HardWind

VICTORIOUS

For seven years, while Star Kiernan ran her elite Panama City restaurant, covert operative Dáire Cronin was often off saving the world. Their love was fierce, passionate, and unbroken by Dáire’s long absences. Then, on the eve of his most dangerous assignment, the two fought. Dáire left without knowing Star’s secret and was captured.

Dáire has returned. Thoughts of Star kept him alive for the past fourteen months, but she has since found solace in the arms of another man—and her secret has only grown. Yet, Dáire doesn’t do defeat. This bad boy might be brought to his knees and tortured, but no matter the enemy or the odds, the warrior will stage a frontal assault to regain the woman of his dreams. Their connection was forged by destiny. Victory—and true love—will be his no matter the cost.

HARDWIND

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

www.BOROUGHSPUBLISHINGGROUP.com

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Boroughs Publishing Group does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites, blogs or critiques or their content.

HARDWIND

Copyright © 2015 Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. Unless specifically noted, no part of this publication may be reproduced, scanned, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Boroughs Publishing Group. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or by any other means without the permission of Boroughs Publishing Group is illegal and punishable by law. Participation in the piracy of copyrighted materials violates the author’s rights.

ISBN 978-1-944262-10-5

To Larry Powell

I love you, baby.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

About the Author

HARDWIND

Chapter One

Dáire Cronin was a stone-cold killer with the sensual brown eyes of a matinee idol. His smile could melt the hardest of hearts, and the soft Southern drawl that flowed like warm honey from his full lips could make heat pool in any womb. With a thick thatch of glossy black curls, chiseled pecs accentuated with a crisp mat of wiry hair, and an ass that filled out his tight, faded jeans to perfection, he was walking sex.

Even his Irish name was sexy. Pronounced deh-ruh, when a woman whispered it, she always managed to shiver as though the sound had a sexual connotation.

As he sauntered along the sugar white sand beach in Panama City, the eyes of women from four years of age and up—and the eyes of a few men—followed his slow progress. The women—and some of the men—stared because he appeared to be a little piece of heaven on earth. The rest of the men stared because the tattoo on his left pectoral labeled him a man among men.

Barefoot, shirtless, his chest glistening with a fine sheen of sweat, he stopped at the shoreline and looked out across the Gulf of Mexico. He put up a deeply tanned arm to block the glare from the late afternoon sun and the reflection from the emerald water as it rolled to shore. When he did, the firm muscles of his back rippled and many a sigh wafted on the early June air from his admirers.

The ship he’d come to Bay County to board was lying somewhere off the Florida coast, well beyond the three-mile limit. A chopper would be sent the following morning to take him to the ship.

Dáire lowered his arm and braced his hands on his hips. He was in no hurry to meet the employer he’d come to Panama City to see. At that moment, the sun was sinking and his belly was rumbling. He had reservations that were top priority to his way of thinking.

Though he’d made sure there wasn’t a spare inch of fat on his body, he loved to gorge himself every chance he got with the finest seafood to be found on the Florida Panhandle, and Corinth’s was the best restaurant going. Trips to Panama City were never complete without a lengthy meal delivered from the creative hand of Star Kiernan, the restaurant’s owner. Dining at Star’s private table on savory shrimp scampi, succulent lobster dredged in clarified butter, and delicate, crusty crab Rangoon was the one obsession in which he allowed himself to indulge.

That and Star’s shapely body spread like a creamy, ivory delicacy upon ice-blue satin sheets.

As he stood watching the waves bobbing sailboats in the bay, thin white clouds sparsely dotting the blue sky did little to lessen the glare. Putting a hand up to shade his eyes, he tracked the curving, serpentine dives of a couple of porpoise.

See anything out there you like better than yourself?

Dáire shrugged without looking at the speaker standing next to him in the sand. Are you slumming or has the master allowed you to slip your leash?

Funny.

Wasn’t meant to be, Dáire said. He turned to the retired FBI agent who worked with him and looked him up and down. You’re going to be a hurting puppy by morning, Jackson.

Daniel Jackson looked down at the redness staining his arms. Yeah, well, you’ll still be a pretty boy, now won’t you?

My mama always said pretty is as pretty does, Dáire replied.

My mama always said that too, the ex-Fed agreed with a sigh. He looked out over the water, reached up to tug his Ray-Bans down probably so he could get a sharper view of the ocean. "The HardWind out there yet?"

I imagine it is. Dáire shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. You really should put some zinc oxide on your nose if you want to keep it attached to your ugly face.

Jackson reached up to gingerly finger his proboscis. He winced. Never have cared for its shape all that much anyway.

Dáire chuckled and started back up the beach. I can understand that.

