by Cindy Dees
The look of apprehension on Kinsey’s face as she stepped into the doorway of the chopper and looked down reminded him of just how risky a job he had. But, to her credit, she climbed out onto the tread and gamely jumped off. He didn’t think she had it in her. The seas were calm and the pilot was good, so the bird was no more than twelve feet or so above the water. Still, to an amateur, it must’ve looked as if they were a mile up. He stepped off the skid and endured the cold shock of slamming into the water. His eyes tightly closed, he made his way up to the surface and swam easily over to the catamaran. Kinsey was already aboard, shaking saltwater out of her eyes and having a look at the vessel’s equipment.
While the outgoing captain briefed her up, Mitch hauled in their waterproof bags of equipment, both of which had been tethered to his waist and tossed out of the copter with him. In a few minutes, the captain bade them farewell and jumped overboard, swimming over to the padded loop that would lift him into the chopper. Mitch watched the crew chief efficiently haul up the guy. The chopper peeled away sharply and sped off into the distance.
And then they were alone. Relief at having her to himself once more filled him. Silence descended around them.
“Now what, Tonto?” Kinsey asked.
“Head for Cuba, Kemosabe.”
“It’s about fifty miles due north of us.”
“How soon can we be there?”
She turned her face into the breeze. “If these winds hold up, sometime this evening.”
“Let’s do it.”
She nodded and moved fore to weigh anchor and hoist the mainsail. He pitched in to help haul on the various lines she pointed out, and before long, they were skimming across the water at a decent clip. He stepped inside the low, flat cabin slung between the vessel’s twin hulls. It was compact and he more or less had to crawl around on his knees inside, but it was well fitted out.
“Nice boat,” Kinsey commented from behind him.
“Aren’t you supposed to be on deck doing the captain thing?”
“The sails are trimmed, the wind is steady, and the autopilot’s got the helm. I can spare a couple minutes to have a look around. Where did your people scare up this vessel on such short notice?”
“I have no idea. Maybe someone called in a favor, maybe a little cash got spread around. But that’s how the H.O.T. Watch staff works. If an operator needs something, it’s taken care of. That big room full of folks sitting at phones and computers is jammed with miracle workers.”
Her hand strayed up toward her head. “I was impressed when they came up with hair dye and clothes that fit me on such short notice.
“What does hot in Hot Watch refer to?”
He grinned. “H-O-T. Hunter Operation Team.”
Enlightenment dawned. “And the gang in the volcano watches you. Hence, H.O.T. Watch.”
“You got it.”
He examined her critically. “You make a good brunette.”
A blush stained her cheeks. “Uhh, I’d better go find a cover-up. I don’t need the entire Cuban navy ogling me.”
No kidding. If one crew chief had driven him nuts, imagine how a whole boatload of sailors would affect him.
* * *
Kinsey stared down at the boat’s controls, the dials an unfocused blob before her eyes. Every time Mitch turned that golden gaze of his on her, she melted into a puddle of nerves. She had to stop that! This was her chance to do something real, something important, and she wasn’t going to blow it because she couldn’t corral her runaway lust for a man who barely gave her the time of day.
The sunset tonight was even more spectacular than yesterday’s and Mitch came out on deck to watch its magnificent display streak across the sky. He lounged on the broad sundeck, his hands clasped behind his head as he gazed up at the sky. He looked like a panther at rest, all sleek feline grace and explosive power waiting to spring into action.
Intense awareness of being alone with him in the middle of a vast ocean struck her. She’d made a giant leap of trust to place herself at his mercy like this. For she held no illusions about her ability to fend him off if he tried any funny business with her. Her mind wandered idly. What would she do if he made a pass at her? She was half-tempted to accept his offer. Okay, more than half-tempted. She seriously hoped he gave it a go. Unfortunately, he would never take her seriously if she initiated anything personal between them. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t wish for him to do it. She sighed. Fat chance of that happening with Mr. Mission-First.
