Devlin and the Deep Blue Sea

by Merline Lovelace

  "Someone did."

  "Maybe it was the man who shot him. Or the police. Or someone in the coroner's office. Or you," he tacked on.

  A shudder rippled through her. "Trust me on this. If I'd helped myself to a souvenir of that night, I would have returned it during my visit to Casa Alvarez."

  Devlin's conscience did some serious pinging. He still regretted melting into the night and leaving this woman holding the bag. Looked like that bag was bigger and heavier and dirtier than either of them had anticipated.

  "You said The Shark wanted two things. What was the second?"

  "The name of the Americano who was with me that night."

  Well, hell! Talk about your botched operations. This one had already gotten off to a shaky start. Devlin had a feeling it was about to completely blow apart. The Shark wouldn't swallow the story he'd fed Liz about going out to buy stolen tools.

  "Did you give him my name?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "Damned if I know. But El Sharko offered me some serious bucks for information leading to the recovery of this object, whatever it is."

  Her chin angled. Her brown eyes speared into him. Devlin was wondering how the hell the woman could look so belligerent and so kissable at the same time when she laid matters on the line.

  "We're talking very big bucks here. I might just do some name dropping unless you tell me the truth about why you were on that beach."

  So much for her swallowing the stolen-tool story! Devlin wouldn't make the mistake of underestimat­ing this woman again. Going with his instincts, he told her as much of the truth as he could.

  "I went to meet an informant."

  Four

  "Informant?”

  Liz chewed on her lower lip and processed that for several seconds. A dozen possibilities kicked around inside her head. Some put Joe Devlin on the side of the good guys. Some left the issue in serious doubt.

  "Was Martin Alvarez the informant you were going to meet?"

  "No. As far as I know, Alvarez was an uninvited visitor to the scene. The theory is he spooked my guy, who proceeded to plug him between the eyes and disappear."

  "The theory, huh?"

  Liz was feeling goosier by the second. Red warning flares shot off like rockets. Her sensible, cautious inner self shouted at her to turn around and leave now, before she got in any deeper. Trouble was, she rarely listened to her sensible, cautious self. If she did, she wouldn't be saddled with an absent ex-fiancée, a bitch of a debt and the memory of El Sharko's flat, black eyes drilling into her.

  "I think you'd better start at the beginning, Devlin. I want to know who you are and why you're on this rig."

  "This could take a while. What time are you scheduled to make the return flight?"

  "Guess you haven't stuck your head outside in the past hour or so. A good-size front has moved in. My aircraft and I are hankered in for the night."

  Liz tossed the information off without thinking. Devlin's response was slower and almost as an­noying as the speculation that leaped into his eyes.

  "Is that so?"

  Dammit! How could the man make her skin prickle with just a few drawled syllables?

  "Yes, that's so." She tapped a foot. "Anytime you're ready, cowboy."

  His gaze went past her. The speculation went out of his face, replaced by a hard edge. Liz looked to one side and saw he'd fixed his sights on the ragged Beanie bear.

  "I told you that belongs to the son of a friend of mine," he said. "She was engaged to another friend. Harry Johnson."

  "Was?"

  "Harry rotated off an AmMex rig several months ago. He never made it home."

  Liz scoured her mind. She ferried men back and forth every week. A few of the more gregarious—and more obnoxious—stood out in her memory. She didn't remember a Harry Johnson fitting into either category.

  "Was he on this patch?"

  "He was on AM-251, further south."

  She knew the rig. Smaller than 237, it was ser­viced by one of Aero Baja's competitors.

  "What happened to your friend?"

  "No one knows. He disappeared."

  Liz digested that information with an internal wince. "You said he was engaged. Men have been known to change their minds about little inconse­quential matters like marriage. I speak from experi­ence, you understand."

  The hard edges of Devlin's face softened for a second or two. "Yeah, I got that impression the other night. Your fiancée must be a real jerk."

  "Ex-fiancée, and you won't get any argument from me on that. Back to your friend. I still don't under­stand. If you're looking for information about him, why are you working here instead of 251?"

