COMING ON 30 APRIL 2024
It all started with a turtle and a pair of designer sunglasses…
A bodyguarding gig in the Caribbean? Living the dream, right? Former Navy SEAL Knox Livingston soon finds out the trip is no vacation. Pop princess Luna Maara is a pain in everyone’s ass, including the local judge’s. When Luna finds herself sentenced to a month of community service at a turtle sanctuary, Knox hopes she might finally rethink her behaviour, but little does he know, the nightmare is only just beginning.
Caro Menefee moved to Valentine Cay to escape her past, and the last thing she needs is a rich brat and her entourage invading the peaceful paradise. Although Knox and his equally cocky buddy sure are pretty to look at. And that’s all she’s going to do: look. She swore off men before she left California, and she has quite enough to worry about without adding two toned six-packs into the mix. The turtle population is declining at an alarming rate, and she’s not convinced it’s all down to natural causes. Will Knox help or hinder her quest to save a species? Or will Caro join the turtles on the endangered list?
The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea is a standalone romantic suspense novel in the Blackwood Security series.
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Chapter 1 – Knox
“Cheer up, man. We’re basically getting a free vacation.”
Knox Livingston swallowed the Tylenol, chased it down with coffee, and groaned. He didn’t share his friend and housemate’s opinion.
“This is not a vacation.”
“Stay in the Navy, my dad said. You’ll see the world, he said. Well, guess who’s stuck on an aircraft carrier in the North Atlantic while we head to the Caribbean?”
Ryder’s father, Rear Admiral Metcalfe, was the deputy commander of the second fleet, so he wasn’t exactly suffering. And an aircraft carrier seemed like a mighty attractive option right now.
“I’d rather scrub the mess deck with a toothbrush than be trapped on a yacht with Luna Maara. She’s the human equivalent of artillery shrapnel.” Red hot, but not in a good way. “She bitches constantly, treats people like shit, and if you tell her to get down in a hurry, she’s gonna stop and take a selfie first.”
“If I can survive a week in the jungle with Sky, then I can handle a spoiled singer. What is she, five feet tall? Ninety pounds? We can just carry her out of danger.”
Sky was the boss’s protégé, a foul-mouthed eighteen-year-old who would probably have been in a psych ward if she weren’t so good at her job. Knox would rather play Russian roulette with her than spend another second in Luna Maara’s presence. Four months ago, he’d shared Ryder’s optimism when he set off for Antigua. On that trip, Luna Maara hadn’t even been the client—he’d been tasked with ensuring the safety of a minor British royal as she relaxed on the beach—but the pint-sized pop princess had still made everyone’s life hell.
When the tail end of a hurricane forced the yacht she was residing on with her mother into port, she’d ended up in the same hotel as Lady Petronella Effingham’s party, where she’d pissed off every single member of staff and most of the guests too. On day three, Lady P, a woman so particular that she insisted Knox iron the board shorts he wore off duty, had privately referred to Luna as a “barnacle on the backside of humanity” and “the rotten branch of the family tree.” On day four, after the brat asked Her Ladyship to move her sun lounger three feet to the right because its shadow was spoiling the view, Lady P told her that “In the land of the witless, you would be queen.” The insult hadn’t registered for a good twenty seconds, and then Knox had been forced to step in to stop the catfight. Fortunately, Luna was as shallow as a creek in the desert, and she’d gotten distracted by his guns. Not his semi-automatic; his biceps. Lifting weights sometimes paid off in unexpected ways.
“I’ll let you do the carrying. I value my nuts too much to interfere with one of her blog posts.”
Before Ryder could agree or protest, a voice spoke from behind them. Confident, snarky, British. The boss had arrived, silently as usual.
“Sorry I’m late—I had to see a man about a hostage situation in South Sudan. Danger tourism has a lot to answer for. Anyhow, I take it the two of you are discussing your next assignment?”
“You need someone to go to South Sudan?” Knox asked. “I’ll volunteer.”
A few weeks in a restless African nation was more appealing than playing bodyguard in the Caribbean. Saint Vincent might have looked like paradise, but with Luna Maara present, it would turn into a slightly more temperate version of hell.
“Nice try, but no bandana. The client asked for you personally.”
What the fuck? “She did?”
“Her mother said she wanted—and I quote—the hot guy with the snake tattoo who was following Lady Petronella around.”
“Her mother said that?”
“Her mother is also her manager, and if you want my opinion, that’s where Luna gets her attitude from. Most clients ask about experience and operational capabilities; Luna Maara just wanted photos. And then she rejected everyone with availability from the executive protection team, so Nick asked if we had the capacity to help with an additional body, and Ryder was first runner-up in the beauty parade. Congrats, I guess.”
Seriously?
“It’s an eel, not a snake. Does that mean I get a pass?”
“Marine life isn’t her strong suit, but no. If it’s any consolation, Blackwood didn’t want to take the job, so we quoted an outrageous fee, and her mom actually agreed to it. Mind you, it was either that or leave her unprotected after her last bodyguard quit on the spot. I’m pretty sure Luna’s running out of reputable companies that will work with her.”
“Couldn’t you have recommended Sentinel?”
“Nuh-uh. I heard she had a falling-out with them last year and terminated the contract.”
