Page 3 of Doyle

He threw the towel over his shoulder. “No, I’m in. Just give me five to get changed.”

“Ten, and you shower first. The harbormaster is new, and...” She gave him the once-over. “We don’t need you looking like you’re a member of the S-7 crew.”

“Thanks. First thing I check in the mirror every morning—do I look like a gang member?”

She rolled her eyes. “Just change your shirt.”

Of course. Sheesh.Clearly she hadn’t gotten their first meeting out of her head.

Talk about needing a fresh start. He sighed as he started walking toward the former monastery’s back entrance, where an arched door hung open and led to the interior of the compound.

She followed him, glancing at the game, the kids. “Do they know yet?”

“No. I’m planning to save it. We still have a few days left.”

“Scared about what Kemar is going to do?”

He glanced at her, his mouth tight, and didn’t answer as he walked through the entrance into the cool embrace of the eighteenth-century building. Freshly whitewashed, the thick walls kept heat from invading, and a long, shaded corridor aproned the complex. The middle courtyard, repaved with black limestone that had turned slick and shiny over the years, held a granite fountain with a statue of the Holy Mother holding baby Jesus in the center.

Beyond that, gates—now closed—opened to a dirt road and a view of the harbor town of Esperanza, the capital of tiny Mariposa and home to some four thousand inhabitants. The town was a postcard—red-roofed stone homes, a few three-story, arched-veranda hotels overlooking the pristine turquoise sea. Fishing boats cluttered the port, evidence of their main source of income—conch, snapper, and mahi-mahi.

The smells from the kitchen—located in the remodeled wing—suggested jerk chicken on tonight’s menu, a blend of allspice, Scotch bonnet peppers, and ginger over grilled chicken, and Doyle’s stomach growled.

“You sure you don’t want to stay?”

“No. I just skipped lunch. I was working on the chapel, then I got roped into the soccer game.” He glanced at the open wooden doors to the building across the courtyard. “Had to brace one of the beams—it felt loose.”

“I poked my head in. The kids did a great job on the murals.”

Was that praise?

“It’s a good way to show their talents, as well as the focus of faith we have here.” He reached the stairs. “I think the donors will be impressed.”

“Impressed? Maybe amused.”

For all her beauty, she had a way of dropping a stone into his soul. He reached the stairs. Turned. “I know you think this is a waste of time, but having the donors on-site just might get a few of these kids adopted. And that could change their lives.”

She held up a hand, the wind catching her hair, whisking it across her face. “It’s not that I don’t think it’s a good idea, but let’s not get your hopes up, Doyle—we need them to donate to the medical clinic, get some real equipment here. The clinic isn’t just for the orphanage, it’s for the entire community, and it desperately needs equipment and supplies. That’s why they’re here. The only souvenir these donors want to take home is a conch shell.”

Nice.

“I’ll meet you at the garage in ten.” She walked away.

He bit back a growl and headed up to his room in the center area. The boys’ dorms extended down one wing, the girls’ along the other. He unlocked his room and opened it to a small but tidy room with an adjacent bath, a single bed, desk, standing wardrobe, and a glorious view of the sea below. Looming over it all was the Cumbre de Luz, the dormant volcano that lumbered along the north side of the island.

The smells from the surf and the lush rainforest vegetation that swept down from the volcano filtered into his room, and he breathed them in as he stripped off his shirt.

If he wanted a fresh start, he’d have to let Tia’s cynical words roll off him.

He stepped into the shower, braced his hands on the tile walls, and let the cool water revive him. Who knew what Tia might be trying to escape in the States? He knew very little about her.

Except that she could drive him to his last nerve.

He stepped out, toweled off, pulled on a clean pair of jeans, boots, and a white oxford, rolling up the sleeves. He didn’t bother to shave—most of the men on the island wore scruff, many of them fishermen. Others worked in the fledgling tourist industry, hosting divers who came to the island in search of the fabled gold treasures located in the thirteen wrecks caught in the coral reefs offshore.

He raked a hand through his short hair—good enough—and headed down to the garage, a building outside the monastery that Declan had added when he’d upgraded security. The garage also housed small security offices, with monitors that captured all corners of the building, as well as a corridor and the main hall.

Thank you to the S-7 crew, whose terrorizing of the locals had only increased after the hurricane five years ago that had left so many of these kids without parents.

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