Thunder Island Read online

  “Uh-oh,” said a tiny voice in Kyle’s head. Who else knew Dowd had planned to bring him here? He looked around carefully, but didn’t see anyone he recognized.

  Inside, it was dimly lit and rank, with the smell of cigars and tequila suspended in the hot, still air. The ring was more of a runway, cutting through the center of the room. From metal bars beneath the thatched roof, high-powered strobes zapped the runway with blinding light, a stark contrast to the shadowy spectators’ area. They were seated in the front row at a table the size of a TV tray.

  “This is Jennifer Whitmore’s last night here,” Dowd told him.

  A bleached blond waitress sauntered up to them dressed in a silver metal bra and a black leather thong with a whip dangling from the waistband. A chain of roses with a cobra emerging from the blossoms was tattooed on her thigh.

  Only in Key West.

  When you checked beyond the sunny skies and the warm sands, Key West’s darker heart beat steadily. Kinky sex. Drugs. You name it.

  The blonde took two pitchers of margaritas from her tray and deposited them on the table next to the glasses. Even in the dark, Kyle could tell the drinks were watered down.

  “Fifty dollars, bay-bee,” she said with a breathy voice that was so fake Kyle almost told her to get a life.

  “Let Uncle Sam pay,” Dowd said when Kyle reached for his wallet. He paid the waitress who’d poured them a drink, managing to slosh much of the sticky liquid over the table.

  “Fifty frigging dollars?” Kyle asked after one swig of what tasted like warm piss.

  “You have to buy two pitchers instead of paying a cover charge. It—”

  A drumroll, then the lights went out. The fine hair on the back of Kyle’s neck stood on end. Sweat furrowed down the small of his back. He hated not being able to see a damn thing.

  An instant later, the glaring lights illuminated the runway-style ring. In pranced an Amazon of a woman with a mane of blue-black hair and dark, feral eyes. She raised strong arms the way prize fighters did when they paraded into the ring. She kick-boxed along the runway, lashing out at nearby tables with long, powerful legs.

  The mostly male crowd jammed around the tiny tables whistled and cheered as the black leather shorts and halter top strained, threatening to burst the seams and expose buns of steel or soccer ball boobs. Something about the woman gave Kyle the creeps.

  “Marlene the Marvel,” screeched the announcer. “Unnn-deee-feated in twenty-seven bouts.”

  “Somebody should call for a chromosome check on the Marvel,” Kyle told Mike. “I can hardly wait to see Jennifer Whitmore. Wanna bet she needs a check, too?”

  “Hee-rez the challenger,” the announcer yelled over the catcalls. “Baby Doe Whitmore.”

  Out of the shadows at the far end of the room appeared a petite blonde with an off-kilter ponytail at the top of her head. Her huge blue-gray eyes framed by long, wispy lashes seemed to be blinded by the intense light. She hesitated, lowering her chin a notch as she slowly walked down the runway.

  A hush fell over the room, but Kyle barely noticed. His gut clenched as if the Marvel had kick-boxed him in the groin. His brain kept trying to unscramble what he was seeing.

  Jenny. His sweet Jenny all grown up.

  Finally, he said, “Her name is really Jennifer Barton.”

  “How’d you know?” Mike asked. “Her stepfather, Hyram Whitmore, adopted her. It’s in her file.”

  How did he know? How could he forget? The last time he’d seen Jenny—fifteen years ago—they’d been little more than kids, still in their teens. She’d been sobbing. I don’t want to leave you, Kyle.

  “La-a-deez,” yelled the announcer when Jenny stopped in the center of the ring. “Take two steps back, and when I blow the whistle, come out fighting. Remember, nothin’s too dirty in a kat fight. Anything gooo-z!”

  The women backed up until they were about six feet apart. The announcer disappeared into the shadows. A second before the whistle blew, the Marvel attacked, catching Jenny off guard.

  She grabbed Jenny by her shoulders and shook her like a rag doll. Jenny valiantly tried to fight her off, but succeeded only in getting the neckline of her T-shirt ripped until it nearly exposed her breasts.

  Jenny bolted for the far side of the ring.

  The Marvel pounced, from behind, coming down on top of Jenny like a load of cement. Kyle couldn’t sit there and watch. He began to rise, but Dowd slammed a hand down on his shoulder.

