Her mind went in a million different exciting directions. CIA, drug-wars, undercover operations. None of which she'd want anywhere near her villa.
Her shoulders sagged. What was she doing? Hoping the Internet would offer up a perfect solution for kicking Mick out of Villa Sucre?
Yeah.
Too bad the Internet hadn't gotten the memo.
She set her laptop aside and padded to her small bedroom. She needed more clothes at the estate. Grabbing a few items, she shoved them into a bag, then headed for the kitchen. Mick couldn't be the only one who stocked the kitchen with supplies. She didn't have quite the eye for balanced rations that he clearly did, but she surely had enough food in her pantry to sustain herself for a few days.
Rations.
Navy.
She screeched to a halt, practically tripping over her toes as the obviousness of it all dawned on her.
Was Mick in the Navy, too? That would explain the close friendship and his defensiveness over his buddy's motives. Brotherhood and all that. Plus there was his body …
Maybe he was built like a machine for a reason.
But why was he here?
The question bugged her for the rest of the day. She thought about it as she settled back into the ballroom, then made lunch in the kitchen, taking her sweet time in case she might catch a glimpse of him out the window.
She didn't.
It bothered her when he finally roused, late in the afternoon. She watched as he wandered out of the servant quarters and, after stretching and yawning, headed straight for the beach. He always moved at an annoying, leisurely pace. Like he didn't have a care in the world.
It ran contrary to the fire she saw in his eyes every time they clashed.
It didn't make any sense.
And he wasn't giving her any further clues, so by the time the sun dropped low over the jungle that separated the estate from Petite Ciotat, she gave up and crawled into her tent with a good book.
She was on the third chapter when she heard him quietly enter the kitchen through the back door.
She had a couple of options. Ignore him being the most obvious and best one. Or she could go and stake a claim on the kitchen. If he had the running water, maybe she should draw a line at the kitchen door. You get the showers, I get the refrigeration.
Stay in her cozy little tent nest.
Go to the kitchen and poke the mysterious bear.
She set her book aside and stared up at the tent poles curving above her. They didn't line up exactly. There were three of them, and they all fed through a nylon loop at the centre of the roof, but one was off-center. She sighed and sat up, reaching for the offending pole. She nudged it back into place. It stayed lined up with the other two for a few a seconds, then snapped back to where it had been.
It didn't matter. The nylon loop held them all roughly in the middle of the domed ceiling.
But Cara hated disorder.
She liked it when everything was neat and proper.
She glowered in the direction of the kitchen.
She couldn't ignore him.
But it would be rude to go into the kitchen, verbal guns blazing. Even though the thought of yelling at Mick made her palms tingle, she wouldn't do that.
Wouldn't do it at first, anyway. If he pushed her over the edge, it would be his own damn fault.
Go make nice, she told herself. And find out more about him.
That was smart.
She unzipped her tent and pulled on a sweatshirt. It wasn't cool, exactly, but she was only wearing a cami and little sleep shorts. An extra layer would be like armor.
He didn't turn around when she entered the kitchen, but he threw a quiet, "Hey," over his shoulder as he lit the gas range.
"I thought you'd maybe ceded the kitchen space to me." She gave a quick shrug when he threw a surprised look back at her. "Or not."
"I was busy today. I ate stuff I'd packed up."
"Oh." She pinched the skin on her palm to keep herself from asking just exactly how and with what he'd been busy. It was her business, after all, but poking him wasn't her game plan at the moment.
"Do you want eggs and tomato?"
Her stomach growled before she could say no.
"I'll take that as a yes."
"You don't need to-"
"It's fine."
She moved restlessly around the kitchen while he cooked. She should do something. Would he want coffee? But as she opened her mouth to offer, the kettle started to whistle. She'd missed him filling it. He poured the hot water over coffee grounds in a simple filter, filling one mug, then another.
"You need milk or sugar or something?" He didn't really look at her, but just in her general direction. She watched as he carefully dumped the grounds into the compost bucket she kept under the sink-man, this guy was observant-and slid her cup down the counter toward her.
He picked his own up and took a long sip, his eyes closed. He drank his coffee black. Well then, so could she.
"I'm good." She echoed his action, and surprised herself by sighing as the smooth, rich liquid slid down her throat. "This is delicious!"
"Pour-over coffee," he grunted, lifting one shoulder. "Something I learned to perfect in the field."
It was an opening, and she carefully set down her cup. Take it, she told herself, but be polite. "The field?"
He laughed, almost ruefully, and stared down at his mug. "Nothing. You got anything against onions?"
"No."
"Some people do."
"I don't."
"Good."
He set his coffee down and gave her his back as he finished cooking.
Well, so much for that being an opening to a conversation.
She grabbed two plates from the open cupboard-something else he'd apparently quietly done. The dishes had been in a box on the far side of the room. They came with the estate, and weren't anything special. Probably had just been used by the last housekeeper.
But she still didn't like that he'd found them, washed them, and put them on the shelf. Like he planned to stay.
Of course he plans to stay. And boot your optimistic ass out without a second thought.
She needed to get ahold of that law office in the morning.
And until then, for her own sanity, she needed to set all of that noise aside and just be pleasant.
He took the plates and divvied up the food. Eggs scrambled, light and fluffy, with sautéed vegetables and a side of toast.
Her stomach growled and he smirked at her as he handed her one of the plates. "Here you go."
"Thanks." She glanced at the table. It was covered in work orders. She could have-should have-cleared it off while he was cooking. And they needed chairs …
"We can eat standing up, if you want."
"Or we could go sit on the veranda?" She pointed outside. There were a couple of small table-and-chair sets from various decades out there, but they would suffice.
But once they were outside, she realized she'd made a mistake.
Having been born and raised on Miralinda, she should be immune to the romance of a hot Caribbean night.
She was not.
The warm, fragrant air surrounded them, dusk had settled and brought with it a dark drape of intimacy. The jungle provided a distant soundtrack that lent a wild and exciting vibe to a situation that was most definitely not either of those things.