  "Because agents from the San Diego FBI office busted a man using Harry's name and passport a few weeks ago. The bastard was running nine- and ten-year-olds across the border and selling them to brothels."

  Liz zinged a glance at the Beanie bear. How awful that a vicious child abuser would steal the identity of a man about to acquire a young son through marriage. His fiancée must have died when she heard about it.

  "We now know at least two other AmMex crew members have disappeared under similar circum­stances," Devlin said, his voice tight. "Both were single, with no close relatives to report them missing. Harry was pretty quiet about his personal life. Only a handful of his friends knew he was dating Evie, let alone that he'd asked her to marry him. We suspect he was targeted for that reason. We also suspect whoever fingered him operates off this rig."

  "Why?"

  He raked a hand through his hair and frowned at the water that dripped from his fingers. He must have forgotten he'd just stepped out of the shower. With half an acre of male chest staring her in the face, Liz was all too conscious of that minor detail.

  "The informant I was meeting that night on the beach supposedly knew someone willing to supply U.S. passports for the right price. He hinted the seller was local. Our information suggests he or she also had direct access to AmMex personnel."

  He didn't put any particular emphasis on the feminine pronoun, but it hit Liz like a marline spike.

  "Whoa! You don't think I was out the on the beach to sell stolen passports, do you?"

  "We considered the possibility," he admitted without a trace of apology. "The background inves­tigation we ran on you suggested otherwise. That," he added, hooking one brow, "and the vow I over­heard you make."

  "You're not ever going to let me forget that, are you?"

  His grin slipped out, quick and all male. "What do you think?"

  "I think I'll choose a more private setting the next time I let rip," Liz muttered before latching onto his previous statement. "You keep saying 'our' and 'we.' Are you working this problem for AmMex or some­one else?"

  "Let's just say a few top officials at AmMex know why I was hired on for this rotation."

  Lord, he was slippery! Liz wasn't sure she be­lieved him even now. Before she could quiz him further, however, a heavy fist pounded on his cabin door. He opened it to a roustabout in a hard hat and soaked AmMex coveralls.

  The deckhand's glance widened when he spotted Liz, but the apparent urgency of his mission shifted his attention right back to Devlin. "Castlemaine needs you on the drill deck. The heavy seas are torquing line number two."

  "Hell!" Whirling, Devlin snagged a clean set of overalls from a locker. "This could take a while," he said to Liz. "You want to wait here?"

  "I'll grab something to eat and hang with the guys for a while. If you're too late, you can find me in the transient quarters."

  She left him dragging on the overalls and returned to the galley for a late dinner. She had to fight to keep her coffee from sloshing into her plate of curried rice and chicken before staggering down the hall toward the crew lounge. At the far end she spotted a sur­prised Conrad Wallace.

  "What are you doing here?" the AmMex rep asked, shouldering the walls as he navigated the narrow corridor.

  "I delivered the medicine Doc Metwani ha
d on back order."

  Wallace's lips pinched. Liz had no doubt he was calculating the fuel costs of an unscheduled flight. Tough. She was in no mood for one of his long-winded lectures.

  "I'm flying out in the morning," she said, squeez­ing past his bulk. "Let me know if you have any mail or reports to ferry back."

  The front seemed to settle right over the rig. Rain pounded the deck and waves crashed against the four giant columns. The rig's ever-present creaking rose in both pitch and volume until it sounded an unceas­ing chorus.

  Inured to the groaning and creaking, off-duty crew members were engrossed in a movie in the rec center and invited Liz to join them. She enjoyed the action sequences, but the sex was a little too over the top for her tastes. She left the men to their semi-porn and retreated to the transient quarters to wait for Devlin.

  After a quick shower, she slipped into her favorite T-shirt, tossed her jeans over a nearby chair and stretched out on her bunk. Like most pilots, she'd trained herself to sleep in odd places at irregular hours. She intended just a quick nap, the kind of light doze that usually satisfied her body's immedi­ate needs. She didn't count on the swaying motion of the rig, however. Within moments she was rocked into total unconsciousness.

