eyond the firelight on the beach, Lola could see very little. Her eyebrows ached, but she refused to lower the binoculars. Max had been gone at least an hour. He was out there somewhere, yet she hadn’t caught a glimpse of him. A few times she thought she’d spotted him, but each time the sighting had turned out to be nothing more than waves. She lowered her gaze to the beach. She hadn’t been able to spot Baby, either, even though she knew where he was.

The sound of mariachi music floated up to Lola, as loud and clear as if the actual band were playing on the beach. She wasn’t a big fan of mariachi music, and from now on she was sure she would hate it. She had dirt in her hair, bug bites on her arms, and her only consolation was that no one was shooting at her. The only thing that gave her peace of mind was that no one was shooting at Max, either. Not yet, anyway.

Finally her arms gave out and she lowered the binoculars. She’d wrapped her pashmina around her legs, but the bugs on the island were nasty and seemed to bite right through the cashmere. She was tired and itchy, and so hungry she’d sell her soul for a pan of macaroni and cheese or a king-sized Snickers. She slapped at a mosquito having dinner on her neck. If Max didn’t hurry, she doubted she’d be able to walk from loss of blood.

Just thinking of him brought a smile to her face. It wasn’t logical. It didn’t make sense, but she supposed Stockholm syndrome didn’t make sense. In the whole mixed-up mess, he was the only constant. The only thing that was stable. Real.

He’d certainly seemed very real when he’d made love to her. The touch of his hands and his mouth on her, the incredible feeling of his body joined with hers. Of all the men she’d known, of the men she’d loved, she’d never felt as connected as she did with Max.

As if her thoughts conjured him out of air, he suddenly appeared next to her. In his arm, he held Baby, and Lola didn’t think she’d ever seen anything so wonderful. She wanted to give Max a big smack on the mouth, then cover his entire body with kisses. The dog squirmed with excitement as Lola stood, but Max’s hand on his muzzle kept him from barking.

“I need the duct tape,” Max said just loud enough to be heard. “It’s in the duffel bag.” When Lola found it, he told her to tear off a piece, then he wrapped it around the poor dog’s mouth.

Although Lola knew it was necessary, she still felt bad for him. “Can he breathe?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Max answered, the tone of his voice all business as he handed over the dog. “He just can’t bark.”

Even as Baby Doll scratched at the tape with his paw, his whole body shook with excitement. “You don’t know how close you came to living in Mexico,” she chastised as she squeezed him against her breasts.

“Colombia,” Max corrected. He knelt by the duffel and for the first time she noticed the rifle strapped to his back. A gray baseball cap stuck out of his back pocket. She wasn’t sure, but it looked like some sort of rubber was stretched over the rifle’s barrel.

“Are you going to kill those guys?” she asked.

“Do you have a problem with that?” He pulled out the two pieces of Styrofoam and stood.

Did she? Not if there was no other way. “No,” she answered, and held Baby as Max once again taped the water wings to the side of her dog. “Have you ever killed anyone before?”

He didn’t answer and asked instead, “Do you think you can swim without hyperventilating or making any noise?”

If it meant getting off the island, she could do anything. “Yes.”

“Good, because our getting out of here depends on it.” Once again he knelt by the duffel. He pulled out the flashlight and a map, then he stuffed her pashmina inside. Next, he filled the bag and her purse with several big rocks.

“What are you doing?”

“These are going in the blue hole. I want nothing left behind that could identify us.”

“My toothbrush is in there. I’ll need it.”

“You’ll have a new one by morning.”

What he didn’t say was that she might also be dead by morning. “I’ll need my wallet. It’s Fendi.” His exasperated grunt told her what he thought of that. “Okay, but I’ll need my American Express.”

He pulled out the cash she had in her wallet, but no credit card. With her free hand, she stuffed the money in her bra.

In one fluid motion, Max stood and shoved the flashlight and map beneath one arm. Then he reached into his back pocket and pulled out something square. Moonlight shone off silver foil, and Lola thought it looked a lot like one of those chocolate mints, the kind room service left on her pillow when she called for turn-down service.

“Is that a mint?”

“Condom.”

For several silent moments she stared at him through the darkness. He had to be kidding. “I thought you said those were too small for you.”

