he sun overhead had yet to reach midday, but it warmed Lola’s back and arms. She finished washing her feet and legs, then she dug around in her Louis Vuitton bag and pulled out a small compact. She stared into the small mirror and gazed at her reflection, one-quarter of her face at a time. She looked like hell and searched in her bag again until she found her essentials. A pair of tweezers, a small bottle of Estee Lauder face lotion, mascara, blusher, and a tube of pink lip gloss. As she plucked several stray hairs from the perfect arch of her brows, she told herself that she wasn’t primping for Max.

That’s what she told herself, but she wasn’t very convincing. Not when just the simple thought of his kisses sent tingles down her spine and brought warmth to her cheeks, as if she were sixteen again and had a crush on Taylor Joe McGraw, captain of the basketball team.

Taylor Joe hadn’t known she was alive, but Max did. He let her know each time he looked at her.

From about the age of fourteen she’d noticed boys and, as she got older, men, looking at her. But Max was different. What she saw in his eyes was deeper. Darker, like the pull of something sinful and forbidden, and Lola had always had a weakness for sinful things.

She brushed mascara on her lashes until they looked long and feathery, then applied her blusher and lip gloss. Once she finished with her cosmetics, she put them away and looked out across the blue hole at the pines and tall grasses. A bug flew in front of her face and she swiped it away. She was certain today was Tuesday, but so much had happened since Saturday night, it felt as if a month had passed.

Baby barked at two dragonflies and would have fallen in the water if she hadn’t grabbed him. She quickly glanced up at the sun overhead. It seemed to her that an hour had passed, and still no Max. She got up and moved their things from the buggy shore and found a nice place behind dense shrubbery and directly beneath a scrub pine. She spread her pashmina on the ground and she and Baby sat and ate crackers and cheese.

For the first time in several days, she was alone with only her dog. And without Max by her side, promising he’d make sure she returned home, she began to envision a life stuck on this island. A steady diet of reptiles and fish. The three of them growing old and crazy, Max looking as bad as Tom Hanks in Cast Away. Her looking like Ginger on Gilligan’s Island.

Her heart fluttered in her chest, and she had to battle back the panic that threatened to pull her under. She hadn’t even been missing a week yet. If anyone was looking for her, and she was sure her family was, she figured she had at least a few more days before a search would be scaled back. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Forcing the panic to the recesses of her mind.

When her nerves somewhat settled, she wondered what was taking Max so long. Her mind raced from one distressing scenario to another. She worried that he’d broken his leg or fallen off a cliff. She should have gone with him. What if he needed her?

Wait, she thought to herself, this was Max. A man who could take care of himself and anyone else he’d happened to commandeer. If he broke his leg, he’d just whittle himself a splint and get on with things.

She picked up Baby and scratched his chest. She’d known Max for such a short period of time, how had she come to know him so well? How had he become so important to her life? She’d never needed a man before. Wanted, yes. Needed, no.

If for some reason Max weren’t on the island, she and Baby could figure out how to build a fire and roast an iguana. So why did the thought of losing him give her palpitations? Why did it feel as if he were so important to her existence?

She looked down into her dog’s watery eyes and the answer shone back at her. Stockholm syndrome. Both she and Baby suffered from a bad case of it.

The brush behind her rustled and she looked over her shoulder. Baby let out three barks, then Max appeared through the foliage. “That’s not much of a watchdog,” he said as he stepped from the brush and moved to stand in front of her. A strange little glow warmed her next to her heart and traveled to the pit of her stomach.

As she looked up at him, she was almost embarrassed at how glad she was to see him. He reached for the bottom of his shirt and pulled it over his head, and the little glow spread across her flesh and tightened her breasts. He wiped the perspiration from his temples and rubbed the T-shirt across his chest. The fine black hair curled, and she stared, fascinated by a bead of sweat that slid down his belly to the waistband of his jeans.

“Did you find a beacon?” she asked, and looked away. She did not believe in love at first sight. Or second sight, or even after a few days. Especially if two of those days had been spent in fear of the object of her infatuation. Her sudden attraction to Max was illogical. It made no sense at all. But she supposed Stockholm syndrome did not make sense.

“No.”

That one word brought her gaze back to his. “What do we do now?”

