by Lucy Farago
This, he thought, was going to be so sweet. “Stay like that,” he told her. “Don’t straighten.”
“Blake?” His name came out in a sexy breath.
“Trust me.” He knelt behind her.
He removed her shorts and panties and when his gaze slid upward, his already hard shaft throbbed. Leaning over the cockpit dashboard, half-dressed, Rhonda was his siren and if he shipwrecked on her shore, he’d die a happy man. From this angle she was exposed, wet and waiting to see, to feel, what he would do next. He’d planned to take her quickly, but now all he wanted was to taste, the barely perceptible sway of her body in rhythm with the gentle rocking of the boat urging him onward.
He did what he yearned for. He grabbed her ass and drove his tongue inside her. This time, his name left her mouth in a hard shout of pleasure. He wanted to hear it again. He needed to make her come. She needed to know he’d done that to her. Call it ego. Call it selfish pride. But he’d care to think of it more as branding. He made her go wild, made her hips move in a frenzy of lust. Him. Because right here, right now, in this moment, she was his and he wanted her to know it.
She came quick and hard. A good dose of manly pride surged through him. He stood and took her, her body quaking from pleasure—the orgasm he’d given her. She was already squeezing his cock, the aftershocks of her orgasm tightening his balls. God yes, this was what he needed. She was what he needed.
“Rhonda.” He was now calling her name.
She met him, thrust for thrust, one hand over the dashboard, the other clutching the steering wheel for purchase. She looked back at him, her lips parted with every gasp, her eyes darkened with pleasure, encouraging him to take more. A soft wind picked up her hair and carried the fresh scent of salt air. He’d never seen anything more erotic, this woman who was slowly but surely burrowing under his skin. How would he ever get her out? And did he want to?
She licked her lips, shutting her eyes as a soft “yes” escaped her lips. “Don’t stop,” she said.
Like that was going to happen. She tightened even more around him as she helped drive him deeper into her body. He wanted to kiss her, to take her tongue and suck on it as he came. But he wouldn’t, not willing to give up the beautiful image of her half-naked body draped over the console, her legs spread wide, accepting him over and over, faster and faster. Again, she screamed his name. The sound carried off into the ocean and with it the rest of his restraint. His orgasm rocked his world to the point of being painful, a pain he’d gladly suffer every day.
When they were done, he helped her gather her shorts and together they went below to the cabin, where he showed her a better place to spread peanut butter than on top of a burger.
*
Lathering up for the third time, Rhonda wondered if she’d ever stop smelling like peanutty goodness. Not that she cared. It would now and forever remind her of Blake. Almost a week had passed since they’d first discovered the many uses of peanut butter. Reminded of that and seeing as how today had been her turn to make lunch, she’d chosen a childhood favorite—peanut butter and bananas. Blake, being Blake, had given her lip. She didn’t care. On days when they planned super-healthy dinners, she wanted fun, alternative lunches. He continued to argue with her until she stripped off his pants and told him they weren’t using bread. He shut up real fast.
Smiling to herself, she toweled off, catching her reflection in the mirror. Yesterday, they’d stopped at another small town, where Blake explained it was to visit a hair salon. She’d been surprised—and apprehensive. She hadn’t been her natural blond self since before she started stripping. She ran her fingers through her wet, now golden hair, and decided to let it dry naturally topside.
“When did you say we’d make port?” she asked as she stepped onto the deck.
“A couple of hours. The team gave us the go ahead. Damn, you’re beautiful.”
He’d been saying that ever since they’d left the salon. She was beginning to think the opposite, and that his reassurances were because he didn’t like her natural color.
“Okay, so I’m a blonde. What about you? You think facial hair is enough to hide your pretty been-on-GQ face?” His new look had started to grow on her.
He rubbed his beard. “I have red hair dye. That should do it.”
“Who-hoo, my own redheaded Scotsman,” she exclaimed.
“And why would that excite you?”
“You’d have to read romance novels to understand. Suffice it to say, it’s super hot.”
Confused and shaking his head, he headed below. “Take the helm, captain. I have a disguise to finish.”
When he returned, she couldn’t say it was an improvement—nothing could improve that face—but he looked different enough to be unrecognizable. He hadn’t cut his hair in all the weeks they’d been together and it had grown long enough to tie back, as it was now. “You look very … no collar.”
“Care to explain?” he said.
“Free-spirited. Like you should be holding a pair of bongo drums. California style.”
“Ah. You know, Christian took me surfing once.”
“How’d that go?” She herself hated swimming in the ocean. Too many unpredictable factors, currents, undertows … sharks.
“He surfed. I drowned. All good.”
She laughed. “Okay, then.”
The satellite phone on the boat rang, catching their attention. Blake answered.
“Tell me something good, Monty.” There was a pause. “Well, if you’re calling yourself, it must be good news, right?” It was followed by another long pause. “I’m good,” he said, “feeling more like myself.” Blake rubbed the back of his neck, pursing his lips together. “That’s not an option.” He was getting angry. “Yes, I’m sure.” Then he lowered his voice. “I can’t do that. I won’t do that.”
When he moved out of hearing range, Rhonda considered drawing closer. But she told herself to trust that Blake would tell her everything.
