by Wendy Rosnau
She kicked off her sandals as she shed her blouse, leaving her in a white lacy camisole and matching panties. She tossed the blouse on a chair, then suddenly sniffed the air. Slowly she reached for the blouse and clutched it to the front of her as she turned around.
"You should have smelled me sooner," Sly said, stepping out from the shadows. "If I had been out to kill you it would have been over for you minutes ago."
"But we both know that's not what you want from me, is it?"
"Why didn't you call me and tell me you were leaving Mykonos?"
"Do you have the file?"
"No."
"Then we don't have any business to discuss, and you need to leave."
Sly tried to stay calm. All day he'd been chasing her in the Hector, trying to keep from losing sight of the Ventura, and at the same time trying to stay far enough away so he wouldn't draw attention to himself. If she had left a day earlier when he'd been in Athens picking up Bjorn, he would have come back to Mykonos to find her gone.
Still pissed about that, that she had almost slipped through his fingers, he started toward her, stalking her until he had backed her up against the bed.
"What game are you playing now?" he asked.
"A game that requires only one player since you have no file for me."
Sly's nostrils flared. Bjorn had said he should use his charisma, but right now all he wanted to do was shake her and scare her into giving him a straight answer.
"I'm not afraid of you. As you said before, if you wanted me dead, I would be. So don't bother thinking you can intimidate me by glaring a hole through me. Do your worst, Sly McEwen, it won't be enough. I visit hell regularly."
He knew what kind of hell she had visited. Knew what had been required to survive. "Why didn't you tell me about the party?"
"What party?"
"Simon's birthday party."
"How do you know about that?"
Sly didn't answer. Instead, he said, "He's coming, isn't he? The Chameleon is coming to the party."
Her green eyes widened. "How do you know that?"
"You're not the only one with secrets, Evy. Should we share?"
She tried to step sideways and move past him, but Sly blocked her. "I was wrong. He does kiss you."
"It's not what you think."
"What do you care what I think?"
"I don't. You had to be close to see that."
"Close enough to know he doesn't do it often. He didn't know what to do with his hands."
Sly moved his arms around her and palmed her ass, showing her he was experienced enough to know what to do with his. Slowly he brought her against him.
"I told you never to touch me again."
"Or kiss you." He lowered his head, and, while she stood there unflinching—unflinching and unresponsive—he kissed her lips in a tender, seductive manner no one would expect from a rat fighter.
A long minute later he released her and stepped back. "You're trying too hard, Evy."
She wiped his kiss from her lips. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"Say it. Say it started out as a game on the balcony the other night, but somewhere in between the kissing and the touching, things changed."
She said nothing. Just stood there clutching her shirt to her breasts.
"Okay, have it your way, I'll say it for you. The game we played on the balcony was an excuse for both of us to put our hands and mouths on each other."
She shook her head. "Nice try, Agent McEwen, but you would say anything right now to get me to give you what you want. Even pretend you have feelings for me."
"I already know the Chameleon will be here tomorrow. Bottom line, Evy, I have no reason to be here except one. You."
She gave him a hard shove, then turned and tried to escape by diving across the bed. Sly easily grabbed one of her shapely legs and flipped her onto her back. She fought him for only a minute, then went limp.
"Sly, please don't do anything you'll regret."
He came down on the bed, straddled her body. "No regrets, no remorse. That's the motto at Onyxx. I never look back. Men like me can't afford to."
"Let me up."
"If you're going to scream, I suggest you get to it. That way the guards will be able to save you before this thing between us gets any hotter."
"You want me to scream?"
"No. But if I'm wrong, that's the only way you're going to stop what's going to happen next."
"You would be caught."
"I would be out that window before they got in here. You don't strike me as a coward. Afraid you might like me if you let yourself, Evy?"
"You flatter yourself."
Sly waited another minute, then leaned forward and brushed a lazy kiss across her parted lips. She let out a strangled cry, then closed her eyes.
"Come on," he whispered, kissing the corner of her mouth. "What's it going to be?"
"I can't want this … you."
Sly raised himself up to stare down at her. "Then you should have screamed because you're out of time."
She blinked open her eyes, must have heard the resolve in his voice. She shook her head. "No, you're out of time. Nemo, help me! Help! Someone, help!"
"Shit." Sly rolled off her and headed for one of the windows. Shoving it open, he glanced back and found she had shoved herself against the headboard, her long legs drawn up to help cover herself.
"You better go. Simon's men are instructed to shoot first and ask questions later." Then, she tipped her head back and screamed again. "Help, Nemo! He's getting away!"
The door flew open just as Sly dived out the window. When he hit the water, he went deep, kicking hard, gunfire following him all the way. He made a sharp right and swam beneath the Ventura, searching out the rope he'd anchored there earlier. When he found it, he followed the rope knowing it would lead him to the Hector three hundred yards away without having to surface.
Four minutes later he climbed aboard the Hector. On hearing sirens blaring, he quickly disappeared below deck. The blood on his side told him he'd been shot. It was just a flesh wound along his rib cage, but he was leaking enough to guarantee he would be stiff and sore in the morning. Son of a bitch.
