The Wrong Gentleman

“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.

“Don’t sound so incredulous. As a wingman it’s easier to have the courage to go up to strangers and introduce myself, to talk my way into the best parties.”

“I’m not sure courage is something you lack even when you’re not playing wingman. Anyway, you should focus on you and Harvey. He’s a great guy.”

August grinned, one eye with eyelashes of a supermodel, the other looking like she’d just woken up after a night on the gin. “He really is. I think he might be the one.”

I shouldn’t have laughed, but whoever August was dating was the one. Her dating history was a complete roller coaster, and I was happy to sit and watch on the sidelines rather than be in a car of my own. Not dating had some huge advantages.

I didn’t have to watch sports—either on TV or worse, live.

I was focused on my job, which meant I was one of the best stewardesses around. Even if I did say so myself.

And I didn’t have to put up with the inevitable heartache that came with dating. Heartache from having your expectations dashed. Heartache from someone not loving you back. Heartache from being constantly disappointed in someone.

A couple of times when I’d first met August, I’d suggested to her that maybe she take a break and tried to point out the upsides, in being single but she wasn’t interested and told me I was being depressing and cynical. It was shortly after that that I came up with my story about only being interested in billionaire-husband-material men. It seemed easier to be labelled picky than cynical.

“You know we’re meeting up with a friend of Harvey’s tonight. He pointed him out in one of his army photos. He’s h-o-t,” she said, spelling out the word.