ax let his gaze wander up the backs of Lola’s calves to the red shawl she’d once again pinned around her waist. She’d changed out of the wet dress and into the white blouse again. Her damp bra made two very distinct marks on the front of the shirt and created a stripe across the back. Max wondered if she’d hung her panties in the bathroom like she had the day before.

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 romantically involved again. Romance had nothing to do with the direction of his thoughts, but that particular direction needed changing. Fast. “What do you want to know?”

“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?”

“Twice.”

“Maybe you have a commitment phobia.”

“No, I’m a jerk magnet.”

Max looked back at her, at her full lips and high cheekbones, her big breasts and long legs. Lola Carlyle was a magnet, all right. She definitely pulled dirty little thoughts to the forefront of his brain.

“Where are you from, Max?”

He returned his gaze to the rolling Atlantic. “I was born in Miami and have lived all over the South. But mostly in Texas.”

“Where in Texas?”

“You name it, I lived there.”

By the direction of her voice, he could tell she’d turned toward him. “You don’t have an accent. I dated a bawl player from Texas once, and his was real thick.”

Other than a few scars, Max had no traceable marks or tattoos, and he’d removed any trace of an accent that would distinguish him in any way. But the South was in his blood, and sometimes, when he was tired or real relaxed, it slipped back into his speech. “I worked hard to get rid of it, and my father was Cuban, so I really didn’t grow up with it in my home. If anything, I had to work hardest to get rid of the Spanish accent I picked up from him.”

“What about your mother?”

“She died when I was three.”

She was silent a moment, then said, “I’m sorry. That must have been terrible for you.”

“Not really.” He kept his gaze on the chop of the waves, pinning it to the point where his line disappeared. “I never knew her, so I never knew what I was missing. My dad missed her every day of his life, though,” he said, and wondered why he was all of a sudden spilling his guts. Max wasn’t a man who talked very much about himself to anyone. Especially to women. Women tended to pat his head, analyze him down to his shorts, then want to sign him up for therapy. That he was talking about himself to Lola Carlyle was clearly an indication of the level of his boredom.

“What was her name?”

He turned and looked at her. “Why?”

“I want to know.”

“Eva Johansson Zamora. She was Swedish.” And talking to her was better than thinking about Lola sucking grapes into her mouth. “My father used to say that made me Cubish.”

She smiled and bobbed the end of her pole up and down. “Unusual, that’s for sure. How did she die?”

“She and my father were crossing Eighth Street in Little Havana, and she was hit by a car. He said her hand was ripped from his.”

Her smile died and the pole stopped. “That’s horrible, Max. Where were you?”

Since she didn’t gush, look at him with pity, and wasn’t rushing over to give him a warm fuzzy hug, he told her. “In my father’s other arm. Neither of us was hurt. She was killed before she reached the hospital.”

“Do you remember it?”

“Not really. I have a vague memory of flashing lights, but that’s about it.”

“Man, and I thought I had a rough childhood.”

Glad for the change of subject, he asked, “What made yours so rough?”

“Well, it wasn’t really rough, but I used to think it was.” She looked out at the ocean, and the salty breeze ruffled the sleeve of her blouse. “My mother’s brother Jed was a Baptist preacher, and not the lax kind either. The kind where you can’t drink alcohol, wear lipstick, or dance ‘cause someone might get excited. Those things were ’worldly and sinful.‘ The only time you could dance was in church when the spirit moved you. In my family, having an uncle who was a preacher was like having the Pope for an uncle if you’re Catholic. We always had to sit in the amen corner and shout ’praise the lord.‘ And because we had a preacher in our family, all my relatives just assumed we were one step closer to God’s knee than everybody else on earth.

“So, when I was three and wanted Santa to bring me lipstick, eye shadow, and a see-through bra, no one was amused. When I was fifteen and got caught drinking and making out with T. J. Vandegraft, my family was beyond mortified.” The end of her pole bobbed up and down and she continued, “My mama was convinced I’d inherited deviant genes from my daddy’s side. He’s got some branch water cousins who drink beer from the bottle and breed like sailors on a weekend pass.”