“Over what?”
When it came to executive protection, Sentinel was Blackwood’s biggest competitor, although in general, they tended to be more conservative in their approach. They didn’t have an equivalent to Emmy’s Special Projects team, for example. But they were professionals, and Knox couldn’t imagine one of their bodyguards doing anything inappropriate enough for a client to fire them. Then again, this was Luna Maara. The love child of Barbie and the Terminator who never, ever stopped being a pain in the ass.
“She overheard an off-duty member of her protection detail referring to her as ‘Godzilla in a bikini,’ which I personally think was unfair to Godzilla because wasn’t Godzilla just looking out for her kids?”
“Depends which version of the movie you watch,” Ryder—the resident movie buff—said. “The 2014 remake had a different storyline.”
Godzilla in a bikini? A mild insult was all it took to get canned from the job? Knox called his friends worse names than that. But Emmy read his thoughts and shook her head.
“Don’t get any ideas—I put a hefty termination penalty in the contract, so she’d be an idiot to pull that stunt again. Not that I think she isn’t an idiot, but her accountant’s going to step in with that amount of money on the line.”
“Does she genuinely need security? Or are we just glorified babysitters?”
“A month ago, I’d have gone with the latter, but apparently there have been a few dodgy messages.”
“Only a few?”
Knox wouldn’t have been surprised if Lady Petronella had sent choice words herself, written in fountain pen on personalised stationery. Her butler would have ironed the envelope and sealed it with a wax stamp. Luna just had that effect on people.
“I mean, she probably gets thousands, but her mom said these ones are different. The contents suggest that someone’s been watching her in person. The last one talked about the way she looked in a green-and-white striped bikini, and she only wore that on a hotel beach in Long Bay. No social media pics. The writer said Luna looked as if she was asking for it, and he’d be happy to oblige.”
Okay, that bumped the job into a different category. There was a big difference between escorting a celebrity who only hired bodyguards to pad out their entourage and protecting a high-risk client where the threat of kidnap or assassination was very real. The former focused on maintaining a safe distance from fans and paparazzi and blocking the path of anyone who got too enthusiastic, while the latter meant a constant watch for IEDs, guns, and potential abductors. A crackpot lurking in the shadows meant a change in approach. Tiresome as Luna Maara might be, Knox didn’t want to see her suffer physical harm.
Especially on his watch.
“Is she aware of the messages?” Ryder asked.
“Not yet. Her team doesn’t want her worrying.” Emmy rolled her eyes. “Or doing anything dumb like holding a ‘spot the stalker’ contest on TikTok.”
Yeah, Knox could imagine her doing that. She’d incite a frenzy, and her fans would end up targeting innocent fishermen, cab drivers, and café goers all over the Caribbean.
“How are the messages being sent? By email?”
“Through the contact form on her website. Mack’s already taken a quick look. The mystery weirdo is using a VPN, and we’re not contracted for investigative services, only protection. The guy calls himself William, but there’s no way that’s his actual name.”
“What do you think? Is he the real deal?”
“Possibly. The messages are sick and specific. Luna’s looking for the usual celeb package: keep the great unwashed out of her way, ditto for the paparazzi—unless she’s on a quest for column inches, anyway—and make sure you act suitably intimidating. But keep your eyes peeled, okay? And don’t mention the threats in front of her. If there’s further communication from this guy, her mom will channel it to us here.”
“Understood,” Knox and Ryder said in unison.
“The logistics team has prepared a file for you to read on the plane. Risk assessment, routes, locations, personnel. The yacht she’s staying on belongs to a hedge fund guy named Crawford Balachandran, but his son’s commandeered it. Kory Balachandran, also known as DJ Sykik. That’s spelled S-Y-K-I-K. I guess all the good names were taken, or maybe he just flunked English? He got booted from college after the third semester, so who knows? Anyhow, he’s headed out to the Caribbean to do whatever it is people with no responsibilities and no ambition do all day, and he’s invited a bunch of his friends to join him. Luna’s going to hang out on the yacht for two weeks before she performs at the Blayz Festival in the Bahamas, and then she’s got appearances scheduled in France, Italy, and London. After that, she’s flying to LA to spend time in the studio.”
“And we’re going with her?”
“The contract is for two months, and hopefully by then, her people will have found some other poor schmuck who’s willing to join the team permanently. Remember, neither of you is a pool boy, a bartender, a cab driver, a porter, a masseur, or an extra in a TikTok video, all of which are duties I suspect Luna will ask you to perform. Don’t. If you get pushback, stand your ground. If she threatens to call the manager, give her my number. I’ll gladly tell her to go Facebook herself.”
Two months? They wouldn’t be back until mid-April. This was the first year Knox had managed to get season tickets for the Capitals, and now he’d miss the end of hockey season. He couldn’t help the groan that escaped.
“I know, I know, you’d rather be tiptoeing around a minefield in Angola, but I included hazardous duty pay in the fee. You’ll come back with a suntan and enough money to pay for therapy.” Emmy patted him on the cheek. “Just avoid jail time, okay?”
She was kidding, but if Knox had realised how prescient her words would turn out to be, he’d have walked to Angola. Fuck the hazardous duty pay.
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