One Night At A Time

by Christa Conan

“Did you specify the caliber of the weapon, too?” Abruptly he released her. Her shoulders sagged. Doug pivoted and strode away, gripping the railing and staring out at the vast velvet night.

  Doug dragged spread fingers through his hair. Why in God’s seven seas was he involved in this mess? And why was he allowing winsome eyes and a desperate tone to travel through his resolve?

  He wasn’t.

  Definitely wasn’t.

  She was Brian’s concern—or would be in less than twenty-four hours.

  “Doug?”

  The sound of his name, whispered in the darkness, with uncertainty and a trace of fear, started to unravel him. The touch of tentative fingers on his back undid him. And when the scent of her swirled into his hungry senses, his remaining resolve pooled into the ocean, drowning in unfathomable depths.

  She wanted reassurance. And he was the one she sought it from.

  Turning, he recaptured her shoulders between his fingers. Again, he noticed how feminine she was, how utterly sexy she looked in his robe, the soft cotton of his T-shirt snuggling her beneath the lapels.

  Her palm pressed against his chest, the heat of human contact burning his skin. Her head tipped back, hair fanning behind her. The dim light made her appear ethereal, tantalizing.

  He’d never had a case like this, never met a woman like her.

  He recalled the coldly impersonal kiss in New York. It had been a means to an end, a way to make her get a grasp on the situation, help her find calm.

  But he knew this one wouldn’t be cold. Or remotely impersonal.

  The first had meant nothing.

  This, this, meant something.

  Just what, he didn’t know. But he knew it would mark a changing point. For both of them.

  He wanted this, maybe as much as she did.

  She sucked a breath deep into her lungs as he pulled her gently but inexorably closer. He lowered his head in perfect time with her rise to her bare tiptoes.

  They were nearly one, separated by only a scant few inches. And then they were one—she opened her mouth, and he accepted the unspoken gift.

  He was gentle at first, then her fingers tangled with the hair at his nape. A primitive urge to protect and dominate surged, and he instinctively responded, deepening the kiss. drawing deep on his own desire and demanding her surrender.

  She moaned softly, the sound swallowed between them. It urged him on, farther, farther than he’d been in years. Her tongue was warm and tender, then passionate and seeking in equal measure.

  Doug was in trouble, and he knew it.

  The roll of the yacht forced them closer, and the kiss deepened. Their breath blended, and for a moment, just that moment, it was meant to be.

  The shortwave radio squawked, shattering the thundering tension. With a silent curse, Doug ended the kiss. Reality and reason returned.

  And he was left with a hell of a question: What in the name of creation was he supposed to do now?

  Chapter 4

  Cold crept around Arielle when Doug stepped away, the chill seeping in to replace the warmth his body had provided.

  “I’ll be back,” he said, voice ragged, as if the words had been torn from his throat. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  As if she could.

  When he pivoted and left, she pressed her fingers against her swollen lips. Like waves slapping the shore, sanity returned, flooding her with conscience and remorse.

  What had she gotten herself into?

  In the past three years, since the disastrous end of her engagement, she’d been kissed only once, a gentle peck on the cheek from a man who never called again. And now, in the space of several hours, Doug had claimed two kisses—two devastating kisses that reached deep inside, to a place no man had ever reached.

  The first she could excuse. She’d been frightened witless, unable to think. The kiss had shocked her back to reality.

  But the second? The second kiss she’d responded to, melded into, wanted. Insanity. It had to be. Insanity blended of fright and hope.

  Until Rhone suggested she call Doug, Arielle hadn’t believed she had a chance of survival. She’d given up hope, been living in shadows and fear.

  And in a single day, she’d sought protection from a man who didn’t want to offer it and been the target of an assassination attempt.

  The first attempt, she painfully reminded herself, but not the last. The man she’d hired wouldn’t stop until he’d succeeded. Or until they put a stop to the hit.

  At that very moment, she knew how very much she wanted to live.