“We build a huge fire. Somebody ought to see the smoke,” he answered. “On the west side there are quite a few birds’ nests,” he said, and let his eyes travel to her lips. “A few hundred probably.”

“What?” While she’d been worried sick about him, envisioning disaster, he’d been bird-watching? “While Baby and I have been sitting here, you were off counting birds?”

He lifted his gaze once more. “That’s not what I said.”

“Don’t you think that’s just a little bit inconsiderate?”

One brow lifted up his forehead. “What?”

She set Baby on the ground and crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “Did it even occur to you that Baby and I might be worried that something bad had happened to you?”

“No.” He tossed his shirt on the duffel bag, then knelt in front of her, one thick forearm resting across his thigh. The tree overhead shaded his face and bare shoulders. He wasn’t wearing a bandage around his ribs today, and the fading black and blue bruises were visible on his tan skin. “I don’t think your dog worries about much beyond his next meal.”

“That’s not true,” she defended Baby as he hopped up on the duffel, made three tight circles on Max’s shirt, then settled in for a nap. “He’s sensitive.”

Max shook his head. “You know what I think?”

“No.”

“I don’t think Baby was worried one little bit.”

“He was.”

“I think you were worried.”

She shrugged. “Well, there are a lot of bad things that could have happened to you.”

Smile lines appeared in the corners of his eyes. “Like what?”

“You could have tripped and broken your leg or fallen off a cliff.”

“Now, why would I do that?”

“You wouldn’t mean to,” she sighed, “but it could happen.”

“No, it couldn’t.” He brushed a lock of hair from her cheek and pushed it behind her ear. “Do you know what else I think? I think I like the idea of Lola Carlyle worrying about me.” He slid his knuckle along her jaw to her chin and she held her breath. “You look real pretty.”

Her voice sounded a little breathy when she confessed, “I plucked my eyebrows.”

“I didn’t notice your eyebrows.”

“And put on some lip gloss.”

His thumb brushed her bottom lip, then he dropped his hand to his side. “Now, that I noticed.” He sat and leaned his back against the tree, and she felt the acute absence of his touch. He brought his feet close to his behind and hung his wrist over his knee. The thin branch of a lignum vitae tree brushed his cheek, and he pushed away the thick green leaves and tiny purple flowers. “There’s a lot about you that I notice.”

“Like what?”

The vine hit his cheek again, and he pulled the fish knife from his boot and hacked it off. Then his eyes met hers once more as he returned the knife to his boot. He slid his gaze from the top of her head, paused a moment to examine the buttons closing her dress, then continued down her legs to her toes.

“That first night, I thought your toes were as sexy as hell.” He took a hold of her ankle and set her foot on the ground before him. “I couldn’t see shit for shinola, but I noticed your red polish.” He glanced up at her, then loosely wound the lignum vitae around her ankle as if she were a Polynesian dancer. The tips of his fingers brushed her bare skin, and she felt it at the back of her knee. “And when I was tying you up with your skirt, I noticed your pink panties.” He smiled and pulled off a few leaves as he twined the thin branch around itself. “I have a real fond memory of that.”

Lola did her best to suppress her reaction to his touch and to the sight of him, Max Zamora, snake eater, tying purple flowers around her ankle. But no matter how unwanted or confusing, the sudden butterflies in her stomach and the answering flutter next to her heart refused to go away or be ignored. “Funny, but my memories of that night aren’t so fond.”

He laughed. “Go figure.”

“Do you want to know what I thought about you that first night?”

“Honey, I think that flare gun pointed at my chest said it all.” He wrapped his hand around her lower calf and tugged. Before she knew how it happened, she was on her back and he was over her, his hands planted on the ground on each side of her head. “And despite you having tried to kill me, I want you more than I’ve ever wanted any other woman.” He lowered his face to hers. “But I think you know that,” he said right before he kissed her.

The touch of his naked mouth on hers instantly sent a ripple of desire across her skin. His lips gently pressed and coaxed. His tongue lightly caressed, and she let go and gave in to her hunger. Or perhaps, as with most of her dealings with Max, she really didn’t have a choice. He eased onto his side next to her and took his time exploring her mouth. Her lips parted further, and the kiss deepened into a lush fondling of mouths and tongues. He tasted of dark passion and the promise of explosive, curl-your-toes, head-banging-against-the-headboards sex.

