Code Name Sentinel (Jameson Force Security 2)

Barrett complies, and I twist at the hip, placing my hands on her skin. It’s already warmed by the sun. The spray is oily but not thick, making it easy to glide my hands over her. A few light strokes before I start digging my fingers and thumbs into her muscles, eliciting groans from her. I don’t go heavy with my pressure because she’s a delicate woman. I don’t want to bruise her.

But I do try to make my moves therapeutic, concentrating on her shoulders for the time being.

I try not to think about other parts of her body I’d like to stroke. Because it’s way too easy for my mind to go there when my hands are on her, I strike up a conversation.

“You a beach person?” I ask.

She shrugs, never once opening her eyes as I continue to massage her. “I’m not sure. I’ve not been enough to really know. My mom tended to take me on educational vacations… like a week touring the Smithsonian or something like that.”

“So, no Disney vacations, huh?” I ask.

Barrett chuckles. “Honestly, it’s not somewhere I ever wanted to go. I was happy going to the Smithsonian or hitting up art museums in New York. Stuff like that.”

I don’t say anything because I find it a little sad. Kids should want to go to Disney, right?

“Well, you don’t know what you’re missing,” I say, moving to her mid-back. I don’t hesitate to push my fingers under her bra strap to massage the muscles there. After giving the water a quick scan, I move my gaze back to her skin. “Disney is the best place on earth.”

Barrett laughs. “Pardon my skepticism seeing as that recommendation comes from a bad ass, former Secret Service agent who is now a private mercenary.”

“First,” I reply in an over-exaggeratedly offended tone. “I’m not a mercenary. I’m a paid protector.”

“Semantics,” she replies.

I ignore her. “Second, you imply my love of Disney somehow lessens my masculinity, and those are just fighting words. In fact, when this is all over, I’m dragging you there and taking you on Mission Space at Epcot. When you’re screaming and crying like a little girl and hanging onto my manly muscles because of your fears, I’m going to demand an apology.”

The full-bellied laugh I get from Barrett makes me smile, but it dies all too swiftly. “So, you went on a lot of vacations like that growing up?”

“Yeah,” I reply, a fond smile on my face. “My dad played poker with his cop buddies on Thursday nights, and he was really good. His winnings let us go on vacations like that every year.”

“Where else would you go?”

I scoot down the chair a bit, so I can move to her lower back. “We’d do stuff like travel to national parks or rent a cottage at a beach. One year, Dad made enough to take us to London for a week.”

“That sounds nice,” she admits, her eyes finally opening. “Your whole family seems nice.”

It’s not the first time we’ve talked about our families. We’ve spent a lot of time filling voids over the last several days—usually at meals—by casual talk. Family is always an easy topic.

Or, at least, mine is.

Barrett is a little thinner on happy family memories as her parents were taken away from her. By the time President Alexander took over her guardianship, she was already leading an “adult” life at MIT, despite only being sixteen. She’d had to grow up way too soon.

I withdraw my hands, having given adequate attention to her muscles. Anything more would just be to satisfy my desire to touch her. “Want to get in the water for a bit?”

“Sure,” she replies lazily as she starts to push up.

But then I hear a vague “thwapping” sound, and I snap my gaze outward over the water. Way in the distance, I see a helicopter flying this way.

I’m not too alarmed as there are choppers that fly out of Virgin Gorda daily to do scenic tours for tourists. I saw two this morning.

But I’d rather be safe than sorry when I can, so instead, I take her by the hand and pull her up. Nabbing the towels and the sunscreen, I pull her backward toward the path that leads to the house, far enough up the foliage completely shields us.

We wait, hand in hand. Within a few minutes, the helicopter zooms right over us. I can’t see any details, just a flash of it through the leaves, but it flies by without any decrease in speed.

“Is that necessary?” Barrett asks, her head tipped up and her eyes heavy with worry.

“Just don’t want to take any chances,” I tell her.

Her mouth draws downward, and she shakes her head with despondency. “I thought I’d be able to forget all this stuff for just a few minutes.”