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“He’s gone now. He’s dead.” My throat closes, the familiar panic building until my chest aches.

I doubt swallowing grief ever gets easier.

Dean just waits for me to truly answer, his soft brown eyes never leaving my face.

The bilge pump shuts off, the gurgle of water and whine of the bilge motor dying replaced by the steady lapping of water at the hull.

“He was retired,” I finally say. “Like I told you, ex-Marine. You know something about that. He made investments, played the stock market. Worked as a fishing guide and was great at it.” I gesture around the boat, resigned. “Obviously. Now tell me what you’ve gotten me into, or I’ll…”

“You’ll what?” Finally, a smile dawns across his face.

I can’t help sighing in irritation. “You’ve got me there. There isn’t much I can do.” But I don’t feel unsafe with him. I’m irritated. On edge. Overwhelmed by what just happened, definitely.

But… he doesn’t make me feel like I’m in danger.

No, Dean Evans makes me feel safe.

“Fine.” He sighs, then winces and touches the bandage on his side. “Let’s start over. I’m Dean Evans. Marine.” He points to his tattoo. “And now a contractor for the DEA. Which brings us to the smugglers,” he pauses, his eyes tracking over me. “And to your involvement with them.”

He holds out a hand, but I don’t shake it, and he finally drops it, a hint of amusement causing that dimple to peek out.

“And why, Dean Evans, does the DEA suspect me? Why are Russian smugglers trying to kill us?” My stomach clenches, and I bring a hand to it. A nasty suspicion rockets through me, but I clamp down on it. Refusing to let that voice have a place in my head.

“You’re a person of interest in an ongoing investigation.” He frowns, his hands clenching at his sides. “I’m not sure how much information I’m cleared to give you.”

“Uh-huh. That sounds convenient.” I raise my hand to flip the hair off my shoulder, but he catches my wrist.

I lock eyes with him, his fingers gentle on my skin.

A frisson of heat passes through me before I wrench out of his grip.

“Dr. Legarde, do I look like I’m lying to you?”

“It’s dark. Hard to tell what anything looks like right now.”

He snorts a laugh. “Fine. Do I sound like I am?”

“I don’t know you.” Still, I relax slightly, sinking down onto a pleather chair. I put my head in my hands, trying not to cry as the adrenaline finally abates, leaving me exhausted and hollow.

And scared.

“None of this makes sense,” I mutter. Part of me doesn’t want to know. My stomach sinks. I don’t want the answer. I’ve spent a lifetime suppressing the mere idea of it.

I glance up to find him studying me. His eyes drift to my lips, only noticeable because of the bright moonlight, before he finally shakes his head.

“Fine. The smugglers are after a missing shipment, and they think you’re involved, too. Because of your father.” His voice is low. Gentle.

“My father?” Anger and suspicion curdle my stomach.

“You handled them just fine, though, even the guy you blinded at the bar. You know, after your friend Charlie ran him over.” He lets out a low chuckle and I take a deep breath, wrapping my hands around my chest so he won’t see them tremble. Dean settles next to me, the boat rocking as the ocean swells beneath us. “Is that what they mean when they say, ‘Don’t mess with Texas’?”

“No, that was an anti-littering campaign.”

“June,” he hesitates, “there’s no easy way to say this. Your dad ran drugs for them. For about ten years, maybe more. They thinkyouhave them. Or that your dad told you where to find them.”

CHAPTER

TEN