Code Name: Bikini Read online

  More women passed.

  More bikinis.

  A blonde in a thong leaned against the rail and gave him a slow, thorough inspection. When she was done, Trace knew what it felt like to be beef on the hook, weighed, measured and stamped Grade-A across the center of his forehead.

  He had to get away before he shot someone, so the gym it was. The blonde gave him a sour look as he crossed the deck, picked up his fallen paperback book, then stopped to watch a whale breach far out at sea.

  Amazed, he leaned his elbows on the aft railing, feeling the wind in his face.

  A shadow moved past his legs.

  A four-foot shadow with pigtails.

  “She wasn’t your type. She smelled a little funky, too.”

  Trace glanced down at the vision in pink flip-flops and an oversize Scooby Doo T-shirt. “Who?”

  “The lady with the teeny suit and the big…um, bosoms. My mom says that’s what we should call them, but Stephie at school calls them—”

  She was neatly pushed sideways by a second vision in flip-flops. Clearly, this was her identical twin. “Forget what Stephie calls them. It’s rude, Daddy said. And we’re not supposed to talk to strangers, remember?” Twin number two stuck out a hand laced with purple friendship bands that matched her purple swimsuit and sandals. “I’m Olivia. My sister is Sunny. What’s your name?”

  “Trace. Glad to meet you two ladies.”

  “Listen, Sunny. He thinks we’re ladies.” Twin two snorted a little and then recovered her dignity. “How do you like that book?” She leaned her head sideways, reading the title. “Our dad says it’s unrealistic trash without any military verisimilitude.” She pronounced the last word calmly, as if she’d used it often. “Our dad says the author should be dropped from a chopper without a parachute.”

  Trace hid a smile. “Can’t say. I haven’t gotten very far yet.” He recalled the media blitz about this particular book. “Your dad could be right.”

  “He’s usually right. Our dad is really smart. Our mom is totally smart, too. She does effing stops.”

  Trace gave a startled cough. “She does what?”

  “Not effing stops, stupid.” Twin one rolled her eyes. “F-stops. That means camera apertures. One of her photos was picked for the cover of Time last year,” she announced.

  Trace nodded gravely. “Your mom must be really good.”

  “You bet your butt she’s good.” Miss Purple—Sunny—giggled a little. “Stephie says that a lot.”

  Trace grinned. It was impossible to be serious around these charmers. But surely their parents would be looking for them.

  He saw at least fifty adults and scattered children, but no one seemed to be searching for the two girls in flip-flops. “Your parents swimming in the pool over there?”

  “Nope.”

  “Are they in one of those deck chairs in the shade?”

  The little girls turned, scanned the shaded chairs and shook their heads. “Nope.”

  Trace was starting to feel a little uneasy. “If you’re lost or something—”

  “Oh, we’re not lost. We’re on the aft Lido Deck, and we don’t have to be ready until the first dinner seating. Everything’s right on schedule.” Sunny opened a little mesh beach bag and pulled out a purple diary. “But there’s some weird stuff going on here. The lady across the hall cries a lot. The man next door to us hasn’t come out of his room once and he’s really noisy. He groans like he’s climbing a hill or something.” She wrinkled her perfect nose. “It makes Dad get all red in the face. He says we’re going to have to move to another cabin.” She traced the wooden deck with her flip-flop. “I wonder why we have to move. It’s just a little noise.”

  Trace cleared his throat. He had a pretty clear idea what the huffing and puffing was all about. “Maybe you should find your mom and dad. They could be worried about you.”

  “They certainly were.”

  A tall woman in a white gauze shirt looped her arms across the girls’ shoulders, frowning. “You were supposed to stay with Daddy and guard our chairs while I went to the bathroom.”

  “We did, Mom. Then we asked Daddy to get us some ice cream and we followed him a little way. But Olivia lost her notebook, and then we found it. We only went a few rows away, just around the corner from Daddy at that ice-cream counter.”

  “It’s not the distance, honey. When he turned around, you were gone. He’s very upset about losing sight of you. It’s also the fact that you made a promise. You should always keep your promises.”