He finally returned and put the phone in its dock.
“Who was that?” she asked.
“Ryan. There’s another lead. Two stones showed up in Dubai. They’ll let us know what they find out.”
“Okay. Why aren’t you happier? This was good news, right?”
“It’s not moving fast enough. We need to nail Sorrentino with those missing diamonds.”
We? He’d said, “We need to find those missing diamonds.” It hadn’t dawned on her that once Blake was feeling better, he himself would want to be included in the search. How could she be so stupid? Of course, he would. He wasn’t the type of man to sit around and let his team do all the work. So why wasn’t he?
“I can’t do that,” he’d argued, “I won’t do that?” Did he mean leave her behind, put her in someone else’s hands? He’d promised to keep her safe. Was that it? Was he now regretting that promise? Her good mood faded. And from the exasperation emanating from Blake, he too had lost the afterglow. How different would it be if she weren’t in the picture?
“Why would the stones be in Dubai?” she asked.
“They’ve been set in a necklace. The owner asked the hotel management to put them in the safe while he and his wife flew out for a few days. Every room has its own safe. So to ask the hotel to keep the piece meant it was worth big bucks. The hotel photographs everything guests leave. They keep an accurate record, right down to the weight of anything they hold, especially jewelry. One of the stones in the piece was lasered. When the hotel uploaded the picture into their mainframe, security spotted it and ran the number.”
“And they reported it?”
“No. The head of security is undercover for Interpol. For now, they’ll allow them to keep the piece, so as not to arouse suspicion. We got lucky. They’re going to attempt to trace the origin without the owner knowing.”
“Interpol or your team?” And do you want to be part of that team?
“Both. Let’s head into town.” He slipped on a pair of sunglasses.
The
re was more, but because he wasn’t volunteering, Rhonda was reluctant to ask. Or was she afraid of the answer? His duffle bag was on deck, and when he bent down to zip it closed, Rhonda spotted the gun.
She felt ridiculous. They weren’t some happy couple on vacation. They were hiding from a hired assassin. Would it be better that he hand her off to another of Ryan’s men? And was it so wrong not to want that? At least with Blake, her life felt more like her own, like they were in this together. For now, she accepted his explanation and said nothing else.
Blake took her hand and helped her onto the dock. Rhonda looked down at their joined hands. How long could this fantasy go on? She glanced back at the boat then up at Blake. Beautiful Blake. Even with red hair and dark shades, he was gorgeous. It brought out the Scot in him. Which reminded her. “Make sure to drop the accent when you speak to anyone.”
“You mean use the accent.”
“No, I … yeah, right, use the accent.”
He squeezed her hand, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “Sure babe,” he said in perfect American English.
“Can you do southern? Maggie has this thing for southern accents,” she said, unexpectedly missing her friend.
“Cajun, Texan or Georgian?”
She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Yes ma’am, Ah kin twang with the best of ’em. Cajun’s tricky, though. I try and avoid that one,” he said, demonstrating his drawl.
“You call me ma’am again, and you won’t have to worry what you sound like. I’ll kick your ass.”
“Oh, honey girl.” He released her hand to drape an arm over her shoulder. “Ah love it when you talk dirty.”
She snuggled closer, making a mental note to tell Maggie she didn’t know what she was talking about. Rhonda would take her honey’s Scottish brogue over Christian’s southern drawl any day or night. She loved how, when he got all lusty, it came out in all its rolling r’s. But he wasn’t her honey, was he? So how much longer could they go on this way?
“Where are we going first?” she asked, shifting the handle of her duffle bag to get a better grip.
“Office. I need to make sure everything’s in place to dock the boat until someone picks it up. Then we’ll get the rental key. We’re going to hide in plain sight, in Old Town.”
“How long before we have to move?” She already missed the safety of the boat. Considering her seasickness, that was saying a lot.
“They’ll let us know.”
Was that a note of resentment she heard? Or was she hearing things?
He stopped walking when they reached the chain-link gate exiting the dock area. “I don’t want you to worry. Ryan has eyes everywhere. If we need to run, he’ll tell us. For now, let’s not spoil what we had on the boat.” He kissed her softly on the lips and left her as he went to the marina office.
While he might not want to spoil what they had, she’d bet he’d rather not be running, but hunting for the man who wanted him dead.
*
“I’m sorry,” he said, driving the rental car. “All this hiding can’t be fun.”
“No, it’s not. But it’s the not knowing what comes next that’s worse.” The only thing she did know was that when this was over, she and Blake would go their separate ways, if not before. Parting was inevitable. He hadn’t promised forever, and she’d been okay with that. But a part of her hoped she could hang on to whatever this was for as long as she could. She didn’t want to keep hiding. That would be insane, but it was nice, just the two of them. Sharing him with no one.
He put the car in Park in front of a two-story Conch cottage. A tall palm tree stood in the small front yard and a variety of ferns covered the lattice beneath a turn-of-the-century Victorian porch. Except for the yellow windows and shutters, it was white and gorgeous.
“Stay here while I open the gate.” Blake got out of the car.
“Hurry,” she said, regretting that coffee they’d stopped for.
