He's the One

by Cat Johnson

  James didn’t make a sound as he shot her a look filled with sick dread and fear, for her, then backed out the door from which he’d come just as someone opened the door from the galley.

  She ducked low, her heart going high. James loved her. He’d never stopped loving her. And he needed her. Her. The woman she was. God, she’d been so stupid, chasing after all this adrenaline within her job when everything she’d ever wanted had been right there in front of her.

  From her perch behind the couch she couldn’t see him, couldn’t do anything but wait and hope and pray she hadn’t just given them both a death sentence.

  A man entered the room, and another behind him, both in nothing but swim trunks, their hair still wet. Ella recognized the voices as the men who’d been speaking belowdecks.

  The divers.

  “We should get a move on,” the first one said. He was in his thirties, built like a heavyweight boxer, with tattoos covering most of his upper body. “Our flight’s in a few hours.”

  “No rush now that our resident insurance investigator slash pain in the ass is detained.” This guy was thin and lanky, with no tattoos, just plenty of scars, and a chuckle that gave Ella a shiver. “Lou and Raul said they handcuffed her nosy, naked ass to her towel rack. I can’t believe they didn’t take pictures of her, man. She’s still there, you know. Maybe we should go see her for ourselves.”

  Ella fisted her hands. James had in all likelihood saved her life.

  “Raul said she squirmed a lot.” Tattoo Guy let out a lecherous grin of his own. “He kept getting handfuls. Damn, we should have been the ones to catch her.”

  Fully creeped out, Ella huddled behind the couch, her finger on the Mace trigger.

  “Got the shit?” Tattoo Guy asked.

  “Oh, yeah, and it’s pure, baby.”

  Ella felt the couch shift as both men sat on it. It was a low back, thick-cushioned leather number, and though she flattened herself to the floor, if either one so much as craned his head an inch to either side, he’d see her.

  Her eyes searched frantically for a way out. There was an end table to her right, a glass and chrome deal that had some fancy steel sculpture displayed. The sculpture was about a foot high and looked like a wire cage, though she knew better and figured it was another ridiculously priced piece of art.

  The thin thug opened a baggie, and Tattoo Guy stuck his pinkie finger into it, then brought it to his mouth to taste. He nodded and smiled. “Nice.”

  “Our cut’s going to set us up for life.”

  “Then let’s go get started on that life.”

  No. No one was leaving. But just as Ella went to make her move, a big, hot, sweaty hand settled on the back of her neck and hauled her up.

  Bad guy number three. Heck of a time to remember the three bottles of champagne.

  Tattoo Guy and his partner whipped around, jaws dropped. “What the—”

  Ella hung from the third man’s grip, feet swinging a few inches off the ground. Bringing her hand up, she nailed her attacker in the face with her Mace.

  He screamed like a baby and let go of her. She hit the ground hard, scrambling to crawl away, but he fell on her, all three hundred pounds of him, a full dead weight.

  Tattoo Guy let out a howl and dove over the back of the couch, landing on top of both of them.

  Ella took the weight, her mouth opening and closing like a fish, her poor lungs uselessly attempting to drag in some air. Her one last thought was that she’d screwed up again.

  Then there was rapid gunfire and suddenly she was free of the weight pinning her down. Sitting up, she saw Tattoo Guy rolling in agony, hands to the bullet hole in his thigh. Scrawny guy and James stood face-to-face, each holding a gun on the other.

  “Drop it,” James demanded, but the scrawny guy just shook his head.

  Ella glanced to her right just as the third guy sat up and glowered at her.

  She’d dropped her Mace. Bad.

  Without thinking, she grabbed the steel sculpture, which was heavier than she thought. She chucked it at his big, meaty head. By some miracle, it actually beaned him between the eyes, and with a sigh he toppled back over.

  “Drop the gun,” James said to the skinny thug.

  He just leered and pivoted, abruptly changing from pointing his gun at James to pointing it at Ella.