  The girls looked down, crestfallen. “Sorry,” Sunny muttered.

  The woman ruffled their hair, then gave Trace a thorough scrutiny. “I hope they weren’t bothering you, Mr.…”

  “O’Halloran.” Suddenly Trace stiffened. Looking into calm, intelligent eyes, he realized exactly who the woman was. “No bother, ma’am. Your girls are way too charming for that. They told me you had a photograph on the cover of Time. That’s pretty impressive.”

  She smoothed Olivia’s hair. “No photos this trip. We’re all on vacation.” She smiled, waving at a tall man in a black T-shirt as he rounded a line of deck chairs. Three ice-cream cones were melting in his hands.

  His eyes were dark with worry. “You two are in serious trouble for leaving without telling me.”

  The two girls looked glum. “Sorry, Daddy.”

  “Sorry doesn’t always help.”

  “They won’t do it again.” A third little girl in lime-green flip-flops took her sisters’ arms.

  Triplets, Trace thought. His briefing file had mentioned that, but seeing three identical faces was still a shock.

  So this was Ford McKay and his family. A Navy SEAL with all McKay’s decorations and experience would be a definite asset in a pinch. So would his wife, judging by what Trace had read in Ryker’s files.

  “I was just telling Mr. Trace about Mom’s effing-stops.” Sunny gave a bright smile. Something told Trace that in about nine years that smile was going to drive men straight to their knees.

  “F-stops, darling. Not effing stops,” her mother said calmly.

  Ford sat down and sorted out the melting cones. “After that little stunt you two pulled, I should toss your cones overboard.”

  Sunny and Olivia looked guilty until McKay relented. “But you get one more chance. Here you go. Vanilla and vanilla.”

  Sunny giggled. “Oh, Daddy. You know we hate vanilla. These are what we wanted.” A natural-born leader if Trace ever saw one, Sunny gave her father’s cheek a little pinch. “You always get it right. Pistachio. Butter pecan. Chocolate chip cookie goo.”

  “Dough,” their mother corrected, smiling.

  “Yeah, that one.” Sunny tucked into her wafer cone. “We don’t like vanilla because vanilla is for geeks.” She smiled at Trace. “Even if we like most geeks. When Stephie Andrews called Olivia and me geeks, I called her a big, nasty womb.”

  Ford McKay choked on his frozen latte. “You said what?”

  “I read it somewhere. In the Wall Street Journal, I think. They said that wombs were—”

  “Okay, okay.” Ford looked harassed, while his wife seemed to be enjoying his discomfort.

  Was that an I-told-you-so look on her face? Trace wondered. He felt a nearly tangible bond of emotion between the two, even when no words were shared.

  Maybe that was what it meant to be in love.

  Nah.

  Trace knew better. Most of what people called love was the result of hormones, boredom and abstinence.

  The Navy SEAL held out his hand. “I’m McKay.”

  “Trace O’Halloran.”

  “Were they bothering you?”

  “No way. We had a nice talk before your wife tracked them down.”

  The little girl in lime green held out her hand. “We haven’t met yet. I’m Cleo.” Her calm formality was blinding. If there was such a thing as American royalty, Trace figured it would look like this.

  “I’m Trace.”

  “It’s a plea
sure to meet you, Mr. Trace. You have nice eyes.”

  Trace scratched his cheek. Nice eyes?

  Ford swung an arm around Cleo and Sunny. “Okay, troops. Time to hit the cabin for unit evaluation before dinner.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  “Cool.”

  The words spilled out as the three girls immediately lined up, their faces bright with excitement.

  “I finished my security sweep of the ship,” Olivia said proudly. “I found no security breaches in the passenger-side Internet outlets.”

  “And I checked out our key card. It only accesses our cabin, and no one else can use their cards in our door. Our cabin steward showed me how to use his.” Sunny looked thoughtful. “His key works for any room on his floor, so if we ever get locked out, he can let us in.”

  Cleo cut in. “I spoke with the captain. He was very polite when I asked to see his digital compass. He invited us all to dinner at his table tomorrow night.”

