by Ginna Gray
"Oh, I won't. I promise. How do I find this David Blaine?"
Pepe sprang to his feet, his eyes alight with excitement. "Come. I will take you to him."
Immediately Constanza jumped up as well.-She jabbed her husband's chest with a plump finger. "Oh, no, mi esposo. You are going nowhere."
"But, querida—"
"Don't querida me. We have a cantina to run, and you are staying here." She looked at Abigail and rolled her eyes. "This one, he is worse than a nino, always running off looking for adventure."
Pepe tried to argue, but Constanza jabbed his chest again and launched into a rapid-fire tirade in Spanish, cutting him off.
Pepe was a small, wiry man, not much taller than Abigail's five foot four inches. Constanza stood three inches taller than her excitable husband and outweighed him by a good seventy-five pounds, a circumstance for which Pepe apparently had a healthy respect. When Constanza, in the midst of the heated exchange, snatched up a weighty glass ashtray and brandished it at her husband's head, he threw up both hands in surrender.
"I am sorry, senorita," he said sheepishly to Abigail. "But Constanza is right. Saturday, she is our busiest night. I am afraid I cannot leave."
Constanza added her apologies, patting Abigail's hand. "Senorita, please believe me. If I thought you were in danger I would insist that my Pepe go with you. Those two men, they are probably just thieves who mistook you for a rich American tourist. You go see Senor Blaine. I'm sure he will tell you the same."
***
Only about an hour of daylight remained by the time Abigail reached the docks. A broad, picturesque bay formed the island's natural deep-water harbor. Fishing boats and pleasure craft of all sizes and types fined the piers jutting out into the turquoise water. A moderate size cruise ship, heading out to sea through the narrow inlet, gave a farewell blast of its horn, making Abigail jump.
She located pier four and started down it. Pepe had said that David Blaine's boat was a thirty-five-foot power cruiser, but Abigail didn't know a sloop from a battleship, and she peered at the prow of each vessel she passed. The smell of salt air, fish, wet hemp and diesel oil assailed her. Overhead, sea gulls swooped and squawked their demanding cry. Ropes creaked, and water slapped the pilings beneath the pier and the hulls of the moored crafts. At last, almost at the end of the dock Abigail spotted the name she'd been searching for.
She hurried toward the boat, only to pull up short, the relief she felt turning to shock.
Abigail had expected David Blaine to be an average-looking man—a conservatively dressed, clean-cut, ail-American type. He was, after all, a government agent. But there was nothing average about the man on the deck of the Freewind. Nothing conservative, either.
Big and powerfully built, he stood with his legs braced arrogantly wide, his head thrown back, guzzling beer straight out of a can. To Abigail's dismay, the man looked like a street tough—lean and mean with a battered face. Even from where she stood, she sensed a dangerous, uncompromising air about him.
And all he wore was an almost obscenely brief pair of ragged cutoffs and a three-day growth of beard!
***
David chugalugged the last of the beer, making an appreciative sound as the cold brew slid down his throat. He swiped the back of his hand across his mouth, crushed the can and tossed it down through the companionway into the galley, hitting the trash container dead center. He stretched and scratched his furry chest. Damn, he felt good.
There was nothing like a few days of fishing to unwind. It didn't even matter whether or not he caught anything. Just being out on the water seemed to take the kinks out.
He gazed at the peaceful bay. The low-hanging sun splashed the rippling surface with rose and gold. David sighed. Life had been good to him lately. Good, hell. He had it made. He had a great-paying job he liked that afforded him a few of the things he'd always wanted and the time off to enjoy them as well.
Not for a minute did he regret leaving that stuffy law firm. Or even the Bureau, for that matter. No, sir, no more long hours of boring office work for him. No more risking his hide on dicey assignments, either. He'd leave that to reckless young studs like Travis McCall.
At the thought of his cousin, David grinned. Travis was due to join him and his sisters over at their place on Rincon Island next week. Man, he was going to flip when he saw the Freewind.
David rubbed his hand over a shiny metal fitting, a look of satisfaction on his hard face. God, he loved this boat. Owning it was a dream come true.