  Uh-oh.

  She dove to the floor as gunshots pinged and ricocheted around her, crawling beneath the coffee table. Before she could even attempt to peek out to see James—God, please don’t let him be hit—she was hauled up against a warm, hard chest.

  “Are you hit?” a rough voice asked as gentle hands ran over her body. “Ella, Christ, say something .”

  She could hear Tattoo Guy squalling about his leg. There were sirens in the distance, and she realized James must have called it in on his cell before he burst back into the room and saved the day. Her hero, she thought dreamily, and grinned. “You still smell good.”

  He stared at her for one beat and then yanked her closer, burying his face in her hair. His arms were banded so tightly around her she couldn’t breathe, but that was okay because breathing was entirely overrated. She could feel his heart thundering steadily beneath her ear, could hear his not quite steady breathing as he nuzzled close. The feel of him warm and hard with strength surrounding her had always worked like an aphrodisiac, and now was no exception, except it was deeper than mere physical wanting. “You were scared for me,” she murmured.

  “I think I had a coronary.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “Then I definitely got gray hair.”

  Throat tight, she ruffled his jet black hair, completely free of gray, and burrowed in closer.

  “You know I love you, right?” he demanded. “I need you, too. So much, Ella.”

  And because she did know it now, she smiled through her tears. “Don’t let go, okay?”

  His arms tightened. “I won’t.”

  “No, I mean don’t ever let go.”

  “Never.” He lifted his head and cupped her jaw. “Let’s go home, Ella.”

  “Yeah, leave.” Tattoo Guy pulled himself to a sitting position, sweating and gritting his teeth in pain, but lifted his hands in surrender when James pointed the gun his way. “Look, I’m not stupid. I’m staying right here.”

  James looked at Ella again, and everything within her quivered with hope. She’d wanted this, had ached for so long. “Really? You want to go home with me?”

  “Yes. I want both of our shoes in the closet and both cars in the garage.”

  “Just one bed, right?”

  “One bed, and you in it,” he murmured, dipping his head to rub her jaw with his. “Beneath me. Wrapped around me.” He lifted his face again and held her gaze with his dark one. “And I don’t mean just for tonight.”

  “Good, because I’m free tomorrow night, too,” she quipped, her stomach jangling with hope and what she was deathly afraid was nerves. She’d faced three crazed drug runners without blinking and now she was going to fall apart. It didn’t make sense, and yet it did.

  Because this, with James, was the most important thing she had going on in her life. She had to get it right. They had to get it right. “And the night after?” she whispered.

  “All of them,” he said gently, and kissed her. “It’s okay, El. We’re going to be okay. We’re going to have the forever after we promised to give each other.”

  She meant to laugh confidently but ended up letting out a gulping sob instead. “I want that, too. I want that so much. In fact, maybe you could take me home right now and we could get working on that forever part, with your pager in the freezer and my cell phone turned off. And without any clothes on.”

  Tattoo Guy rolled his eyes. “Hey, felon in the room.”

  James smiled and kissed her, and everything was in that kiss—his promise, his hope, his love. All she ever needed.

  SEDUCING TABBY

  Lucy Monroe

  Chapter One

&nbs
p; “Secret Service? Really?”

  “Jane said her dad said he heard it from Tom Crane, the Realtor.”

  “Well, Patty Lane said her mother heard from her hairdresser that he’s nobility, like an earl or something.”

  “Maybe he’s both.”

  Tabby’s friends spoke in low undertones laced with breathless curiosity. Wearing identical expressions of titillated speculation, the only two women in Port Diamond shyer than she was turned to face Tabby.

  “Do you know anything?” asked one.

  “He’s got a boat docked here at the marina,” the other added. “A luxury cruiser.”

  “My dad runs the marina, not me,” Tabby reminded them.

  “But you’ve got to have heard something.”

