by Rebecca York
Her eyes were large and slightly almond-shaped, their dark lashes standing out against her pale skin. Her face was oval and beautiful in a strange, exotic way.
He couldn’t be sure of her nationality. He wouldn’t be surprised if she was part Native American or part Asian, although neither of those would account for her wheat-blond hair. It could be dyed, of course, but he saw no suggestion of dark roots.
She seemed to be one of those women whose mixed heritage added up to a very fortunate combination of features. Coming back from the brink of death, she should have looked bedraggled, yet he sensed a super-charged energy coming to life within her.
“Are you okay?” he asked. It was a simple question. But he was startled by the tension gathering inside himself while he waited for her answer.
SHE BLINKED, staring up at the large, dark-haired man who had spoken to her, trying to focus her gaze on his face and her mind on his words. His eyes were light, his nose narrow, his jaw tense. He wasn’t a type she had seen often. He had said something, asked a question. He wanted to know how she felt. If she was well.
His voice was interesting. Slow and rich. She liked it. But she knew the words were more important than the way he spoke, and she considered what she might say—even while she desperately scrambled to come up with an answer to the question.
Truthfully, she felt as if she’d been punched in the chest by a giant fist. Her skin prickled and her lungs burned as though she’d been running fast and hard for hours, and her hair was wet, and hanging limply against the sides of her face and neck.
What had happened to her? A sudden spasm racked her, and she coughed, feeling the muscles of her chest protest.
But she welcomed the pain because it pulled her mind away from the raw, hot fear that suddenly welled inside her with the pressure of lava building up inside a volcano about to erupt.
In an effort to control the awful surge of panic, she focused on breathing slowly and evenly. Slipping her hand along the bench where she sat, she grasped the rigid edge, feeling it dig into her skin.
In the gathering twilight, she tried to get a better look at the man who hovered over her. He was wearing a brightly printed shirt with palm trees and flowers. Both the shirt and his hair were wet.
The fabric clung to his body, outlining hard muscles. As her gaze traveled downward, she focused for a moment on the outline of his sex, thinking it impressive. Embarrassed that she was even noting something so personal, she jerked her gaze lower, seeing the droplets of water that still clung to the dark hair on his powerful legs and thighs.
He had been in the water. With her, she presumed. In fact, when she turned her head, she saw that she was sprawled in the bottom of a small boat in a river.
In the open.
The realization brought a fresh surge of panic. She was in the open. Exposed.
All her senses registered that danger. Yet the gathering darkness was strangely reassuring, because it helped to hide her from whatever might be out there in the night.
Except from the man who loomed over her, dominating the environment, making her nerves jump. He was too close. But he hadn’t made any threatening moves. And he might not be her worst problem. Something had happened. Something so terrifying that her mind would not bring it back.
Had this man thrown her into the water? Or fished her out? When no concrete memories surfaced, fear clawed at her again. She heard a warning echo in her head: Trust no one. The enemy will try to stop you. Trust no one.
Someone had drummed that into her. Over and over. She could hear the speaker’s voice in her mind, but it was impossible to bring his face into focus. Yet the words were as much a part of her as her hair and skin. Someone had said them, and not the man in the wet clothing. She knew that much.
Her gaze flicked to his face again. He looked concerned. And he had sounded worried about her. But that could be a deception, because he could be the enemy.
She raised her hand, pressed it against her throbbing forehead. Pain pounded through her brain, obliterating thought, obliterating memory. But she had to remember, had to figure out what was going on. She knew her life depended on coming up with the right answers. And not just her life.
Holding her body still, she surreptitiously tested the muscles in her arms and legs. They seemed strong. She hoped the impression was not simply wishful thinking.
IN THE GATHERING DARKNESS, Max tried to read the young woman’s expression. When she said something that was too low for him to hear, he leaned forward, struggling to decipher her words, but all he caught was the lilting tone of her voice.
“Are you okay?” he asked again.
She didn’t answer, and he added, “I’m Max Dakota. I fished you out of the drink.”
“Fished…you…out of the…drink,” she repeated hesitantly as though trying out a collection of completely strange words.
Well, that had been a pretty flip way to put it, he conceded, as he cleared his throat and tried another question. “What’s your name?”
She didn’t answer, only continued to regard him as though he was the one who had dropped off a bridge and into the Hermosa Harbor channel.
He wanted to get a better look at her, so he switched on the camp lantern he’d stowed under one of the seats. The yellow glow showed a woman who was trying to hide her fear. She looked on the verge of tears, and he felt his own chest tighten in reaction.
She seemed utterly alone, utterly defenseless, sitting with her shoulders hunched, wet and bedraggled in the bottom of his skiff.
More than that, he was pretty sure she was in serious trouble, although she might be thinking that she wasn’t going to tell him about it.
“I’d like to help you,” he murmured, meaning it. When she didn’t answer, he added, “It’s okay. I won’t hurt you.”