  She had no idea how long she'd been out when someone rapped on the cabin door. "Whoizzit?"

  "Devlin."

  Still half-asleep, she fumbled for the door lock. Her semiconscious brain registered little more than the fact that he'd shed his coveralls and now wore the shirt he'd been missing when she'd surprised him in his cabin a while ago. The well-washed denim looked as soft as cotton.

  "Did you get line two untorqued?"

  He didn't answer for several moments. It took Liz that long to connect his silence with the fact that she'd forgotten to pull on her jeans. Her first hint was the slow trip his gaze made from the hem of her T-shirt to her bare feet. Her second, his husky drawl.

  "Two's untorqued. Can't say the same for myself at the moment."

  Fully awake now, Liz tried hard for irritation. With her skin tingling everywhere his glance touched, though, all she could manage was a half­hearted indignation.

  "Oh, for pity's sake! Get a grip, cowboy. I'm covered from neck to mid-thigh."

  "Not a problem." Closing the door behind him, he flicked the lock. "We can remedy that quick enough."

  The glint in his eyes clogged Liz's breath. She crossed the room with the vague intention of putting some space between them. "Careful," she warned. "Re­member what happened last time you didn't ask first?"

  "I remember."

  He strolled across the cabin and propped both hands on the upper bunk, caging Liz between them. None of their body parts made contact. They didn't need to. His heat seemed to arc across those few inches, searing her through the thin cotton of her T-shirt.

  "Permission to come aboard, Captain?"

  Liz pulled in another breath, this one flavored with the tang of the saltwater glistening on Devlin's skin. She could think of a hundred reasons to refuse his request. She didn't really know this man, wasn't sure she believed everything he'd told her. And she sure as hell didn't want to get dragged any deeper into this dangerous business he hinted at.

  Yet she couldn't deny he acted on her like a spark plug. Every time he got close, he transmitted an elec­trical energy that fired Liz's internal engine. She could feel her skin warming. Her pulse was revving faster than a main rotor at full throttle. Still, she was pretty sure she would have denied his request if the rig had remained stable.

  It didn't pitch much. Only a few degrees. Just enough to send Liz staggering forward a step, smack into Devlin's denim-covered chest.

  He kept one hand anchored on the upper bunk. His other arm whipped around her waist. A slow smile spread across his face, creasing the tanned skin, crin­kling the white lines at the corners of his eyes.

  "I'll take that as a yes," he said, the laughter in his voice edged with a husky note that had Liz's toes curling into the deck.

  She could have ended it there. Knew he'd back off if she said the word. To her profound disgust, she couldn't push out a single syllable.

  She wanted this. The feel of his arms around her. The sudden heat bubbling in her blood. Had wanted it since the night on the beach, when he'd appeared out of the darkness and tempered her anger and her hurt with his cocky grin and outra­geous offer.

  Liz had all of two seconds to wonder if she'd lost her mind before he tightened his arm, bent his head and covered her mouth with his. She'd question her sanity later, she decided, when she got back to dry land. Right now her world had narrowed to the deck rocking beneath her feet and the solid male over­whelming her senses.

  She could feel him against every inch of her body. Hear the catch to his breath as his mouth moved over hers. See the hunger that stretched his skin taut across his cheeks when he worked her T-shirt up to bare her breasts.

  "I've pictured you like this a dozen times since we met," he said, his voice rough.

  Since they'd met only a few nights ago, the gruff admission stroked Liz's ego even as his hand stroked her eager flesh. His callused palm was rough against her skin, his thumb gentle and incredibly skilled as it teased her nipple. The sensations streaked straight from her breast to her belly. Her vaginal muscles tightened, producing another set of sensations.

  Liz's breath was coming hard and fast when she decided it was time to level the playing field. With her blood pounding and her nerve endings snapping, she attacked the buttons of his shirt.

  "You know this is crazy," she muttered as she traced the contours of his shoulders and biceps with her palms. He gave a little grunt when one palm slid south, inside the waistband of his jeans.