When no more than a red glow remained on the far horizon, he made his way back to the helm. “Mother Nature did good today,” he commented.
She glanced askance at the streaks of clouds fading from lavender to dark gray overhead. “Yeah, but those are rolled cirrus clouds. They indicate a front moving in.” When he didn’t show comprehension of the threat they posed, she elaborated, “And that means rain. Storms. We’ve got to get off the water, and soon. The wind is dying down, so I’m going to start up the engines and motor us in close to the Cuban coast.”
He drawled, “How long till we arrive?”
“An hour, maybe a little more.” She liked the lazy side of the predator. He was easier to be with when he was relaxed like this, not constantly eyeing everything around him as if he expected an attack at any second.
“I’ll be back.”
He disappeared below while she cranked up the twin diesels. She’d just finished retrimming the rudders when he emerged, carrying his black duffel bag. “Ever shoot a gun?” he bit out.
Drat. Back in commando mode. “I’ve handled a pistol or two, but I’m no great expert.”
He stepped up behind her, invading her personal space with his broad shoulders and bristling male energy. His arm came around her right side to lay a big, scary revolver on the instrument panel beside the steering wheel.
“Colt .45,” he murmured. “Not a lady’s weapon, but it’ll stop a Mack Truck.”
Involuntarily, she stepped back from the gun...and right into the wall that was Mitch Perovski. His strength and bulk were such that he didn’t even budge when she banged into him. She about jumped out of her skin.
“Easy,” he murmured. “It won’t bite you.”
No, but he might. Aggressive male potency engulfed her, and she edged forward to put a few inches between them. It didn’t help. “Is it loaded?”
A rusty chuckle tickled her ear. “Wouldn’t be good for much if it wasn’t. Don’t fire it until you’re positive you’ll hit your target. It only has six shots. Use them wisely.”
Had the temperature just dropped ten degrees? She rubbed her arms to chase away the sudden goose bumps. He was giving an untrained civilian a lethal weapon? He must be scared spitless of this Camarillo guy to be teaching her to handle a gun like this.
“Pick it up,” he murmured.
She lifted the pistol. It was heavy. Cold. Awkward in her hand. She lurched as his arms came around her from behind. His right hand closed over hers, wrapping her fingers more securely around the scored grip.
“Hold it nose high in front of you with your arms straight. Like this.”
Damned if his mouth wasn’t practically against her ear. Searing heat ripped through her, followed by embarrassment. Shyness. Intensely sexual awareness of him.
His cheek came to rest against her ear, slightly stubbly. Warm. Intimate. His arms slid up under hers. The silky hair on his forearms tickled the undersides of her arms, and his elbows gently squeezed the sides of her breasts. Whoa, baby.
“Look down the barrel.” Was that amusement or
urgency—or something else altogether—pulling his voice tight like that? She couldn’t tell. And didn’t have the nerve to turn around and look.
“Don’t worry about being accurate. At close range, a strike anywhere on the bad guy from a .45 will stop
him cold. Rest the bottom of your right fist in the palm of your left hand. Push with the right, pull with the left. It’ll steady the gun. Like this. Got it?”
She nodded fractionally. It was all the unbearable tension in her neck would allow for. But, wrapped around her like red on a rose, he apparently felt the microscopic movement.
“When you pull the trigger, this sucker will kick up in the air. Hard. Let it. Then bring it back down into firing position, aim and fire again.”
“How do I aim?” Good grief. Was that her voice all husky and breathless like that?
“Look straight down the barrel. Whatever you see directly over the tip of the barrel is roughly what you’ll hit. Fire at the bad guy’s belly button. The torso is a big target and you’re more likely to hit it than if you aim at something small like a head or a knee. Actual aiming of a weapon is more complicated than that, but we don’t have time for more details right now. I’ll show you the fine points some other time.”
“It’s a date.” She froze. Had she said that aloud?
She’d swear his mouth turned up, smiling against the shell of her ear as he murmured, “Deal.” Streaks of pure sex tore through her. Surely he felt her burning alive in his arms.
