Still Her SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 10) (10 page)

How could it be so easy and simple to get married—and infinitely more complicated to end it?

“We’ve never even lived together,” I say, and yes, I sound desperate. Overnight sleepovers and flying visits don’t count, do they?

Ro grunts something. Why is this so hard? Why can’t he use words—entire sentences—like a normal person? Oh, wait. Because he’s
male
. He seems completely and deeply disinterested in untangling our marriage, which can’t be right. I mean, it’s not like he can possibly want to stay married to me. He should be begging Ava to speed things up. Maybe offering to bribe a judge, sleep with a judge—whatever it takes.

And then just like that, before we’ve got anything really and truly settled, he stands up. Is he done? Because he’s my ride here and I have no idea where he’s going.

“Hey.” I reach out and catch the edge of his shirt. No, it’s not dignified, but it is effective. He pauses, his eyes going to my fingers twisted in the cotton. “Where are you going?”

He shrugs out of my grip. If I held on tighter, would he strip right here? No. Not going there. “I’m done here. We know our next steps.”

“But you haven’t
done
anything yet,” I protest. Right now, our marriage is like a bad plumbing disaster. We’ve got the service guy standing right
there
, and he’s just agreed that we’re absolutely, totally fucked and that we need the mother of all repair jobs. But that’s as far as it’s got. No checks have exchanged hands. No dirt’s been dug. We’re still broken as fuck—it’s just that we agree on it now.

Ro gives me a level look. I have a bad feeling he just handed me a shovel. “Ball’s in your court, sweetheart. You want this divorce, you file that motion.”

Rohan

P
ennekamp is huge for a park that has to fit on one of the Florida Keys. Of course, since it’s also the first undersea park in the US, it includes almost two hundred nautical miles of coral reefs, seagrass beds, and mangrove swamps. Hopefully, though, we’re sticking to the sandy bits—and there are
lots
of sandy bits. Finn and I pull off the Overseas Highway and drive through the thick stands of tamarinds to Canon Beach. Our meet up point is just beyond the concessions.

Search and SEALs’ role today is assisting the local fire department. They don’t have a canine unit, and when their EMTs showed up for a medical call, they discovered that the victim had wandered off. They reached out to us, and now we’re on the ground, ready to roll. Jack’s excited, eager to put that nose of his to work to find our missing person. Laurie Jackson wandered off from the family campsite approximately two hours ago. As we look over the photo of an elderly woman in one of those sack-like house dresses that zips up the front and a mega-wattage smile, her tearful daughter explains that her mother suffers from Alzheimer’s. When she disappeared, she was wearing loose cotton pants, a navy blue T-shirt, and a pair of white sneakers.

Jack knows the difference between members of the search team and civilians. He’s trained to find anyone inside his search zone, though, so we’re hoping the area is as visitor-free as park officials claim. Since John Q Public lives to break rules and climb, swim, fish, and generally trespass anywhere that’s off-limits, I’m not entirely optimistic.

We show Jack Mrs. Jackson’s sweater. He doesn’t need a scent article to find her, but it will help him to distinguish between her and other searchers or park visitors, and we don’t have any time to lose. There are literally thousands of places for her to stumble and fall. Mangrove roots, brackish water, ocean water, unsafe sea conditions, poisonous trees—any misstep could spell bad news. But Search and SEALs is one of the most elite search teams in the US and we’re not leaving an old woman alone in the park. We step up when it counts and we demonstrate on a regular basis just why we’re the best at what we do.

It’s not that I have some sort of Superman complex. Comic book heroes make it easy with all that effortless leaping of tall buildings and graceful soaring through cloudless skies. They don’t have to deal with thunderstorms, rain clouds, or air traffic. Search and SEALs thrives under adverse conditions. Sure, we don’t mind a sunny day or six, but when you get lost, we’ll find you even if there’s a fucking tornado chewing up the entire goddamned town. We’ll find you—and bring you home.