He still couldn't believe his luck. He'd purchased the craft the year before from the widow of a wealthy sportsman who had kept it in pristine condition. It wasn't one of those new jobs made of fiberglass and chrome with a fru-fru designer interior. No, sir, this was a man's boat, a quality craft made the way a boat ought to be, of wood with brass fittings and real teak decking. The interior had been refitted and modernized with an eye to comfort and convenience, but without, thank God, the fancy-schmancy frills so popular with today's yuppie boaters and fishermen.
Yessir, life was sweet.
Hell, he'd even gotten his two sisters married off to men who might—just might—be able to handle them. Now he could quit worrying about Erin and Elise and just enjoy life's pleasures.
A ghost of a smile twitched his hard mouth. And if you expect to sample some of that pleasure tonight you'd better get your butt in gear, Blaine. Maxine would be there soon, he reminded himself, loping down the companionway steps.
In the galley he lifted the wine bottle from the bucket of ice in the sink and felt the frosty glass. Perfect.
As soon as Maxine arrived they'd head out. His smile twitched again, and a lecherous gleam entered his brown eyes. A sunset cruise, dinner on deck by moonlight, a little wine and a hot blonde. What more could a man ask for?
He ran a hand over his stubbled jaw. Maybe he ought to shave. He hadn't bothered the last few days while he'd been out fishing. He thought it over for a second and shook his head. Naw. Last night, when he'd met her in Pepe's Cantina, Maxine had seemed to think the three-day growth was sexy.
David took the steaks from the refrigerator and placed them on the broiler pan. As he rummaged through the small pantry for seasoning, he felt the boat rock. He glanced over his shoulder through the companionway and spotted the lower half of a female body. "Make yourself at home," he called out. "I'll be right up."
About to turn back to the steaks, he paused for a more leisurely perusal, a roguish look on his face. Damn, the woman had fantastic legs. Even in those godawful walking shorts. He thought about how she'd look, skinny-dipping in the moonlight, and the gleam in his eyes grew wicked.
Whistling, he seasoned the steaks, slid the pan under the broiler and bounded up the steps.
At the top, he paused, but Maxine made no move toward him. She stood at the side, watching the sea gulls riding the air currents. David's puzzled gaze ran over her back. He'd expected a warmer greeting. Last night at Pepe's she'd been all over him. If she hadn't been stewed to the gills, he would have invited her back to the boat with him then. He liked his women eager, but he also liked them sober.
David took in her attire and frowned. He'd expected Maxine to show up wearing something with a bit more pizzazz—something skimpier. Sexier. He sure hadn't figured her for the type to go in for baggy walking shorts and an oversize shirt. Or for that matter, to wear her hair tucked up under that ugly straw hat.
Women. Who could figure them?
Shrugging away the vagaries of the female sex, David cast off the lines and climbed the ladder to the bridge. "I'm glad you came early," he called down to her, taking his position at the control console. "This will give us plenty of time before sunset to reach that romantic little island I told you about."
Abigail spun around, her eyes wide.
Romantic island? Oh, dear Lord. He thought... "Mr. Blaine, I'm afraid there's been a mista—"
The deck vibrated beneath her feet as the boat's engines rumbled to life, drowning out
her words. "Wait! Mr. Blaine, wait!"
She started for the bridge but lurched and grabbed the side when the boat pulled away from the pier. Horrified, Abigail stared at the receding structure, her mouth open. Oh, good grief. This was ridiculous! Bracing against the rocking motion, she started once again for the ladder. At the same instant she spotted the long black car with two men inside, cruising slowly along the quayside road.
Abigail gasped and ducked out of sight. Her heart began to pound. She couldn't be sure it was the same two men, but she wasn't taking any chances.
Suddenly, putting a few miles between herself and the island didn't seen like such a bad idea. Of course, under normal circumstances she wouldn't dream of putting out to sea with a stranger, especially not one who looked as disreputable and rough around the edges as David Blaine, but at the moment she couldn't be choosy. After all, the man did work for the U.S. government.
