In April, she’d spend the weekend at her cottage.

If invited to a party at the Crawford estate, she’d go in a heartbeat.

28

Although it wasn’t yet dusk, tall white candles lit the elegantly set table in the formal dining room. Huck didn’t want to be there. He had already refused Oliver Crawford’s offer for him to sit at the long, antique table, with its high-backed upholstered chairs.

Everything was cream, crystal and silver. Tasteful. Crawford seemed to match his surroundings in his light-colored suit and tie, the candlelight flickering in his eyes. “Come, Boone,” he said, “tell me about your work. I want to hear how we’re doing from someone getting put through his paces. Are we ready for new trainees?”

“We will be,” Huck said, telling the truth. As far as he could see, Breakwater Security was up and running, moving ahead fast with its plans to enter the high-stakes, competitive world of protective services and training.

Sharon Riccardi, who’d spotted Huck when he’d arrived back at the compound and all but ordered him inside, stood back, as if to give him space, room to show off before the boss. She’d dressed for dinner, wearing an ankle-length black skirt with a white wrap-top that plunged low. Huck was still in the clothes he wore to Washington. She raised her wineglass at him. “Mr. Boone seems to relish the physical challenges of our work here.”

“I like to stay in shape.” He didn’t know what else to say.

Crawford seemed interested. “Joe Riccardi says you helped him design the training course here.”

“The design was in place,” Huck said. “I just worked with him to fine-tune it.”

“I understand it’s similar to what the feds put their special operatives through-the FBI Hostage Rescue Team, the U.S. Marshals Service’s Special Operations Group.” He paused, adding, as if it was some kind of secret he was letting Huck in on, “Others.”

What Breakwater was setting up was good, and if it was a legit outfit, the training program would produce competent personnel. But Breakwater wasn’t a legitimate outfit. Huck kept his tone even as he said, “So long as it’s effective training, I guess it doesn’t matter.”

Joe Riccardi came in from the adjoining living room, dressed down in khakis and a Breakwater Security polo shirt. There didn’t seem to be a place set for him at the table. “We’re not trying to compete with HRT, SOG, Delta,” Riccardi said. “They’re who we call when we get into trouble. Our mission as private contractors is quite different from that of law enforcement. We just want capable people.”

His wife concurred, her demeanor professional, low-key, almost as if she was trying to persuade Huck of the righteousness of their work. “Law enforcement doesn’t have the same latitude we do. You’d think it was the other way around, but it’s not.”

“We can’t break laws, of course,” Crawford broke in. His tone was sincere, no hint of sarcasm, no wink and nod.

Huck, banking a surge of frustration at all the doublespeak in the room, picked up a glass of ice water. “Pay’s better, too.”

“That helps us recruit good people like yourself.” Crawford sat back with his wine, his eyes on Huck. “Do you believe a private security firm like Breakwater should play by the rules? Or should we put our talents to use in a variety of ways, push the envelope-be creative?”

“You said yourself we can’t break the law.”

“But whose laws? So much happens these days transnationally. Look at my situation. I’m an American citizen who was kidnapped in the territorial waters of a small Caribbean island protectorate. My kidnappers were a variety of nationalities. They took me to another island nation.”

“I see what you mean,” Huck said.

Sharon Riccardi sipped her wine. “We’re witnessing globalization on every level.”

While her husband’s expression remained neutral, Crawford immediately seemed more animated than he had earlier. “Politicians argue about legal infrastructure and nuances of interrogation techniques, and people like me-honest businessmen-are going about our business and trying to protect ourselves.” His eyes shone. “I see nothing wrong with it.”

Huck shrugged. “Me neither. I heard what happened to a couple of your kidnappers in Colombia. In my mind, they had it coming.”

A distance came into Crawford’s expression. When he didn’t answer right away, Sharon Riccardi snatched a plate of cookies off the table and stepped forward, offering them to Huck. “They’re linzer cookies. The raspberry filling’s to die for.”

“I guess I could die for worse,” Huck said with a fake grin, taking a cookie.

She changed the subject. “I understand you found your own way back from Washington today.”

“That’s right.”

“How?”

Ethan Brooker drove him. Even in a suit and tie, Brooker exuded competence. He would have taken Huck to Breakwater’s front gate, but Huck had him drop him off in the village and walked out to the compound.

None of which he was telling Crawford and the Riccardis.

“I had Scotty beam me back down here,” he said.

Joe took a sharp breath, not hiding his irritation, but Sharon smiled. “Did Quinn Harlowe give you a ride?”

“A friend,” he said. “Most people have friends in Washington, don’t they?”

“Where did you go after you left Travis?”

Huck bit into the cookie. “I got a pedicure.”

Now she got frosty. “You’re not used to answering to anyone, are you, Boone?”

He didn’t respond. Crawford, who seemed more amused by the exchange than annoyed, collected himself. “But you did see Quinn Harlowe today?”

“We had coffee.”

“That was Lubec’s idea,” Joe Riccardi said.

Crawford nodded. “Was it? I’m sure he had his reasons. Quinn’s inquisitive-Gerry Lattimore thinks the world of her. I’ve invited them both to the open house here tomorrow.”

Huck forced himself not to react. “You spoke to her?”

“No, I invited her through Gerry. He’ll be here.”

And so will Quinn. Huck had no illusions. If invited, she’d come. Hell, if she wasn’t invited, she’d come-she’d paddle over in her kayak and jump over the barbed-wire fence, probably in her party dress.

“Quinn seems to have taken a liking to you,” Crawford said.

“I wouldn’t go that far. I was there right after she found her friend.”

“A terrible tragedy. Gerry’s very broken up about her death. Unfortunately-” Crawford set his wineglass down, pausing as he took a cookie from the plate Sharon had returned to the table. “Unfortunately, a rumor’s come to my attention that the federal government might be interested in what we’re doing here.”

Huck bit into his cookie. “Interested as in suspicious?”

Sharon answered, her voice quiet, no edge to her tone. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“We have nothing to hide,” her husband said stiffly.

Sharon stood next to him. “That’s right. If the FBI or anyone else wants to investigate us, fine. We’re a legitimate operation. You’ve had a look at us from top to bottom, Huck. Wouldn’t you agree?”

He shrugged. “Absolutely.”

“However,” she went on, “an open investigation is one thing. Spying is another. We don’t want the federal government or anyone else infiltrating us, spying on us. No one would. If Quinn Harlowe is stirring the pot-”

“Then we need to know,” Huck finished for her.

Crawford tilted his head back, his eyes half-closed as he studied Huck. “I’d like you to keep an eye on her, Boone. She seems to get along with you. Check in with her from time to time.”

“That’s not exactly the kind of mission I had in mind when I signed on-”

“Nor did I,” Joe said quietly. He clearly didn’t like the idea.

“It’s not a mission,” Crawford said. “It’s an informal request. Quinn’s absorbing a difficult blow with the loss of her friend, and given Alicia Miller’s behavior in the hours, perhaps days, before she drowned, there are bound to be questions. I don’t want them backfiring on us here. We’re at a delicate stage.”