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Out of the haze, the man’s comment about alligators surfaced.
She hadn’t escaped death by drowning only to become dinner to a hungry reptile.
Somehow, she managed to push her way back through the marsh grass to the mangled hull of the skiff, now crushed low and only a couple of inches above the water’s surface. Shelby tried to pull herself up onto the side of the slick metal hull. With nothing to grab hold of, she had no leverage, nor did she have the strength.
Swimming around to the stern, she stepped onto the motionless propeller. With her last ounce of strength and energy, she pushed upward and flopped her body onto the hull. Her forehead bounced against the metal, sending a sharp pain through her already aching head.
Though the clouds chose that moment to clear and let the moon shine down on the bayou, Shelby succumbed to darkness.
Chapter 2
Remy Montagne paced the war room in Hank Patterson’s basement. “I’ve contacted all the men on my list of candidates. They’re all on their way here from the airport.” He glanced down at his watch. “They should arrive in thirty minutes.”
Hank, an ex-Navy SEAL and the founder of the protection service Brotherhood Protectors, sat beside his computer guy, Axel Svenson, also ex-Navy SEAL, at the large conference table.
“Good,” Hank said. “Which means we need to nail down a location for the new regional office. I didn’t think it would take this long to find and close on a facility. Every building we’ve considered in New Orleans and Baton Rouge was snapped up before we could get our offer in.”
“I know I’m the new guy,” Remy stopped and faced Hank, “and you’ve been at this for a while, but why are you focusing on the big cities when the smaller towns have been working for you?”
Hank tipped his head toward the man beside him. “Swede and I thought it might be better to have at least one of our teams based out of a major city.”
“Well, it doesn’t seem to be working for you. I know of an empty boat factory building in Bayou Mambaloa that you could probably get for a song. It’s not that far from the Big Easy. I could go out there, scout the location and send you all the details and pictures. I could probably hunt up local contractors who could bid on the renovations we’ll need.”
Hank’s brow rose, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Would Bayou Mambaloa be the same place you visited a month ago? Your hometown?”
Remy shrugged. “Yes, sir. It’s only forty minutes outside the city. Far enough to be out of the drive-by shootings and crushing traffic, yet near enough we can deploy agents to clients in New Orleans or Baton Rouge. It’s closer to a major metropolitan area than Eagle Rock, Montana, is to any city of significant size.”
Swede’s lips twisted, his white-blond brows rising toward his shock of white-blond hair. “He’s got a point. We don’t lack for work out in the wilds of Montana. It might be better if we’re not positioned in the city but poised on the outskirts.” Hank’s guru grinned. “Unless you just wanted a good excuse to mix business with pleasure during visits to New Orleans.”
Remy’s memories surfaced of eating his way through the French Quarter with various versions of etouffee, jambalaya and gumbo, each more delicious than the last. He never passed on a chance to eat beignets, drink espresso and people-watch at Café Dumonde.
Sure, it would be nice to have all that at your fingertips, but at what cost? Traffic was terrible, and people were constantly in bidding wars over buildings that were crazy expensive.
“Though I’ve enjoyed each of my visits to New Orleans,” Hank said, “eating beignets for breakfast every day was not my primary reason for basing operations in the city.”
He drew in a deep breath, his brow knitting. “However, a quieter location would be better to position our operation in the south. So, Bayou Mambaloa, huh?” He cocked an eyebrow and met Remy’s gaze, a smile tugging at his lips. “I thought you didn’t want to move back home.”
Remy lifted a shoulder and let it fall. “Being back a few weeks ago reminded me of my adventures in the bayou—the festivals, the floating parades and the food.” And Shelby Taylor, the woman he’d hooked up with for one night on his vacation and had sworn to himself it wouldn’t be the last time.
Not knowing if or when he’d ever be back or if she’d truly only wanted just a one-night stand, he hadn’t called her.
On his way out of his hometown of Bayou Mambaloa, he’d stopped at Broussard Country Store, the business Shelby’s older sister, Chrissy, and her husband, Alan, owned and operated while raising five little boys. He’d left his contact information with Chrissy in case she wanted to keep in touch for old-time’s sake.
Truthfully, he’d hoped she’d pass it on to Shelby and that Shelby would call him.
She hadn’t.
Instead, he’d looked up the number for Broussard Country Store in Bayou Mambaloa, saved it in his contacts list and even dialed it. When a woman had answered who’d sounded just like Shelby, he’d hung up.
What was he going to say to Shelby’s sibling, the girl he’d dated all through high school?
Hey, Chrissy, I had sex with your little sister and would like to get her phone number to see if she wants to do it again?
Oh, hell no. Two and a half weeks had passed at that point. Shelby had insisted on once and done. No regrets. No strings.
If he wanted to start something again, he had to do it in person.
So, another week had passed since that stormy night on the bayou. The memory of her naked body seared into his memory hadn’t faded at all.
