same thing. But, he thought as he pressed the ice against his left eye, he would have succeeded.
“Could you please untie me? I have to go to the bathroom.”
The only lethal weapon on board sat next to his rum on the console, so he considered her request. “If I do, are you going to clock me again?”
“No.”
Max stared at her outline, looking for any detail that might identify her as the woman known throughout the world by her first name alone. He couldn’t make a positive determination one way or the other. “That’s what you said last time.”
“Please. I really have to go.”
Max looked around. “Where’s your mutt?”
“Right here, asleep. He won’t bite you again. I’ve talked to him about it, and he’s really sorry.”
“Uh-huh.” He grabbed the fish knife and crossed the deck and, keeping his back as straight as possible, knelt beside her outline. Within the dark corner he felt for her feet, then easily slid the knife through the cotton strip. “Turn around,” he said, and when she’d done as he’d told her, he sliced the material binding her hands. He grabbed his side, and with more difficulty than it had taken him to kneel, he rose to his feet. “This could have been avoided in the first place,” he said through the pain, “if you’d just done what I told you to do.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
A warning bell sounded in his splitting head as he replaced the knife in its scabbard, then slid it in his waistband at the small of his back. He didn’t trust her sudden passiveness, but perhaps she’d realized that she couldn’t win and it was in her best interest not to fight with him anymore. Yeah, maybe. Or maybe he really was getting soft in his old age.
She slipped past him with her dog in her arms and headed for the door. At the top of the stairs, the moon shone across her back and bottom, and in her hurry to get by him, she left the scent of her hair in her wake.
He moved to stand by the captain’s chair and grabbed the bottle of rum. He took a drink and looked out the front windshield at the Caribbean moon. At the rolling waves before him and the vast emptiness of the ocean. Beside a folded-up newspaper, he spotted a pair of binoculars. He carefully raised them to his eyes, but saw nothing except black ocean. He relaxed a degree.
Max had always taken the worst that life could throw at him, and he’d always mastered it. He’d made it through six months of SEAL training, been in Desert Storm, taken out terrorists in Afghanistan, Yemen, and in the South China Sea, but tonight had been the worst. Because of Jose Cosella’s desire to impress his father with his brutality, and a shoddy piece-of-shit handgun, Max was still alive. The same could not be said of Jose.
Still fresh in Max’s mind, he recalled in precise detail the click of the jammed gun, Jose taking his eyes off him to examine it, and Max making his move. The chair splintering and coming apart within the ropes that bound his hands. Him using a piece of the wooden back to save his own life. Running to the docks, hiding in the shadows, and picking his opportunity.
Max set the bottle on top of the newspaper and caught a flash of white reflection in the windshield.
“Turn this boat around,” the woman behind him commanded in a slightly breathless, faintly southern voice. She flipped on the galley lights and the glare immediately stabbed Max’s corneas. “Turn it around or I’ll shoot.”
Max squinted against the pain and light that suddenly flooded the bridge. He slowly turned and no longer had to wonder if he’d accidently commandeered a famous underwear model along with the yacht.
Lola Carlyle was just as gorgeous in person as she was staring back from the cover of fashion magazines. She stood in the doorway, half her blond hair piled on top of her head, the other half curled about her shoulders as if she’d just gotten out of bed. Her deep brown eyes stared back at him from beneath the perfect arch of her brows. She’d untied the white shirt from between her breasts and had buttoned it all the way to her bottom. Her long smooth legs were every man’s fantasy. She might have been his, too. If it weren’t for the orange flare gun pointed right at his chest. Ms. Carlyle had been busy.
Well, he’d wondered if his night could get any worse, and it sure as shit just had. He should have known. He should have followed her, but he’d rather face a dozen flare guns than a trip down those stairs again. “What are you going to do with that thing?” he asked.
“Shoot you if you don’t turn this boat around. Now.”
“Are you sure?” He really didn’t believe she’d shoot him. Most people didn’t have what it took to look a man right in the eyes and end his life.
“That’ll leave a mighty big hole. Make a really big mess, too.”
“I don’t care. Turn the yacht around.”
Maybe she had what it took. Maybe not, but there was no way in hell he was turning back to Nassau.
“Now!”
He shook his head. “Not even for you, Miss July.” Her eyes narrowed, and he provoked her further, waiting for her to make a move so he could make his. “What was the name of that magazine where you appeared on the cover wearing that red thong bikini?
“It was Sports
He raised his hand to touch his split lip. “Ah, yes.” He looked at the traces of blood on his fingers, then returned his gaze to her. “I remember.” Her brows scrunched together even more. “You were a real hit with the teams that year. I do believe Scooter McLafferty cuffed the carrot several times in your honor.”
“Charming.” Her frown told him she was neither flattered nor amused. “The boat,” she reminded him, and waved the flare gun. “Turn it around. I’m not kidding.”
“I told you I can’t do that.” He folded his arms over his chest as if he were relaxed. But the fact was, he could have the knife out of its scabbard and in her right eye before she took another breath. Now, he didn’t want to do that. He didn’t want to kill a famous lingerie model. The government frowned on the killing of civilians, so maybe he’d just kick the gun out of her hand. That was going to hurt like a bitch and he wasn’t looking forward to it. “If you want this yacht headed back to Nassau, you’ll have to come over here and turn it around yourself.”
“If you try anything…” She took two hesitant steps forward, her dog at her bare feet.
“You’ll sic your vicious mutt on me again?”
“No, I’ll shoot you.”
He even moved over for her and pointed to the wheel. “It has a tendency to vibrate below about fifteen knots,” he provided.
She stopped and motioned with the gun for him to move completely away from the helm.
Max shook his head as he watched her. He waited until she took one more hesitant step, then his arm shot out and grabbed her wrist. She tried to yank away and the gun exploded. The twelve-gage shotgun shell blew a ball of flaming red fire into the helm. It slammed into the GPS, smashed the bottle of rum, and sent sparks shooting in all directions. The ignited rum flowed like a flaming river across the controls and into the hole Max had created when he’d removed the panel to hotwire the engine.
Both Max and Lola hit the deck as the fifteen-hundred-candela ball burned its way through the faux-wood panel and shot beneath the console, where it exploded with a loud pop, sending flames up through the hole. The red flares lit one by one, burning the helm like ten mini blowtorches. The wiring cracked and sizzled and the engine shut down. Like the dying throes of the
“Oh, my Lord,” Ms. Carlyle cried.
Max crawled to his knees and looked up at the blazing newspaper, the flames licking the windshield and igniting the custom-made canvas top. Apparently, his rotten luck wasn’t through with him yet.
Chapter 2
Lola shone the beam of a MiniMag on what was left of the helm. The canvas top covering the bridge had almost completely burned away, leaving nothing behind but a few yards of charred canvas and the blackened aluminum poles. A light salty breeze ruffled her hair and fluttered the tails of her shirt against the very tops of her thighs and the bottom of her butt. The sea air stirred the white potassium bicarbonate covering the floor and what was left of the captain’s seat and helm.
