by Cindy Dees
He sounded as if he was trying to convince himself as much as the person on the other end of the line about whatever they were talking about.
“Okay. Call me back.” He disconnected.
Not long on words, her pantherlike companion. When he didn’t say anything to her after he pocketed the phone, she said, “And?”
“And we stay here while my people set up transportation for us.”
“To where?”
He didn’t answer right away. In fact, he almost looked hesitant to tell her. How bad could it be? He’d need to take her someplace secluded, far away from Cuba, where the killer wouldn’t think to look for her. Maybe Europe. It was nice there at this time of year.
“How do you feel about big-game hunting?” he asked.
“Africa?” she blurted, surprised. “It’s awfully hot there at this time of year. But I suppose I’m up for a safari. As long as we don’t shoot anything. But I could go for some big-game photography.” Now that she thought about it, she could see where he’d feel at home in Africa.
“Not Africa,” he bit out.
“Then where?”
Finally, he said reluctantly, “Cuba.”
“What?” she squawked. “But that’s where your assassin is from.”
“That’s correct. It’ll just be for a few days. Long enough for me to find our guy and neutralize him. His name’s Camarillo, by the way.”
“We need to stay away from him. He’ll try to kill us again!”
“That’s why we’re going to hunt him down and eliminate him before he gets us. Ops thinks it would be safer to go on the offensive and not sit back and wait for him to come to us.”
Shock rendered her speechless. They were going hunting for their would-be killer? She burst out, “That’s the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard.”
He snorted without humor. “Wait till you get a load of the next part, where you act as my cover to smuggle me into Cuba.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“Can you handle a sailboat as well as you handle a motorboat?”
“Well, yes.” She frowned. “How did you know that?”
He made a noise that might pass in some circles for a laugh. “Tortola? Hyannis? Magen’s Bay? You grew up on water. And where there are rich people and water, there are sailboats.”
“I happen to prefer motorboats,” she replied a little stiffly. She hated fitting his stereotype of her, but she had, in fact, grown up around boats of all kinds.
Mitch’s voice rasped across her skin like a cat’s rough tongue, drawing her attention once more. “I need you to sail a wounded catamaran into port on the south side of Cuba and request repairs. They’ll let you come ashore in an emergency. I’m going to hide in one of the pontoons. Once you’ve docked, I’ll sneak out and we’ll head inland from there.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“Not especially. If the Cubans catch us, they’ll only throw us into prison. In six months, a year tops, the U.S. government will negotiate our release. I figure with your father being who he is, the Cubans will spring us after a few weeks. At least, they’ll spring you that fast.”
“I do not want to be incarcerated in a Cuban jail, thank you very much.”
“Me, neither. That’s why you’re going to pay attention and do what I tell you.”
“I don’t like it,” she announced.
“Neither do I. But I’ve got no time to fool around with setting up another entry into Cuba. You’re it, Miss Hollingsworth. We need to stick together, anyway, until I kill Camarillo. I may as well put you to some good use.”
“Gee, thanks. I always love sounding like some sort of disposable power tool.”
“You don’t throw out power tools,” he corrected gently.
She merely narrowed her eyes and glared at him. Fine. So she’d never seen a power tool in person in her life. He knew darn good and well what she had meant. She sulked for several minutes, trying to figure out some better way to get into Cuba. But she was completely out of her league on this one. She turned her attention to something that had bothered her from the very beginning. “How did Camarillo find you? Wasn’t your meeting with whoever you were supposed to meet with a secret?”
He looked roundly irritated that she dared to question his work and didn’t bother to answer.
She wasn’t about to let him go all strong and silent on her, as if she didn’t matter enough to talk to. No, sirree. She got enough of that from her father. She poked again—something simple to get him talking. “How did you get those boathouse doors open?”
His teeth flashed white in the darkness. “Have you ever heard of a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy? If you won’t ask, I won’t tell.”
She absorbed that one in silence. Eventually, she asked, “How long are we supposed to sit here, waiting for your phone call?”
He shrugged. “Could be all night.”
Great. All night in a dark, secluded place with this macho male. Darned if that didn’t make her heart beat a little faster. More in an attempt to distract herself than actually make conversation, she commented lightly, “I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry.”
“Gee, I’ll just call the local French gourmet delivery joint and have them bring us a seven-course meal,” he retorted.
She glared and replied loftily, “There’s food in the Baby Doll’s galley.”
He looked startled, as if he’d forgotten for a moment that the Baby Doll had a compact but completely stocked cabin.
She ducked below and turned on the halogen track lighting. It twinkled subtly overhead, lending the space a romantic glow. She opened the small cupboard above the microwave oven. “There’s canned spaghetti or tuna fish,” she called up.
“I’ll take spaghetti.” He joined her in the tiny cabin, filling its entire space with his dark presence. He sprawled on the leather couch, a feline predator at rest. She passed him a piping-hot container of spaghetti and zapped one for herself. When it was ready, she moved to the far end of the couch and perched cautiously on it. She promptly burned her tongue but did her best not to show it. Darn, that man flustered her! She shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
“We could always break into the main house and raid the pantry,” he suggested.