  “Jennifer isn’t getting hurt. It’s an act. They’ve been fighting every night for over a month.”

  Kyle’s chest tightened as if his lungs couldn’t take any more of the hot, stale air as he watched Jenny. Somehow she’d managed to get on top of the Marvel and was pummeling Marlene with her fists. Jenny wasn’t Playmate material. She was the girl-next-door all grown up.

  With sex appeal in spades.

  The Marvel was now dragging Jenny across the stage by her ponytail. Poor Jenny was kicking and screaming loud enough to be heard in Miami.

  “Do you think you can work with Jennifer?” Mike asked.

  I love you, Kyle. Don’t let her take me away. But Jenny’s mother had taken her and disappeared. Until now.

  “Jenny’s crazy about me,” he heard himself say.

  Another two minutes passed, filled with antics Kyle didn’t find entertaining, but the other men were mesmerized. They were pounding the tables and cheering when the Marvel finally pinned Jenny to the mat facedown and straddled her, trapping Jenny’s arms behind her back at a painful angle.

  Kyle waited while the announcer declared the Marvel the victor and presented her with a gold lamé bra that couldn’t possibly contain Marlene’s humungous breasts. Defeated, Jenny waited nearby, head down. Her ponytail had come undone. Damp strands of tawny-gold hair hung around her heart-shaped face.

  Kyle had to resist the urge to go over, put his arm around her, and lead her out of the spotlight. No doubt, the other guys in the place were thinking the same thing. Even though Marlene the Marvel had won, Jenny was the true victor.

  Mike Dowd said something to the waitress. She went up to Jenny as she was leaving the ring. Squinting into the light, Jenny came in their direction. Mike stood up and Kyle rose beside him, aware of all the heads turning in their direction. There wasn’t a man in the whole damn place who didn’t want to meet Jenny.

  “Jennifer, another great show,” Mike Dowd said.

  Jenny mumbled something, but her eyes were on Kyle. Her lower lip trembled just slightly, the way it always had when she’d been upset.

  “Hey, Jenny,” he heard himself say. “Talk about coincidences—”

  “It’s Jennifer, not Jenny.”

  She reached for the full pitcher of margaritas to pour herself a glass. She needed it; her face was moist from the fight. A rivulet of perspiration ran down her collarbone, and he couldn’t help notice it disappear between her breasts.

  Get a grip. Fifteen years have passed. Jenny is all grown up now. It’s Jennifer, not Jenny. Definitely not “his” Jenny any longer.

  “I never thought I’d see you again … Jennifer.”

  “Kyle Parker, I couldn’t get that lucky.”

  She flung the pitcher of margaritas at his face. His split-second reaction kept the liquid from hitting him square in the eyes. Instead, the contents sloshed onto his denim cut-offs, drenching them as if he’d peed in his pants. The liquid trickled down his legs and puddled in his shoes around his bare feet.

  He turned and walked away, all kinds of pissed. Women. Go figure. Fifteen years had turned his Jenny into a ball buster.

  Half the joint was laughing at him when he asked the bouncer where to find the men’s room. Not that he gave a rat’s ass. Jennifer, the woman, had just destroyed a memory that he hadn’t realized was so important until now.

  He rounded the corner, heading for the shack where the men’s room was located. Suddenly, a distinctive click sounded near his right ear.

  A gun cocking.


  Kyle didn’t bother to face the kidnappers. He stood there, cut-offs and underwear sopping, and cursed his own stupidity. Letting a woman distract you was a sure way to get killed.

  Chapter 2

  Jennifer stared at Kyle Parker’s back as he angled his impressive shoulders sideways to get through the crowd. Deep in her heart, she had always known sometime, somewhere, Kyle would cross her path again.

  But why tonight when she’d been totally unprepared?

  She’d emerged from the blinding lights, expecting to see Mike Dowd. For an instant, she’d thought the tall, powerfully built phantom with Mike was a result of the move from ultra-bright light to near darkness. It had been years since she’d lain awake at night, dreaming about Kyle, but now and then she would spot some man who reminded her of him.

  Despite her best efforts, she always looked twice … to make sure.

