by Cherry Adair
With the flashlight raised, she turned toward the stairs and the noisy barroom below. Grabbing the metal banister, she raced down the steep cement steps two at a time.
Wearing shorts, a sweatshirt, and his eye patch, Michael tapered off his nighttime run to a jog, then finally, a walk. He wasn't wearing his watch, but judging by the position of the stars, it was after ten. There was no moon, but the stars winked ice clear in the blackness of the sky.
The beach was at least three miles long. He'd run the soft sandy stretch five times at a dead run and was barely winded. No heavy pack. No combat weapons. No sweat.
Not bad for a man who'd sailed for eleven months and avoided dry land, barring necessities. With all the toys he had onboard, two global positioning systems, the radios, and phone, fax, and e-mail capabilities, other than supplies, he could do everything he needed to do from the open sea.
Michael stood with his fingers locked behind his head and stretched as he stared thoughtfully out over the ocean. His lips twitched as he pictured Tally earlier at dinner. Did she know what a mass of contradictions she was? Elegant and earthy. Sexy as hell, and prim. Volatile and icy.
He shook his head and lowered his arms, then turned and walked away from the few lights of the bar and marina. Down the long, suddenly too bright, expanse of the beach. Farther up, as the beach turned the corner of the bay, he'd be blocked by a convenient rocky outcrop. The lava rocks meandered along the coast, steadily climbing, and forming a wedge as gentle hills became the cliffs on the west, north, and south of the island.
Warm, fragrant air caressed his damp skin.
The blast on Arnaud's boat had been expertly set and discharged. It didn't take an underwater detonation expert to figure that one out. Bouchard had been on deck when she'd blown.
Coincidence? Michael didn't think so.
He wondered if the explosion was a plan gone wrong. Did the delectable Tally have a nice big life insurance policy? And what about the second man? Also missing. How had he figured into it?
The sugary sand beneath his feet retained the heat of the day. Michael picked up a small broken slice of shell and flipped it between his fingers as he walked. The shell broke like a promise in his hand. He tossed it aside and veered onto the hard-packed wet sand.
He clambered over the lava rocks to the beach of the tiny cove on the other side. It was clear from the watermark striations on the rocks that this small stretch would be under water at high tide. Presently, the surf lapped gently at the surrounding rocks, leaving a snowy expanse of beach exposed.
Michael reconned the perimeter and found the small mouth of a cave, or deep depression. Darkness prevented him from seeing more than a foot or so inside. He crouched low and brailed his way around the opening.
"Sonofabitch, a cave." The narrow fissure opened enough for him to stand without bumping his head. But without a flashlight it was useless going any further. He'd come back tomorrow in the daylight. The cave would be a strong possibility for Church's hidden cache. His heart sped up with anticipation. God, it couldn't be this easy.
And why not?
Church wouldn't expect his enemy to show up announced at his front door.
Michael backtracked until he saw the faint glow of starlight, then emerged into the fresh air. He dug his toes into the damp sand and stuffed his hands into his pockets as he stared out across the vast expanse of the ocean.
There was nothing malevolent about the water tonight. A transparent white sheen painted a shimmering path to infinity beyond the glassy surface. Tempting. Luring.
Deceptively benign…
Tied together by the six-foot line, he and Hugo sank deeper and deeper into the icy darkness. Their target, the hull of the Marie Jose, three hundred yards away.
Something brushed his leg. A curious barracuda. Michael checked the illuminated compass board. Target dead ahead. He tugged once on the line. Hugo tended to get clausty down here after about an hour, and they'd been down twice that. I'm good. You?
Hugo tugged back. Good.
With a quick thrust of his legs, Michael swam downward, shooting forward, Hugo right behind him. The ocean was unforgiving. Especially at night. There was only one way to do this: by the book.
But "by the book" was a slow, laborious process in the pitch-dark in forty-degree water.
It was a damn good thing he didn't have time to think about how miserable he was. Even with the insulated layer of water between his body and wet suit, he was freezing his ass off. He ignored it.
