Max figured that if they conserved fuel and water, they had enough to last about thirty days. After that, things would get dicey.
The navigational and communication systems had been destroyed beyond repair. That morning, he’d taken one look at the melted fiberglass and plastic and electrical components, and he’d known that there was nothing that he could do to get the systems up and running.
The ocean current was pushing them in a northwesterly direction at what Max estimated to be about two and a half knots, or a whopping three miles an hour. At their current rate of speed and direction, they would drift close enough to one of the Bimini Islands to be spotted by sports fishermen. Hopefully, in just a few days, nice friendly fishermen would see them and take them to the nearest harbor.
Unless, of course, the wind blew them south, in which case they might end up in Cuban waters. Max looked up at the clear sky, at the few straggling cumulus clouds. It had been a while since he’d enjoyed a Cohiba cigar.
He really wasn’t worried about dying at sea. Barring a storm or accident-which, given what had taken place the night before, wasn’t an unrealistic consideration-every floating vessel reached land or was discovered at sea. The only question was, how long would it take?
When he’d risen, he’d gone through every cupboard, cabinet, closet, and storage compartment. He’d found fishing equipment, nonperishable food, clothing, an electric razor, and a box of condoms-ultra-thin. Medium. What he hadn’t found was a spare radio or any communications equipment. There were no weapons on board, either, which made him vulnerable and jumpy and reinforced his belief that laying low was his best option at the moment.
While Ms. Carlyle had snoozed on the aft deck, one long leg exposed from hip to toe, he’d search for the Emergency Positioning Radio Beacon. He’d needed to find it before she did. He’d planned to dismantle it until he felt the time was right to use it-if ever. The EPRB was bolted to the side of the yacht where it was supposed to be, but when he’d opened it, he’d discovered the batteries were not only old but corroded, rendering it useless.
He’d looked in the survival kit for fresh batteries, but they hadn’t been changed since the kit had been purchased in 1989. Needless to say, they were all dead also.
He hadn’t lied to Lola earlier when he’d told her he didn’t know if anyone was looking for him. By now the Pentagon knew he was missing, and they would also know that a yacht was missing out of Nassau Harbor. Whether they connected the two would be conjecture on his part. And if they did suspect him of commandeering the yacht, they were more likely to wait for him to come in than to come looking for him. At least for now.
Andre Cosella was a different story. He would be looking. The big man wouldn’t know where to search, but he’d be looking. That was the problem with drug lords, they weren’t happy when you had to kill their son. If Andre found Max, it would get real nasty, and Lola was better off not knowing about that. She’d sleep better at night if her biggest concern was how to use the signal mirror.
The click-click-click of toenails on fiberglass drew his attention to the starboard gunnel. That pain-in-the-butt dog moved toward him, probably wanting a rematch of their staring contest. The sun caught on the silver spikes on his collar as he came to sit by the engine room hatch. They were on eye level with each other, and Max wondered if he could get the little rat to chase an imaginary stick off the side of the yacht. Splash. Good-bye.
Baby Doll Carlyle again assumed a position like he was freeze-dried, definitely spoiling for another pissing match. The dog had won the previous stare-down, and Max told himself it was only out of sheer boredom that he locked eyes with the poor excuse now.
A good ten minutes later, Max saw one of the dog’s brows twitch, and he figured he was wearing him down. “I crap bigger than you-boy,” he growled in his best impression of a SEAL instructor.
“Charming.”
Max glanced up at Lola standing above him, up past her feet and calves and the red wrap she’d pinned around her waist. Up the buttons of her white blouse, past her breasts to the hollow of her throat. The blue Caribbean sky framed her face and matched the blue-tinted lenses of her sunglasses. All traces of the makeup she’d worn the night before were gone. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat and sun, strands of her hair were stuck to the side of her neck, the rest pulled back in a limp ponytail. She was absolutely gorgeous, and the dip at the corners of her mouth told him she thought he was an idiot. Which was better than the way she’d looked at him that morning, like he was a rapist.
“I told you, I’m a charming guy.”
“So was Ted Bundy.”
He hadn’t been far off in his assumption of her opinion of him. Not that he cared-not even a little. But the way she jumped when he did nothing more than look at her, the fact that she stepped back or sank deeper into her seat and her eyes got big as if she were waiting for him to attack her, did bug the hell out of him.
“The generators and engines are working,” he said, and climbed up out of the engine room. He ignored the pain in his side as he shut the hatch. “We have to conserve fuel, so I’m only going to turn them on at night for a couple of hours, or during the day only if you have to use the head.”
She didn’t say a word and he turned toward her. Her gaze was directed at the bandage around his ribs and the deep red and blue bruises the wrap didn’t cover.
“Someone beat you up pretty good,” she said. “What were you caught doing, raping and pillaging?”
“Nothing that much fun, I’m afraid. I just overstayed my welcome.” When she raised her gaze back to his, he added, “A case of bad timing and lousy luck.”
“I know what you mean,” she uttered, and he figured she did. “
He looked past the lenses of her blue sunglasses, into the sexy-as-hell tilt of her famous eyes. The rich brown color reminded him of a bottle of Macallan scotch, smooth, slightly smoky, and very expensive. A taste to be savored all the way down, and old enough to warm him up inside.
Old enough to know what she was involved in, too, and looking at her, he changed his mind about keeping her in the dark. He decided to fill her in, not all of it, but enough. “Have you ever heard of Andre Cosella?”
“No.”
“He’s the head of the Cosella drug cartel and has been smuggling cocaine into the United States through the Bahamas.”
“Are you a member of a drug cartel?”
He studied her face, and damn if she wasn’t serious. “Hell, no.”
“Are these drug people looking for you?”
“It’s likely.”
She folded her arms beneath her breasts and cocked her head to one side. “Why?”
Max decided to give her the short version. “Because I was caught on their compound without a party invitation.”
“And?”
“And they didn’t appreciate my company.”
“I’m sure you’re used to that.” She licked her lips and drew Max’s attention to her full mouth. “But there has to be more.”
Sunlight caught on the moisture of her bottom lip and glistened for a few brief seconds. Max wondered what she’d taste like, right there on that tender spot. If she’d taste as soft and as sexy as she looked. He forced his gaze up and his mind off kissing Lola Carlyle. “Andre Cosella’s oldest son was killed.”
She unfolded her arms, and he expected her to ask him if he’d been the one to kill Jose. “Is there fresh water?” she asked instead. She was obviously smart enough to understand the situation without being told.
Either that or she was too dumb to catch on.
“I filled a pitcher earlier and put it in the refrigerator,” he told her. “It should still be cool.”
She turned to leave, then stopped and looked back at him over her shoulder, her big brown eyes staring at him through those blue lenses. “I suppose there isn’t enough water for showers.”
“Nope. You’ll have to bathe in the ocean.” He heard her long-suffering sigh and watched the sway of her hips as she moved into the galley, that red shawl brushing the backs of her knees.
Just like in all the magazines and billboards and television commercials he’d ever seen her in, everything from the top of her blond head to the polish on her toenails, teased and hinted of hot sweaty sex. As her dumb dog trailed after her, Max wondered if she’d be brave enough to strip off her clothes and jump in the ocean in front of him. It seemed the least she could do after starting the yacht on fire and stranding him in the Atlantic.