  Tonight there’d been no mistake. Kyle was older, his body filled out, having lost the youthful lankiness she remembered so well. He’d seemed taller, too, but perhaps that was because she had to stand on tiptoe to hit five four and he was almost a foot taller.

  Some things never change—like Kyle Parker’s penetrating green eyes and cocky grin.

  Just seeing him had brought back the heartache, the agonizing pain. And the unbearable darkness that had nearly eclipsed her soul.

  What she’d said next came as a surprise—even to her. She’d been trying to curb her tongue, but knowing herself, she wasn’t counting on having much luck.

  She realized Mike Dowd was speaking, and mentally gave herself a hard shake. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to realize she wasn’t welcome in the counterterrorism program. There were too many people waiting for her to fail. She needed to stay on Mike’s good side.

  “I guess Kyle was wrong. You’re not crazy about him.”

  “Is that what he said?” The conceited jerk would.

  Mike shrugged as if to say he couldn’t quite recall. The good old boy club at work.

  “I’d sure hate to make you wait six weeks until the other instructor arrives.” Mike pulled out Kyle’s chair for her, a slight frown creasing his forehead. She dropped into the seat, suddenly exhausted, and he sat down. “Kyle’s the best.”

  Kyle was an instructor in the counterterrorist program? She couldn’t manage to string words together. After several long beats of silence, she formed a response. “I’m a pro. I can work with anyone, even Kyle Parker.”

  Mike Dowd’s expression said he had serious doubts. He parted his lips to say something when a brute of a guy strode up to their table, leaned over, and began speaking in a low voice.

  “Sir, Blackwatch has just kidnapped Kyle Parker.”

  Kidnapped? Jennifer’s heartbeat kicked into high gear. You don’t care, she told herself. You’re engaged to a man you love. Still, she didn’t want something terrible to happen to Kyle.

  “Congratulations, Brody.” Mike shook the man’s hand. “I was wondering if anyone could catch Parker.” He looked at Jennifer. “I guess being drenched with margaritas had him off guard.”

  What was going on here? she wondered, but didn’t ask. Her mouth still tasted of shoe leather from telling off Kyle, then discovering she was going to have to work with him. Jennifer managed a weak smile, aware of Brody’s steady gaze. She didn’t need a mirror to tell her that being mauled by Marlene the Marvel was the epitome of bad hair days. Worse, she was sweaty and flushed from the heat.

  “Brody Hawke meet Jennifer Whitmore,” Mike said. “She’s with the new antiterrorist task force headquartered in Miami. Brody’s a SEAL. He just finished advanced training with Kyle.”

  Jennifer couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Who kidnapped Kyle?”

  “I did.” The pride in Brody’s voice was unmistakable. He cast a quick glance at Mike, then added, “I mean, we did.” He grinned at Jennifer. “Our class, code named Blackwatch, captured Parker.”

  “Just a prank,” Mike told her with a smile. “It’s tradition for a graduating class to test what they’ve learned by attempting to kidnap their instructor. Kyle’s a real challenge. This is the first time anyone’s gotten him.”

  A small sigh of relief escaped her lips. Boy games. Sheesh!

  “It was my idea to stake out Bahama Village.” Brody’s grin would have been an irritating gloat on anyone else, but the SEAL was adorable in a mischievous, little-boy way. “The guys said he’d never risk coming to the village.”

  Mike motioned for Brody to join them. He snatched a chair from an adjacent table and sat down as Mike continued to speak to her. “I guess you know all about Kyle.”

  “No. I haven’t seen him in fifteen years.” Fifteen years and three months to be exact.

  “He’s a legend,” Brody informed her. “Four tours with the Seal 6.”

  He was part of the Navy’s antiterrorist task force. Somehow, she wasn’t surprised. Like father, like son. The thought alone left a bitter taste in her mouth.

  “Kyle’s an expert on field surveillance systems,” Mike said.

  “State-of-the-art sh—stuff,” Brody added enthusiastically.

  Just her luck. The man she hated was the man she needed.

  “If Kyle is so good, why is he in the classroom, not the field?”

  There must have been an edge to her voice she hadn’t detected. Brody’s smile suddenly vanished and he looked warily at Mike.