He looked up and their eyes locked. “They’re not for me.” For a brief second she thought she saw a corner of his mouth tilt up, but she wasn’t sure. “Take this,” he instructed as he thrust the flashlight toward her. Once she held it in her free hand, he ripped open the condom, stretched the latex, then rolled it up the flashlight. When he was through, he tied the end to his belt loop. “I want you to follow right behind me without making a sound.” He rolled up the map and slipped the thin condom around that, too. “You and I, and your mutt, are going to swim to that boat out there, slip aboard, and haul ass out of here.” He tied the map to his belt loop. “When I tell you to do something, I want you to do it. Don’t think about it first. Just do it. Right now, I just want you to say ‘Okay, Max.’ ”

She wasn’t in the military. She wasn’t used to taking orders. But she trusted him with her and Baby’s lives. “Okay, Max.”

He placed his hands on his hips and looked her up and down. “You’re going to stick out like a shiny beacon.”

“What do I do?”

“I’ll take care of it in a minute. Right now we need to go over the op plan.”

“Op plan?”

“Operation plan,” he explained. “Once we’re on board the boat, I’ll take up a position in the rear, and when I tell you, I want you to start the engines.”

“Me?”

“Have you ever driven a boat?”

“No, but I drove a motorcycle once.”

He wiped his hand across the stubble on his jaw. “It’s easier than driving a motorcycle. Just turn the key and push the throttle forward.”

“Do I have to put it in gear?”

“You don’t have to worry about that. It’s ready to go.”

“Okay. Turn the key, then push the throttle forward,” she repeated as her stomach twisted into knots. “If I pull it back, is that reverse?”

“Yes, and don’t even think about doing that.”

Her stomach twisted a bit more. She could do this. No sweat. “Anything else?”

“Yes, keep your head down.” He adjusted the rifle on his back. “Ready?”

Not really. “Yes, Max.”

“Then let’s rock and roll.”

She suddenly felt sick. This was it. They would either make it off the island or die. She followed him to the blue hole and stood on the large rocks as he slid the duffel and her Louis Vuitton bag beneath the water. Everything she possessed disappeared in the blue hole. She held Baby tight as the three of them moved down the hill toward the beach. Just as she’d agreed, she followed Max. She stuck her hand in the back pocket of his jeans, as she’d thought of doing earlier that day, and neither of them made a sound.

They knelt beside the stream he’d helped her across on their way up the hill. He handed her the baseball cap, and as she stuffed her hair beneath it, he dragged his fingers through the mud, then smeared it on his face and arms. She was next, and she closed her eyes as he spread the cold wet dirt over her cheeks.

“Think of it as a facial,” he whispered.

She opened her eyes and looked into his face close to hers. “That mud is clean,” she whispered back.

One brow lifted the dirt on his forehead and his silent laughter touched her cheek. “Clean mud? That’s a new one.”

The mariachi music stopped and Max glanced over his shoulder toward the beach. The muffled voices of three men rose above the sound of the surf, their slurs not quite as loud as before. Max dug into the mud, and with quick impersonal hands rubbed it on her arms and legs. Baby attempted to jump from her grasp, but she held him closer. Then Max rose and she followed him through the trees and brush. Again she was impressed with how silently he moved for such a big guy. They kept to the deepest shadows, Max sometimes blending in so well, she had to hold on to the back of his shirt so she wouldn’t lose him. Sometimes she reached beneath the rifle strapped to his back and touched him just to reassure herself that he was still Max. Still strong and warm and alive. And each time she did, she felt a bit stronger herself.

He led her to a part of the beach away from the drunken men, and together they walked out into the ocean. The waves rushed over her ankles, then her knees and thighs, washing away the mud, which had started to itch. She walked out until just her shoulders were above the water, then she and Baby paddled against the current making little progress.

The third time Max came back for her, he reached beneath the water for her hand and placed it on the barrel of his rifle. She grabbed Baby with her other hand, and without a word, Max towed them. Lola kicked her feet, careful not to make a sound. She had the feeling that even if she didn’t help, he could have managed.

Salt water filled her mouth and splashed into her eyes. One shoe fell off her foot, and the muscles in her arms and legs burned. It seemed as if they’d been swimming for an hour when they finally came upon the open boat. Max cut the anchor rope, then took Baby from her and set him in the bottom. He grabbed the side with one hand, grabbed her butt with her other, and shoved her over the gunwale. She slid to the bottom like an exhausted fish and stared up at the night sky. Tired and afraid and so winded she could hardly catch her breath. Max passed the rifle over, and it hit her shoulder. The boat rocked as he hoisted himself over the side and landed smack on top of her. The air whooshed from her lungs and his forehead knocked the visor on her hat. Immediately he lifted his weight from her, straddling her on his hands and knees.

“Remember,” he whispered, “on my signal, turn the key and push the throttle.”