In the bathroom, he cleaned himself up, then used a wide piece of tape to stop the bleeding. That accomplished, he searched out a bottle of whiskey. Thirty minutes later he heard footsteps overhead. When he went up on deck to investigate, he was greeted by two harbor policeman.
Wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, faking a yawn, Sly said, "Is there something I can do for you?"
They explained the nature of their business.
Sly shook his head. "Sorry I can't help you. I haven't been off the boat all night. And I haven't seen a man in his twenties with a long brown ponytail and a tattoo of a raven on his left shoulder."
The fact that Eva had given the police a false description of her attacker did nothing to ease Sly's anger. He would thank her for that small favor after he strangled her.
Back in his stateroom, sprawled on his bed, he drank more whiskey, and nursed his wounded pride. Another hour passed and then the phone rang. His mood black as the sand beaches the island was known for, he let the answering machine take the call. But when he heard her voice, he turned slowly and stared at the machine.
"Are you there? I … I just wanted to make sure you were—"
Sly hit the speakerphone switch. "Dead or alive?"
"Where are you?"
He took a long pull off the whiskey bottle and emptied it.
"Are you all right?"
"A little late to care about that, isn't it?"
"You sound strange. Have you been drinking?
"It's an effective painkiller. I'm about ready to start on bottle number two."
"Why do you need—You're in pain? Oh, God, were you shot?"
"Gotta go."
"Sly, wait! What can I do?"
"You've already done it."
"Where are you?"
"Like I'm as crazy as
you. Not a chance."
"Where? I never meant for you to get hurt."
"Forget it."
"Sly … please tell me where you are. I need to see for myself that you're all right."
"With Simon's watchdogs following you. I don't think so."
"I need to explain. I'll come alone, or I won't come. Please."
She had given the police the wrong description. It was the only reason Sly considered giving up his location. And even then, he needed his head examined. "If you sell me out, I'll kill you."
"Where?"
"The Hector. A yacht three hundred yards east of you. Listen, Eva … Eva?"
What the hell was she thinking? She'd almost gotten him killed.
The obvious answer was she hadn't been thinking at all. But then whose fault was that? He shouldn't have said those things to her. He shouldn't have touched her. Kissed her.
"That's what you get," Eva chastised herself as she passed by the mirror in a flurry to get dressed, "when you allow your emotions into the game."
She knew better than that. Knew it, and still she was going to go to him. But only to make sure he was all right. She had to. He'd been shot, and he was drinking to dull the pain.
The man was made out of steel girders. If he was drinking that meant it was serious. He could die.
She slipped into the hall wearing a black wraparound dress and flat sandals. If she was stopped, she would say that tonight's ordeal had set her nerves on edge and she was unable to sleep.
To her relief no one stopped her, and once she was off the Ventura and out of sight, she finally let herself believe that she'd made a clean getaway.
She was accustomed to sneaking around. She'd had years of practice. Years to perfect a number of survival techniques. Even before she'd gone to live with Simon, she'd learned at the age of twelve how to flip the switch on the electrical box so that the house alarms wouldn't go off. Then she would escape out a window to explore the neighborhood where she had lived.
Yes, she was good at sneaking around, and that's why she'd been able to meet with Dr. Fielding for a year without Simon knowing about it.
When she spotted the Hector, it was all she could do not to run to it. But that might draw attention to her, and so she kept the same strolling pace, as if she were truly out for a walk to enjoy the moonlight harbor after midnight.
The yacht was bigger than she thought it would be. Long and sleek, built for speed and endurance. A modern seagoing vessel, with a touch of vintage craftsmanship that guaranteed it would last and last.
She boarded without any fanfare and slipped down the stairs before someone caught sight of her. Worried about Sly, she barely noticed the clean galley or plush sitting room where a large green velvet couch curved along the wall. Her eyes drifted to the end of the hall. A door stood ajar, and she hastened her steps and pushed it open.
She scanned the room, her eyes settling on the built-in wooden berth that took up an entire wall and half of another. Sly McEwen was there, his broad back propped up against a carved headboard. There were lantern sconces on either side, above his head. He wore a nasty scowl, and held an even nastier-looking gun, leveled straight at her head.
If you sell me out, I'll kill you.
Eva leaned against the doorjamb and tried to look confident. She dismissed the gun, and sent her gaze down his bare chest to a gash that stretched along his side. It was awful-looking, a strip of wide tape across it holding it together. Moving down his body, she saw that the rest of him was intact, and she sighed in relief.
The question how do you feel? seemed redundant. The empty whiskey bottles beside the bed guaranteed he was in a degree of pain, but not enough to have drunk himself unconscious. His eyes appeared clear, the gun in his hand steady.
There was a bloody towel in the middle of the floor. Eva took another step into the room, said, "Did you get the bleeding stopped?"
"For now."
"I just came to make sure you were all right."
"We both know why you came, and there's more to it than that."