  Tabby had spent most of her adult life being pumped for information about her gorgeous, thin sister, Helene. So, this was nothing new. She was adept at sidestepping answers she did not want to give, but at least when it came to Helene, she could answer the inquiries when she wanted to.

  However, Tabby knew nothing more than the other women about the mysterious Englishman who had so recently moved to Port Diamond.

  Nothing except that, despite the fact she’d never said more than ten words to Calder Maxwell, he sparked a desire in her that fried her nerve endings and froze her vocal chords. She’d woken up pulsing from a dream-induced climax for the first time in her life the night she’d met him.

  “I can tell you he’s not Secret Service. He’s from England, not Washington.”

  “Well, you know what I mean. He looks like he could give James Bond a run for his money.”

  Tabby looked across the room at the gorgeous man standing with her dad and Helene, and had to agree. A cross between Timothy Dalton and Cary Grant, he was every fantasy she’d ever had rolled into one perfect package—the only flaw being his obvious interest in Helene.

  Just like every other male who came into contact with the Payton sisters, he found Helene’s sweet nature and gorgeous looks irresistible. Tabby had seen them talking on the pier near his boathouse a couple of times, but hadn’t been able to nerve herself up enough to join them. Helene wouldn’t have minded. She was always happy to see her sister.

  Tabby doubted Calder would have been as appreciative, which is why she’d stayed away—no matter how much she’d longed to simply stand close enough to hear his voice.

  Noticing her gaze still fixed on Calder, Tabby’s friend gave a theatrical sigh. “He’s yummy, isn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  At that moment, the object of their speculation turned and caught the trio of women gawking at him. One corner of his mouth tilted, but it couldn’t quite be called a smile, and his dark gaze assessed them with cool regard.

  “Oh, my gosh, he’s looking this way. Quick, turn around and pretend to be getting food at the buffet.”

  Tabby rolled her eyes. “He’s already seen us. I don’t think he’ll be fooled.” And she didn’t particularly want him thinking she was interested in the buffet.

  A throwback to her paternal great-grandmother, she didn’t have the willowy figure of her mom and sister, or anything approaching her dad’s athletic build. Nope, she was a little too round, a lot too curved, and slightly too short for that.

  “He’s headed this way!”

  And suddenly she was alone, deserted by her gossiping friends.

  He stopped in front of her, his tall frame towering over her own five feet, five inches. He would fit in with the rest of her family just fine. In fact, he and Helene make a striking couple, she thought with an inner twinge.

  “Good evening, Miss Payton.”

  Her heart fluttered at the smooth English accent and her lungs refused to issue forth enough air to power words of greeting. It had felt like this the first time they met in her bookstore, too. He’d come in looking for a book on home improvement, of all things, and she’d barely said six words to him between recommending a title and ringing up his purchase.

  Feeling crowded by his proximity, although he wasn’t standing all that close, she took an involuntary step backward and ran into one of the buffet tables. She grabbed for the edge to steady herself and got a handful of crab salad instead.

  Turning to look, she stared in horrified stupefaction at the mess covering her hand. Mom was going to have a hissy fit. The salad required a two-day prep and was her most recent culinary pride and joy. Now an entire buffet-size bowl of it was good only for the garbage disposal.

  “I can’t believe I just did that,” she muttered.

  “Can I help you?”

  She looked up at him then, too upset by her predicament to be her usual tongue-tied self around him. “Do you have any suggestions for hiding the evidence?”

  “Perhaps we could take the bowl to the kitchen?”

  “And leave a gap on the table?”

  He took hold of her wrist and lifted her hand away from the bowl, careful not to let the crab salad anywhere near his dinner suit or her dress. “Go clean up and I will take care of our small disaster.”

  In spite of her embarrassed chagrin, the feel of his fingers curled around her wrist was surprisingly nice.

  “It’s not your disaster.” She sighed in self-deprecation. “It’s mine and I can’t leave it to you.” Even if she wished she could.