They cleared the harbor, and David opened up the throttle. From her crouched position at the rear of the boat, Abigail eased up just enough to peek over the stern. There was no sign of the black car, but she ducked back down and remained out of sight. For all she knew they could be watching through binoculars.
Besides, at the moment, she wasn't in any rush to introduce herself to Mr. Blaine.
"Hey, Maxine!" he yelled from the bridge, and Abigail jumped. "Why don't you grab a cold one and join me up here?"
She grimaced and took another peek at the island. "Very well. But first I've got to go below for a minute," she called back, and crossed her fingers that between the wind, the roar of the engines and the pounding waves he wouldn't question the difference in her voice.
She still didn't feel safe revealing herself. Squatting on her haunches, dragging her purse along the deck and ignoring Chelsea's worried whines and licks on her arm, Abigail ducked into the companionway and scrambled down the steps to the cabin.
She huddled on the bottom step, too nervous to even notice her surroundings. Gnawing her bottom lip and absently scratching Chelsea's tiny head, she wondered how long she could stall before facing Mr. Blaine.
Five minutes later she had her answer.
"Hey, Maxine! What's taking so long? Come on up!"
Abigail grimaced. She had a hunch he wasn't going to be pleased when he discovered his mistake. Taking a fortifying breath, she went back up on deck and climbed the ladder to the bridge. At least they were so far from shore that the island was just a speck on the horizon.
David stood before the control console, gripping the wheel, his powerful legs braced wide against the boat's motion. Abigail swallowed hard and approached him cautiously, her eyes riveted on his broad back, watching the play of muscles beneath his tanned skin.
A step behind him she hesitated. There was no reason to be nervous, she told herself. No doubt he'd be surprised, maybe even a bit annoyed, but he wouldn't kill her. After all, it was just an honest mix-up. And once he heard her story, he'd understand.
The quivering in her stomach continued unabated.
Gathering her courage, Abigail drew a deep breath and moved to his side.
"There you are. It's about ti—" David Blaine glanced her way, then did a double take. His rugged face registered shocked disbelief for a full five seconds... then hardened.
"Who the hell are you?" he bellowed over the roar of wind and engines.
Chapter Two
He barked question made Abigail jump. Her eyes widened, and her quivering stomach started playing a game of leapfrog. The fierce-looking man scared the pants off her but, as always, she quickly sought to cover her disquiet.
Assuming a haughty expression, she drew herself up. "When you, sir, have the common decency to ask in a civil manner, I shall tell you," she shouted back in her starchiest tone. "Not a moment sooner."
David Blaine stared, thunderstruck.
Abigail's prickly defenses wavered under that piercing glare, but she swallowed hard and jutted out her chin.
He cut the engines, and as the boat slowed to a drifting stop in the sudden silence he swung to face her.
He took a menacing step forward. Abigail gulped and took one backward.
Up close, he was even more intimidating than she had first thought. He towered over her, topping her height by almost a foot, and the close proximity of that powerful, nearly naked body sent prickles of alarm up her spine. She could smell his masculine scent, feel his heat.
"All right. I'm going to ask you one more time. Who the hell are you?"
A low growl rumbled from the pocket of Abigail's purse, but he either didn't notice or didn't care.
"I told you. I have no inten—"
"Lady, you got five seconds to start talking."
"Oh, really? And if I don't?"
"Then you're outta here. And I gotta warn you, it's a helluva long swim back to Alhaja Verde."
"You... you wouldn't dare!"
"In a New York second. So don't push it, lady."
Abigail's eyes grew as round as saucers. He meant it!
The man was a barbarian. There wasn't an ounce of softness in him. Whiskey-brown eyes glinted with anger in a tough, lived-in face that looked carved out of granite. The only things about him that even hinted of warmth were the red highlights in his dark brown hair and the deep bronze tone of his skin, of which, to Abigail's way of thinking, far too much was exposed at the moment.
Inside, she quailed, but that only made her respond with even greater prickliness. "Very well, I will tell you," she sniffed. "But only because it's obvious that you are no gentleman and would no doubt use your superior strength against a woman. My name is Abigail Stewart."
