ola 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.

This wasn’t real. This wasn’t happening to her. She was Lola Carlyle and this wasn’t her life. She was on mental health vacation. In fact, she was leaving tomorrow to go home. She had to get home.

This was crazy and had to be a dream. Yes, that had to be it. Earlier, she’d boarded one last “snack and swizzle” tour of Nassau and had fallen asleep in the yacht’s stateroom, and now she was having a nightmare starring a demented madman. Any moment she would awake and thank God that it was all just a dream.

Through the darkness, the empty fire extinguisher sailed through the air and hit the helm. It bounced, then got stuck in the burned hole.

“What’s next? Napalm hidden in your underwear?” asked the all-too-real madman behind her, the anger in his voice slicing through the night air that separated them.

Lola looked over her shoulder at the moonlight touching his bruised and battered face. She’d expected to be murdered and turned into fish bait. When he’d tied her up, she’d been more afraid than she’d ever been in her life. Fear had sat on her chest and squeezed the breath from her lungs. She’d been so certain that he’d hurt her then kill her. Now she was too numb to feel anything at all.

“If I did have napalm, you’d be barbeque,” she said before she thought better of it. Then her self-preservation kicked in and she took a few steps back.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that, sweetheart.” He moved toward her and reached behind his back. “Here.” He pulled out a knife encased in a fawn leather scabbard and grabbed her free hand. She flinched when he slapped it in her palm. “If you want to put me out of my misery,” he said, “use this. It’ll be quicker and less painful.” Slowly he moved to what until a few minutes ago had been the doorway, but now was just a metal frame and a bit of burned canvas flapping in the breeze. She heard him suck in a breath before he continued down the stairs.

At the first hint of flames, Baby had tucked his stubby tail between his stubby legs and headed for safer quarters. She’d run for cover too, or rather crawled across the floor and down the stairs. She’d stood on the aft deck below as the madman named Max had battled the flames. She’d watched, incredulous, as pieces of burning canvas floated away on the breeze.

The galley door slammed and echoed into the night. Then all was silent again, the soft lapping of waves against the side of the boat the only sound in the absolute stillness. She looked about her, out at the darkness. Out at nothing, feeling like one of those hurricane survivors she always saw on the news. Wild-haired, vacant-eyed, and numb. Her mind hardly grasping the reality of her situation, that she stood somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean, aboard a disabled boat, wearing nothing but her underwear and white blouse, while a clearly deranged man slept below her feet.

Lola turned for the doorway and made her way down the stairs. The whole evening was surreal, like being trapped in a Salvador Dali painting. Warped and twisted and leaving her looking around and thinking, What is this? She shone her light on the aft deck, and her footsteps slowed as she moved into the galley.

“Baby,” she whispered, and found him on the bench seat behind the table, awake and frightened and curled up on the pashmina she’d discarded earlier that day. By degrees, as if she expected the bogeyman to jump out at her, she shone the small beam of light down the galley and salon. Through the doorway to the stateroom, the beam moved across the thick blue carpet to the edge of the striped bedspread. She shone the flashlight up the spread and stopped it on the soles of a pair of black boots. At the sight of them, the fear she’d felt all evening rushed across her flesh, and she snapped the light off.

“Baby,” she whispered once again, and leaning forward, she felt around on the bench seat. She switched the knife she held to the same hand gripping the flashlight. Her fingers brushed the pashmina, and she scooped it up, along with her dog wrapped inside. Through the black galley, she walked as silently as possible until she once again stood on the aft deck. She moved to the same spot where she’d sat hours before, sipping wine with the other passengers of the yacht and listening to the owner’s pirate stories. The cool vinyl of the wraparound seat chilled the backs of her thighs as she sat, and she tucked her feet beneath her.

Baby licked her cheek as she fought back tears and tried not to cry. Lola hated crying. She hated being afraid and feeling helpless, but the tears leaked from her eyes before she could stop them.

Baby hadn’t been afraid. He’d been brave and fierce, but for the first time since she’d picked him up from the breeder’s a year ago, she wished him to be a rottweiler. A big mean rottweiler that could tear off a man’s arms. Or balls.

Lola brushed her tears away and thought of the box of aerial flares she’d found in the stateroom. They were useless now. The gun melted in the fire. But even if the gun hadn’t melted, she wasn’t brave enough to walk in that room and recover them. Not with Mad Max lying on the bed beside them.