His lips definitely were moving against her ear now. “Don’t fire toward me in a fight and I won’t fire toward you. That way we won’t hit each other by accident. Got it?”
Her knees all but buckled out from under her. Breathing fast and shallow, she nodded.
“One last thing. If I go down fighting it out with
Camarillo and he’s about to catch you, do yourself a favor. Save one bullet for yourself. Up into the brain through the back of the mouth is the most effective.”
His words shocked her like ice water down her shirt. She pivoted to stare at him. Big mistake. She drew up short, chest to chest with him. His arms, still wrapped around her, gathered her close. Kowabunga. His eyes, blazing hollows in the shadowed planes of his face, incinerated her.
Was she insane? He’d just suggested the best way to kill herself. And she was lusting after him? “Are you serious?” she exclaimed.
He looked her dead in the eye. The last expression she would ever expect to see flashed into his gaze. Compassion. And that rattled her to the core.
“Promise me,” he said with quiet urgency. “I need to know you won’t let Camarillo capture you. I can’t afford to make a stupid decision in the middle of a fight because I’m trying to protect the girl.”
“The girl can take care of herself,” Kinsey retorted drily. She wriggled to free herself from his suddenly suffocating embrace. His arms fell away immediately and night air replaced them, embracing her in dread’s icy clasp.
“Without mincing words, Camarillo is one of the baddest SOBs on the planet. When we engage him, I need you to keep your wits about you. If bullets start flying, get down low, stay out of the line of fire and don’t try to be a hero. I’ll do the rest.”
“You’re sounding suspiciously like a macho jerk.”
“I’m a macho bastard in a firefight. But I’ll be your macho bastard. So stay out of my way and do what I tell you. All right?”
She nodded. With every passing second he was becoming more grim. More focused. Wiped clean of emotion. Ready to kill.
“How long till the Cuban coast?” he asked shortly.
She glanced at the radar, which was starting to paint the coastline. “At current speed, about twenty minutes.”
“Can you limp in from here on sails only?”
She nodded.
“It’s time to sabotage the engines, then.”
She grabbed a wrench from the toolbox in the cabin and opened up the vessel’s pontoon hatches. She went to work on the fuel system for it shared duty with both engines. If she truly wanted to be disabled and need believable emergency repairs, she had to take out both engines with whatever she broke. Her best bet was the fuel pump. If it failed, the fuel lines would lose pressure, air would enter the lines and both engines’ fuel systems would have to be purged of air all the way down to the fuel injectors. Not an easy thing to do at sea. Particularly for a lone, hand-wringing female at sea with no clue how to do the job.
In point of fact, she’d seen the job done a couple of times and, in a real emergency, could probably muddle her way through it. But what the Cubans didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. The boat would need to be towed into port, a new fuel pump ordered and installed, and both her fuel systems purged. All in all, it should take upward of a week.
She gave the fuel pump one last whack with her wrench for good measure. The engines made awful sucking sounds for a few moments, then sputtered and cut out. Silence. No more diesel power for them from here on out. She inched forward inside the pontoon to the escape hatch. The space in here was cramped and claustrophobic, but it certainly was big enough to conceal a man and all his gear.
They were ready. Now all she had to do was make her way into port. And pray. Pray they were allowed into Cuba, and that Mitch was better than Camarillo. Menace drew near. Its cool touch slid up her spine like a psychopathic lover. And they waited. She stood behind the wheel, terrified, minding the boat by rote, while Mitch crouched at the forward limit of the deck, peering at the sea through big, 30x binoculars.
For an about-to-be hunted man, he looked a lot like a predator in wait. Abject terror was going to shatter her into a million pieces any second, but he looked as steady as a rock. Show-off.
“Time to contact?” Mitch called.
She glanced down at the radar screen. “Fifteen minutes at this forward speed until we hit Cuban territorial waters. Their Coast Guard should come out to have a look at us pretty quickly after that.”
Mitch nodded and made his way back to the pilothouse. “Ready?” he murmured.