"A tourist, right?" He looked her over from her head to her toes. His expression didn't change, but Abigail thought she saw a flicker of disdain in his eyes. She lifted her chin.
"Yes. I arrived on the island just before noon."
"So why did you stow away on my boat?"
"I did not stow away."
"Oh, yeah? What do you call it?" He darted a puzzled frown toward her purse as the soft rumble issuing from it increased in volume. "And what the hell is that noise?"
"I came to your boat to talk to you about a matter of importance," she informed him, ignoring the test. "It's hardly my fault that you assumed I was your girlfriend. Before I even knew what was happening, you were heading out to sea."
"So why didn't you stop me? You could've said something."
Her righteous indignation faltered at that. "I... well... that is... you see, there were these two men..."
Their clash had temporarily made her forget her fright, but as she haltingly began her story it all came back, and by the time she'd finished the words were tumbling out one on top of the other. Through it all, David scowled and maintained a stony silence—until she got to the end.
"... And so, Pepe sent me to you for help."
"Why in hell would he do that?"
Taken aback, Abigail blinked. "Well, I... I assume because you work for the government."
"Worked for the government, lady. Worked. Past tense. I left all that behind more than two years ago. It's over. Kaput. Finis. You got that?"
He bit off each word, his big forefinger jabbing the air just inches from the end of her nose. Abigail flinched at each explosive syllable but fought the urge to back away. She would not let this boorish bully intimidate her. She was a taxpayer, after all. That entitled her to his protection.
"Mr. Blaine, you don't have to pretend with me. Pepe explained that your position with Telecom is just a cover for your spy activities."
"He what? Why that..." Abigail jumped when he punched one palm with his balled fist. "Just wait until I get my hands on that little tortilla. I'll strangle him with my bare hands!"
"Please, Mr. Blaine. There's no need to shout. I assure you I won't..." Abigail paused and frowned. "How did Pepe put it? Oh, yes. I remember. I won't blow your cover."
"Dammit! There is no cover!"
Chelsea's growl grew louder. David glanced
at the furry head sticking up over the edge of the purse, and his mouth twisted.
Abigail sniffed. "My stars. Such an atrocious temper. I thought secret agents were supposed to be cool and unflappable."
Jaw working, David looked heavenward. Through clenched teeth, he ground out a long and colorful string of obscenities. Abigail took immediate offense.
"Mr. Blaine! Really! I must insist that you watch your language. Not only is cursing low and vulgar, Aunt Harriet always said it revealed a distasteful lack of self-control. To say nothing of a poor vocabulary."
The growl that rumbled from him put Chelsea's to shame. Planting his balled fists on his hipbones, he bent from the waist until they were nose to nose.
"All right, lady, listen up!" he snarled. "First of all, I'll cuss anytime I damned well please. And second, I am not now, nor have I even been, a damned CIA spook. I was with the FBI. And the operative word there is was. Understand?"
"Oh, my." The words came out on a weak puff of breath. "Are... are you saying that you really aren't with the government anymore?"
"Bingo! Give the lady a prize."
"There's no need to be sarcastic. At any rate, under the circumstances, I would think that even a former FBI agent would feel a certain sense of responsibility for a fellow American."
"Well, there's where you're wrong, lady. I'm just a businessman, here for a few days of R and R. I have no intention of wasting my Vacation nursemaiding some hysterical female."
"I am not hysterical!"
"Ha! What else would you call a woman who jumps at her own shadow and sees a rapist behind every bush? I bet those men you think you saw ransacking your room were just part of the hotel housekeeping staff."
"They chased me! With guns!"
"Uh-huh. Yeah, sure, lady. You probably set up such a racket they were running for their lives."
Throughout the tirade he stomped back and forth across the bridge, gesturing with both hands. When his gaze happened to again fall on her purse he jerked to a halt and pointed to the furry face sticking out of the side pocket. "There! You see? That just proves my point. What kind of woman but a repressed old maid carries a stuffed animal around in her purse!"