He’d said he was a lieutenant commander, but she didn’t really believe him. He could have made it up. More than likely he was one of those modern-day pirates the owner of the yacht, Mel Thatch, had told them all about.

Lola unfolded the pashmina and wrapped it around herself and her dog. She stared up at the burned remains of the bridge and the stars dotting the sky, so compact in some places they appeared crammed one on top of another.

Her hand tightened around the knife he’d given her. For a criminal, it seemed like a stupid thing to do, but he obviously didn’t consider her a threat. He didn’t think she’d use it on him, and he was probably right. It was one thing to shoot a man with a flare gun or defend yourself while in the heat of battle, quite another to sneak into his bed and cut his throat while he slept.

More than likely, he’d slapped the knife in her palm because he knew he could overpower her as he had all night. She could still almost feel his grasp on her wrists and the solid wall of him pressed against her back. The man was hard muscles and brute strength and she was no match for him. The second he’d grasped her wrists and held her against his chest, she’d known that he could do anything he wanted to her, and there was absolutely nothing she could do to stop him.

After he’d let her go the first time, she’d stood in the shadows, waiting for him to come after her. To subject her to every woman’s nightmare. To come after her and tear at her clothes and hold her down and rape her. There had never been any question that she would fight him. Never a question that she would defend herself and protect Baby.

She hadn’t gotten where she was in life by being passive. She hadn’t survived a business that fed off the bodies of young starry-eyed girls by submitting to men. And she hadn’t left that business to start her own mail order lingerie company by sitting on her hands. For most of her life, she’d battled demons of one sort or another, but when Max had held her down and tied her up with her own skirt, she’d thought for sure she would not survive this time. She’d been certain he would rape her and kill her and throw her and poor Baby overboard as he’d threatened. But he hadn’t. She was still alive long after she’d expected to be dead. A sob passed her lips and she pressed shaky fingers to her mouth.

Her gaze lowered from the stars overhead to the burned-out bridge. She’d realized when he’d first grabbed her that if she were to survive the night, she needed a weapon. Preferably a.357 magnum, just like her granddaddy Milton’s. She’d had to make do with the flare gun, and now that it was over, she wondered if she really would have shot him like Nicole Kidman had shot Billy Zane in the movie Dead Calm.

Now that the worst was over, her hands shook and images rushed at her. Pieces of this and splices of that. Of she and Baby boarding the yacht for one last “snack and swizzle” and perhaps doing a bit too much swizzling and not enough snacking. Lying down and waking up a bit disoriented and then finding a crazy man at the captain’s helm. The sight of him standing at the controls, Baby barking furiously at his feet. Being tied up with her own skirt. Finding the flare gun. The shock of his beaten face.

Lola stretched out on her side on the bench seat and hugged Baby to her chest. Her wineglass still rested on the deck from where she’d set it earlier, before she’d slipped into the stateroom to rest. She wondered if the Thatches had yet discovered that their yacht was missing. She doubted it, because although this nightmare felt as if it had already lasted several lifetimes, it was probably only now approaching one a.m. The Thatches wouldn’t even return to the harbor for another hour. She wondered how long it would take before they realized that she was missing, too. Before anyone started to look for her. Before her family was told she was missing.

If no one at her company—Lola Wear, Inc.— heard from her, they wouldn’t really think much about it. They’d just think she was taking a longer-than-anticipated break. For a while, they’d just continue as usual with the business she’d started two years ago. They’d probably carry on just fine without her, but none of that mattered as the reality of her situation sank deeper into the pit of her stomach.

There was no way off the boat. At least not tonight. There was probably a life raft somewhere, but she wasn’t so stupid or irrational that she would leave a forty-seven-foot yacht in the middle of the night in favor of a rubber dingy. Even if the yacht did come with a crazy man. She was stuck, and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. There was no way off the boat. No way out. For the first time that night, she was truly helpless.

She was at the mercy of the currents and a kidnapping pirate.