  “Of course, I’m at fault. I startled you.” She opened her mouth to argue, but he shook his head. “Don’t let it concern you. I have some experience in this sort of thing.”

  “Rescuing women from the wrath of their temperamental chef mothers?”

  He smiled, even white teeth flashing all too briefly. “Hiding the evidence.”

  Her eyes widened in mock horror. “Oh, my gosh, you’re a member of the British mafia and here everyone was thinking you were some sort of displaced nobleman or spy or something.”

  That made him laugh, and she felt the sound all the way to her toes.

  “You have a nice laugh.” She couldn’t believe she’d said that. Trust her to go from mute to uttering inanities. What an improvement.

  “And you have a charming sense of humor, but you also have a hand that is about to drip crab salad on your lovely dress.”

  She extended her arm farther from her body, having no desire to ruin the dress it had taken four hours of shopping in San Diego to find. “I’ll just go wash this off.”

  She took as long as she could in the ladies’ room, washing her hands, tidying her appearance, and wishing she could fall through a hole in the floor rather than go back out and face Calder Maxwell.

  She got a moment alone with the focus of her fantasies and what did she do?

  Go diving in a buffet bowl.

  She never had been all that handy in the kitchen.

  When she came out of the softly lit alcove, Calder was waiting for her. He gave her a look that made her go tight in some really interesting places. “Are you all right, Miss Payton?”

  “Fine. Uh . . . call me Tabby. Everyone else does.”

  “Tabby, then.” He drew her name out as if he were savoring it on his tongue.

  What a ridiculous thought.

  She peeked around him at the buffet table and saw that the bowl was gone and things had been rearranged so no one could tell it had been there to begin with. “Thank you for hiding the evidence, although she’s going to know something happened when she finds the salad in the kitchen.”

  “I emptied it into a trash bag and tossed it in the Dumpster outside. Unless she’s watching closely, she’ll assume it all got eaten.”

  “You really are good at this sort of thing.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re fast, too.”

  “So I’ve been told.” The chill in his voice, despite the humor in his eyes, made her wonder by whom.

  “Enjoying the party?” she asked by rote.

  Technically, the Port Diamond Yacht Club hosted the annual summer gala, but her parents owned the marina and restaurant where it was held, making them the unofficial hos
ts of the evening and her their not-so-willing accomplice.

  She wasn’t overly fond of large crowds.

  “Everyone has been quite nice.”

  Which wasn’t an answer to her question. In fact, it sounded like one of her own sidestepping comments, the kind that got her out of trouble with her mother for not trying hard enough to be social without having to lie. She found herself smiling.

  “Obsessively interested, you mean.”

  His smile short-circuited her brain receptors. “There does seem to be a great deal of speculation about me.”

  “Well, as I said, rumor has it you’re former secret government something, or maybe a member of the English nobility, but you’ve shown your true colors to me,” she said in a teasing tone usually reserved for close friends and family. People she trusted.

  His willingness to shoulder responsibility for something that had been entirely her fault, and then rescue her from the consequences, had gone a long way toward relaxing her with him.

  “Is that your subtle way of fishing for the truth?”

  “Not if you don’t want to tell me.” So far, so good. Her tongue wasn’t tied in knots yet and she hadn’t made an inane comment in five minutes.

  “The truth would no doubt bore you,” he said dismissively.

  “You’re very good at that.”

  “What?”

  “Sidestepping.”

  “And you are more observant than most.”

  She shrugged. She’d had a lot of practice.

  Just then her sister walked by on her way to the deck with one of her many boyfriends and waved at Tabby.

  Tabby waved back and smiled.

  “She’s quite effervescent, isn’t she?”

  With a sinking heart, Tabby nodded. The inquest had begun. Would he be as good at seeking out information as he was at avoiding giving it?

  For once, she really wished one of her sister’s admirers had gone to someone else for insights into Helene.

  “She’s very bubbly,” Tabby said, answering his question. “One of the nicest people I know.”

  “Your family is very close, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, we are.”