“Let’s not,” Kinsey said drily. “We’re already imposing. And these are my friends.”
His only reply was a casual shrug.
They finished their meal, such as it was, in silence. Mitch arose and held out his hand for her cup and spoon. She handed them over and he tossed them in the galley’s sink. He’d just turned to head for the steps when his cell phone shattered the deep silence. Kinsey jumped nearly as hard as he did. He fished it out of his pocket.
“Go,” he bit out.
His eyebrows drew together in a frown as he listened, and his gaze flicked over to her. Whoever was on the other end of the conversation was talking about her, she was sure of it.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Mitch rumbled. He disconnected. Turned to face her. “Seems we’ve got a little problem. Your father doesn’t want you to help us with this operation. He thinks it’ll place you in too much danger. You’re, and I quote, ‘totally unprepared to deal with the pressures of the situation.’”
Heat flooded her face. This was exactly what she was talking about! People took one look at her and assumed she wasn’t good for anything. “In other words, he thinks I can’t hack it,” she forced out.
“More or less.”
“Give me your phone,” she snapped. She held out her open palm expectantly. One eyebrow raised, he laid the device in her hand.
She stabbed out her father’s private number and waited impatiently for the call to go through. Richard Hollingsworth’s voice came on the line. “Hello?”
“Hi, Dad, it
’s your useless, spoiled daughter calling.”
“Honey, are you all right? They told me some guy shot at you today.”
“Oh, I’m fine. And that guy’s shark bait,” she replied breezily. “The man who saved my life today needs a favor from me, though, and I’m going to do it. I hear you’re worried, so I’m calling to tell you I’ll be fine. He says I need to stay with him and I believe him. I trust this man implicitly to keep me safe.”
Mitch’s gaze riveted on her at those words. Her embarrassed gaze skittered away from his.
“Kinsey, do you have any idea who this Perovski fellow is? I had my staff run a profile on him, and you can’t believe some of the things he’s done. Plainly put, he’s a killer. He’s a covert operator and runs around blowing things up and assassinating people for a living. You have no business being around someone like him.”
The condescension in her father’s voice set her teeth on edge. “Be that as it may, I’m going to help him with the next phase of his current mission.”
“No.”
“I wasn’t calling to ask permission, Dad. I’m telling you how it’s going to be.”
Her father’s voice rose to a bull roar. “Don’t you take that tone with me, young lady. I control your trust fund. And I forbid you to do this.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way. But I am going to do it.”
“I’ll cut you off. No money, no credit cards, no bank account. Nothing.”
Twenty minutes ago, that threat might have given her pause. But after Mitch’s scathing opinion of her utter uselessness as a human being, she’d be damned if her father would bully her out of this.
“Do what you have to, Dad, but my decision’s made. Good night.” She closed the phone and handed it back to Mitch in silence.
“What did he threaten to do to you?” Mitch asked quietly.
“He’s cutting me off financially.”
“Totally?” Mitch sounded surprised.
“Yup.”
“Man, that sucks. I can look into having the boys put you on the payroll for the duration of this op if you’d like.”
She grinned ruefully. “Thanks, but I’ll muddle through until he gets over his snit. My mother is loaded, compliments of her divorce lawyer, and she’ll slip me some cash if I empty my bank account before he gets over his snit. Besides, I can always threaten to go public with what my father’s doing to me and he’ll back off. Negative publicity is very bad for a man in his position. He’s up for reelection this November.”
Mitch winced and grinned simultaneously. “Ouch. Blackmailing your old man? That’s cold. I like it.”
She grinned back, reassured she’d made the right decision. She wanted some of the competence that was Mitch Perovski for herself. If she spent a few days with him, maybe some of that cool confidence of his would rub off on her. Goodness knew, she needed it. If he could show her how to get people to take her even a little more seriously, it would be worth all the money in her trust fund and more. She was sick and tired of being walked all over.
In fact, the more she thought about it, the more she liked the idea. If she could shed her socialite image and become a strong, independent woman...oh, yes. The idea made her tingle from head to toe. Wild horses weren’t going to keep her away from Mitch Perovski, no matter what risk that entailed.
Chapter 4
Mitch glanced around the tight confines of the Baby Doll’s cabin. The sofa no doubt folded out into a bed. One bed. Two people. He winced mentally. He could be a gentleman and offer to sleep up top, propped up in one of the chairs or stretched out on the hard deck. But this was likely to be the last decent night’s sleep he got for the next several months, and dammit, they were both adults. They could sleep in the same bed without anything untoward happening between them.
Kinsey stifled a yawn.
He said lightly, “Let’s get some shut-eye. No telling when the boys will be here to pick us up. Operations rule number one—sleep when you can.”
She nodded without protest, unlocked the sofa and pulled it out into a bed. With her working at one end and him at the other, they made the bed with satin sheets—what else for the Baby Doll?—cashmere blankets and fluffy eiderdown pillows.
