She’d pulled her hair through the back of a baseball cap she’d found somewhere, and in her hands she held a fishing pole. On the end of the sturdy line, she tied two jigs several feet apart, then she cast them over the side of the yacht. She let the line play out about ten seconds before she flipped a lever on the side of the reel and stopped it.
He looked up into her profile, her narrowed eyes behind the blue lenses of her sunglasses, and the pinched determination at the corners of her mouth. Obviously, she was thinking of outfishing him, and Max would rather bite off his own tongue than admit that it might not take much to succeed. Lola pulled the end of her pole back, then let it drop down again, and he imagined that somewhere in the water below, her jig bobbed up and down, attracting the attention of unsuspecting cod or snapper or whatever was down there.
Without appearing too obvious, he reeled in his line. Slow and easy, until the lure hit the side of the yacht and popped up over the gunwale.
“Catch anything?” she asked, although it was pretty damn obvious he hadn’t.
“Just a few nibbles.” He rose from his chair and moved to the tackle box.
She raised the end of her pole, then lowered it again, and gave him an all-knowing, “Ahh.” Followed by, “Need some pointers?”
“Nope.” He cut the lure from the end of his line and dug around for something that looked like one of those jigs she’d tied on the end of hers. “But if I need some tips on how to make a bra, I’ll keep you in mind.” Despite being one hell of a caster, Max had caught exactly two lake trout in his life. Twenty minutes ago, he hadn’t been real worried about catching anything. The yacht was stocked with enough provisions to last a while yet, but she’d just issued an unspoken challenge and there was absolutely no way Max would be outfished by a girl. Especially such a girly girl.
He was a man. A meat eater. She used to model bikinis and had a little yapper dog. He’d been a member of SEAL Team Six when they’d secured Manuel Noriega, Pablo Escobar, and another half dozen dictators and drug lords. He’d been in on the planning and recovery of Haitian President Jean Bertrand Aristide, and when Six had been disbanded, he’d been recruited by the Navy’s Special Warfare Development Group to head a counterterrorist assault team. She designed panties. How hard could it be to catch a bigger fish than Lola Carlyle?
Max cast the jig over the side of the yacht and stopped it once he figured he’d let out enough line. His skivvies were just about dry, and he stuck the end of the pole into the holder. He moved through the galley to the stateroom, where he tucked himself into the shorts he’d worn the day before. For breakfast he grabbed some grapes and what was left of the granola bars, then headed back outside.
At the sound of his approach, both Lola and her dog glanced back at him. The breeze picked up the end of her ponytail and played with the hem of that shawl she was wearing as a skirt. While she continued to man her post, bobbing the end of her pole up and down, her dog hopped off the bench seat. Baby followed Max to his chair, and when he sat, the dog jumped up into his lap.
“Hey, now,” he said, and moved the dog to his left thigh. He dug out a few granola bars and tossed one to Lola. Then he unwrapped a honey and oat and fed a piece to her dog. He hated to see anything starve. Even the poor excuse sitting on his thigh.
“Didn’t you tell me yesterday that you were in Nassau on government business?”
He looked up as Lola took a bite of her breakfast. “Yep,” he answered.
With the blue Atlantic rolling beyond her, lightly rocking the yacht, she continued her inquisition. “But today you said you were forced to retire from the Navy.”
“That’s right.” Baby crunched and chewed and yipped for more. “The Navy retired me four years ago.”
She shoved the butt end of her pole into a holder, then turned to face him. “How is that possible? If the Navy gave you a choice of retirement or prison. How is it that you still work for them?”
Max set the dog on the deck and gave him a big chunk of granola. Baby quickly chomped it down, then jumped up on the bench seat and prepared for a nice nap. His morning excursion in the ocean had finally taken its toll. “Your dog has a garbage gut.”
“My dog has a name.”
“Yeah, and it’s an embarrassment to him, too,” he said, even though the little mutt was kind of growing on him. Still, the name was downright stupid, and there was no way he was going to say it out loud. Not even if someone threatened another beating or another round of torture.
“You’re avoiding my question.”
“Not avoiding, just not answering.”
“Are you some sort of spy?”
“No. I don’t work for the CIA.”
The brim of her cap cast a shadow across the top half of her sunglasses. “Are you one of those covert guys?”
“You watch too much television.”
“And you change the subject every time I ask you a question.”
“Not every time. Just when you ask a question I can’t answer.”
“You mean won’t.”
“Can’t and won’t.”
She polished off her granola bar before she continued, “Are you married?”
“No.”
“Divorced?”
“No.”
“Trick some woman into being your girlfriend?”
“I already told you, I don’t get romantically involved.”
“That’s right. Why?”
“What’s with all the questions?”
She moved a few steps closer and motioned for him to pass her some grapes. “I lost my binoculars and mirror in the ocean, and now there’s nothing to do but fish. I’m bored, and since you kidnapped me, the least you can do is give me something to think about besides how I’m likely to die out here.”
Max placed a bunch of grapes in her outstretched hand and ran his gaze up her smooth wrist to where she’d rolled up the sleeves of her blouse to just below her elbow. “I didn’t kidnap you, and there is enough food and power to last awhile yet, so you aren’t likely to die anytime soon.”
“Maybe of boredom. I’m used to staying busy, and I need a diversion.”
Max watched her place a grape between her lips and suck it into her mouth. “What did you have in mind?” he asked, although he was sure he could come up with a few good diversions himself. Ways of “staying busy” that had nothing to do with talking and everything to do with the way she sucked grapes. He wished she’d never told him she was a Linda Lovelace impersonator.
“Tell me about yourself,” she said, then sucked one more into her mouth before she turned her attention back to her fishing pole.
Max rose from the chair a little too fast and set his teeth against the pain in his side. He grabbed his fishing pole and turned his back on Lola, the sudden bulge in his tight shorts plainly advertising the fact that he’d tucked to the left. She’d probably accuse him of wanting to get
“Have you ever been married?”
“No.”
“Ever close?”
“Never.”
“Why?”
“Never found a woman who made me want to think long-term.”
She was silent a moment before she said, “Maybe you have a commitment phobia.”
Max would have loved to have been given a dollar for every time he’d heard that. It seemed to be a universal subject among women, as if they were born with it imprinted in their brains. “Maybe I like my life the way it is.” Lack of commitment was not one of his favorite topics, but it did cool his desire. “How many times have you been engaged?”