Jackson glanced at the women watching the man beside him and sighed again. Don’t you ever get tired of putting the rest of us men to shame?

Nope.

Bastard, Jackson said. What’s on the agenda for this evening? The usual?

Dáire nodded. And no, you aren’t invited.

Aw, come on, Dairy Crow, Jackson complained, using the nickname he loved to use to irritate Cronin. I could use a decent meal.

Have Uncle Sam buy you one then, Jack Off, Dáire threw right back at him. You’re getting a whopping retirement check, aren’t you?

Yeah, right, Jackson snapped with a roll of his eyes. I’m skin and bones here. Have you no heart?

Of course I do. A black one as I remember you once telling me, was the reply.

You’re going to make me beg, aren’t you? Jackson grumbled.

Dáire stopped walking and turned to look at the ex-Fed. Did your mama ever tell you a man is known by the company he keeps? I want a woman’s admiration, Jack Off, not her pity for having to sit at the same table with a Neanderthal like you.

Screw you and your little dog too, Jackson said, batting his eyelashes.

Dáire shook his head. You’re a disgrace to G-men everywhere with a potty mouth like that, he said.

Speaking of screwing, Jackson said as he stumbled in the sand, did you hear Star has a new boyfriend?

Dáire frowned. Who told you that?

Now and again we retired G-men learn a thing or two before you ultra-government spooks do, Jackson quipped. In this case, our boss informed me of the executive-type yuppie person Star’s been keeping time with since last you shared her bed.

When was this?

A few weeks ago when I came down to make sure your place was in order. Jackson wagged a finger at Dáire. See how I’m always thinking of your welfare, Dairy Crow?

That’s when you learned about this dude?

It surely was.

And he is…? Dáire asked between clenched teeth.

You gonna ask me to join you for supper?

You gonna go dressed like a color-blind refugee from a seventies disco?

Nah, I’ll dress up pretty for you, lover, Jackson answered with a pucker of his lips. Might even put on a tie if you really, really want me to, but I doubt it.

What’s his name?

Are you ready for this? Jackson asked, his lips twitching. Brighton Tyler Boyd the third.

Bright Boy, huh? Dáire asked, picking up on the possible insult he could aim the faceless intruder’s way.

You’re a hoot, Jackson said.

With Jackson at his side, he continued walking past families packing it in for the day. He was amused by the men burdened down with vinyl floats, folding chairs, thermos jugs and picnic baskets while their wives yanked reluctant children in their wake, grabbing up the youngest into their sunburned arms. The men gave him the quick once-over—their mouths tight, their eyes resentful. The wives’ stares were longer, filled with lustful longing. Even the children stared at him as though they knew he was something their fathers would never be.

You make it a living hell for us mortal men, you little shit, Jackson mumbled.

So get plastic surgery, Dáire suggested.

Jackson snorted. "I’d need an extreme body makeover and with another man’s body to look like you. He fingered the love handles beneath the wild floral shirt he was wearing hanging over his beige safari shorts. Make that two men’s bodies."

Bitch, bitch, bitch.

Dáire owned a Gulf-side residence on the twenty-fourth floor of a luxury condominium resort, though he rarely got a chance to enjoy it. The private, gated community had the most expensive address on the beach with a waiting list at least a mile long of the rich and famous wanting to own a slice of Farraige Port. When Jackson was in town, he had access to the sprawling two-bedroom, two-bath suite—which included a heated rooftop pool, gym and theater. Dáire’s digs occupied one-half of the top floor of the resort. Star Kiernan owned the other half. The price tag for each suite had run in the seven figures.

So whatcha gonna do about it? Jackson asked as Dáire slipped the keycard from the pocket of his jeans and swiped it down the entry box that operated the private elevator he and Star shared as owners of their rooftop abodes.

Do about what? Dáire asked as the sleek copper-faced doors slid open. He motioned Jackson inside the plush, mirrored elevator cage.

Bright Boy, Jackson replied.

To activate the elevator, it was necessary for a member of the two-woman cleaning staff or one of the three people who used the suites—at least at last count there were only three—to press his or her thumb into the biometric thumb print verifier on the control panel. Jackson did the honors this time around.

Silently the doors slid shut, and with only a modicum of a jolt the cage began to rise, the muted numbers lighting up as each floor was passed and pinged softly. No vibration marred the ride for a thick wool carpet covered the bottom of the elevator cage in lush jewel tones.

If that’s what she wants, Dáire said, I won’t do anything about it.

Jackson snorted. Like hell you won’t, he drawled. You ever had a woman taken away from you before, stud?