The languid kiss seduced and teased until her every thought narrowed and focused on the liquid warmth of his mouth. Heat flushed her breasts and stomach and pooled between her thighs. She ran her hand up the taut flesh of his arms, over his shoulder, to the side of his neck. She slipped her fingers through his short fine hair and he groaned into her mouth.

Max pulled back from the kiss and looked up into her face. His harsh breath caressed her cheek as his blue eyes burned into her. The way Max stared at her, all dark intensity, made her feel beautiful and desired and alive with anticipation.

His gaze drifted past her mouth and chin to the front of her dress. A smile of appreciation curved the corners of his lips, and she looked down at herself, at the buttons lying open, exposing the tops of her breasts and her Cleavage Clicker bra. His quick smooth hands had been busy again, and she grasped the front of her dress.

He grabbed her wrist. “Just let me look at you,” he said, his voice rough. He buried his face in the side of her neck and whispered, “Please, Lola.” His lips brushed her skin, and then he opened his mouth and sucked the hollow of her throat.

He let go of her wrist and brushed his fingertips along the scalloped edge of her bra. “You’re so beautiful. So soft,” he said, and not being a man given to patience, he slid his hand beneath the lace cup and palmed her bare breast. “Everywhere,” he added, and took a deep shuddering breath as her nipple puckered to a hard, painful point against his palm. One of his knees parted hers and she brought his mouth back to hers. His tongue swept into her mouth, hot and wet and hungry. And without giving herself time to think better of it, she curled into him. He brought his knee between her thighs, and the feel of him against the thin layer of her lacy panties made her ache for more intimate contact. Of hot flesh to flesh. For his blatant erection pressing into her hip. The kiss turned ravenous, feeding, and so wonderful, it tore a drugged moan from her chest.

Max pulled back and looked into her face. His chest rose and fell, and he slid his gaze to his big hand on her breast. “Lola, if you’re going to stop me, do it now.”

She hadn’t really given a thought to stopping him, and she didn’t now. “I saw some condoms on the yacht,” she said as she slid her palm over each defined muscle of his chest and arm, down his belly, to his fly. He sucked in his breath as she flattened her palm against his rigid erection.

“Too small,” he said as he exhaled. “Are you on birth control?”

She’d had an IUD for five years and it had never failed her. “Yes,” she answered.

“Thank you, God.” Lust burned hot and vibrant in his eyes as he peeled back the cup of her bra and exposed her to his greedy gaze. He stared at her for several long seconds, then lowered his face to her breast and gave her nipple an open-mouthed kiss. His tongue licked and stroked and instantly drove her wild. With each hot pull of his mouth, the tension built between her legs.

Lola’s hand moved to his button fly and she tugged at it, but his hand on her wrist stopped her. He lifted his head, and a breeze blew across her heated skin and wet nipple. He stilled completely, then his gaze flew to the right.

“Max?”

He placed a finger to his lips.

Over the sound of her pounding heart and her shallow breathing, Lola heard it, too. In the distance, male voices rose in the still humid air. She reached for the front of her dress as Max rose to his knees. She knelt beside him and listened. From the other side of the blue hole, the voices blended together in a tangle of Spanish. Relief swelled within her like a balloon as she hurried to button her dress. She and Max and Baby were going home. Finally.

Through the tall grasses and brush, Lola watched three dark-skinned men move around the edge of the water toward them. She glanced across her shoulder at Max, and her hands stilled. Gone was the smoldering desire in his eyes. As if a curtain had fallen, his gaze was narrowed, intent, watchful. Then he turned and looked at her, his eyes flat and cold. Alarm ran up her spine to the base of her skull. She recognized the hard set to his jaw and the lines compressing his mouth. She’d seen it through the darkness that first night on the Dora Mae.

Max pointed to her pashmina and her dog and made a circling motion toward the tree. She didn’t think to question him. Not now. She gathered her wrap, then on her hands and knees moved toward Baby. She picked him up from the duffel bag and crawled through the brush Max pulled aside for her. Through the foliage, he handed her the duffel and her purse. She fastened the last buttons on her dress with one hand and held Baby with the other.

Above the pounding in her ears, the voices drifted closer. Other than what she’d learned here and there growing up, Lola knew very little Spanish. She recognized not a word. The brush parted once more, and Max crawled through. For such a big man, he moved without a sound.