Lola woke with the sun warming her left cheek. For a moment she forgot where she was and almost rolled off the bench seat. She opened her eyes to the blinding Caribbean sun and rolled onto her back. Disoriented, she shut her eyes for a moment before everything came back to her in one horrifying blast. The fear and helplessness grabbed at her stomach, and she abruptly sat up. She looked down at her blouse twisted around her waist; her pashmina covered one of her bare legs before trailing to the deck. Lola glanced through the open door of the galley as she sat up and pulled the ends of the red cashmere wrap around her hips. Her flashlight lay on the seat, but the knife was gone. She glanced around for Baby and didn’t see him. She didn’t see Max, either, but she heard him.

“Goddamn!” he swore from the direction of the bridge. A mixture of Spanish and English cursing peppered the still morning air. Lola didn’t speak Spanish, but she didn’t need too. His tirade was followed by a series of whacks, as if he were hitting hardwood with a hammer.

Lola rose and slipped into the galley. Morning light poured in through the tinted windows, and she found her Louis Vuitton purse on the table just as it had been the night before when she’d come in here searching for a weapon—everything inside was dumped out.

The thumping continued, and she rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. Not only had the jerk kidnapped her, he’d gone through her things. Within the mess on the table, she found a safety pin and pinned her pashmina together above her left hip. She took down her hair from the night before, then snagged her brush before shoving everything back into her bag.

As she brushed the tangles from her hair, she walked through the salon and into the stateroom, quietly whistling for Baby. Patches of light landed on the rumpled bedspread and across the blue carpet. Lola looked inside the master bathroom, at the big spa tub and tarnished brass fixtures. She checked in the closet and found a few men’s shirts printed with palm trees and flamingos hanging inside along with a few tropical print sundresses, but she didn’t find her dog.

She tossed the hairbrush on the couch as she moved back through the salon. Since Baby wasn’t inside the boat, he had to be outside, and if he wasn’t outside... Her thoughts were interrupted by one final whack above her head, and she raced to the aft deck. If he hurt her dog, she’d kill him.

She climbed the stairs to the bridge two at a time, then came to a complete halt at the sight that greeted her eyes. The helm looked much worse in the light of day, black and melted, with a big hole in the center. Baby sat in the middle of the deck, so rigid he looked like he was stuffed, staring down the enemy, who sat with his back against the gunwale, his black boots spread wide, his forearms resting on his knees, and a wrench held loosely in one hand.

It was a sad fact of Baby Doll’s life that he was compelled beyond his control to take on the biggest dog. No matter size or breed. He’d obviously decided to take on Max, and the two males were locked in a staring contest, neither moving. A light breeze didn’t so much as muss Max’s short black hair or ruffle Baby’s brown fur.

“Your dog took a crap in the corner,” Max said, his voice as raspy as she remembered. He turned his attention to her, and for the first time she got a really good look at him. In the light of day, he didn’t appear much better than he had last night.

Some of the swelling in his face had gone down, but it was still puffy and very black and blue. He was only slightly less scary.

“I’m sure he couldn’t help it,” she said, determined not to show her fear. She glanced about the bridge but didn’t see a dog mess.

“I cleaned it up. But from now on, that’s your job.”

She returned her gaze to his and noticed that his eyes were blue. The same light blue of the Caribbean waves just before they hit the beach. Given his dark complexion and hair, not to mention his bruises, they were a startling contrast.

“I don’t like worthless dogs,” he said. “And yours is as about worthless as they come.”

“You’re a thief and a kidnapper, and you’re calling a little dog worthless?”

“I told you last night that I commandeered the yacht, and you aren’t kidnapped.”

Lola shrugged. “That’s what you say, but here I am. Taken against my will on a boat that doesn’t belong to you. I don’t know where you’re from, but I think in most countries around the world, that’s against the law.”

He reached behind him and grabbed the top of the gunwale. As he struggled to his feet, Lola took a cautious step back. “If you hadn’t set the helm on fire, you’d be in Florida right now all safe and cozy, with nothing more to worry about than what to order for breakfast. Or you’d be on your way to Washington, where at least one general would be kissing your ass and apologizing on the behalf of the U.S. of A. Instead you had to get hysterical and fuck things up.”

“Me!”

“Now I’m stuck in the Bermuda Triangle during hurricane season with an underwear model and a wussy dog.”

He made it sound as if the whole situation was her fault. Anger replaced her fear and she pointed a finger at him. “Now, just a minute. None of this is my fault. I was asleep when you snuck aboard and ‘commandeered’ Baby and me.”