Signal. What signal? Her throat was so dry, she couldn’t catch her breath. All she could do was weakly shake her head.

“Lola,” he flipped up the bill of her hat. “Are you hyperventilating again?”

She covered her mouth with her hand and nodded. Good Lord, of all the times to hyperventilate! Lying in the bottom of a drug runner’s boat, while the drunken drug runners themselves partied and shot up the beach with machine guns. She had to turn the key and push the throttle. This was not a good time to pass out! A distressed little squeak escaped from her lips and from behind her fingers.

“Come on, honey,” he whispered, and rubbed her arms. “Relax. You can do this. Just relax. Slow deep breaths through your nose.”

Lola concentrated on the dark outline of his face so close to her. The sound of his calm voice and the scent of sea water on his skin. She felt Baby rest his head on her ankle, and she did her best to push away her fear.

“Feeling better?”

She pulled a slow breath of air into the bottom of her lungs, then moved her hand to her chest. “What’s the signal?” she managed, fighting for a calm she didn’t feel.

“I’ll hold up my hand, and when I want you to turn the key and punch the throttle, I’ll make a fist.”

“Okay, Max.”

“That’s my girl. And remember, whatever you do, keep your head down,” he said, then gave her a quick kiss and crawled over her to the back of the boat.

Keep her head down. Turn the key. Push the throttle. She could do it. Lola rolled onto her stomach and crawled past two big plastic barrels and some sort of crate. She made her way around a small bench seat to the helm. By touch, she found the steering wheel, the key in the ignition, and the throttle.

She raised her head just enough to see over the top of the seat and felt her brow shoot up her muddy forehead. Max’s black outline knelt in the back, propping the barrel of the rifle on one of the three engines. Beyond him, the campfire glowed orange. The three men stood around it, their machine guns leaning against the rubber raft about ten feet from their reach. Their low voices and drunken laughter squeezed the back of her neck; the clammy night air weighed down on her skin like a wet towel. One of the men separated himself from the others and moved to the drunk passed out in the chair. He kicked the man’s foot, then reached down and gave a tug on the rope. The end flew out from beneath the chair, and he looked down at his feet. Slowly, he bent to pick it up, then stared as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Or rather what he wasn’t seeing.

His voice carried over the water as he turned back to the men and held the end of the rope high in the air. “Perro?” he said.

Lola lowered her gaze a fraction to the black outline of Max’s back, willing him to hurry. Baby jumped up on the seat, and without taking her eyes from the beach, she set him back on the floor. One of the men looked out toward the boat, and Lola held her breath. He walked to the edge of the water, and the voices on the beach rose, becoming agitated.

“Come on, Max,” she whispered against the back of the seat. Then, as if he’d heard her, he raised his hand, glanced over his shoulder at her, and closed his fist.

She spun around on the seat, and with shaking hands, found the ignition. Turn key, throttle forward raced though her mind, and that’s exactly what she did.

Nothing happened. She tried again, and this time the engine sputtered and died.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” she whispered. The voices on the beach rose, and she tried again.

Nothing. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the men running toward the raft.

Over the chaos rose Max’s calm voice, “Time to go, honey,” he said.

She turned the key; the engine sputtered and died. The next time she tried, it started with a low rumble and she thrust the throttle as far as it would go. The boat shot forward across the water and her hat flew off her head. She grabbed hold of the steering wheel and held on for dear life. The boat bounded over the waves as the night erupted in a steady brrrap brrrap of machine gun fire. Lola kept her head down and hoped Max was doing the same. She couldn’t see where they were going, but she supposed it didn’t matter, since once away from the beach, the night was so pitch-black she wouldn’t be able to see anything anyway.

Then suddenly an explosion, like the boom of thunder at ground zero, lit up the sky. Lola looked behind her as a huge fireball blew the Dora Mae into the black night. Two more explosions followed, sending burning pieces flying left and right. Against the fire and destruction of the yacht, Max rose. He stood with his feet spread apart and lifted his fists in the air as if he were the heavyweight champion of the world.

Max had spent a lot of his professional life cold and wet. It wasn’t his favorite way to pass an evening, but he was used to it. Lola was not. He found a blanket in the front of the boat and handed it to her.

“Take off your wet clothes,” he advised, and took control of the steering wheel.

The fiery glow from the island faded as Max cut the flashlight and map from his belt loops. Equipped with the latest gadgets and goodies, the boat was everything a drug runner would need in order to find floating barrels of dope in the Atlantic. He sat beside Lola on the bench seat and shone the light next to her face. Her fingers trembled, and she had trouble grasping the buttons. Her lips were blue, and she held her shaking dog close to her chest.

