“He touched you?”
“Just what you saw.”
His jaw worked in a back-and-forth motion.
“Can we not talk about that now?” She hated the smallness in the plea, but if she spent one more second thinking about what Beanie had done, she’d break down.
His Adam’s apple bobbed and he nodded curtly. She loosened her death grip on her forearm and forced her back to relax against the chair.
“You know it doesn’t end there, right?”
New tension firmed her muscles. No. As difficult as talking about what Beanie had done was, that wasn’t even the tip of the iceberg. She squirmed in her seat. She needed a story—and fast.
“Who are you and why the fuck are you on this ship?”
* * *
Insisting the woman shower hadn’t done anything to clear Rhett’s head. What Beanie had done to her remained etched in his mind’s eye, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t shake the image. He shouldn’t have asked. Seeing her eyes mist with tears and her body fold tighter only made him want to hurt Beanie that much more.
He had to push it from his mind. Beanie wasn’t the reason she was here, and he couldn’t afford to arouse Moretti’s suspicion. As difficult as it was, he had to see past the enormous, innocent-looking eyes and find out who’d sent her.
She looked away. As an agent, he’d seen that look a million times before lies spewed. She opened her mouth and he raised his hand. “Don’t bother lying. Neither of us has the time to waste. The sooner you tell the truth, the easier I can help you get off this boat alive.”
She pursed her full lips and brought her knees close to her chest. “You’re not stupid,” she countered. “Why do you think I’m here?”
“To steal.”
“See. Smarter than you look.”
He clicked his teeth together and cocked his eyebrow. Cute. Funny. Getting information out of her was going to be a pain in the ass, though. Her hair was beginning to dry, and the light locks that reached her chest curled at the bottom. With her face now free of smeared makeup and blood, something about her sparked recognition.
Hell, she was a criminal. Surely her picture had passed his desk at some point. The ship rocked precariously beneath them, and he caught the nightstand to steady himself. The woman held the chair’s armrests, her skin a shade whiter than it had been a second ago. Lightning flashed and thunder cracked the sky.
The rocking slowed, and he turned his attention back to her. “What are you after?”
A coy smile played at her mouth. “That’s top secret.”
“Who hired you?”
“A friend.”
“What’s their name?”
Silence.
“What’s your name?”
Silence.
He sighed, propped an elbow on his knee, and pinched his temples between his thumb and forefinger. He couldn’t bully her. If a guy were sitting in front of him, he’d do whatever needed to be done to get the information to Moretti and save the case the FBI was building against him. God was playing some kind of sick joke on him.
“Listen. If I don’t get the information Moretti wants, he’s going to get someone else—probably Beanie—to get it out of you. There’s only so much I can do to help—”
The boat swung side to side and the woman leaped to her feet. Her hands dug into the arm of the chair that, like every other piece of furniture on board, was bolted to the floor. Rhett caught the nightstand again as his weight was thrown backward. He planted his feet but the woman careened past him. He caught her around the waist and secured her to his knee with one arm. Her ass landed on his thigh and her fingers bit into his shoulder as the yacht continued to toss around.
He cursed and hung onto the nightstand with his free hand, anchoring them. A siren blasted from the hallway and his radio crackled from the waistband of his pants.
“All hands on deck!”
Shit. He couldn’t hide out below deck while the crew was in turmoil. He got to his feet and deposited her on the mattress.
“Hang tight and don’t leave this room.” He turned to leave, but she caught his shirt.
“You can’t leave me here!” Panic lifted her words to a scream, and dread bloomed in his chest. If he left her alone and she escaped his room, he’d be in shit from Moretti. Not to mention what the other guards would do if they got their hands on her.
He had no choice but to secure her. He grabbed her wrist and towed her off the bed. The room tilted like a fun house. He planted her in the chair and she clung to the armrests again.
“What are you doing?” she shrieked.