Max laughed deep in his chest. “I imagine modeling undies didn’t go over real well.”

“Not at first, but then Uncle Jed was caught begetting behind the podium with one of the Lyle girls—Millicent, I believe was her name.” She shrugged. “He did the whole ‘I have sinned’ Jimmy Swaggart thing, and cried and carried on, but since Millicent was barely legal and pregnant to boot, his own wife left the church. After that, it was like rats jumping from a sinking ship, and suddenly what I did for a living wasn’t so bad.” She looked over her shoulder and smiled at him. “ I was just glad that I wasn’t the biggest sinner anymore.”

He looked at her standing there, bare feet, long legs, with her hat pulled low on her forehead, and for the first time since he’d looked in her wallet and seen her driver’s license, he saw more than just a pain in the ass underwear model staring back at him. More than a beautiful woman with a killer body silhouetted against the blue of the Atlantic and lighter blue of the midmoming sky. He saw a woman with problems just like everyone else. A woman with a self-deprecating sense of humor and a smile that had him watching her lips.

“Any brothers or sisters?” he asked her.

“One older sister, Natalie. She was always perfect growing up. Never cared for lipstick or drinking. She has five perfect children and is the perfect housewife. She’s married to a perfect husband, Jerry, who actually is a very nice guy.”

Max wasn’t sure, but it sounded to him as if Lola actually envied her sister. Lola Carlyle, Sports Illustrated swimsuit model, envying a housewife? Impossible. “Don’t tell me you want five kids.”

“No, just two, but first I have to find a husband. Unfortunately, that means I have to start dating again. And I seem to attract controlling men. Or, worse, men who are incredibly needy, and I end up taking care of them.” She paused to take a breath before she asked, “Do you want kids?”

Children were the very last thing he wanted. “No.”

She studied him a moment. “You look like I asked if you wanted a root canal. Don’t you like children?”

He liked kids just fine. Other people’s kids. “Do you really want me to believe you don’t date?” he asked instead of answering her question.

She sighed at his obvious attempt to change the subject, but she let it go. “There’s a difference between going out to dinner with a guy and wanting him to be the father of your children. I don’t have the greatest track record with men.” Her pole suddenly bent into an arch and was almost pulled from her hands. “I think I caught something!”

Max watched the end bend a bit more and he shoved his own pole into the holder on the chair. “Do you need help reeling it in?”

“No. Just find the net,” she instructed as she opened the door to the swimming platform. She moved down the steps and reeled as she spoke. “And there should be some sort of hook puller, too.”

He found a fishing net in the fender storage where he’d discovered the fishing poles and tackle, and something that resembled a pair of pliers.

Damn if she hadn’t outfished him.

“Hurry,” she called up to him as he made his way down the stairs. The chop had risen about another half a foot, and now seawater splashed over the platform and Lola’s bare feet.

The first fish cleared the surface of the water, a small brilliant blue with a bright yellow tail and eyes. Max had no idea what kind of fish it was, but the second was obviously a variety of grouper. Its skin was a slick beige with brown stripes and gray spots. It made up for its less-than-impressive coloring with a weight Max guessed to be around fifteen pounds. He scooped the fish up into the net, the little blue flipping its yellow tail.

They headed toward the aft deck once again, and Lola fired instructions over her shoulder while Max carried the net and fish up the stairs. “You need to take the hooks out, and then we need to find an ice chest or something cold to put them in. You can gut them right now if you want.”

No problem, but they weren’t his fish. “I thought you said you fished with your grandfather on his charter boat.”

“I did, but he took the hooks out and gutted them for me.” Her brows lowered over her brown eyes as she looked up at him. “Those are men’s jobs.”

“So, your only job is to reel them in?”

“Of course,” she answered as if he were dense.

