Navy Seal To The Rescue

He thought she’d made it up.

He thought she was lying.

The sexy beach bum with the lousy attitude thought that, too.

Years of being disregarded, of being dismissed or shunted off to the side as unimportant, exploded in her head. She wanted to scream. More, she wanted to grab something—the stapler off the desk, the rolling chair, the computer—and throw it to get him to pay attention to her.

She’d taken only one step, the red haze of fury blurring her vision, when someone laid a hand on her shoulder. Just one hand, but the simple touch calmed her.

Even as the frustration ebbed in her gut, her gaze shifted to meet Hawkins’s. In those dark eyes, she saw the same irritation that she felt. Then again, he’d seemed irritated since she met him, so maybe that was simply his go-to expression.

Regardless, Lila took comfort in his steady gaze.

“I did not imagine it, and I’m not making it up.” Her knees shook, but she forced herself to take three steps toward the office so she could point through the doorway. “I saw Chef Rodriguez killed. Right there.”

“Okay.” It wasn’t agreement, it wasn’t doubt. Lila knew the word was simply acknowledging what she thought she saw. It was enough to steel her spine, though.

So she wet her lips and took a hesitant step toward the office. Hawkins followed, so the next one was easier. Still, when she reached the door, even with Hawkins at her shoulder, she had to force herself to shift her gaze. To look around the office. To check the floor.

The policeman had said the room was clean.

He hadn’t lied.

Rodriguez was nowhere to be seen. The room was tidy, the floor bare.

She pressed her fingers to her lips to stop their trembling.

“Lila.”

The voice came as if from far away, its rumble soothing some of the tension in her belly. It didn’t explain the room, though.

“But...”

Her head doing a long, slow spin, Lila took two deep breaths, then stepped all the way into the office.

It was one thing that the body was gone. But where was the blood? The mess?

“They shot him. He fell. There.” She pointed at the doorway. At the bleached pine planks underfoot. “Blood. It was all over the floor. It smeared on the wall.”

But the floor was spotless. The wall clean.

Lila rubbed her knuckles over the pain throbbing in her forehead, trying to hold back a moan.

“I didn’t imagine it.” She turned to face the beach bum, her voice insistent. “I wouldn’t make something like that up.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

“That policeman, Montoya, he thinks I made it up.”

Hawkins shrugged.

“He does have a point. There’s no body here.”

“I didn’t make this up.”

“Besides a body hitting the floor, what do you think you saw? Who shot him? What’d they look like? Sound like?”

“I only saw a hand. A man’s hand, holding the gun as it shot the chef.” Lila rubbed two fingers over her temple, trying to remember more. “He wore a long-sleeved jacket. Dark. The voices were low. Two men, at least, two, but they spoke too quietly for me to make out what they were saying.”

“That’s not a lot to go on.” His words as casual as his stance, the beach bum crossed his legs at the ankle, propped one shoulder against the door frame and shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. The black tee gripped his shoulders like a tight hug, molded that broad chest.

Despite the confusion, beyond the misery in her gut, Lila couldn’t stop her gaze from taking in the perfect example of male beauty standing there. She’d admired it on the beach earlier today, but now all that perfection was a little irritating. Or maybe it was the look on his face: arrogant amusement and a hint of condescending impatience.

“A lot or not, Montoya still should have done more,” she stated, her frown sliding into a scowl.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.” She threw her arms in the air. “Something. Anything. He’s a policeman. He should do police work, shouldn’t he?”

“The cops didn’t see anything.”

“The police are wrong.” Lila shot him a sideways glance that was as close as she could get to a sneer. “And you’re wrong, too.”

“I’m wrong. The police are wrong. Everyone’s wrong but you. Sweetheart, you take the cake.”

She wanted to tell him where to shove the cake, but she managed to smile instead.

“I didn’t imagine seeing a man killed.”

“Okay.”

That agreeably sarcastic tone was different, and the single word wasn’t what she was used to hearing. But the subtext? Oh, Lila knew every word. She was an expert on arrogance and well-versed in patronizing disdain.

Her fists clenched so tight her hands shook. She knew it was pointless. There was no reasoning with that subtext. Nothing she said would matter. But she still couldn’t keep herself from snapping.

“How can you guys blow this off? What kind of men just dismiss murder? Just shrug off a man being shot and killed? Somebody took Chef Rodriguez’s life and you just stand there, giving me that I’m so perfect sneer. What the hell is your problem?”

“If I’m perfect, I doubt I’d have any problems.”

“I didn’t say you were perfect,” she corrected meticulously, ignoring the tickle in her belly that argued that if looks were anything to go by, he had perfection down pat. “I said you think that you’re perfect. And some might say that you think incorrectly.”

“Is that any way to talk to the man who gave up his quiet evening to ride to your rescue?”

“You were swinging in a hammock.”

“Yet another example of my perfection. With no preparation or warning, I was able to effect a clean op, mount a rescue and end the mission without incident.” He grinned. “Besides, I was swinging pretty damned quietly.”

“Who the hell are you?” she snapped, squeezing the fingers of her left hand, releasing, and squeezing again.