The sound of his front-mounted rebreathing rig throbbed in his ears. Two more hours, and they'd be outta here…
Ah, Jesus. He jerked out of his waking nightmare, eyes narrowed on the distant lights at the other end of the beach. The sound of music and laughter from Auntie's outside bar drifted faintly on the sultry air.
Michael turned his head. Looked across the water.
Do it, asshole.
A child could paddle. For Christ's sake, the water wasn't anywhere near him and his heart was racing.
The man he used to be faced his fear head-on, and beat it all to hell.
The man he used to be wasn't a coward…
What he wouldn't give to be that man again.
Sweating, shaking, Michael rubbed a hand across his face.
Just do it, man!
Before he changed his mind, he strode purposefully toward the gently creaming surf. He had two days to get over this once and for all. Two frigging days.
"Come on. Come on. Come on." His toes touched water. He stopped as if he'd hit a brick wall. "Shit."
The deadly beauty beckoned, mocking him with his own cowardice, tantalizing him with its allure, promising absolution and oblivion.
Tepid water lapped at his toes, then his ankles. He swallowed a couple of times, tried to get rid of the cottonmouth. It didn't work. A chill, deep and unpleasant, crawled across his skin. All his skin. His pecker shriveled up and crawled inside him.
He glanced up the beach. Not a soul in sight.
He scanned the water. No boogeyman.
He'd loved water all his life. Swum in it as a kid, made his living from it as a naval officer. Loved it like nothing else as a SEAL.
And, because of Trevor Church, feared the living shit out of it now.
"Hugo?" Michael addressed the starry sky. "Are you watching this and laughing your ass off?"
Of course Hugo Caletti wasn't laughing.
He was dead.
Michael had killed him.
Chapter Seven
« ^ »
The moment Tally burst through the door into the light, she dashed straight for the rest room, where she used gallons of hot, soapy water to wash her hands. She emerged feeling slightly calmer, her hands pink and stinging from the scrubbing. Hopefully all the guy's cooties were scalded off her skin. Ew.
"There my girl." Auntie swung around the end of the bar to give Tally a bear hug. "No good pretty girl go bed so early." She elbowed a skinny young man off a barstool and all but hoisted Tally onto the worn leather seat. "What you drink, baby?"
Tally flipped up her shirt collar stylishly to hide the marks on her neck, and took a quick inventory of the room, her heart still pounding uncomfortably. The entire front wall of the bar was open to the mild trade winds blowing in off the ocean, and she was grateful for the breeze. All her nerves were still jumping.
"A piña colada?" She cleared her throat and tucked her bare feet around the legs of the stool. "A piña colada."
She made a point of not making eye contact with the handful of men in the room. They were all strangers. Covertly, she examined the occupants one by one in the flyspecked mirror behind the bar.
Are you the one? Or you? How about you? None of them looked greasy, or in enough pain, to be the man she'd tossed over the balcony.
"My specialty," Auntie assured Tally, bustling behind the ramshackle bar for the ingredients. "Your voice soundin' a bit rough. You comin' on a cold, baby girl?"
No. I was just st
rangled, Tally thought somewhat hysterically. "Just a dry throat," she assured Auntie. Oh, damn. Michael wasn't down here, either. Where could he have gone to in the middle of the night?
Leli'a's house?
Don't go there. Besides, it was none of her business, and she didn't need him. Did she? No. She didn't. "Have you seen Michael around?"
"He troubled, that boy."
"You mean he is trouble." She'd talk to Auntie about a better lock for her do—
"What the hell happened to your neck?"
His voice came from right beside her, and Tally gave a little squawk of surprise. He'd materialized as if by magic.
"My neck?" she repeated stupidly, her heart racing for a totally different reason now. It was a pheromone thing, she decided, some chemical imbalance in her brain that reacted so strongly to Michael's presence.
His sharp gaze locked on her neck. Tally wondered how he'd zeroed in on her injuries so quickly. He stood watching her, hands tucked in the pockets of his black shorts, dark hair ruffled. He looked… sinister. Dangerous. Lost.
His brows pulled together in a frown. "And why," he asked dangerously, "are you shaking?"