“Probably more like passed out. I made enough noise to wake the dead.” He made a sound, half grunt, half groan, and pressed a hand to his side.

“I wasn’t passed out. I was very tired,” she defended herself, although she didn’t know why she bothered, since she really didn’t care what he thought.

“And you aren’t commandeered. The yacht was commandeered. You weren’t supposed to be here.” She opened her mouth to argue, but he interrupted her before she could speak. “And you aren’t kidnapped, either.”

“Than what am I?”

He shook his head. “Offhand, I’d say you’re a real pain in the ass.”

Baby, having finally given up on the stare-down, scrambled over to Lola and she picked him up. She didn’t even bother with a reply, and instead turned on her heels and left him alone on the bridge. She had more important concerns than arguing with a deranged kidnapper.

There had to be a way to signal a rescue vessel, she thought as she entered the galley and dug around until she found a box of granola bars in one of the cabinets. She chose honey nut for herself, cinnamon crunch for Baby, and slid behind the dinette table. She would have killed for a cup of coffee, and once again thought of the knife in the buckskin-colored sheath. He must have taken it from her while she slept. She wanted it to back. As she polished off her breakfast, Max entered the galley, seemingly filling the space with his broad shoulders and dark energy. “Do you have my knife?” she asked.

“Yep.” He tore into the box of granola bars and added, “I took it back.”

“I need it.”

He ripped open a honey nut and raisin and looked at her. “Why?”

“I just do.”

“Are you going to stab me in the back while I’m not looking?”

“No.”

His blue eyes stared into hers as he reached behind him and pulled the knife from the waistband of his pants. “Sure you won’t,” he said, and took a step toward her. She sank back into the seat cushions as he set the knife on the table.

“You can stop that.”

“What?”

“Jumping like I’m going to attack you.”

“I’m not.” But she knew she was, he frightened her, no doubt about it. She estimated him to be at least six-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 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. “Where were you that you had such bad timing?”

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.

He sat on the bench seat where he’d seen Lola sleeping that morning and slowly leaned forward. He took as deep a breath as possible, then held it as he untied one boot and then the other. The night before, he’d wondered if there’d been some underhanded government plan to get rid of him. Now that he’d had time to think it over, he didn’t believe that to be the case. With every job, there were always a dozen or so things that could go wrong at any given time. It was Murphy’s Law, and last night, Murphy’s Law had ruled from the very beginning.

Max had first recognized it when his flight to Nassau had been delayed an hour and he’d missed his contact within the local DEA. No problem, he still had fresh intel, less than twenty-four hours old, locked away in his brain.

From the moment he’d set foot on Nassau the assignment had gone straight to hell, and he should have aborted right then, but he couldn’t.

He was Max Zamora, and the one thing that made him so good at what he did was the one thing that had almost cost him his life this time. He hated failure. He’d only failed once in his life, and he took it personally.

That hatred was also the one thing that made him the perfect government operative. That and the fact that he had no family, and when he wasn’t covert he lived a fairly normal life.

Lieutenant Commander Maximilian Javier Gunner Zamora was officially listed as retired from the United States Navy. He’d been a member of SEAL Team Six, and after the team had been disbanded in the mid-1990s, he’d been recruited by the Navy’s Special Warfare Development Group.

Currently, he was self-employed as a security consultant. Max’s firm, Z Security, was very much a legitimate company and was more than something he did when he wasn’t covert. He’d built it from the ground up and employed retired SEALs to work for him. He and his men instructed major corporations on how to tighten their security against guys like them. Guys who found ways to walk into secure installations.

He unpinned the elastic bandage around his abdomen and took it off. He pressed his fingers against his sixth and seventh ribs and sucked in his breath. Pain was good, he reminded himself. Pain let him know he was alive. Today he was very much alive, but he’d certainly lived through worse. Freezing his balls off and getting shot at in the North Sea while clinging to an ice-covered oil rig came to mind. Now, that was Max’s version of hell, and he was certain when he did eventually die, that was where he’d play out eternity. In comparison, sitting aboard a disabled forty-seven-foot yacht with a few cracked ribs, a pain-in-the-ass underwear model and her pain-in-the-ass dog wasn’t so bad. In fact, a little Caribbean vacation might be just what he needed.