She looked into his eyes. And then it hit. Panic. Paralyzing, brain-numbing panic.
Mitch swore under his breath. “There’s nothing to worry about. Just be yourself. You’re Kinsey Hollingsworth. Your boat has lost a couple vital systems—which it in fact has. You need repairs, which is the God’s honest truth. You don’t have to be clever or lie or try to keep your cool. Be upset. Be panicked. Be worried about being arrested for having to land in Cuba.”
She nodded. That was exactly what Jennifer Blackfoot had told her to do. So why did she feel as if she was going to throw up any second?
Mitch stepped forward with that preternaturally quick grace of his, his powerful arms sweeping her up against him in an enveloping hug. He murmured into her hair, “Hey. I know you can do this.”
“Yeah. Assuming I can keep my lunch down.”
“Ahh. Pre-mission jitters. I get them all the time.”
“Do you have them now?”
“No, I got mine on the chopper ride out here.”
She mumbled into his chest, “Liar. You’ve got nerves of steel.”
A low rumble of laughter shook his chest.
She lifted her head to glare up at him. Their gazes locked. Their wills tangled for a moment, hers skeptical, his certain. And the banked fire in the back of his eyes began to build, heating until it glowed like a lava flow, incinerating everything in its path. She stared into the mesmerizing depths of his gaze, fascinated, inevitably drawn into him.
His index finger touched her chin. Tipped her face up. And slowly, slowly, like a panther stalking its prey, he closed in on her. Except unlike the unwary antelope, she saw him coming. And merely watched and waited. For a moment, she contemplated fleeing for her life, but discarded the idea as ridiculous. In the last moment before their lips touched, when her common sense shouted its indignation at her foolishness, she realized she’d been waiting for this ever since the first moment she’d laid eyes on him. With a sigh of relief, she surrendered to the kiss.
His mouth was warm and firm against hers, exploring h
ers gently. And then, without warning, he groaned in the back of his throat and his arms swept her up against him, lifting her completely off the ground. Crushed in his embrace, she strained even closer, desperate for more of him.
“We shouldn’t...” he mumbled against her mouth just before he devoured her whole, with tongue and lips and body.
“But I want it. I want you….” she mumbled back just before she returned the favor.
He cursed under his breath as he let her feet slide to the ground. Crying out in dismay, she flung her arms around his neck. He stumbled for a moment, then planted his powerful legs, absorbed her weight and plunged his hands into her hair, dragging her mouth up to his for more. He kissed her desperately, aggressively, like a starving man.
“This is madness,” he bit out.
“Glorious madness,” she agreed, dragging his head down to her.
Another groan, wrung from deep within him, made her heart leap with triumph. “If we don’t stop now, I’m going to tear your clothes off, take you inside and make love to you until neither of us can walk.”
She took a step toward the cabin, pulling him with her. He laughed, gathering her close. “We’ll be in Cuban territorial waters in a few minutes, and their navy should arrive about two minutes after that. I’ve got to crawl into my coffin or else they’ll see me.”
The words only partially penetrated the haze of unadulterated desire roaring through her brain. The taste of him, smoky and dark, swirled through her head until she could hardly think about anything else.
Gently, he peeled her arms from around his neck. She followed him to the starboard pontoon hatch and handed his duffel bag in after him. The thing was shockingly heavy. Must be chock-full of more giant guns like the one he’d shown her earlier.
As he stretched out on his back and nodded up at her, she couldn’t resist. She leaned down into the opening and kissed him one last time. “Mmm. You taste amazing.” She sighed.
“Close the hatch,” he said grimly. Then he added, “But hold that thought.”
Smiling dreamily, she brought the fiberglass down into place, locking the latch that held it in place. She made her way back to the pilothouse and absently checked their heading. If she stayed on this cource, she’d run smack-dab into the south coast of Cuba. She ought to be rehearsing a speech for the Cuban navy, but the only thought that kept running through her mind over and over was That man could really, really kiss.