The concrete dock of Silas Vane’s private cove was slick with the first fat, warm drops of the tropical storm rolling in from the south. The air was a suffocating pressure cook of humidity, smelling of rotting mangroves, ozone, and the expensive teakwood oil of the ninety-foot luxury yacht idling in the shallows. Elena Vance moved like a shadow in the dark, her midnight-blue silk trousers rustling softly against her legs, the compact nine-millimeter heavy and reassuring in her hand. Behind her, Jax’s massive frame was a solid, quiet wall of muscle, his automatic rifle held ready as his eyes scanned the yacht’s polished decks.
At her throat, the silver vulture collar felt freezing cold, a stark contrast to the oppressive tropical heat that made a fine sheen of sweat break out along her col