  “Kyle had infiltrated a terrorist group in Libya. Someone in the CIA leaked the info to the Arabs and he was exposed,” Mike said quietly. “He was lucky to escape alive.”

  “He took out eleven of them,” Brody added with unmistakable admiration, “but he was shot up pretty badly.”

  Mike added, “He has a pin holding his right leg together. That disqualifies him from undercover operations. He left the service, but works for us as an independent contractor.”

  A small part of her was filled with pride knowing what Kyle had accomplished. But she tamped down that ridiculous emotion. The past had taught her an important lesson. She knew better than to fall for Kyle Parker.

  She was engaged to Chad Roberts—the love of her life.

  Kyle ignored the hand-lettered sign hanging above the entrance to the training center.

  K. PARKER CAPTURED AT 2300 HOURS BY BLACKWATCH.

  There was one just like it at the entrance to the base. The damn signs should have been taken down. The ransom was supposed to be the humiliation of having the sign displayed for a full twenty-four hours while he sweated his brains out, hog-tied, in a musty thatched hut on No Name Key.

  His wrists were chafed raw from the new rope the rookies had used to bind his wrists and ankles. His skin would heal, but the damage to his reputation fried him. Not that it meant anything in the greater scheme of things. He’d lived through hell.

  This was nothing—except he’d gotten careless.

  A woman had distracted him.

  The price had been a small blow to his pride. Next time—if there was a next time—he could be killed. Taking a deep breath, he reminded himself that he’d left the service. He wasn’t at risk any longer.

  He shouldered his way into the building, wincing slightly as he hit the door. He was covered with bruises. The rookies had kidnapped him—but not without one hell of a fight.

  “Hey, Parker, did you have fun on No Name Key?”

  Kyle blew off the guy’s attempt to tease him with some creative finger gestures he’d learned it Italy. There’d be no end to the crap he was going to take because Jenny—Jennifer—had distracted him.

  He shoved the door open and walked into the classroom. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the new class had five men. And Jenny.

  He dumped the manuals he was carrying onto the desk. He hitched his sore leg up on the desk and half stood, half sat, looking at the group.

  “I don’t like to be formal,” he told them, “and I don’t like to spend time in a classroom. Let’s introduce ourselves, then head out to the firing range.”


  “Firing range? I thought we were going to learn advanced surveillance techniques.”

  Jennifer. Who else?

  He ignored her question and looked at one of the men. He introduced himself, then the rest of the men followed his lead. The group was just what he anticipated. Former SWAT team members, one of them a sharpshooter, and a man from the Bomb Squad comprised the newly formed Miami-Dade County Antiterrorism Task Force.

  They were exactly what Kyle would have expected in an urban antiterrorism unit. But how did Jennifer fit in? Other than being recommended by DEA agent, Spike Roberts?

  It was Jennifer’s turn to introduce herself. She was dressed in a preppy white polo shirt and crisp navy Bermuda shorts with a navy belt that had little red fish woven into the fabric. She could have been a centerfold for L. L. Bean—except for her hair. It was piled on top of her head and held by a metallic clip. Wispy curls had escaped and were straggling down the sides of her face.

  Her slim tanned legs were crossed and one foot swung back and forth quickly. Was she nervous? It seemed more likely that she was waiting to fire off another wisecrack.

  What in hell had he ever done to Jenny to make her so angry at him?

  “I’m Jennifer Whitmore. I’m an independent contractor with Miami-Dade County Search and Rescue. The K-9 unit.” She pointed to the floor beside her. “This is Sadie, my partner.”

  Was he losing it? Kyle hadn’t noticed the bloodhound with the deeply wrinkled coat just behind her chair. That explained why she’d been assigned to the team. Dogs were essential in locating bombs and plastic explosives.

  “Get up, Sadie,” Jennifer said.

  The bloodhound heaved herself to her feet and gazed, droopy-eyed at him. Kyle seemed to be the only man in the room looking at the dog. Jennifer wasn’t beautiful, Kyle told himself, but she had … something, and every man knew it.

  The bloodhound’s ears dragged on the floor as her soulful eyes looked at Kyle. The dog’s tail wagged back and forth, slapping the side of Jennifer’s chair with a thunk. She snapped her fingers and pointed to the ground. The dog sat down, but her eyes were still on Kyle.