  Ford frowned. “Sit at the captain’s table? I don’t know—”

  “Darling, the girls would love it. Why don’t we discuss it downstairs?” His wife took his arm. “And I love how handsome you look in your tux.”

  The man was definitely outgunned.

  For some reason, the thought made Trace slightly envious.

  “I feel hot,” Sunny announced loudly. “And the ice cream…uh, I don’t feel good.”

  With the instant resourcefulness of mothers everywhere, Carly gathered Sunny close and felt her forehead. “You do feel a little warm.”

  “Sunny’s got a touchy stomach. It’s her only Achilles’ heel, believe me.” Ford McKay gave him a long, focused look. “Spent some time in the service, have you?”

  Trace knew he’d have to step carefully, since his current military deployment was a highly guarded secret. “Here and there.”

  Ford started to ask more, but his wife touched his arm.

  “If you two start talking shop, the girls and I may do something dangerous. I’m thinking spa outing for four. Full pedicures, no expense limit.”

  “Can we, Mommy? Pretty please.” Sunny wiggled her toes. “I want pleasure-me-purple polish.” She frowned. “What does pleasure-me purple mean, anyway?”

  Ford crossed his arms, waiting for his wife’s answer.

  “It’s just a name, darling. And we’ll all choose nice polish that Daddy will like, won’t we?”

  “I don’t wear nail polish.” Olivia frowned. “The toxin load isn’t healthy.”

  “I’m sure they have healthy kinds.” Carly McKay smiled at Trace. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. O’Halloran. I’d better get my unit back to base before they exhaust us.” She took Sunny’s hand. “Let’s go take your temperature.” She waved at her husband and Trace. “You two have fun.”

  Ford McKay stared after them for a moment and then his sharp gaze settled on Trace. “Delta?”

  “Different deployment.” Trace gave no additional information. Any spec op soldier would know what that kind of silence meant.

  Under the radar. Highly classified. No questions.

  McKay nodded. “I figured as much.”

  Trace decided to change the subject. “Great family you have. Those girls of yours must keep you in good shape.”

  In a few years Ryker would probably be trying to recruit the triplets.

  Ford watched his wife and children cross the crowded deck. “Sometimes I feel outclassed. Cleo is a walking, talking diplomat already, and Olivia is nine going on forty-nine. She knows organic chemistry that I haven’t even heard of. Sunny could command a tank battalion.” He shook his head. “The thought of high school scares the beejesus out of me. Dating. Drinking.” His voice fell. “Sex. Hell.”

  “You ought to be very proud of them. I’m sure they have great judgment.” Trace slung his towel over his arm. “Guess I’ll hit the gym.”

  Ford gave him another measuring look. “We’d be happy for you to join us at dinner, if you don’t have other plans. The fact is, with another man around, I might not feel so outnumbered.”

  Trace needed to finish his ship orientation tonight and walk every deck. He was also slated to meet Tobias Hale’s security team.

  He thought fast. “Sorry, I can’t. Maybe tomorrow, assuming you don’t have dinner with the captain?”

  “You’re on.” Ford picked up his khaki tote. Trace saw two books on encryption technology inside it.

  He gestured with one hand. “A little light reading?”

  “Pays to stay ahead of the wave. Because there’s always a wave out there somewhere, and it’s usually gaining on you.” McKay slung the tote over his shoulder. “Something tells me I’ll be seeing you around, O’Halloran.”

  SUNLIGHT SHIMMERED.

  Seabirds dipped low, circling in the wind.

  As Trace turned, Marshall’s dim outline walked out of the shadows behind one of the bulkheads. She wore a black leather motorcycle jacket and ripped vintage jeans.

  Her eyes were filled with sadness.

  Trace felt a humming noise near his neck. He turned away, dizzy and angry. He didn’t have time for hallucinations or guilt.

  She drifted, then reformed at his side, her face strained. Her mouth moved in silence as if she was struggling to form words.

  She closed her eyes and shook her head in frustration, then tried again, and this time the humming turned into a whisper. “Are you finally ready to listen?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  TRACE GLARED at the drifting figure. Go away, he thought angrily. I don’t need you, want you or believe in you.