He crossed the room. Each sway of the yacht threw him off balance. Opening the top drawer of the dresser next to the bathroom, he pulled out a necktie and then returned to her. He peeled her hands from the wood and secured her arms behind the chair.
“Wait, stop! You can’t do this.”
She struggled and squirmed, but he easily held both of her slim wrists in one of his palms while he wrapped the tie around them.
“You bastard!” She kicked at him when he stepped from behind the chair, and her bare heel struck his calf.
“Stay quiet. I’ll lock the door.” He pulled the door shut, fit the key into the lock, and headed for the stairs.
This job was going to be the death of him.
No. The woman with the fiery temper and honey bedroom eyes would be the death of him. He wasn’t backing down—when he finished with whatever the captain needed upstairs, he was going to show her who was boss.
Or at least find out her damn name.
CHAPTER 4
Nausea threatened to overwhelm her with the ship’s every movement. Peyton squeezed her eyes closed and dragged one breath after another through her nose. It didn’t help. Bile hit the back of her throat and she forced it down on a swallow.
Oh, god. Please don’t let me puke.
That was the last thing she needed while tied to a chair. On second thought, spilling her cookies and watching the asshole guard who’d just tied her to a chair in a possibly sinking yacht clean it did sound like good revenge. She steeled her nerves and scanned the room. She had to get out of the ropes. The ship was big—she might not be able to get off of it in the storm, but by the time the guard returned, she could be in a hiding spot on board and escape when the storm settled.
She located the knot at the base of her wrist and worked her fingers around the silk tie. He hadn’t tied it very tight. Probably because of the ship’s motion and her resistance. The material didn’t abrade her skin like rope would, allowing her to twist and pull until she could weasel one of her fingers into the knot. Sweat broke out on her brow. The boat continued tipping from side to side.
With everyone distracted, she could return to Moretti’s cabin and get Jenny Carter’s location. But she had to hurry. The knot loosened and she let out a breath as she freed her wrists. She hung onto the side of the chair and scanned the room. She couldn’t leave empty-handed. She needed something, anything, she could use as a weapon.
She glanced at the nightstand and got to her feet. Using the bed for support, she made her way to the small piece of furniture. Then she knelt, pressed her side against the bed to steady herself, and pulled open the drawer.
A watch, earbuds, gum . . . and a knife. For a second, the holster looked like hers, but this one was black and hers was brown. If she passed Beanie in the hall, she’d kill him. Not just for trying to rape her, but for taking her knife, too. She unsheathed the blade.
Footsteps pounded outside the door. No! He couldn’t be back already. She leaped to her feet and the motion of the ship pitched her onto the bed. Keys jangled and she slid off the mattress, pressing her back to the wall beside the dresser, out of sight of the door.
Her heart beat in an erratic rhythm. She didn’t have time to think this through. She had to make a decision—get what she came here for and take her best chance at survival, or falter and let the guard have her tortured and killed.
&
nbsp; It was him. Or it was her.
The lock snapped and the door whooshed open.
“Sonofabitch!” he barked. She closed her eyes. His voice had been the only island of calm on this hellish journey. He went to his nightstand and her heart palpitated. If he turned around, he’d see her.
She tightened her hold on the blade and held it out in front of her. She didn’t have to kill him. Maybe she could wound him enough that she could overpower him and tie him up. He turned, and the air shifted in the room.
Steel-gray eyes landed on her, and his body expanded. “What the hell are you doing?” He took two strides but the boat shifted. Losing his balance, he crashed into the wall. The dresser kept her in place.
“You’re going to try to stab me? After I saved your life?”
She met his stare and held out the knife in a shaking hand. “You could make this easy and tie yourself up.”
His laugh belted through the small room. “You’ll never make it out of here alive. Jesus, I should’ve known better,” he growled. With his back against the wall, he beckoned her. “C’mon. Take your best shot.”
Indignation set fire to her blood. If he thought for one second that because she was on the short side he didn’t need to fear her, he had another thing coming.