  "Yeah, I know."

  His hands were all over her. Liz's locked around the length of steel poking at her belly. Sliding her fingers to the base of his shaft, she toyed with his taut sac before retracing a path along his hot, smooth length to the tip.

  She was thinking that he more than lived up to the oil rig crews' reputations for supersize derricks when he shed the rest of his clothes and rid her of hers. Locked together, they tumbled to the lower bunk. Unlike the bunks aboard navy vessels, these were long and wide enough to sleep the roughnecks who regularly muscled thousand-pound lengths of pipe into place.

  Thank God!

  Liz was no shrimp herself. Together, she and Devlin filled the confined space between the bunks. Which made for some extremely stimulating friction as they traded kiss for kiss and tongue for tongue. Then his hand cupped her mound and his fingers found her slick flesh. Parting the folds, he played with her hard, tight nub.

  Within moments Liz was ready to fly. She hooked a leg over his, straining against him. He got the message.

  "Okay," he panted, groping for the jeans lying on the floor next to the bunk. "All right. Just hang tight a sec."

  As if Liz could do anything else! His shoulder squashed hers into the mattress. His knee was wedged between her thighs. Using an elbow for leverage, he propped himself up to wrestle a condom out of its package and onto his straining flesh.

  Liz observed his contortions with a wry smile. "Planned ahead, did you?"

  "Yes, ma'am." His grin was fast and unrepentant as he repositioned himself between her thighs. "I told you. I've been thinking about this since the night we met."

  If she hadn't believed him before, she certainly did now. With his body poised above hers, and every inch of her skin pulsating with anticipation, she could hardly do otherwise. She was ready when he eased into her, wet and welcoming when he sank home.

  Devlin took it slow. Very slow. His blood was pounding with the force of a rotary drill boring through solid rock and his body had pretty much taken over from his brain. If he didn't keep the pace delib­erate, he'd blow like an uncapped West Texas gusher.

  The small corner of his rational mind that still functioned kept insisting Liz was right. This was crazy. Downright stupid, in fact. With everything else coming down, he should h
ave put this woman out of his head days ago.

  But she was lodged like a burr inside his skull. Her and that ridiculous vow. Every time Devlin had thought about it, he regretted all over again not being able to take her up on that rash vow. He also got hard as hell imagining what would have happened if he had.

  Now she was here, beneath him, smooth and sleek and responsive to his every move. Devlin intended to do his damnedest to make sure she had no cause for regrets.

  Then she clenched her muscles and he forgot about taking it slow. Forgot how insane this was. Forgot ev­erything but the need to drive into her wet heat.

  The storm peaked just after midnight. Liz did, too, when Devlin nudged her awake for a second round. She was on her side, her back to his front. He used the position to best advantage, merely wedging her leg up with one of his and coming into her from behind.

  They pistoned and plunged, back to belly, thigh slapping thigh. Liz felt the top of her head almost come off with the force of her orgasm, then fell asleep again spooned against his body, his arm draped over her waist like an anchor.

  She wouldn't have believed she could zone out so completely, wedged into a single bunk with a male of Devlin's size, but when she woke once more and squinted at her watch, she let out a squawk.

  "Good Lord! It's almost nine."

  "So?" Devlin rumbled in her ear.

  "You might be on a twelve-on, twelve-off shift, but I'm not. I need to check the weather, see if I have anything or anyone to ferry back to shore, and haul ass."

  She slithered out from under his weight and into the T-shirt she scooped up from the floor. Morning-afters were always awkward, this one especially so. She and Devlin weren't just casual acquaintances. They were involved to differing degrees in some pretty nasty stuff.

  Tugging the hem of the shirt down to mid-thigh, Liz rocked on the balls of her feet. "Look, about this business with El Tiburon..."

  "I'll take care of The Shark. You stay clear of him."

  Her brows shot up. Devlin lay naked under the tangled sheet, his head propped on his hands, his sun-bleached brown hair standing in short spikes. He looked lazy and relaxed. His tone was anything but.