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was about as useful as trying to hold back the tide. And trying to get the girls to help?
    He had a better shot at negotiating peace in the Middle East.
    On top of that, they were thirty-one minutes and forty-five seconds late. For a man whose entire life was run by a strict schedule, every second that ticked by on the clock twisted another coil in his neck. Hence the three new Washingtons in the jar since two this afternoon. He’d tried everything he could think of to get the girls to cooperate, including bribes.
    Maybe he needed to try a different approach. One thing that serving in the Coast Guard had taught him—failure didn’t exist. There was no quitting, no walking away when lives were at stake. There was
find another way.
Period.
    He glanced at his girls, neither of whom were in any big hurry to go to what Jenny had deemed “a gross geezer gorgefest with smelly old people.” All afternoon, Jenny and Ellie had found a thousand other things to do instead of changing out of their damp, sandy bathing suits. They had lost the flip-flops they’d kicked off an hour earlier and had dumped a trail of beach toys from the front door to the back. It had taken way too much time to get the mess cleaned up, with Mike alternating between threats and bribes to get the girls to pitch in, neither of which worked. He’d ended up doing most of the work himself, finding an odd solace in setting the space to rights again, clearing the decks, so to speak, of dust and grime and the detritus of three people. But now they were late.
    Thirty-two minutes and fifteen seconds late.
    He inhaled. A long, deep, cleansing breath. Exhaled it. Checked his watch again. Thirty-two minutes, twenty-five seconds.
    “Girls.”
    Jenny tossed the rest of her Pop-Tart in the general direction of the trash barrel, then dropped into a chair at the kitchen table and opened up her sketchbook. Ellie started riffling through her box of toys. The TV droned on in the background with some inane children’s show featuring a nasal-voiced sponge wearing a pair of briefs. What the hell happened to Bugs Bunny? Mickey Mouse?
    “Girls!”
    Jenny ignored him. Ellie paused, then went back to her search.
    Thirty-two minutes, fifty-five seconds. Luke was waiting on them.
    Yeah, that was the reason Mike had changed his shirt twice, put on cologne, and spent extra time shaving. Because he gave a shit what
Luke
thought. Not because he was masochistically hopeful that maybe Luke had invited Diana.
    He didn’t know why he cared. Diana had homemade apple pie written all over her. A small-town veterinarian, for God’s sake. Mike usually went for the exact opposite—meaning a woman in a string bikini who didn’t want any strings. He’d tried that settle-down thing once before and failed. Big time.
    Thirty-three minutes, ten seconds. Hell, he didn’t even have time to think right now. Mike crossed into the living room, picked up the remote, and turned off the TV, then raised his voice, adding a stern edge to his words. “Jenny, Ellie, get changed, get your hair brushed. Now. Departure in two minutes. That’s an order.”
    On the base, when he used that tone, men snapped to attention, scrambled to get their tasks done. The Coast Guard had bred that air of authority into Mike, a necessary strength when the team was dancing with Death and relying on a bunch of new recruits who had yet to outgrow being arrogant, fumbling fools.
    Apparently the Coast Guard had never met the Stark girls, because neither of them were moved into action by his authoritative voice.
    “Why do we have to go?” Jenny asked. “Why can’t we stay here?”
    “Because you are not old enough to stay home alone. Now get dressed.” Thirty-three minutes, forty seconds. “We’re out the door in one minute and twenty-nine seconds.”
    “Why not? Jasmine always let us.”
    “For one, her name is
Mom
, not
Jasmine
, and for another, I doubt she’d leave an eight-year-old and a four-year-old home