Keeping one hand on the wheel, he brushed her fingers aside and helped her out of the dress. He tossed it in the bottom of the boat. Then he managed to peel the tape from Baby’s muzzle. The dog let out a series of fierce barks as Max dropped the blanket over both Lola and her mutt.

“Hang in there just a bit longer,” he told her, and turned his attention to the Global Positioning System. He flipped on the boat’s running lights and unfolded the map. A grease pencil and a ledger were clipped to the helm, and he used the pencil to mark their coordinates. He wanted to make sure the Coast Guard would know where to find the island and the four stranded drug runners. He didn’t think the explosion of the Dora Mae had killed anyone, just rained a little fire down on them and singed their hair.

Some might have considered blowing up that yacht a bit excessive. Max wasn’t one of them. Even though he doubted the four men were capable of dislodging the Dora Mae and making her operable, he wasn’t willing to leave them any options. And he wasn’t taking any chances that he or Lola had left anything behind that could be traced directly back to them. The Dora Mae had had to die. And damn, but there was very little in this world that could compare to a good explosion.

He turned on the radio and listened for any sort of traffic. He wasn’t surprised when he didn’t hear anything. But just because he didn’t hear other vessels didn’t mean they weren’t out there. He tuned the radio to the Coast Guard channel and reached for the microphone. “What’s your middle name?” he asked, unwilling to announce to the Coast Guard or anyone else that he and Lola were in a stolen go-fast.

Lola’s teeth chattered when she answered, “Faith.”

“Coast Guard Florida Keys Group, Coast Guard Florida Keys Group, this is the vessel Faith. Copy? Over.” He waited a half minute before he repeated. Still, nothing. By the light of the LCD screen, he read their position and determined the storm had blown them ninety nautical miles southeast of the Florida Keys. Sixty miles south of their previous position aboard the Dora Mae.

“Where are we?” Lola asked between her tightly clamped teeth. “Are we close to Florida?”

“About eighty miles,” he answered, too tired to calculate precisely the difference between miles and nautical miles. When he finally got home, he planned to sleep for at least three days.

“Do you want some of my—my blanket?”

“No, it shouldn’t be long now.” The three engines on the boat would have allowed them to travel at speeds more than fifty knots, but without much protection from the wind, Max kept it at twenty-six. The sky overhead was perfectly clear and crammed with stars.

“Ma-Max?”

“Yes.” He looked over at her. At her reaching a hand from beneath the blanket to pick the mud from her forehead. At the stands of her hair bouncing about her face and catching the moon’s pale reflection. The golden light of the helm touched her lips and poured into her mouth like honey when she spoke.

“I really thought we—we were going to die,” she said just over the sound out the engines.

“I told you I’d make sure you got home.”

“I know.”

Baby stuck his head from the hole in the blanket, looked around, then ducked back inside where it was safe and warm against Lola’s breasts and belly.

That lucky dog didn’t know how good he had it. Max knew, and he wished he didn’t. Even now, with the cold and the wind biting his toes and cheeks, the memory of her smooth skin warmed the pit of his belly. It would have been so much better if they parted without him knowing how good it felt to make love to her. It would have been better if he could spend his life, like every other man in the world, wondering what it was like to hold her face in his hands while kissing her mouth.

Now that he knew, it was going to be a hell of a lot harder to let it go. To let her go. Now that he knew that beneath her sweet, cover-model curves resided a woman of courage and determination. The kind of courage and grit he admired.

As the boat sped toward the Florida coast, with each mile he put behind him, the closer they got to the moment he would hand her over to the Coast Guard. His responsibility over, he knew he should start putting distance between himself and her. She did not belong to him, but when she laid her head on his shoulder, he couldn’t quite bring himself to push her away. He kept one hand on the wheel, and with his other he raised the microphone to his mouth.

“Coast Guard Florida Keys Group, Coast Guard Florida Keys Group, this is the vessel Faith. Copy? Over.” Still nothing.

“Max, when we’re rescued, please don’t leave me.”

He couldn’t promise her that.

“Max?” She leaned her head back and looked up at him.

For the first time, he didn’t make a promise he knew he couldn’t keep. He was saved an explanation by the crackle of the radio, then the smooth flat voice of a coastie.

“Faith, Coast Guard. Roger, Skipper; please state your traffic, over.”

Max paused and looked down into Lola Carlyle’s beautiful face. Then he raised the microphone and took the first step toward home and his life away from her.