Of course, she had no way of knowing he was telling the truth. No way of knowing what kind of man he was—beyond the fact that he’d saved her life. Still, the wrong kind of guy could have done it for the wrong reasons.
“Who threw you into the water?” he asked. “Was it one of the thugs from town? Or did you get desperate and decide to take a dive on your own?”
As she seemed to consider the questions, her tongue flicked out, licking across her lower lip, and he followed the motion, caught by her unconscious sensuality.
Well, he assumed it was unconscious, since she hardly seemed in shape for seduction.
“We should get back to my cabin cruiser. You need to get out of those wet clothes.”
“No.” She moved then, darting forward, catching him by the shoulders. He’d noted that she was in good shape, but her surprising strength took him off guard, and he lost his balance and sat down heavily.
Moments ago, she’d been on the verge of death. A drowning victim pulled from the water just in time. Now the color was back in her cheeks, her features were intense, and her eyes glittered.
He registered little more than those brief impressions before she took his body in a two-handed grip. Her femininity had caught him off guard. That and her vulnerability.
Now she moved with lightning speed, pulling him off balance, then heaving him up and over the side of the boat as though he were a sack of oranges. In the next moment, he found himself hitting the water and going down for the second time that day, a curse gurgling in his throat as his head went under.
Chapter Two
Max broke the surface of the water sputtering and cursing his stupid willingness to trust. He’d felt sorry for the woman, and she’d tossed him overboard.
He came up in time to spot her leaning over the engine, looking at the controls, apparently trying to figure out how this particular piece of machinery worked.
Her obvious consternation was reassuring. He still had a chance to get his damn property back.
He could have waded through the chest-deep shallows, but swimming was faster. As he stroked toward her, she looked up, alarm clouding her features. Yeah, well, she should be worried.
; When he reached the boat, she turned and raised her arm, prepared to ward him off.
Instead of going for her, he stood up, planted his feet on the muddy bottom and yanked on the side of the craft, sending it into a violent spasm. To avoid going over the side, the occupant of the boat sat down heavily, her arms flailing.
The torch rolled under the seat and went out. He couldn’t see her expression as she pushed herself up and lunged toward him. But he imagined a look of desperation and determination in her eyes as she tried to kick him away.
“Not very ladylike,” he growled, ducking, but keeping a firm hold on the boat.
When she flailed out again, he grabbed her foot and pulled. The tactic tipped the boat to its side, sending Miss Kung Fu into the shallow water with him.
He gave her credit for coming up fighting, but he was ready for her tricks this time. He ducked the rigid edge of her hand and countered with a reliable old one-two combination. He’d never socked a woman in the jaw, but he did it now, sending her sprawling backward into the water.
He waited for her to bounce back up, her fists raised. But when she stayed down, a surge of panic knifed through him.
He hadn’t saved her life so he could drown her fifteen minutes later. Ducking below the surface, he began searching with his hands extended. He found her quickly and decided not to stand on ceremony, using her hair to pull her up.
After gathering her limp weight in his arms, he held her against his chest, lowering his cheek toward her face.
She was breathing in ragged gasps, and she appeared to be unconscious. Or she was doing a good job of faking it, waiting for another chance to work her way under his defenses.
Well, it wasn’t going to happen again, particularly when he thought of what he’d have to put in his report to Light Street.
So he lifted her into the boat again, prepared for some kind of trick. When none was forthcoming, he scrambled in behind her.
After hesitating for a moment, he used the tie line to secure her hands and feet. When he was sure he wasn’t going to be attacked again in his own boat, he started the engine and headed back to the marina.
Halfway there, he decided it might attract a bit of attention if anybody saw him climbing on board his cabin cruiser, The Wrong Stuff, with a bound, unconscious woman in his arms.
So he stopped and covered her with a tarpaulin, leaving a tent over her face so she could breathe.
It was fully dark when he reached the slip where his boat was moored. He’d asked for the end of a dock, which provided him some privacy, especially as the craft on his left was owned by a guy who only used it on weekends.
As far as he could tell, he was able to get Miss Kung Fu up the ladder and belowdecks without being seen.
The Wrong Stuff was a custom job, designed for a playboy who enjoyed his creature comforts, which was the role Max had assumed since arriving in Hermosa Harbor. He snorted, thinking his rather down-to-earth parents would have laughed at the status symbol, had they been alive. He carried his visitor through the teak-lined lounge, with its entertainment center and comfortable built-in couches, and below, where there were two cabins and a head. The aft quarters were cramped. But the cabin across the bow was big enough for a double bed and some nice built-in storage furniture. The shower in the head would hold two.
Max hesitated for a moment, wondering where to take his guest. He decided his bed was be the most logical place, because tending to her in the other cabin would demand the skills of a contortionist.
After laying her on his comforter, he turned on one of the bedside lamps and leaned over her slack body.
“What if I turned you over to the sheriff? Would that be a good idea?” he asked, partly to find out if she was faking her state of unconsciousness.