  Suddenly the wash of emotions proved too much.

  Her knees buckled, and she sank onto one of the cushions, drawing the robe across her chest and holding it closed with numb fingers. She shivered, goose bumps chasing up her arms.

  Arielle Hale, schoolteacher, had been shot at. Worse, she’d been kissed nearly senseless by a man so masculine that her feminine instincts swam with recognition.

  And he wanted to get rid of her.

  Not that she could blame him.

  Thanks to her, he’d nearly been scalped. Thanks to her, his long-awaited vacation was going to be even longer-awaited.

  Still, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t erase the image in her mind of his eyes darkening as she rose—without any plan or conscious thought—onto her tiptoes.

  For a moment, it had been as though nothing else mattered.

  She’d been scared, desperate for human contact, for reassurance. Reliving Danny’s death took a toll on her heart, the pain of the memory worse than the fear of losing her own life.

  Gazing sightlessly out to sea, she dragged the robe tighter, in the hope of keeping warm. A futile effort, she belatedly realized. The cold came from inside, not outside.

  The drone of Doug’s voice surrounded her, reaching out and offering a lifeline of support in a world gone crazy.

  She heard her sizes repeated into the mike, the words followed by a long pause. Looking toward the navigation station, she noticed Doug staring at her. His gaze traced her body, from bare feet to damp hair.

  Self-consciousness claimed her, making her swallow, even though her mouth had gone dry.

  Arielle struggled for a calm and casual air, as if getting shot at and kissed happened every day. But the thundering of her heart, much like the swells of a restless sea, proved otherwise.

  She turned her head, breaking eye contact, as needles of sharp awareness pricked her insides, injecting desire, wants and needs long denied.

  He continued his conversation, clipping out instructions with laser-sight precision.

  Less than five minutes later, Doug returned, bringing with him an aura of power and the scent of windswept danger. He stood near her, legs braced, the muscles in his arms shaped and defined as he crossed them over his chest. He resembled a pirate. But instead of a sword glinting in the moonlight, the cool threat of firepower nestled between his shirt and his shorts.

  This was no ordinary man.

  But she was an ordinary woman.

  “There are no leads on the van.” He paused, holding her attention. Then he finished, “Yet.”

  Lead seemed to sink in her stomach. “Thanks for trying.”

  “Would have helped if I got the entire license plate number.”

  “How much did you get?”

  “Last three numbers.”

  “I got the whole thing.”

  Animation raced into his eyes. “Go ahead.”

  She recited the numbers, and he smiled. “I like a woman with brains.”

  He excused himself and returned a couple of minutes later. The wind whispered, along with doubts in her heart.

  “Brian’s running another trace. He’ll meet us at the house late tomorrow morning.”

  “The house?” Arielle had always prided herself on the way she took charge of her life, organizing everything and leaving nothing to chance. But ever since the phone call from the doctor’s office, nothing had been the same. Now, each and every detail of
her life was being handled, directed, by someone else.

  She hated inactivity, the fact she was dependent on Doug for so many things. Being in this position went against the grain. And she vowed to do anything possible to get herself out of this situation and return to her ordinary life.

  “My house. You’ll be safe there.”

  She reached for the can of soda, dragging the robe’s lapels back together when they gaped. After taking a steadying sip, she said, “I’m sure you’ll be relieved to get rid of me.”

  His jaw clenched, and his back teeth obviously ground together. “Listen, Miss Hale, this has nothing to do with getting rid of you. It’s not personal.”

  “I know,” she murmured.

  The tension eased from his face, leaving behind a man who looked half a dozen years younger.

  “It’s been a hell of a day,” he said. “You probably don’t dodge bullets on a regular basis.”

  Unlike him, who probably leaped tall buildings in a single bound.

  “You need sleep,” he said.

  On her brief tour, she’d seen only one bedroom. One bed. She gulped a swig of the soda.

  “It’s big enough for two,” he said, as if reading her mind.