The voices grew closer, and Lola estimated they stood on the spot where she’d earlier bathed her feet. Max knelt on one knee beside her and slipped the fish knife from the top of his boot. At the sight of the long thin blade, her muscles froze.

Baby’s ears perked up, and as she reached to wrap a hand around his muzzle, he barked and launched himself from her arms. Before she could call him back or dive after him, Max was on top of her, pinning her to the ground, his hand over her mouth. “Let him go,” Max whispered right next to her ear.

She shook her head as Baby’s excited barking filled the widening space between her and her dog. The voices stopped, and panic gripped Lola’s stomach, just as it had the day she’d thought she’d lost him to the Atlantic Ocean.

“Do you want to die?” he whispered, his hard gaze pinning her before he turned his attention to what was taking place by the blue hole.

She stopped struggling. No, she didn’t want to die, but she didn’t want to just sit back and let someone hurt Baby, either.

The dog’s barking became more agitated, the way it did when he barked so hard his back legs lifted off the ground. She’d always worried that his Napoleon complex would someday be his Waterloo, and today it just might happen. Laughter joined the commotion and then a distressed yip.

Lola could not control the whimper that came from the base of her throat. She pulled air into her lungs through her nose, and everything blurred. Baby was just a dog, but he was her dog and she loved him. She knew that he could be a pain in the backside, but he was her pain in the backside, and he needed her.

Max felt the moisture of Lola’s tears against his fingertips and looked down into her wide shimmering eyes. And he did it again. He opened his mouth and made a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep. In fact, he was quite sure he couldn’t keep it, but that didn’t stop him from whispering next to her ear, “I’ll get your dog back for you. But you have to be quiet or we won’t live long enough to get him back.”

She nodded, and the weight of her trust pressed in on him. What was he doing? Risking his life for a little yapper? For a little rat with a huge chip on his shoulder?

Max took his hand from her mouth and motioned for her to stay down. Of course, she didn’t. She knelt beside him and peered through the thick brush. A pair of boots moved toward them and stopped less than three feet away. Right on the spot where he’d laid Lola on the ground and kissed her breast. Where he’d been so consumed with her that he’d failed to hear the men until they were practically on top of him.

The men spoke Latin-American Spanish, and the others referred to the man in front of Max as teniente, but he wasn’t a lieutenant in the Colombian military. In fact, Max doubted he had any military experience at all. Around the tree, grasses were bent, and on close inspection, it was obvious that the area had recently been disturbed. Max had quickly swept the area with a broken tree limb, but he’d had little time to do a thorough job. The teniente didn’t seem to notice.

He issued orders to search the area and find the owners of the perro. He was so close, Max could see the seams of the guy’s fatigues and the K-Bar knife stuck in the top of his boot. He noticed the slight protrusion beneath his pant leg, which Max would bet his ass concealed an ankle holster. The holster would just naturally contain a 9mm semiautomatic. In the man’s hands, Max already knew he held an M-60. These boys were armed to the teeth and looking for trouble.

They were looking for drug drops, and if discovered, Max would immediately be shot. Unless these were members of the Cosella cartel. He didn’t have to wonder what they’d do to him if that were the case. He’d already had a taste. Even though he doubted these men could positively identify him, his body still bore the telling bruises he’d received at the hands of Jose Cosella. But no matter what they would do to him, Lola would fare much worse. The thought of what she would suffer tightened his fist around the knife handle. If either of them stood a chance, he would have to take care of the man in front of him without alerting the others.

The boots moved on, and Max allowed himself to breathe. Without making a sound, he reached out a hand and parted the brush enough to see. Two men stood by the water. One held Baby by the collar, and the dog writhed in the air. The men laughed, and Max looked at Lola, the print of his hand still visible across her mouth. Her eyes were narrowed, promising murder. Damn, if she had an assault weapon, he would have been tempted to lay odds on her.

Max returned his gaze to the three men and watched them search the brush and tall grasses. They moved away from the blue hole and headed back down the hill. Max returned the knife to his boot, and he pulled his black T-shirt over his head. He ordered Lola to stay put and was surprised when she actually did. Keeping to the shadows, he followed the three men as they moved back toward the beach. A fourth man sat on the edge of a small inflatable that had been pulled up on the sand, two oars stuck out of the sides.