  “I can’t go away.” The words sounded hollow, somewhere near his ear. “Not until this is done.”

  Maybe it was his new meds. There were always side effects, and Ryker’s tech team had told Trace these were a new, powerful mix.

  “I’m not coming from your medicine, Trace. Don’t try to make this complicated.”

  Trace started to say life was always complicated and hers was such a mess that she had ended it, but he didn’t really believe that was true. Meanwhile, saying the words aloud meant that he believed she was real, which he damn well didn’t.

  So he said nothing.

  Across the deck, near the interior doors, the girl in purple flip-flops looked back at him and waved. Trace waved back.

  “For the record, Sunny has a crush on you.”

  Trace blew out a breath. “Can it, Marshall,” he muttered.

  A woman nearby turned and stared at him oddly. He realized he was talking to himself.

  Great, O’Halloran. Talking with a ghost makes a hell of a lot of sense.

  “Ford McKay doesn’t trust you. Right now he’s placing a call for a background check on you.”

  He was making all of this up, Trace thought. It was a simple projection of exterior possibilities within the dramatic structure of a two-way conversation.

  But it was all within himself. No ghosts or apparitions were involved. End of story.

  The thought made him feel better. Gripping his towel, he strode down the deck toward his cabin. As he stepped into the elevator, the scent of lavender followed him.

  Trace made absolutely certain he didn’t look back.

  “They’re in danger,” Marshall said quietly, drifting near his right shoulder. “All of you are. You’d better start paying attention before it’s too late.”

  This brought Trace up short. This warning stuff was getting harder to ignore. “What kind of danger?” he snapped.

  There was no answer.

  When he turned around, the corridor was empty.

  THE TWO NEW LINE COOKS from Guatemala were arguing. Andreas was muttering as he plated a crème brûlée for the captain.

  Someone had used all of Gina’s confectionery sugar, and the backup dishwasher was acting up again.

  All of it felt good. A typical day at sea, Gina thought.

  She pulled a tray of cheesecakes out of the oven and slid them into the flash freezer. As she s
tared at the ice-covered walls, she thought of the pristine white uniform of the man who’d saved her and her cake back in San Francisco. He’d looked damned good in that dress uniform.

  Great shoulders, she thought. Good hands and reflexes. The man would make a fantastic line cook.

  Yeah, right.

  He had the focused, intent look of someone used to dealing with danger. He was probably long gone on some covert mission. Clearly, he was no desk jockey. The deep calluses on his hands proved that.

  Goodbye, Navy. It was fun while it lasted, forklift and all.

  Behind her, Andreas set out the first platings of fresh apple pie, which were picked up by servers and raced up to the dining room, still hot. Now Gina and her team had twelve dozen cheesecakes to finish in four hours.

  They had done twice that many in a pinch. Her team was sharp and experienced. They could hold their own anywhere, anytime. Despite Tobias’s warning, she wouldn’t be cowed by Blaine’s off-the-wall threats.

  Sometimes she wished that this TV opportunity had never happened. It had complicated her life and added more pressure to her already insane schedule. But a series would mean great promo for the cruise line and all her pastry staff. With TV experience on their résumés, they would all have broader choices if they decided to move on.

  On a personal level, she hoped the contacts would lead to voice-over jobs when her vision loss meant kitchen work was no longer an option. If she was smart, she’d start to tackle Braille now.

  But she wasn’t ready to be that smart. It would feel like giving up on all hope of a cure.

  So her life became more and more insane. She agreed to every new set of interviews and demo videos. She entertained visiting media planners from L.A. and New York and even created signature pastries for the pilot, sending samples via courier to L.A. as a special enticement to the TV management.

  Now the network bigwigs were checking their demographics and trying to make up their minds about possible ratings, which could take five years, she thought wryly.

  The sounds of laughter and the friendly boasting calmed her down, reassuring in their familiarity. In a real sense these people were her closest family, and she wouldn’t let Blaine ruin her confidence or destroy the mood of her staff. They’d trained together too long to be psyched out by a…