Born Ready. Lori Wilde

wish for an overcoat. He adjusted his glasses, narrowed his eyes.

      “The fish isn’t extinct.”

      “You have empirical data to support this assertion?”

      “No, not yet—”

      He dismissed her with a curt wave of his hand. “The Key blenny is a lost cause and our time is too valuable. Let’s not bawl over spilled milk.”

      “They’re not dead,” she insisted. “I’ve tracked the current and the minute changes in temperature and I think they’ve simply migrated to Key West.” She’d pointed to the ocean map on the wall of his research yacht. “I believe they’re here.”

      He burst out laughing. “Starksia starcki has never migrated. They are not an adaptable subspecies, which is why they’re virtually extinct.”

      Jackie gritted her teeth. Her father’s arrogant belief that he knew best in matters of the sea grated on her nerves. Impossible to believe that a prestigious scientist, the oceanographer second only to Jacques Cousteau, could be so irrationally stubborn. But that was her dad. He was brilliant, yes, but his ego was the size of the sun.

      “Desperate circumstances call for desperate measures and the Key blenny has risen to the challenge,” she said.

      He shook his head violently. “There’s no coral in that area. Starksia starcki is a reef dweller.”

      “They’ve adapted in that regard as well and they’re using the mangrove mangles for their food source.”

      “Doesn’t happen.”

      “I think it is happening.”

      “Based on what?”

      She explained her theory.

      He made a face. “Pseudo science. I thought I taught you better than that. You’re allowing romanticism to sway your critical thinking.”

      She’d tried to defend her position in a calm, rational manner but he kept cutting her off. That’s when Jackie knew that if she wanted to save the Key blenny, she was going to have to do it on her own. So she’d packed her things, left MIT, where her father taught, and transferred to the University of California where she was welcomed with open arms.

      From a political standpoint, snagging Jack Birchard’s disenfranchised daughter as a doctoral candidate was a colorful feather in the university’s cap. They embraced her theory on the Key blenny, loaned her equipment for her independent study and even gave her a monthly stipend. She felt giddily liberated and wished she’d left her father’s direct sphere of influence a long time ago. No more kowtowing to his diktat. She was free to explore the sea on her own. A bright future awaited her.

      Now, all she had to do was prove her theory.

      The hardest part was going to be keeping people away from her instruments. She hadn’t fully realized that this was going to be a major issue until Scott Everly had shown up.

      One minute she’d been totally isolated in the estuary, just her and nature. The next minute there had been the handsome man in the kayak. If he could appear out of nowhere, so could others.

      Disgruntled, she settled the computer on the coffee table and got up to walk out onto the balcony. Sunset came quickly in the Keys and she wanted to catch it before it was gone. By dawn, she’d be back on the water. Not because she needed to go out there again so soon, but simply because she worried about Everly returning to muck with her equipment.

      She entertained the idea that he might not be the simple kayaker he seemed. He could be spying on her. A competitor bent on stealing her research. Hell, her father could have sent him.

      That thought was unsettling, but it was the sort of stunt her father might pull. Jack Birchard could say one thing and then do the exact opposite. The interest that the University of California had shown her project would be just the thing to make him change his mind. Except, his hubris would never allow him to admit he was wrong.

       You ‘re letting your imagination run away with you. Everly isn’t after your research. He was just a good old boy out in his kayak.

      Jackie leaned on the railing and took a deep breath of the sultry summer air. Duvall Street was not far away and she could hear the sound of revelers stumbling in and out of the bars that Hemingway had once frequented.

      She wondered if Everly was a tourist or a Conch and then wondered why she wondered. Who cared?

      The ubiquitous Key West Anthem, Jimmy Buffett’s “Margaritaville,” drifted up from the street. The smell of fried seafood floated along with the music. Jackie’s stomach growled and she realized she’d forgotten to eat again. Her last meal had been a breakfast energy bar.

      She was about to pad into the kitchen to see what she could find to eat when her computer made a soft pinging noise. It was the alert system she set up to notify her of problems with the equipment.

      Quickly, she hurdled the coffee table, dropped down on the sofa and snatched up the laptop just in time to see the electronic data disappear from the screen.

      A curse word escaped her lips. Either something had gone haywire with the satellite feed or someone was messing around with her equipment.

      SCOTT SPENT THE REMAINDER of the day with Carl in his old stomping grounds, getting educated about what Juan DeCristo had been up to. He didn’t tell Carl about Jackie. Scott knew enough about the law to make damn sure of his accusations before he threw them out there. But even so, he couldn’t help wondering if there was another reason he did not mention his encounter with the woman in the red bikini.

      He didn’t want to admit, not even to himself, that he had been sexually attracted to her. Shame burned his gut. How could he be attracted to a woman involved in the drug trade?

       Easy there. Remember, innocent until proven guilty. Trust your instincts. Your gut didn’t get bad vibes from her. Don’t jump to conclusions.

      Still, he had to know what she’d been doing out there alone at the break of dawn.

      By the end of the day, Scott knew he had to investigate and either put his mind at ease or push Jackie Birch to the top of the suspect list.

      When Carl and Marcy invited him over for dinner, he begged off, asking for a rain check. He was staying in the guesthouse in his mother’s backyard, but he did not even stop in to say hello to his family when he got home. He didn’t bother changing out of the Coast Guard clothes he’d worn to visit Sector Key West. Instead, he walked straight to the motorboat docked at the pier and took off through the mangrove channel, headed for the estuary where he’d found Jackie that morning.

      The sun hunkered low on the horizon. He’d be returning in the dark, but he had floodlights and the power of the Coast Guard behind him. The more he thought about what DeCristo was doing, the madder he got.

      If Jackie Birch was involved in this, he’d take her down so fast it would make her gorgeous little head swim, sexual attraction be damned.

      Fury flamed hot inside him, burning up his collar to his neck, and on upward to flush his cheeks. He was so fired up that it took him a while to find the spot where she’d been that morning. In fact, if the dying sunlight hadn’t glinted off the silver fish bobber, he might not have been able to find it in the thickening twilight.

      “Gotcha,” he growled and motored over.

      He killed the engine and tossed the anchor overboard. Anger trembled his hand as he leaned over the side of the boat to search for what was hidden in the water. His fingers brushed a small metal platform. He grabbed hold, shook it hard.

      It did not give. His fear was confirmed. Jackie Birch was up to no good.

      “Son of a bitch,” he swore as his gut dipped to his shoes. His stupid gut had led him astray. He’d liked her. Shame pushed away the anger. Six months without sex could ruin a man.

      His furious fingers