“Where are you sleeping?” she asked, all innocence.
“Here. How about you?”
Her alarmed blue gaze snapped to his. She looked down at the inviting bed. Back up at him. “Oh.”
He shrugged, but it didn’t relieve the abrupt tension in his shoulders. “I don’t know about you, but I’m beat. And tomorrow promises to be rougher than today.” Why did he give a damn if she refused to sleep with him or not? She wasn’t some princess—which she was taking great pains to convince him of. She was just a person. Just like him.
Dammit, not just like him. She lived in the lap of luxury, in a world of yachts and mansions and summers in Hyannis. They were as different as day and night. And he’d do well to remember that. He’d use her to get into Cuba, and he’d kill Camarillo before the bastard could kill her, thereby sending a powerful message to Camarillo’s comrades that Kinsey Hollingsworth was off-limits. And then they’d each get on with their regularly scheduled lives. He’d go back to being a sewer rat, and she’d go back to doing whatever she did, hopefully unmolested. Tanning on sleek cigarette boats in a thousand-dollar bikini.
“You take the side by the hull,” he directed. “I’ll sleep closest to the hatch.”
She lurched. “Do you think Camarillo might find us here?”
“Not a chance. He wouldn’t look for me in a place like this in a thousand years.” And that was why she was going to be such a great cover to get him into Cuba. Nobody in their right mind would look at her and see a covert operative running a scam.
She crawled under the covers and scooted to the far side of the bed, plastered against the wall. He turned off the lights and, under cover of darkness, tucked his pistol under his pillow. He sat down on the edge of the bed and thought he heard her squirm even farther away from him
“I won’t bite,” he growled.
“I’m not so sure about that,” she retorted.
He grinned into the dark. If she only knew. He’d bet he could bite her so he’d have her begging him for more in under five minutes. Hell, two minutes.
“Sweet dreams, Mitch.”
Right. As if there was anything sweet about his dreams. Not after the life he’d lived. “You, too.”
He stretched out on possibly the most comfortable mattress he’d ever experienced. One of those memory-foam things that contoured itself to fit his body to perfection. Some mission this was starting out to be. Here he was in the perfect bed—hell, the thing was even adorned with a blond bombshell—and all he could do was lie still, teeth gritted, and pray for the night to be over.
Kinsey’s breathing lightened into the gentle rhythm of sleep more quickly than he expected. The gunfight earlier must’ve really taken the starch out of her. But then it occurred to him that her rapid sleep also meant she trusted him. How had she described it to her old man? She trusted him implicitly with her life? Ahh, if only she knew. If she had any idea of the thoughts of her dancing across his mind’s eye right now, she’d run screaming from him.
Not that he meant anything by it. Stripping her naked in his mind was just an idle fancy to pass the time and distract him from his insomnia. He certainly wasn’t about to act on it. She was a resource for a mission and emphatically not his sort of female. At least not anymore. As soon as she got him into Cuba, he’d send her home to Daddy and a raft of expensive, private bodyguards. And that was not a pang of regret stabbing his gut, dammit!
He must’ve drifted to sleep, because sometime later, he jerked awake abruptly. He froze, listening. What had wakened him? The night sounds of St. Thomas were mostly silent, a few crickets and frogs the only rem
aining chorus outside. The Baby Doll rocked ever so faintly beneath him, so soothing he was half-asleep again already.
Kinsey gave a faint start beside him and made a frightened sound. Aww, crap. She was having a nightmare. This was his cue to roll over and gather her into his arms and comfort her. Except he didn’t want to put his hands on her, didn’t want to press her against him. Women like her were poison. He’d just as soon hug a rattlesnake.
She jerked again, her breathing fast and hard. She half sat up, then collapsed back against her pillow.
“You all right?” he asked gruffly.
“I had a bad dream.”
“Let me guess. It involved Cuban guys with giant guns chasing you.”
“Something like that.”
“Shrug it off. A nightmare is just your mind’s way of blowing off some steam after a traumatic event. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Right.” A pause. Then her voice came out of the dark, faintly sarcastic. “Thanks for the comforting advice. I’ll never fear another nightmare again as long as I live.”
“Look. I don’t do the whole touchy-feely thing. I’ll stomp all over your emotions in the middle of an op and not think twice about it. I’m a bastard. The sooner you realize that, the better we’ll get along.”
Hurt silence was her only response to that salvo. Damn. He really was a bastard.
He thought she’d already gone back to sleep when her voice drifted out of the dark. “Then why are you insistent on protecting me until Camarillo’s dead?”
“Because it’s the right thing to do,” he bit out.
“A real bastard wouldn’t care enough about someone else to do the right thing. You’re a grouch. But not a bastard.”
“Thank you...I think,” he retorted.
“You’re welcome,” she replied lightly.
“Go to sleep.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Grouch, sir.”
A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. How did she do that? She’d turned aside his irritation effortlessly. Alarm coursed through him. What had he done, saddling himself with this woman for days, or even weeks?