five. The top of his head barely cleared the ceiling, and she knew from recent experience that he was solid muscle.
“If I wanted to hurt you, I would have already.”
She didn’t say a word, just reached for the knife and slid it into her lap.
“And if I really wanted to hurt you now, that knife wouldn’t stop me.”
She believed him but held on to it anyway.
“Did I hurt you last night?” It was a rhetorical question, but she answered anyway.
“Yes.”
He took a bite of his granola bar, then asked, “Where?”
She held up her wrists and exposed the faint purple marks his fingers had left on her skin. He leaned forward for a better look, and Lola held her breath, steeling herself for what he might do. At the moment he was being perfectly amiable, but she didn’t trust his mood.
“Those are so small, they don’t even count.” He straightened and popped the rest of the granola bar into his mouth. He watched her as he chewed, his gaze serious, and then he shrugged. “You’re too soft.”
“Are you blaming me again?”
Instead of answering, he dug into the granola box and pulled out another bar. “You can relax your grip on that knife. I’m not going to rape you.”
A criminal with scruples? She wasn’t reassured and held the knife tight in her hand.
“I’ve never forced a woman to be with me.”
She didn’t comment, but raised a brow as if she had her doubts.
He broke off a piece of a granola bar and tossed it toward Baby. The little dog caught it midair. “Never had to,” he continued. “You can strip naked and run around in the buff and I won’t feel a thing. Not an itch, twitch, or semi- stiffy for good old Max.”
“Charming,” she said as Baby crunched away on his breakfast bar.
“I’m a charming guy.” He managed half a smile and looked down the galley to the salon.
Right, and she was a natural size two. “Is the radio working?”
His quiet laughter was her answer, then he asked a question of his own. “Does this yacht belong to you?” he wanted to know.
“No.”
“Boyfriend’s?”
“No.”
He returned his gaze to her. “Why don’t you tell me who provided me with their yacht?”
“Why should I tell you anything?”
He folded his arms across his big chest and leaned his behind into the edge of the counter. “If I know who holds the owner’s papers, I can probably tell you how soon you’re likely to be rescued.”
“Mel Thatch,” she answered without hesitation. “He owns Dolphin Cay, the island where I’ve been vacationing.”
He studied her face. “Never heard of him. Is he somebody famous?”
“No.”
“Anyone sitting on Dolphin Cay waiting for you? A Kennedy, Rockefeller, or crusty old billionaire?”
She’d never dated a crusty old billionaire. “No. I’m not seeing anyone at the moment.”
He straightened and it was his turn to raise a dubious brow over his good eye. “You’re on vacation alone?”
“No, I’m with Baby,” she answered. “How long before someone finds us?”
“Hard to say. I’m sure the yacht’s been reported stolen by now, but the thing is, yachts are stolen all the time, or sunk for insurance money. The Coast Guard will search, but no one will get real worked up about it. Except the owner, of course, but he’s probably already called his insurance company. And he won’t feel real bad, since he’s likely to get more for it than it’s worth, especially since this boat has been neglected and seen better days.”
Her gaze narrowed. “How long?”
He shrugged. “I can’t say.”
“You told me you could!”
“If you were dating a congressman or somebody with connections, the search would be intensified and the chances of a quick rescue more likely. But the fact is, I’m sure they’re trying to figure out your connection in this. Whether you were taken against your will or not. I can tell you that no one will rule out the latter just because you’re a famous underwear model.” He took a bite of his granola bar and slowly chewed.
She wasn’t a famous underwear model any longer, but she didn’t bother to enlighten him. And no one in his right mind would believe she’d stolen a yacht. “What about you? Won’t someone be looking for you? A wife? Family?”
“No,” he was all he said before he stuck the box of granola bars under one arm and walked out of the galley.
Obviously, he didn’t want her to know anything about him, and that was fine by Lola. She really didn’t want to know any more about him than she already did. He was a thief and someone hated him enough to beat him up. That was enough info for her. She had more important concerns. Namely, finding a way home.
She scooted from behind the table and slid the knife and scabbard beneath her underwear at her hip. The elastic kept it in place. She grabbed her sunglasses with the light blue lenses and a pony-tail holder from her purse. She went in search of a pair of binoculars and found them in a cabinet in the salon. In the emergency kit she’d discovered last night, she found a mirror, an orange flag, and a whistle. Of course, the aerial flares were still there but were useless to her now. She grabbed the three items from the box and headed outside. Max had lifted the hatch to the engine room, but she spared him only a glance as she headed down the foot-wide gunnel to the bow of the boat, Baby hurrying behind her.
Years ago, as part of her recovery from bulimia, she’d had to learn that she couldn’t control everything all the time. She’d learned the difference between controlling her disorder and letting it control her. It had taken a long time to recognize the difference, but it was a lesson that she used in every aspect of her life.
Lola could not control the currents nor the direction of the wind, but she would not just sit around and wait to be rescued. She had a life waiting for her. A life she loved and had worked hard to achieve. She had a business to run and a private detective to hire. She’d be damned if she’d just sit around and tweedle her thumbs with “good old Max.”
A stingy breeze touched Max’s cheeks as he raised his head out of the engine room and glanced toward the bow of the boat. He leaned to the left and looked down the gunnel. She was still at it. Still sitting at the tip of the bow, her legs dangling over the side, staring through a pair of binoculars, searching for a rescue vessel with her signal mirror in one hand. Even though Max had no way of telling time, he figured she’d been at it for about three hours. He could have told her that using a signaling mirror in the ocean was futile and pretty much a waste of time and energy.
First off, if anyone was looking for them, they wouldn’t know where to begin the search. Second, a mirror worked in the desert, not on the ocean. And third, most survivors reported seeing between seven and twenty vessels before they were actually rescued. If another vessel was out there, they’d think the refraction of the mirror came from the sun hitting the surface of the water. But he didn’t bother telling her anything because he liked her on the opposite end of the yacht. Away from him. Busy with something pointless and safe.
It wasn’t likely he and Lola would be rescued today. Probably not tomorrow, either. Which suited Max just fine. He needed time for his body to heal, and the last thing he wanted was a distress beacon or flare signaling his position to every Tom, Dick, or drug lord in the area.
The sun beat down on his shoulders and he grabbed a fistful of his black T-shirt and pulled it over his head. The humidity was so thick he could cut it with his hand, and using his shirt, he rubbed the moisture from his neck and chest, then he tossed the shirt onto the deck.
As he’d lain awake in bed last night, he’d gone over every exigency scenario in his mind. When he’d risen with the sun, he’d discovered that what he’d fear the night before was realized: They were dead in the water.
He’d found the circuit breakers that had tripped due to the fire, and he’d switched them back on. Until the diesel fuel ran out, the engines and generators were operable and would provide electricity throughout the yacht. But even though the engines were operable, without a way to navigate or control the speed and direction of the craft they were useless except to provide power inside the cabin. The water tanks were filled to half capacity, and
