Navy Seal To The Rescue. Tawny Weber

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      But his sweeping days were over. Hell, all the fun was over. Despite the multiple offers he’d gotten from locals and tourists alike, he wasn’t in Puerto Viejo to score.

      Travis shifted his weight, carefully balancing on his left foot to ensure he didn’t land on his face when he bent over to grab a towel. Pain exploded away, a lightning bolt of misery spearing out from his knee to his hip, down to his toes.

      For twelve years, he’d served his country. For ten years, he’d been a SEAL. He’d served with distinction, with honor, with dedication. He’d been welcomed into two different SEAL teams, where he’d played an integral role of dozens of successful missions.

      He’d served through pain, sweat, challenge and terror.

      He’d freaking loved every minute of it.

      He scrubbed the towel over his face, sopping up the moisture pouring off his too-long hair.

      One nasty storm, one bad jump from a plane taking a flaming nosedive into the ocean, and his career was over. He was finished.

      Freaking finished.

      Travis’s jaw worked as he glared at the sexy reminder of what he’d lost still looking his way. He deliberately turned away from the blond temptation to stare out at the ocean.

      Medical discharge.

      Was it ironic or tragic that the ocean he loved, the sea he served, had ended the career he’d revered?

      Probably both.

      The biggest joke was that he, a man who thrived on contingency plans, had nothing. No backup career, no sideline jobs, not a single idea of what he wanted to do—or more to the point, could do—with the rest of his life once his measly savings ran out.

      Once he’d gotten a handle on that, he decided, unable to resist glancing back at the blonde again, he’d be interested in enjoying the finer things in life again.

      Because, damn, she really was fine.

      * * *

      Lila told herself she wasn’t thinking about the beach hunk as she stepped into the cool restaurant. But she knew he was there, hovering in the back of her mind. She’d figure out why, later. For now, she looked around the restaurant, assessing her quarry’s lair.

      The place was empty but for one other couple, and the décor was enough to make her wince. Here they were in the Caribbean, and the owners had fitted this place out to look like an average bar in Anywhere, USA.

      A long bar, complete with neon signs and shelves of bottles, covered the back wall. Posters—thumbtacked, not framed—advertised American beer and, for some reason she couldn’t figure out, a long-defunct sitcom. Three ceiling fans sent lazy shadows dancing over the dozen tables scattered around the room.

      “Hola,” a woman from behind the bar greeted her, her black tee stating that Casa de Rico’s salsa was the hottest and her name tag reading Dory Parker. “Table for one?”

      “Yes, please.”

      “Have at it,” she said, waving one hand to indicate Lila’s varied choices before calling for service.

      Lila slid behind the table closest to the kitchen with a nice view of the beach. Not the view of the sexy beach hunk, but that was just as well. The man had distraction written all over him.

      “Hi,” she said as soon as the waitress came over. She was a pretty girl with dark skin and a lip piercing, dressed the same as the bartender except that her shirt proclaimed that their margaritas got you drunker. “I’d love a bottle of water and a menu.”

      “Got the menu right here,” the girl said, handing over a laminated page. “I’ll be right back with that water.”

      Lila glanced at the page only long enough to assure herself that it was the same as the one on their website.

      “I’ve heard that your chef is wonderful,” she said as soon as the waitress came back. “Senor Rodriguez, right?”

      “Sure, Chef Rodriguez is in the back, cooking up a storm,” the waitress said, her vigorous nod sending the bleached dreadlocks bouncing around her round face. “He’s good. You’ll see. You decide what you want?”

      “What’s your favorite?” Lila asked, keeping it friendly.

      Deciding to take the girl’s advice, and since early afternoon lent itself to tapas, Lila ordered a varied selection.

      The menu was promising, but she wanted to see for herself if Rodriguez was as good as the Martins remembered. There was no point convincing them if he’d lost his touch.

      An hour later—Casa de Rico obviously didn’t believe in rushing their diners—Lila had confirmed that Rodriguez was as good as advertised.

      What she hadn’t figured out was why a chef of his caliber was working in a low-end restaurant like this one. According to her notes, he was in his midfifties, originally from Mexico City, single and childless. He’d worked in various high-end restaurants over the years, with excellent references from all of his previous employers.

      It was definitely time to get a few more answers for her files.

      “Everything was wonderful,” she told the dreadlocked girl when she came to take the last plate. “I’d love to personally thank the chef. Is that possible?”

      From the look on her face, it was the first time she’d heard a request like that. But she shrugged and muttered something before heading back to the kitchen.

      Since nobody else, including the bartender, was in the room, Lila took a moment to pull out a compact and check her makeup. She refreshed her lipstick, slid one hand over her tidy chignon to make sure no hair had escaped, and decided she’d hit the right note of professionalism. Not always easy when you looked like a blonde Kewpie doll.

      “Hola,” called out a big voice. It matched the man, who lumbered through a door barely wider than he was and strode across the room. His thick black hair was sprinkled with the same gray that dusted his mustache. Instead of the traditional white chef’s attire, he wore blue with a white apron tucked under a gut that proclaimed him a man who loved to eat as much as cook.

      “I’m Chef Rodriguez,” he greeted, his accent light and musical. “And you must be the woman of excellent taste who enjoyed my food, yes?”

      “I am, Chef Rodriguez,” she said with a wide smile, rising from her seat to take his hand in hers. “The meal was delicious. I particularly enjoyed the ceviche tico.”

      “Gracias,” he replied, bending so low over her hand that his bushy mustache tickled her knuckles. “It’s a pleasure to serve you, senorita.”

      “Everything was wonderful. Imaginative, delicious and beautifully plated,” she told him, laying on the flattery thick and widening her smile in a way she knew highlighted her dimples. Professionalism was still the byword, but with his Old World manners, she figured a smile would go further than a crisp handshake. “And your food is exactly why I’m here in Puerto Viejo.”

      His СКАЧАТЬ