Only she didn’t want to stab him. Damn him.
He pushed away from the wall and caught the dresser. Now he was only inches from the blade. His top lip twisted. “What are you going to do with that, huh?”
She slashed the knife in the direction of his chest knowing it’d miss. She just needed to distract him. He jerked out of the way and she shot out her foot, kicking him in the stomach. He lurched forward and hooked his palm over her wrist. She twisted against his hold, and all her martial arts training came back. Using her foot again, she kicked at his elbow and his arm buckled, but he didn’t relinquish his death grip.
He used the momentum of her swing and twirled her around so her back slammed against his chest. Hard muscle collided with her shoulder blades. He locked his free arm around her belly, warming her skin through the T-shirt she wore. With his other hand still holding her wrist, he twisted.
Fresh beads of sweat misted her upper lip as the tendons in her arm screamed.
“Let go and you won’t get hurt.” His words came out on a breath, almost as a plea.
“Fuck you.” She slammed her head backward, but her skull connected with his breastbone and not his jaw, as she’d hoped.
He twisted again. “Drop it,” he growled. “I don’t want to break your arm.” His hot breath seared her neck. Pain exploded through her ligaments, but she couldn’t give up. He huffed impatiently, shifted his hand from her belly, and pried the knife from her grasp.
The boat tilted again, and he grabbed her hip just before they were thrown to the far side of the room. His chest slammed to her back and air wheezed from her chest. He grabbed the footboard and anchored them against the wall despite the floor’s constant heaving.
“You’re giving me a headache, you know that?” He caught her shoulders and whirled her around so that his chest pressed into hers and her back was against the wall. She spotted the knife on the mattress.
“Don’t even think about it,” he snarled.
The hard lines of his cheeks once again struck a chord. His gaze roamed over her face.
“I know you.” His declaration sent prickles of unease down her spine. In her line of work, you never wanted to bump into someone you knew. Odds were, it was a rival criminal or a cop. And she sure as hell didn’t want one of Moretti’s guards knowing who she was.
She shoved at his chest. He didn’t budge. Her temper flared. “You don’t know me.”
He caught her hands and pinned them at her sides. Instinct made her knee lift, but he sensed her movement and blocked her jab to his junk.
“Things could get a hell of a lot worse for you, so I’d watch who you’re kicking in the balls if I were you.”
She exhaled through her nose, but anger bubbled beneath the surface of her control. She stared into his gray eyes, which were darker than the storm raging outside the window. Long, dark eyelashes bordered them, and a rim of charcoal surrounded his irises, which didn’t shift away from her face.
His hold on her wrists loosened, but he didn’t let go. The harsh glint in his eyes vanished. “I do know you. You’re friends with Serena Smith and Dani Metcalf.” The statement came out slowly, yet with utter certainty.
Her brain worked at warp speed, flipping through memories of the last few months. She shook her head, but his unwavering stare brought home a flashback of a particular night. She, Brock, and Milo had just rescued Dani and Serena from Milo’s father, who’d planned to kill them.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
He wasn’t just someone who could identify her—he was someone who had the names of her friends. That was far more dangerous than his recognizing her face. Realization dawned, and she drew her breath in through her teeth. That night, after Milo’s father’s arrest, a man had pulled up in an unmarked car and Milo’s friend, an FBI agent, had gotten out.
“Rhett . . . something.” She yanked her hands from his hold. “You’re a dirty cop.” She twisted her mouth into a snarl. “Unbelievable.” As she checked him in the chest with her shoulder, the ship rocked, throwing off his balance further. She brushed past him, using the bedframe for balance, and stopped on the other side of the room, behind the chair.
“Rhett Callahan.” The words came out begrudgingly. “You remember me?”
He didn’t even have the decency to deny being corrupt. She didn’t want to admit it, but she remembered him all right. At nearly six-and-a-half-feet tall, he wasn’t one to forget. Not with that thick, wavy black hair and eyes the shade of slate.