She didn’t answer. Despite her attack in the skiff, the thought of tossing her like a piece of choice meat to Bert Trainer made his stomach knot. For all Max knew, Trainer could have been the one who had ordered her pitched off the bridge.
Driving her to the hospital emergency room was his logical next move. But if she was in trouble, whoever was after her—Trainer or someone else—would find her there and likely finish the job he’d started.
That was a good reason for hiding her here. And there were other reasons, too. The story she had to tell might help him nail Jamie Jacobson’s killer. She might even know the amount of dope being moved through Hermosa Harbor. If she trusted him enough to talk. So far, she’d given no evidence that she was going to come clean with him.
But maybe a little TLC would persuade her.
Some deeply hidden part of him liked that plan, even when he knew that trusting this woman might be the biggest mistake of his life.
Yet he kept thinking of an old Chinese proverb—or whatever culture it had come from. When you saved a person’s life, you were responsible for him or her.
Nonsense, he told himself with a snort.
The woman who had become his responsibility lay with her eyes closed, but he wondered again if she was faking unconsciousness.
He’d used that ploy on occasion himself—when he’d been trying to avoid inconvenient questions.
He’d called her Miss Kung Fu, but maybe something else would do better. Something that wasn’t out of a martial-arts movie.
As he thought about it, his hands were busy pulling off her short, tight boots. When he inserted his finger under the tops, the material gave, and he was able to quickly ease them off her feet.
He held them up to the light, studying the pointed toes and little heels. They looked like leather from the outside, but they were thinner and lighter and very well made. The tops were shaped like cowboy boots. And that brought a name from a Broadway show zinging into his head.
Annie Oakley.
“What do you think, Annie? Is that a better name for you?” he asked, not expecting an answer and not getting one. “At least until you fess up and tell me something different. And by the way, why don’t you help me sort out the good guys and the bad guys in Hermosa Harbor?”
After setting the boots on the floor beside the bed, he looked back at the woman, who lay with her eyes closed.
He’d brought her to his boat and laid her on his bed. Were those actions just more of the sort of risky behavior he’d engaged in after he’d come staggering back from San Marcos without Stephanie?
He hadn’t really cared if he lived or died, so he’d taken some outrageous chances. Like when his former employer, a top-secret spy organization called the Peregrine Connection, had needed an informant sprung from a covert prison in Afghanistan. He’d volunteered to go in and get the guy out. And he’d succeeded—leaving half-a-dozen dead guards scattered around the prison compound. He’d been prepared to take on other assignments with similar risks, when another former Peregrine operative, Lucas Somerville, had come down to the agency’s secret headquarters in Berryville, Virginia, to see him.
Lucas had acted as if he’d just wanted to find out how Max was doing. But Max suspected the director, Addison Jennings, had suggested the visit.
Lucas, who now worked for Randolph Security, which was affiliated with the Light Street Detective Agency, had persuaded Max to give up the high-risk spy business. Which had probably saved his life.
Since joining Light Street, he hadn’t been operating at quite such a death-defying level. Still, he recognized the impulse to put his own safety at the bottom of his priorities.
Switching back to practical matters, he turned his attention to his prisoner’s condition. He was no doctor, but he’d had plenty of emergency experience. Methodically, he checked her vital signs as best he could. Her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. It seemed as if she was breathing normally. When he pressed his fingers to the artery in her neck, the rhythm of her pulse felt normal. As he untied her bonds, Max wondered if she was suffering from shock.
He’d seen this kind of reaction when he’d come into a village in San Marcos after rebels had swept through the area, killing men, women an
d children. Some of the residents were unconscious—even though they had no injuries. He figured what had happened was too terrible for them to face, so they’d gone into some private world where nobody could reach them.
Was that what had happened to Annie?
SHE LAY VERY STILL, considering her options now that the man had untied her.
Her head was still pounding. But she had worse problems. Despite the soft surface under her body, she felt as though she was being sucked into a black hole in space, unable to stop herself and unable to figure out where she was going to land. In the past or the present. Or the future.
The endless void was terrifying. So she focused on the present, on each separate second of her existence, all her effort going into not letting the man know that she was now aware of what was going on around her.
When she’d tried to escape, he could easily have killed her, and she should probably count herself lucky that he’d only knocked her unconscious.
Of course, he had his reasons for sparing her life. She gathered from what he had said that he thought she had information that would be useful to him. The problem was, she would not be able to tell him anything he wanted to hear.
Through a screen of lashes, she studied him, thinking that she had been lucky to get him out of the small boat in the first place.
But what kind of personality lurked behind those icy blue eyes? Did they ever turn soft? Or was he always prepared for trouble? Finding out was vitally important.
She was lying on a wide bed in a small bedroom. Given that the surface under her rocked gently, she was pretty sure he had carried her onto his boat. He had told her he was going to do that.
Now she could see him much better than in the small craft on the river. He looked tough. Like a cop. Or the chief of a tunnel gang. She tried to hang on to that interesting thought, but it skittered out of her mind as quickly as it had come, and she was left with the man between her and the door.
