The Wrong Gentleman(2)

“Yeah, I heard you did well. But seriously, this job—it’s dead simple—just keeping a log of a guy’s movements and who he associates with. Better than simple, you get to spend your time on a superyacht in the South of France.”

I chuckled. “You think he wouldn’t notice if I was on the same yacht as him?”

“Ahh, but you’d be a member of the crew. I’ve arranged to have one of my men work as a junior deckhand. The idea would be you’d just keep tabs on the guy. See if anyone else comes on board.”

“I’m not interested.” I wanted to spend the summer doing what I wanted to do. Not following some rich guy around. “Get someone else.”

“It’s not like you have anything else planned. You said it yourself.”

I shook my head. “I’m sure you can find someone else. There are plenty of good operatives out there.”

He stayed silent for a few seconds. “This is important. I don’t want to give this job to just anyone.”

“But it seems straightforward. What’s important about it?”

“The target is . . . a challenge. He has dangerous connections. He may be doing business with some people we both worked hard to eliminate when we were serving. I need someone who can handle themselves if the need arises.”

“So what about Jones or Greenley or—”

“There are about five guys out there who I trust with something like this. Two the client has passed on. Jones is busy on another job, Greenley is known by an intermediary of the target, and then there’s you. I need you, mate.”

I groaned. I was really looking forward to getting some time off, but Reynolds was asking for my help and I’d fought side by side with him. There wasn’t much I wouldn’t do for a man who’d placed his life in my hands, and I’d placed mine in his. “What kind of dangerous?”

“The target has started dabbling in illegal arms trading. His legitimate business isn’t doing so well, and he likes to live the high life, so he decided to supplement his income. He started off selling to governments in South America but he’s getting more ambitious. Greedy.”

“Meaning?”

“He cares less and less who might be the victims of the weapons he’s selling and who he’s selling to. My client has intelligence that the target has made contact with a splinter group of Islamic State and a meeting is imminent.”

I gritted my teeth. “Your client is the CIA?”

“You know I can’t tell you that.”

I also knew that if it wasn’t the CIA, he’d say so. Was I prepared to turn down a chance to protect civilian life?

“And your client doesn’t want to get its hands dirty?”

“Oh, they are plenty dirty. But this is a resource intensive job, so they are using internal and external people.”

I stuffed my hands into my pockets.

“So, as well as getting a holiday on a superyacht, you’ll be helping to bring down one of the bad guys,” he said. “And you know how we all like to do that.”

He’d pressed on my Achilles’ heel. Like most ex-Special Forces, one of the things I enjoyed most about serving in the SAS was the ability to impose justice where other military or political interventions hadn’t worked—we were often a final solution. And most of the time we did what we set out to. Now with an opportunity to stop arms getting into the hands of Islamic State, how would I go trekking in Costa Rica knowing someone less capable was handling this job? Someone who might miss something important?

“And all I’m doing is checking this guy’s movements? On and off the yacht?”

“Yeah, you call it in when he leaves or comes back. And you tell us when people come aboard.”

“Am I planting surveillance devices or searching his—”

“Absolutely not. We want to keep it light. He doesn’t think he’s on anyone’s radar. And we don’t want him to think that’s changed. We can’t risk you being caught.”

So much for Costa Rica. I wasn’t going to say no to Reynolds. I couldn’t. Partly because of our history, but mostly because of the opportunity to do something for the greater good. It was how I was wired. “You’re going to owe me for this,” I replied.

Reynolds’ shit-eating grin said it all. He knew he’d got me.





Two





Skylar


“This summer I’m going to make it my mission to find you a man,” my best friend, August, announced to the restroom mirror where she was trying to fix one of her false eyelashes that seemed to have set a little wonky.

“You’ll never find anyone rich enough,” I replied, before I popped my lipstick-covered lips and slid the tube of color back in my purse.

“Are you serious? We’re in the South of France. This is the playground of billionaires. You’re bound to find someone even without my help. But just to make sure, you will have my assistance. I won’t even charge you.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re going to be my introduction to the world of billionaires?” August might be my ride-or-die BFF, but even she didn’t know that my supposed requirement of a wealthy, single man who was going to keep me in the manner to which I was happy to become accustomed was just a front. A red herring. A smokescreen. Fact was, I didn’t want a husband. Or a boyfriend. Or any man. But that was harder to explain.