One of the men held up Lola’s dog and they passed him around as if he were some sort of prize. Baby barked and snapped while they all laughed and talked at once. Max hoped like hell Lola stayed where he’d left her and couldn’t see what was happening with her dog. He wouldn’t put it past her not to charge down the hill like the wrath of God.

Max lifted his gaze to the Dora Mae, which seemed to list even farther to port. He tried to recall if he or Lola had left anything aboard that could be tied to them. He didn’t think they had. Anchored next to the Dora Mae was a forty-foot open-hulled speedboat. Known within law enforcement and in the drug business simply as a “go-fast” boat because of its speed, its sole purpose was to retrieve water-tight drums of narcotics and outrun drug interdiction. The Coast Guard also called them powdercrafts for obvious reasons.

Typical of go-fast boats, this one had no identifying markings of any kind and was painted the same color as the waves. The craft’s three 250-horsepower engines should have made enough noise to wake the dead. Yet he hadn’t heard them. He’d been face down in Lola’s cleavage and nothing had existed beyond her. Nothing beyond her rich brown eyes looking up at him with desire. Nothing beyond the touch of her satiny skin and the taste of her mouth. She captured his attention to the exclusion of all else, and that was dangerous. Real dangerous. Max had never been so careless. It wouldn’t happen again. He couldn’t afford to let it happen again. Their lives depended on it.

Over the sound of surf and the dog’s continuous yapping, Max could hear very little, but what little he was able to gather confirmed his worse suspicions. They were members of the Cosella cartel, searching for drug drops scattered by the storm.

Sticking to the shadows, he moved a bit closer. He watched and listened, and it wasn’t hard to determine that these four men weren’t a very organized bunch. More like four guys screwing off when the big boss wasn’t around to watch them.

All four jumped into the inflatable raft and rowed to the yacht, taking Baby with them. They held him over the side as he squirmed and yelped, and Max decided right then and there that if given the chance, he would make them pay. He wasn’t a big fan of dogs, especially yippers, but any man who got off on torturing something weaker deserved to suffer as well.

Exactly if and when Max would have time or opportunity to rescue the dog, he didn’t know. He turned from the scene, and after a ten-minute climb back up the hill, he found Lola where he’d left her, with her bare feet planted by her butt, her arms around her knees.

“Where’s Baby?”

“I couldn’t get him yet,” he told her instead of telling her the bad news, that he didn’t think he could get him without someone getting killed. “I doubt they’ll hurt him. You are a different matter.”

“How do you know? How do you know they aren’t nice people? Maybe they’ll take us to Miami.”

She’d been crying. Even with her eyes all swollen, she still looked like a sensuous treat, and he had to remind himself not to let his mind wander in that direction. He held out his hand, pulled her to her feet, and got serious. “Do you remember I told you that someone might be looking for me?”

She brushed the dirt and leaves from her behind. “Drug people?”

“Yep.”

Her gaze shot to his. “Drug people have my dog?”

“For now.”

Max picked up the duffel bag and handed Lola her purse.

“Do you have a plan?”

Not yet. “I’m working on it.”

Without a word, she followed him, and within five minutes they were at the cliffs overlooking the beach. He wondered what she’d do when she found out he might not be able to save her mutt. That his life and her life were too big a price to pay. He wondered if she’d ever forgive him. He wondered why he cared one way or the other.

It wasn’t as if everything that had happened was completely his fault, and it wasn’t as if he had any deep affection for that pain-in-the-ass dog. Once he returned home, he doubted he would ever see either of them. Lola would go off and live her life, completely free of him. And he would live his life free of her. Once they were back in the States, he doubted she’d give him more than a passing thought.

He held aside a branch and let her pass in front of him. So, why should he risk his life for a dog? Why should he care what she thought of him? He shouldn’t, but he did, and the bitch of it was, he didn’t know why. If he knew, then he could do something about it. He could stop it. Kill it. Cut its head off.

The branch swung back into place, and he told himself he cared about her because he felt responsible for her. It was just too damn bad he couldn’t make himself believe it completely.