"That's true. I said I wanted to explain why I…"
He came off the bed smooth and easy, stalked toward her without faltering a step. She was right, he was made of steel. The wound had slowed him down only slightly.
She backed up through the door. The most important thing was to stay out of his reach. "If you need something, I can get it for you."
"I need something all right. But I'll get it myself."
She didn't like the look in his eyes. "Don't touch me," she warned, backing farther down the hall. He ignored her plea and when she reached the sitting room, she turned and headed into the galley. There she spun around, no longer willing to run.
She was up against the counter, not a good place to be, she realized. He wasn't touching her yet, but it looked like it wouldn't be long before he did.
She shivered with the thought of his hands touching her. Just one touch and it would start again. That strange bone-melting desire she couldn't explain.
On paper Sly McEwen was the too tough dangerous agent with a record for never giving up. He'd said that earlier—no regrets, no remorse. And the way he was looking at her, she was afraid he wasn't going to give up tonight, either.
She remembered how warm his lips were, and she sought them out. Stared.
He closed the distance, brought his body in alignment with hers. Eva's stomach did a slow flip in anticipation. And then she realized as his head lowered, that she had been doomed from the minute she'd stepped onto the Hector's deck.
He was right. There was something between them, something that had been born that night in Atlanta.
Eva sagged against him as he took her mouth in an explosive kiss. She struggled not to lose her head, but he seemed to know what she wanted, what she needed, even if she didn't.
She felt his hand glide over her hips, his fingers pulling up the hem of her dress.
"No," she whimpered when she felt his warm fingers move slowly over her thighs. Her stomach.
His fingers were inside her underwear and slipping between her legs before she could stop him. She squirmed nonetheless, tried to dodge his fingers, but it was impossible. His thumb moved along her slit, stroking her sensitive flesh. She moaned, tried to push him away, making one last weak attempt to save herself. It didn't faze him. In one smooth maneuver, his free hand lifted her off her feet, while his fingers pushed into her.
Her cry was stifled by another scorching kiss, and then he was carrying her back into the sitting room to the couch that wrapped the wall. He sat down, cradling her on his lap.
"Sly, please," she pleaded, burying her head against his bare chest.
He sent his fingers deeper, pumped then quickly in and out. Then again in a way that told her he knew what he was doing, what would render her helpless.
Her dress was bunched at her waist, his hand deep in her panties. She was squirming on his fingers, dying of shame, dying from the desire she could no longer deny.
He was rubbing her everywhere. Rubbing everything. Touching her in ways she'd never even touched herself.
"So wet. So hot."
Eva felt a rush of sensations, the beginning of something wonderful. She bit her lip to stifle a moan. Her hips arched on their own, and then the beginning of a spasm sent her clinging to him.
"That's it." He brushed her hair away from her face, kissed her parted lips, thrusting his tongue into her in the same manner as his fingers. "It's mine," he whispered against her mouth. "Give it to me."
As if he were dragging it from her, the spasm pitched her over the edge and she rode his fingers, wanting him to stop, wanting him never to stop.
"Come for me," he coaxed, sending his skilled fingers over her sensitive nub.
Emotions rushed her senses and ignited her body, and the orgasm that followed came in waves so raw and potent that they demanded Eva cry out. And so she did.
* * *
Chapter 11
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&nb
sp; Sly slipped his fingers out of Eva's body and pulled her close, shifting her so she had no choice but to let him kiss her. He used his tongue again, possessively taking and giving at the same time, in the same manner his fingers had taken her body, and given her pleasure in return.
It was like in the dream he'd had, and he let the scent of her climax fill his head and fuel his blood.
He felt her resurfacing, felt her shoving her dress down. He ended the kiss and she sat up, avoiding his eyes. He let her go when she slid off his lap and stood, sensing she needed time to accept what had just happened.
She had told Dr. Fielding she'd had sex twice with the gardener's son. He had listened to that tape a dozen times, and all those times he had heard something in her voice, a regret and at the same time a lingering question.
I thought something was wrong with me so I did it with him again a few days later. The results were just as disappointing … with some men it's all about them. Tony was a greedy little bastard.
Knowing what he knew about Parish, it was safe to assume that she hadn't been touched the way he had touched her. And from what just happened, as hard as she'd climaxed, he'd venture a guess that she hadn't soloed much, either. If ever.
"There's a bathroom in my stateroom."
"Thank you."
She still hadn't looked at him, but he was looking at her as she left the room and disappeared down the companionway.
If she thought that was it, she was wrong. They weren't finished. Hell, they had barely gotten started. But from here on out things would slow down.
He let a few minutes tick off the clock, then followed her. Inside his room, he closed the door and leaned against it. He heard the water running, a few more minutes lagged, and then the door opened and she stepped out brushing the hair away from her face. She looked pale.
"I didn't hurt you?"
"No." She wet her lips, raised her chin. "I'd like to leave now."
"You're sure I didn't hurt you?"
"Yes. I mean, no. You didn't."
"Then what's your hurry? You said you came to explain something. We haven't gotten around to talking yet."