  When she looked at him, she saw a devilish smile dancing at the corner of his lips. “Where...?”

  “Will I sleep?” he finished. “If I sleep, it’ll be in my bed. Share and share alike. I don’t snore, and I don’t steal the covers.”

  The thought of Doug’s body pressed against hers made her pulse roar in her ears.

  With a single step, he’d dwarfed the distance between them. She tipped back her head in order to see him.

  “Look, you came to me for protection. Until you’re in Brian’s custody, you’re my responsibility.” He strung several seconds of silence into a thunderous anticipation. “I don’t have sex with women I’m taking care of.”

  The darkness that had earlier painted his features with pain returned. Shannen had hinted that something terrible had happened in Doug’s past but, out of respect for him, hadn’t told Arielle what the tragedy was.

  A foreign, never-before-explored part of Arielle made her want to reach out, to erase the lines at the corners of his eyes.

  She reminded herself that after tomorrow she’d never see him again, told herself that whatever feelings she might have were a result of what they’d shared...nothing more.

  But that didn’t stop her heartbeat from racing wildly.

  “Bed,” he ordered.

  He offered his hand. Hesitantly, she accepted, her fingers disappearing in his grasp. As he eased her upward, their gazes remained fixed on one another. His warmth surrounded her, chasing away cold, but leaving her with a terrifying sensation of want.

  Before she could succumb to the dangerous impulses charging through her, Arielle managed a weak “Good night.” When he didn’t instantly release her, she pulled free and hurried toward the steps.

  She didn’t slow until she reached the small bedroom.

  Her insides still adrift, she shut the door and drew a deep breath. Then another. Finally, she counted to ten. The techniques that had always been so successful before didn’t settle her, though, not when Doug’s indomitable presence pervaded the room, stamping the atmosphere.

  The bed loomed in the center of the small space, a hunter green comforter fluffed on top. The decorations were sparse to the point of being nonexistent, everything functional, nothing frivolous.

  A single book sat on a small table, next to a lamp and clock. Trying—and failing—to resist temptation, she moved toward the book, tracing her finger down its spine. A bookmark peeked from the pages, marking his spot in a psychological case study of a notorious criminal. Even in his free time, Doug didn’t rest.

  It was wrong, she reminded herself again, to wish he’d stay with her until the hit had been canceled. But hope was the only thing she had to cling to.

  Sighing, she crossed to the bed, pulling back the comforter to slide between the crisp sheets. She plumped a pillow, wondering which side of the bed he preferred to sleep on.

  Knowing she was totally out of her element, Arielle offered a prayer for strength, instinctively realizing that she’d need it. He’d said he didn’t sleep with the women he protected—and she wondered...did he even want to?

  Doug drained the dregs of the coffee cup. Barely warm, thick-as-tar caffeine landed in his gut.

  Night watch stank.

  He was getting too damn old for this. Surveillance was for kids, rookies and screwups. Screwups. The reason he stood on deck, looking into the darkness, while a desirable woman curled beneath the covers of his bed.

  His bed.

  Tall, long hair, thin, with curves in all the right places was snuggled in his sheets, without a bra or probably even panties, while he watched the curve of the horizon instead of the curve of her derriere.

  He slammed down the mug.

  He’d known better than to allow winsome eyes to distract him. But what choice had he had?

  If he hadn’t followed her, she’d be dead now.

  And that wouldn’t happen—not on his shift.

  While he watched, the first splashes of dawn inked the sky. Despite the gravel in his eyes, he hadn’t been able to force himself to crawl into bed next to her. The soft sounds she made while readying herself for bed had haunted him all night.

  Fantasies didn’t make good companions, he realized, but they sure beat the alternative. Memories. With memories, it didn’t matter how fast you ran, they always seemed a step ahead of you, waiting with open arms. And if you stumbled, they’d catch you, suck you in.

  The sky brightened, chasing the demons back to the dark spot reserved for them in his soul. After stretching the knots from his muscles, he dropped down the few steps to the galley and searched out filters. Fresh coffee for the new day.