They found a shaded spot under a Caribbean pine at the edge of the cliff. Winds and storms had twisted the branches that grew away from the ocean and toward the ground. The thick needles provided perfect cover and padded the hard earth. They peered over the side of the cliff and watched the beach below, taking turns with the binoculars he’d shoved in the duffel before leaving the Dora Mae that morning. They watched the men unload booze and fishing chairs from the yacht, then the four jumped into the go-fast boat, but much to Max surprise, they didn’t leave. Instead they off-loaded a big boom box and a red cooler before rowing back to the beach. They set up chairs, cranked up the music, and prepared to party.

“Do you see Baby?”

Max searched the area until he found the dog tied to a chair with a piece of rope. “I see him.” If he were by himself, he would have chosen a position near the action and waited for an opportunity to act, like when one of them walked into the trees to take a leak. But with Lola, he didn’t dare move closer.

“Max?”

He lowered binoculars and looked at her. “What?”

“Are you a good secret agent?”

“I’m not a secret agent. You’re thinking of the CIA. The agency I work for doesn’t exist.”

“Well, whatever you are, are you good at it?”

“The government thinks so. Why?”

“Because,” she said as she took the binoculars from him and stared down at the beach. “I think we can maybe knock all those guys out, or wait until they pass out, get Baby, and steal their boat.”

He’d already thought of that, except his plan didn’t include knocking anyone out. “I’m one step ahead of you.”

“So, what’s our plan?”

“Our plan is that you stay here, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

“I want to do something.”

“No.”

“Max...”

“Lola, I can’t work if I have to worry about you.” He took the binoculars back. “I know what I’m doing. You’re going to have to trust me.”

“The last guy who told me to trust him put my naked pictures on the Internet.”

“Well, I’m not that guy.”

She ran her hand up his arm and patted his shoulder. Just a friendly touch, an innocent gesture, that sent pure fire to his groin, like she’d reached in his pants and touched something else. Damn.

“I know,” she said, “so what’s your plan?”

“First off,” he answered, and gave his attention to the men on the beach, “I can’t do a thing until it is completely dark. That will also give them a chance to drink a bit more.”

“What if they leave?”

“They won’t. They’ll probably pass out where they are or crawl onto the Dora Mae to sleep it off.”

“What then?”

He lifted one shoulder. “Won’t know for sure until I get down there. We have at least an hour to kill.”

The men on the beach cranked the boom box, and the longer they drank, the louder it got. Their choice of music consisted of salsa, Latino, and, of all things, Guns N‘ Roses. Just before sunset, they lined up empty bottles on the beach and sprayed them with automatic weapons fire. Baby wisely dove beneath the chair as the men shot up the sand. The palm trees and Caribbean pine were next, then the cliffs. Max and Lola hit the ground on their stomachs. Max covered her with his body as bullets strafed the limbs several feet above their heads. While Axl Rose belted out, “Welcome to the jungle,” shredded needles and bark chips fell onto Max’s back.

“Fucking idiots,” he swore.

“Max?”

“Yeah?”

She turned her head and looked at him, her mouth a breath away from his. Through the shadows of the pine, the orange and gold fingers of the setting sun touched her face and settled in the strands of her hair. She started to shake and he held her tighter. “I don’t like being shot at,” she said.

“It’s not my favorite.”

“I don’t want to be afraid anymore. I’ve been afraid for so long now.” Moisture welled up in her eyes and a tear slipped from the corner. Her breath hitched as she battled to hold it all in. “And I’m scared.” She lost the battle and a deep sob racked her chest. “I’m tired of being scared. I just don’t think I can take any more.”

“You’ve held up better than some men I know.”

“I hate to cry. I don’t want to cry.”

“It’s okay to cry,” he told her as he gently rolled her onto her back and looked into her watery eyes. He held himself up on one elbow and added, “If I were a girl, I’d be crying, too.”

“But a guy like you would never cry, right?”

He glanced down at the party on the beach. The boom box changed CDs and the kind of music you’d hear in a border cantina rode the breeze. He’d seen grown men, war-hardened soldiers cry, but Max had only cried once. The night his father had died, he’d sat in the old man’s house, alone, and cried like a baby.

“Guys like you don’t get scared.”

He placed his hand on the side of her face and brushed the tears from the cool silk of her cheek. She was wrong. The thought of failing her, of anyone hurting her, scared the hell out of him. “Right,” he finally answered. “Guys like me aren’t afraid of anything.”