"What you be drinking, handsome?" Auntie leaned her sumo wrestler arms on the bar.
"Whiskey." He didn't look away from Tally. "Straight up."
Tally turned away long enough to break the connection. She clutched the drink Auntie set on the bar in front of her. A tentative sip, and the icy cold froth slid down her throat like glory. She sighed in appreciation.
"My specialty," Auntie said with a wide grin. She poured, then placed his drink on the tiled bar. "Where you been, hot-tie?"
"Running on the beach."
Auntie looked horrified. "Alone? You walk magical moonlight beach all by your lonesome? This no good. Next time you take pretty girl."
He turned away from Tally to give Auntie a quick, flirtatious smile. "When we have some moonlight, I'll come and get you."
"No. This here the pretty girl for you." She pointed at Tally.
Wrong. I'm not the girl for you, and you are definitely not the man for me. Too bad my body refuses to get with the program.
Tally waited until Auntie snuffled off to serve someone else, then took a deep breath. "Michael," she whispered urgently, "you won't believe what h—"
"Here be my man," Auntie interrupted, dragging a small, thin man by the arm as though he'd bolt if she let go. They were Jack Sprat and his wife. "Henri Jeûner, this be Tallulah, Trevor's o—Trevor's daughter—and her friend Michael. What you last name, hottie?"
"Wright." Michael glanced away from Tally's throat to greet the other man, then back again like a tracer bullet.
"Enchanté, mademoiselle." Auntie's Henri looked a lot like Sammy Davis, Jr. His accent was pure Maurice Chevalier, and for a second, Tally's heart stuttered. The man in her room had been French. Henri wasn't the man, of course; he was substantially cleaner, less robust, a foot shorter, and his accent was far more elegant. His brown eyes sparkled up at her as he bent to kiss her hand—an old-fashioned gesture Tally found charming. Or would have, at any other time. Right now she wanted to talk to Michael.
"Are you from Saint-Pois?" Tally asked in French, recognizing the slight regional inflection.
"Mon Dieu! Sourdeval, practically next door!" Henri burst into a spate of colloquial French, delighted when Tally told him she and her mother had spent several weeks in a village nearby when she was a child.
"You have come to see your papa." Henri reverted back to English. "He will be most surprised."
"No, he won't." Tally nibbled on the chunk of pineapple Auntie had used to garnish her drink. It was more tart than sweet and made her blink and purse her mouth. "He invited me."
Henri shot a fleeting look at Auntie, who shrugged. He said only, "Then he will be most happy that you are here."
Tally glanced up at Michael to see if he'd noticed anything strange about that little exchange. But the couple was on his blind side, and he wasn't looking directly at them, so he'd missed it. He'd moved closer to brace his hand on the counter behind her, his arm across her back. His breath ruffled her hair. If she turned her head a bit more she could bury her nose in the crisp hair on his bare chest. The man never wore enough clothes. She liked that about him.
Auntie shuffled back behind the bar, and Henri stayed long enough to suggest some local sights for them to explore. Nothing was any great distance, he told them. The waterfall on the other side of the lava field was worth a visit. Auntie, he assured Tally, would be happy to pack a picnic for them.
"They seem sweet together." Tally watched the other couple exchange a brief kiss before Henri went off to sit at a table outside with several friends.
"At least you've stopped shaking," Michael said flatly. He looked disreputable with his unshaven jaw, shaggy hair, and that sinister black eye patch. Tally was oh so tempted to fling herself into his arms and demand he take her back onboard the Nemesis and sail into the sunset. "What gives?"
"Some guy came into my room. He scared the bejesus out of me."
"What the hell did he want?"
It was going to sound overly dramatic or stupid when she said it out loud, but she said it, anyway. "I think he was trying to kill me."
"What?"
"He tried to—"
"Jesus. I heard you." He brushed aside her upturned collar with both hands. His warm fingers traced either side of her throat as he said in a deadly voice, "The son of a bitch put his hands on you."
"Well, yeah." Now that Michael was pissed off on her behalf, Tally felt much better. "He was attempting to strangle me. He also had a knife."