She hadn’t seen it at first, the palm trees flanking the property and the oasis-like plants camouflaging the driveway. When he returned, he drove the car down a narrow path that led to a tiny garage. No SUV for these owners. The small building, obviously once a carriage house, barely fit their car. Most people walked in Key West but when someone was trying to kill you a car was a necessity. Careful not to smack the door against anything, she got out and followed Blake through a side door.
The backyard held a clover-shaped pool adorned by a cedar deck. Underneath the second floor balcony of the house was a wrought-iron patio table and beside it, a stainless-steel grill and outdoor kitchen. Two teak lounge chairs sat by the pool, bordered by an assortment of exotic flowers. For a small backyard, it packed a punch.
“Come on.” Blake headed toward the floor-to-ceiling windows of the lower floor. “They said this key opens the patio doors.”
True enough, the sliding doors opened to create an indoor-outdoor living room. Rhonda had lived in apartments all her life, and not very nice ones at that. She’d moved into Maggie’s condo building to act as den mother, and while the space was modern and cozy at the same time, it didn’t compare to the romantic setting created by this cottage. She couldn’t wait to see the rest of it.
“I’ll grab our bags,” Blake offered. “The kitchen is stocked if you want anything.”
“I’m not hungry, but I can make something for you if you like.”
“Thanks, but I’m still full from breakfast. How about you pour us a couple of glasses of wine and we can sit by the pool after we check the place out?”
The rest of the cottage didn’t disappoint. It wasn’t as grandiose as Ryan’s plantation, but everything in it was top of the line, from the Sub-Zero fridge to the airjet tub for two in the master en suite, something she promised herself she’d use.
“So, what’s next?”
They sat at the patio table sipping white wine.
“We avoid being seen,” Blake said.
“You mean we’re stuck here? We’re in Key West and we can’t enjoy it?”
“It’s better if we stay in as much as possible. For now, anyway. You don’t have to worry about getting seasick, so enjoy the pool—relax. Read. There’s a computer in the house, but same rules apply. Nothing that can be traced. No Facebook, no online shopping, or whatever it is women do.”
“You know, that’s not a bad idea. What if I ordered something and shipped it to Alaska?” she said, just to get a reaction from him. She liked doing that.
“No, don’t do that,” he said, all panicked.
She wouldn’t—because she wasn’t stupid—but if he was going to make dumb comments, then she was going to have fun with it.
“Why?” She pretended not to understand.
“They can trace the IP address. They’ll know you put the order in from Key West.”
“Ohhhh.” She took a sip of wine and smirked.
“You knew that, didn’t you?”
“Duh.” Did he think she was stupid? Most men did. Most everyone assumed that, because a woman took her clothes off for money, she had either a low IQ or slept around. Why else would a woman degrade herself? Why, indeed.
“Hey.” He slid his chair closer, taking her hands in his. “I didn’t mean to imply you were dumb. You’re anything but.”
“Damn straight I’m not. I’ve been pretty much on my own since my mother died.”
“I know,” he agreed, smiling awkwardly. “Are you in the mood to fight?”
“No … maybe … I don’t know.” And she didn’t. Maybe this whole situation was starting to get to her. But normally she wasn’t this moody. “What’s the date?” And when was her last period and did the cottage have stocked tampons?
“The thirtieth. Why? Have a hot date I don’t know about?”
“Yeah, that’s it.” She stood. “And when you go to sleep, we’re hooking up.”
He stood too, and pulled her into his arms. “Over my dead body.” He kissed her hard enough to make her lightheaded.
Damn, the man could kiss, and not just the nice feeling kisses, but the kind you saw on the big screen. The kind people remembered for years to come. With considerable effort, mentally and physically, she pushed him off. “There was something I wanted to do. Now you made me forget.”
“Then it couldn’t be that important. How about you and I have a hot date in that pool? Let’s go skinny dipping.”
Date. She remembered. She needed a calendar. If she was getting her period, she didn’t want it to happen in the pool. “Keep that thought. I’ll be back in a minute.”
She ran upstairs to the master bedroom. After stopping to pee, she found the laptop and typed “August calendar” in the Google search bar. Shit. She recounted the days. She was late. Not unusual, considering her stress level. Right? Right.
What if it wasn’t stress? No way. Life could not be that unfair.
Chapter Fifteen
Rhonda was on the pill. They’d used a condom.
She had nothing against kids—as long as they weren’t hers. She’d just gotten her life back. She told herself not to panic. Her cycle was just screwed up. She’d give it a few more days. Then pull all her hair out. No way could she be pregnant. She liked the sound of her biological clock. She and it were pals. She didn’t want a baby—something else to take care of. To be responsible for. She’d abort. That’s what she’d do. The quicker the better. But how? How was she going to find a doctor in Key West?
Blake. Should she tell him? What if he wanted to keep it? What if he didn’t believe her? Girls like her got pregnant all the time. Strippers. And ones from the wrong side of the tracks. He was an aristocrat, for God’s sake. That was it. He wouldn’t want the baby. Damn, who was she trying to convince? Blake wasn’t like that. She pressed her hand to her heart, now in panic mode. Breathe.