Jack sweeps back and forth, scenting the air. He can switch between scenting and trailing, but right now scenting has the highest POD. That’s Probability of Detection and Mrs. Jackson’s ticket out of the mangroves and back into the arms of her family. He moves out, straining against the leash I hold, and Finn follows us. We’re moving against the wind and it’s getting on toward sunset. The birds are whooping it up in the trees, competing with nineteen different kinds of cicadas to be heard. If Mrs. Jackson had to wander off, she’s picked one of the best times of day to do it. Scents are strongest in the early morning and evening.

We’re fifteen minutes into our search when Jack stops ranging back and forth and heads left and off the boardwalk. We splash along behind him, picking our way over mangrove roots. I’m hoping like hell that Mrs. Jackson didn’t take a header off the trail and into the brackish water when Jack barks.

He’s found someone.

“Mrs. Jackson?” Finn and I take turns calling her name. It’s always best when the missing person can answer—and I don’t think I have to tell you why. We’re no fairy godmother, but we do prefer happy endings.

Jack barks again, taking a sharp right, and then, thank fuck, I hear a feeble “yes?” We round the tree and discover Mrs. Jackson perched on a particularly large root.

“Hey.” I crouch down in front of her, doing a quick visual assessment. She’s upright, aware, and doesn’t look too much the worse for wear. Lots of mud, visible bug bites, and plenty wet and scratched, but I spot no blood. “We stopped by to give you a lift out of here.”

Finn moves in, handing over the radio, talking to Mrs. Jackson in low tones. She agrees to let him check for broken bones and wrap a Mylar blanket around her shoulders. While he examines her, I call in the find on the portable radio. Behind me, Mrs. Jackson’s inviting Finn to the family barbecue, which she seems to think is “just over there.” She has no idea how she ended up hanging out in the middle of the mangroves, but she’s safe. That’s what matters. Ten minutes later, the EMTs join us, and that’s our cue to fallback. Job well done.

I head back to the Jeep with Jack and Finn. Jack’s chewing on the red rubber bone for all he’s worth. I know how he feels. Some shit’s worth hanging onto, and some you just enjoy in the moment. Not sure which category the bone falls into in his doggy head, but he’s earned his treat, so I pat him on the head, giving him the words. Fucking crooning how goddamned awesome he is because Mrs. Jackson is going home in one piece and the Jackson family gets to have grandma at their next Thanksgiving dinner.

Finn swings into the passenger-side seat. Yes, I always drive. “You see Ava today?”

“Uh-huh.” I lift a hand in greeting as the local cop waves us out of the parking lot. That poor bastard’s gonna be working until the wee hours, managing the scene and processing paperwork. My job’s way fucking simpler. All I have to do is find the victim. Once he or she has been located, my job’s done. Someone else provides the aftercare and does the mopping up. In. Out. Fucking perfect, right?

Finn drums his hands on the dashboard, picking out some song only he can hear. “So are you divorced now?”

I snort. “It’s gonna take some time. It’s not like waiting for the Tooth Fairy to show up while you’re sleeping.”

“Bet it costs more than a buck, too. Sorry, man.” Finn slaps his hands against the dashboard harder, faster. Jesus. I’d like to duct-tape them to his seat, but that’s way too unfriendly, so I try for a distraction and replay the appointment with Ava. It went fine up until we discussed the timeline. Hindi practically shit a brick over that timing. I can’t figure her out, but I didn’t miss the hint of desperation in her voice. I knew it from the way her fingers tightened on her pencil and the way her voice thinned out just a little when she was asking her questions. I don’t think it was the possibility of being stuck with me for a few more weeks, either. Yeah, call me arrogant, but I haven’t been that bad of a husband. More like absent as fuck, which means that at least I haven’t been hanging around driving her crazy.

Only, that means Hindi still has a problem.

One that’s absolutely, entirely not my business. She doesn’t get to use me for my problem-solving skills. I don’t get to fantasize about happily ever after and growing old with this woman. It’s a fair exchange. We’re done with each other.
Finito.
Entirely, one hundred percent over.

Okay. Ninety-eight percent.

Or maybe just ninety. I need to leave myself a little wiggle room.

“Money? It gonna be a problem?” Finn jogs me with his elbow.