"So I see." He touched the small cut with a gentle finger, the look in his eye murderous. "Could you I.D. him if you saw him again?"
"You bet," Tally told him, pleased with herself. "He'll be the one limping, holding his… privates, and pulling a face like this." She screwed up her features in a parody of extreme pain.
Michael snorted a laugh and shook his head. "Kicked him in the balls, did you?"
"No, actually—" She made an upside-down claw of her right hand and made a wrenching motion.
Michael winced, then chuckled. "Jesus. I'd've given cold, hard cash to have seen that."
"Yeah, well, it wasn't quite so amusing when he was in action in the pitch-dark."
"Poor little bear, he really scared the crap out of you, didn't he?"
His sympathy almost undid her, and her eyes stung. Forcibly resisting the urge to rest her head on his chest, she blinked back tears as she pushed the wild tangle of her hair out of her eyes. "I threw him over the balcony."
"Yeah? Good for you."
Tally sipped the last bit of froth from the bottom of her glass, then held up her hands in a pseudo karate chop. "Better not mess with me, I have lethal weapons."
He smiled. "Amen, sister."
Michael wondered if she realized how pretty she was when the hectic color fired up her incredible blue eyes. Probably not. If the pulse at the base of her throat always beat that fast, she was on a fast track to a heart attack.
Unfortunately, he was starting to see hidden, and unexpected, depths in Tally Cruise. Rather like the beauty of a pearl, her luster was deep and subtle. And damn it, now that he'd noticed, it was hard to understand how he'd thought her plain when he'd first seen her.
He wanted to find the son of a bitch who'd hurt her and break him into several small, jagged pieces.
Which had absolutely no bearing on his prime directive.
Vengeance.
Her first mistake had been sleeping with him. The second had been drinking that third piña colada. She'd never had more than one cautious glass of zinfandel in a sitting in her life.
Whoa. Were the stairs always spongy? Tally tested the cement surface with her toe. Yep. She kept a tight grip on the wrought-iron banister and dragged herself up the narrow stairwell to the upper floor. Where her room was located right next door to the I'm-no-hero pirate with the sexy eyes. Eye.
Since she was feeling no pain, thanks to the anesthetizing effects of Auntie's yummy drinks, the small nick on her neck barely smarted.
She opened the door cautiously and, squinting, took a quick visual inventory from wall to wall before stepping inside, and closing, and locking, the heavy door behind her. The lamp beside the bed cast few shadows. There must have been a 250-watt bulb in it, and the white flowers on a fuchsia cotton shade did little to dim the bright, rosy glow reflected off the white walls.
Not bothering to wash her face—something she knew she'd regret come morning—she stripped and put on her favorite pajamas. Then fell nose first onto the snow-blinding bedspread as she hung over the edge of the mattress and peered under the bed.
No boogeyman. Whew.
She flopped back, spread-eagled, across the queen-size bed.
This trip was proving to be a smorgasbord of new experiences.
Near drownings.
Mind-blowing sex.
One-eyed pirates.
Mind-blowing sex.
Three-legged cats.
Un-be-lievable mind-blowing sex.
Stinky intruders with knives.
She frowned. Had she already mentioned sex?
Fab-ulous sex.
Piña coladas, and numb tongues.
Covering her eyes with her arm, Tally debated getting up to hang up her clothes. It seemed like an awful lot of tr…
It felt like seconds later when she jerked awake. For a moment she lay there on her back, wondering what had woken her. Not the soft, sibilant murmur of voices from downstairs.
Someone breathing.
She froze in place. The small hairs on her arms prickled. Her pulse raced, her muscles tensed as fight-or-flight instincts kicked in.
Not again, you bastard. Not again.
Cautiously, she inched her arm away from her face. The room was pitch-dark. No million-watt bedside lamp. No night-light by the door.
Don't freak out.
Before the panic attack got ahold, Tally flew off the bed, hit the floor running, and wrenched open the… unlocked… door to her room. Heart pounding, she slapped a hand on the wall and used it to brace herself as she raced down the equally dark corridor to Michael's room next door.