Definitely not the type of dude you saw every day. Even in that moment after Dani’s kidnapping she’d been taken aback by the super-hot cop, but she’d also taken great care—or so she’d thought—to stay off his radar.
She couldn’t leave this room with him still alive.
* * *
The smallness of the woman’s golden orbs and the tension around her full mouth should have made him uneasy. She looked fit to kill and for some reason, he was her prey. She’d made it to the other side of the room and put the chair between them. Which was a joke. If he wanted to charge at her she’d have no leg up in the matter. But if it made her feel safer, so be it.
She remembered him. Christ, that was a problem. If anyone found out he was an FBI agent, the case would be shot to hell and he’d probably get shot, too. And when that was done, they’d kill her for the fun of it, scandal be damned. Moretti didn’t fuck around if someone crossed him, especially one of his men.
Her hands curled over the top of the chair. The T-shirt she wore—his T-shirt—swallowed up her shoulders. He didn’t need to see her hips to know his sweatpants hung dangerously low around her waist. They were pooling at her feet.
He sat on the bed to give himself some kind of stability in the shifting room. Damn it was a rough storm, and there was no sign of it letting up anytime soon. Seemingly satisfied with his distance, she averted her searing stare.
“Yeah, well, there was something familiar about you too,” she said, finally answering his question. “Milo speaks so highly of his FBI friend, Rhett. I bet he’ll be pleased to know you’re a crooked cop. Or did you get paid enough for just one stint?” Contempt dripped from her words, and he clenched his jaw.
He wanted to set her straight and tell her that he wasn’t crooked, that he’d been hired undercover and transferred to Key West specifically for this position. But he couldn’t do that. He also couldn’t let her walk around knowing his true identity.
He massaged his knuckles and weighed his words. He wouldn’t take her bait. Instead, he’d go back to square one: find out why the hell she’d gotten on this yacht in the first place.
“What does Moretti have that you want?”
She pushed the tip of her tongue against the insid
e of her cheek.
“It must be good,” he continued. “Let’s guess, shall we?” He propped his ankle over his knee. “There were a lot of influential people on this boat. Perhaps you were trying to scope out the crowd, find a new clientele to steal from.”
A delicate eyebrow arched.
“But no,” he mused aloud. “You want something he has.” Rubbing the tip of his thumb under his bottom lip, he sifted through what little he knew of her friends. “Dani and Serena were grade-A criminals. If I’m not mistaken, they have a history of stealing rarities: diamonds, gold, artwork. But Moretti doesn’t have any of that on the ship.” He tapped his chin and she rolled her eyes.
“Is your thought process always this slow?”
He laughed but quickly covered it with a cough. Damn, she was funny. “I’ll admit that your presence is puzzling.”
His phone chirped in his pocket and he retrieved it. Ah, crap. He quickly answered. “Yes, Mr. Moretti.” He kept his gaze locked on the woman. The defiant, cocky glimmer in her eyes had disappeared.
“The storm’s passing, so we’re lifting anchor. What’d you find out about the woman?”
He tightened his hand into a fist. “She’s been rather tight-lipped, but we’re finally getting somewhere.”
“Hurry up. I’ve got business in the morning when we dock. I expect a full confession of who hired her and what she’s after by then, got it?”
“Understood. Is that all?”
“No.” The word came out with reluctance.
“Sir?”
“Be sure not to damage her face. We want her easily recognizable to send a clear message to whoever’s behind this.”
The line went dead.
CHAPTER 5
Rhett curled his hand around the phone and pressed his fist to his forehead. Motherfucking sonofabitch. He’d been stupid to think Moretti wouldn’t kill the woman for trying to steal from him. Moretti hated to be threatened, and letting the woman go would show weakness. Shit had just gotten bleak. There was no way out of this. He couldn’t stand around and let a civilian be killed. He’d have to call in his team. They’d surround the yacht with helicopters and boats before he could blink.
Straight Shooter Page 3