Dáire’s arms were crossed over his bare chest as he stared at his reflection in the sparkling mirrors on the doors. You know for a fact he’s taken her away from me or is that something you’re just hoping for? he countered.

Fervently, fondly, feverishly and any other f-word that fits, Jackson said with a grin.

The elevator came to a gentle stop and the doors slid soundlessly open on a large copper-veined, travertine-floored entry hall paneled in rich oak. Overhead a spectacular bright copper, triple-tier chandelier with curved arms and alabaster glass shades hung in the center of a radius dome skylight framed in shiny copper plate. The entry hall was trapezoid in shape with two eight-foot-tall, double radius-top oak doors with forged iron grillwork over Flemish glass sitting in the center of each shorter arm.

Between them was a thirty-foot-wide wall of water rippling down from near the top of the twenty-foot-high ceiling to a bed of polished rocks in a large copper tub. Unseen, the melodic song of wind chimes in a deep basso profundo tone sent a soothing welcome. The combination of the cascading water and the wind chimes were comforting.

Dáire opened the door to his sanctuary and walked across the cool travertine floor, continuing on to the master bedroom at the far end of the suite. He knew Jackson would make them something to drink and have it ready for him when he came out of the shower.

His jaw set and hard, he walked into the bathroom and tore open his jeans, shucking them off and kicking them aside before turning the water on in the shower. Stepping inside, six body-massage jets blasted at him from three sides and overhead, a large eighteen-inch circular shower nozzle sent hot warmth cascading down upon him like summer rain. Bracing his hands on the sleek marble wall, he closed his eyes, lowered his head and let the water drum on his shoulders and neck.

Damn you, Star, he whispered as the water cascaded over his face, streaming off his nose and chin.

Dáire Cronin loved Star Kiernan as much as it was possible for him to love another human being. She was the one bright object in his otherwise shadowy world. They had been lovers for seven years, friends for longer than that, having met when they entered their bids for the suites at Farraige Port. Theirs had been a relationship that had survived months of being apart, the vagaries of Dáire’s profession and the hustle and bustle of hers.

Until now.

Damn you, he said again, clenching his fists.

When had it happened? He asked himself. Opening his eyes to watch the water swirling down the drain at his feet, he thought of the last conversation he’d had with her and a feeling of remorse dredged through his soul…

We need to talk. Can’t you give me at least half an hour? she pleaded.

I have to go, Star. We’ll talk about this when I get back, he said. I might be able to change a few things and…

"But you aren’t going to change, Dáire, Star accused. You’ll always be at some mysterious group’s beck and call. Whenever they crook a finger, you will go running."

It’s what I do, Dáire reminded her. It’s how I make my living.

Yes, and I don’t see you for months at a stretch because of your job, she complained. I never know from one assignment to the next if you’ll be alive when you come home or if Jackson will bring you back to me in an urn!

There had been tears, angry words, recriminations from Star and a whole lot of cursing on his part before he’d slammed out of her suite and taken a midnight flight to New York aboard the private jet The Cumberland Group had sent to pick him up.

As rain had lashed against the windows of the Gulfstream V-SP, he’d stared out into the darkness and replayed the conversation over and over again. By the time the jet landed, he had been sorry he hadn’t stayed in Florida and hashed things out. A call to Star had gone unanswered, not even her machine had picked up.

Six more phone calls the next day had likewise failed to reach her and he’d gone on to Tokyo with a heavy heart and a premonition that he’d wrecked the only happiness he was ever likely to have.

Before beginning his assignment he’d tried one last time, but Star had changed her telephone number and had taken an extended leave of absence from the restaurant. Not a single one of his contacts could provide him with her new telephone number.

The night he’d left for Borneo, he’d tried one last time to reach her but couldn’t. He’d spent the next eleven months in a filthy cell delirious from psychotropic drugs and suffering from beatings that had nearly cost him his life. Every waking moment—and most of his hallucinating ones—had centered around Star and the love they had shared.

Thoughts of her were the only things that kept him sane and alive.

Now—fourteen months after his last conversation with her—he was back in Panama City. When he’d called the restaurant to make that night’s reservations he had failed to make contact with her still again, having been told she was unavailable.

Unavailable to me you mean? he’d snarled at the hostess.

I’m sorry, Mr. Cronin.

Yeah, well, so am I.

And his keycard had not worked at her front door. His knocks had gone unanswered, though instinct told him she was inside.

You gonna stay in there all night? Jackson asked. You can’t be that damned dirty, Dairy Crow. The retired Fed stared at him through the shower door. Has your prick always been that small or did they shrink it while you were in Borneo?

Go fuck yourself, Jack Off, Dáire told him in a tired voice. Not for the first time did he regret having a shower with