“Not worried about the money,” I say slowly, although I probably should be. Hindi didn’t come down here to clean me out—and it’s not like I’d touch her stuff. She earned it. She keeps it. Pretty simple in my book, and I don’t care if that makes me fucking traditional. It is what it is.

“No insta-dissolution?” Finn practically bounces in his seat. Yeah, he’s had himself an idea. “Maybe you should try Vegas.”

I take us out onto the highway. “Because you think they have drive-through divorce courts right after the drive-through wedding chapels?”

Finn flattens his hand on my dashboard. Thank God. “You think Vali might go for that?”

Vali’s more a ‘til-death-do-us-part gal—and it would be Finn’s death that would put an end to their marriage. If he ever so much as thinks of straying, leaving, or calling it quits on what they have, she’d disembowel him with a rusty spoon. Probably upgrade to a shovel or a fucking backhoe because she doesn’t do shit by halves. I don’t point this out, however. I go with the obvious.

“You have to finish getting married before you can get divorced.”

Finn flips me the bird. “I’m aware of that. But maybe we could take off and get married in Vegas. Get hitched by Elvis or something fun.”

He shivers like a wet dog and Jack whines in sympathy, dropping his drooled-on bone into Finn’s lap as a consolation prize. I don’t even want to try imagining what wedding planning is like. If you’re gonna do it, Hindi and I did it right. No fuss—just swapped
I do
s without an audience or a whole lot of trappings. But we hadn’t discussed families. Hell, I still haven’t met Hindi’s parents. I know they exist and that they swap Christmas cards, but they’re a big blank on the Alvarez-MacCarthy family tree.

Vali’s family, however, has been all over Angel Cay. They love Vali to pieces and she feels the same about them. There is absolutely no way Finn spirits Vali away for a secret quickie wedding. Vali would refuse, and if she didn’t, her Cuban-American, been-planning-the-wedding-since-Vali-was-five mother would have plenty to say about sacrificing her dream wedding for Elvis in Vegas.

“Aren’t the wedding plans almost complete?” Not that I really want to know, but Finn’s my boy.

He slumps back in his seat. “Yeah. Rocket’s on the launch pad. I think Vali’s mailing invitations this week.”

Finn’s lack of attention to the details is slightly appalling. On the other hand, he’d do anything for Vali and maybe he’s just reduced this whole wedding to the essentials. Vali tells him where and when and he’s there.

“You sure about the divorce?” Finn props his legs up on the dashboard in a piece of brilliant fucking gymnastics. Man practically has to contort himself into a pretzel, but mission accomplished.

“We’ve been separated for six years,” I reply dryly. “And she did serve me with papers, even if her follow-through sucks. That’s not a recipe for true love right there.”

Finn groans. “But getting married is so much damned work and you thought she was the one.”

I can practically hear the capital letters. “I’m too old for her.”

Finn whistles, a sound that approximates the whine of an incoming missile. He follows it up with a smack on the dashboard and explosion noises. Nice to know I can keep him amused.

“I’ve got way too many years on her.”

“You can’t get it up.” Finn slumps back in his seat in disappointment. “Got it.”

Without taking my eyes off the road, I reach out and smack the back of his head. “Nothing wrong with my dick, but thanks for caring.”

Finn groans. “Let’s not discuss your dick in any detail, ‘kay?”

He’s the one who brought it up, but I agree wholeheartedly. Some shit just needs to stay private. “I’m thirty-eight. She’s twenty-eight.”

“I know this answer!” Finn shimmies in his seat. I have no clue where the guy gets his energy. “Ten! The answer is ten!”

“Which means I’m on the dark side of thirty, rushing toward forty,” I point out. “And she’s just getting started. We rushed into marriage when she was practically a baby.”

“Cradle snatcher,” Finn says, his face twisted in mock disgust. “My moral values are way higher. Can’t believe we’re friends.”

“You’d believe anything.” Not far from the fucking truth anyhow. Finn’s too laidback to get pissed, but I don’t feed my team bullshit or lines. You gotta be able to trust your guys when you’re out there in the field. Fuck. Not like I want to distrust any of them when I come home, either, which is probably why this mess with Hindi burns so badly. She was my girl and I was her guy, but guess we should have spelled out what that means.