But Max hadn’t been born that dense and knew she was making up the rules as she went along. He pulled the little blue from the net and removed the hook from its mouth. He set it on the deck, where it flipped itself onto its other side.

“Aren’t they just beautiful?” Lola gushed, extremely proud, as if she’d created them herself.

“They’re okay.” He hauled the grouper from the net and removed the hook. So, she’d caught two fish. Big deal. “During a training mission in Malaysia, I shot the head off a cobra and ate it for breakfast.”

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “And you’re telling me this... why?”

He laid the fish side by side but didn’t answer. He didn’t know why he’d told that stupid story. Other than maybe he wanted to impress her, which was embarrassing to admit, even to himself.

“Do you feel threatened?”

He looked up at her. “By what?”

“By me. Does my catching fish threaten your masculinity?”

Max chuckled as he stood. He didn’t feel threatened, just ridiculous. “Honey, my masculinity is just fine. It would take more than your tiny ol‘ fish to make me feel like less of a man.”

“You sound jealous.”

Maybe a little, but he’d never cop to it. Never. “Of these little things? Not in this lifetime.”

Baby hopped off the bench and wandered over to the fish. The grouper slapped its tail against the deck and the little dog jumped back. “Keep your eye on Baby while I find an ice chest,” she instructed, then walked into the galley.

The dog put his ears back and inched closer. He licked the grouper’s tail and got smacked on the nose. Once again he backed off.

Max glanced at the galley door, then lowered his voice. “Quit being such a pussy dog and get over there. Come on.” He couldn’t bring himself to call the dog by its pansy name, so he settled on, “Get over there, B. D., and show that fish who’s boss.”

Buoyed by other male encouragement, Baby moved to the head of the fish, sniffed it twice, then licked its eye. “Yeah, that’s a good boy.”

“Baby!” Lola walked from the galley and hit the lid of a Styrofoam cooler with her hand. “Get away from those fish.” She set it on the deck, then looked up at Max. “I thought you were going to watch him.”

Max didn’t recall making any such commitment. “Your dog doesn’t listen real well.”

Inside the chest, Lola had placed two frozen reusable gel packs. “The ice in the freezer is pretty melted, but these are still solid,” she said. Then she glanced up at him and added, “Go ahead and put them in.”

He also didn’t remember signing on as her toady. “That honor belongs to you.”

“That’s okay. Your hands already smell like fish.” She looked down at herself. “And I’m wearing white.”

“Uh-huh.” He knelt beside the cooler and placed the fish inside. His fishing chair scooted a few inches across the deck and he glanced over at his own pole almost bent in half.

“Christ,” he swore, and quickly rose, hardly feeling the pain in his side as adrenaline shot through him. He grabbed the pole and reeled in line as he moved to the platform. “Bring the net,” he hollered at Lola. The platform rolled with the waves and ocean water rushed over his feet. He pulled the tip of the pole up and reeled like mad. Compared to the two lake trout he’d caught, this fish felt like a Buick.

He caught his first glimpse of red just below the light blue surface. Lola scooped it into the net, and he immediately lifted it from her. With his pole in one hand, he studied the brilliant red snapper. It had to weigh at least twenty-five pounds.

Once again, he followed Lola to the aft deck and removed the hook. “Would ya look at that,” he said as he knelt and laid it on the deck. It was the most beautiful thing he’d seen in a long time, with its pretty red scales and spiny fins.

“It’s just a fish.”

He stood and took a step back to admire his catch. “It’s huge.”

Lola folded her arms beneath her breasts. “Well, I caught more than you did.”

“Both your fish don’t weigh as much as mine.”

“Haven’t you heard? Size doesn’t matter.”

He looked over at her. “Bull.” A pout pinched her full lips and he smiled. “Only a guy with a small package believes that crap.”

Her brows drew together and a frown creased her forehead. “I just know it’s true.”

Max shook his head and laughed. “I could prove you wrong.”

“Thanks, but I’ll take a rain check.”

“Anytime, Lolita.”