  The first satisfying drop hissed into the glass carafe. Doug needed a shower and a shave. He also needed a white, sandy beach. Two out of three wasn’t bad--better than his normal average.

  He paused in front of his bedroom door. She’d still be asleep, long hair scattered across the pillow. The pillow on his side? Or the side that had never seen company?

  Would she have kicked off the covers, or would they be bundled beneath her chin?

  Redirecting his thoughts, he continued down the passageway to the head.

  Ten minutes later, razor blade poised perilously close to his Adam’s apple, he heard the door slowly open.

  Instantly alert, Doug dropped the razor-and, unfortunately, his towel—when he reached for his gun. He aborted the reaction quickly when he saw Arielle.

  “Sorry,” she said, swallowing deeply, gaze fixated on the weapon. “I knocked, but...”

  She was going to be the death of him yet.

  “Brian’s on the radio.” She blinked and looked up. A shade of pink matching last night’s sunset slid up her face, stopping on her cheekbones. “I’ll, er, meet you on deck,” she said, turning her head.

  The door clicked behind her before he had a chance to respond.

  After pulling on his cutoff jeans, Doug answered the call.

  “She has a nice voice,” Brian commented, sounding disgustingly fresh and rested. “Competent, too—answered right away and didn’t send a squall down the line.”

  Just what Doug needed, an outline of her positive attributes. As if he hadn’t spent the night enumerating them.

  “She as gorgeous as Rhone says?” Brian asked.

  Doug’s voice slid rawly past a sleepless night. “More.”

  “Didn’t get much sleep, huh?”

  “She did.”

  “Having clients is hell.”

  “Yeah.” He glanced at Arielle’s profile as she stood out of hearing range on the foredeck, hip propped against the railing. She was endlessly stirring a spoon of sugar into a mug. His shirt and robe still hung from her frame, and her hair had been cinched into a ponytail. A few errant wisps, caught by the breeze, moved a
cross her forehead, not disguising the lines furrowed there. “Have you got something stronger than the coffee I made?”

  “What I’ve got is strong enough to burn a hole in your gut.”

  Doug’s spine stiffened.

  “Someone paid Arielle’s parents a little visit about an hour ago.”

  Doug’s response came swiftly and succinctly. Arielle stopped stirring and looked at him.

  “Gets worse.”

  Rule number one: Things could always get worse. And rule number two: They always did.

  “The visitor slid a picture of Arielle under their doorway—a red X across her face. Her folks are panicked, according to Shannen. They called her when they couldn’t reach Arielle...said something about filing a missing-persons report.”

  Doug drummed his fingers on teak, mind sifting through possibilities and probabilities. “What have you done to neutralize the situation?”

  Arielle’s face drained of color. Resolutely he turned away from her, needing to concentrate on the problem, not her emotional reaction. He knew he wouldn’t much like that, either.

  “Shannen handled the parents like a pro. She told them Arielle’s staying with her. Then she called me.”

  “Get a team out there to sweep for bugs, put the house under twenty-four-hour surveillance. And keep them away from the cops.”

  “They want to talk to their daughter. If they don’t get to soon...”

  The rest of the sentence remained unspoken. After refining the details of their rendezvous, Doug signed off.

  He sensed Arielle’s approach and turned to face her. Briefly he considered telling her the conversation concerned another case. But the squared angle of her jaw told him she wouldn’t buy it for a minute. How did women get to be so damn perceptive, anyway?

  “That was about me,” she stated, fingers curled around the spoon.

  He nodded.

  She peeled her fingers from the metal, then, trembling, slid the mug onto the countertop. “I can handle it.”

  “Someone shoved a picture of you under the door of your parents’ house.”

  Her knees buckled beneath her. But before he could react, Arielle straightened.

  He took a step toward her.

  “I’m okay,” she said, her voice shaky with unshed emotion. “I told you I could handle it.”