by Unknown
And none of them had a visible weapon in hand as they vainly fought the contrapuntal motion of the two bobbing boats. But then they stopped trying to board entirely as a light went on in the cabin. All three of them looked up and then stared, transfixed.
Phoebe had turned the battery-powered lantern to high, and she held it up and out with her left hand, as if to try to see who was out there.
It mostly worked to illuminate her.
How had she described that website picture of herself? As frumpy?
Her hair was a riot of curls down around her shoulders, and the T-shirt she’d pulled on, while oversized, was clinging to her body in all the right places. It was white and still wet and very nearly transparent and holy God.
Frumpy was not the word that leapt to mind.
“Who’s out there?” she called in a British-tinged accent as Ian took advantage of the spell she’d cast by silently swimming to the side of the skiff that was farthest from the yacht. “John? Is that you?”
She’d set a bottle of wine—obviously uncorked—on the counter, as a very effective show-and-tell. Look, I know it’s on the early side to be such a mess, but when I got here I started drinking heavily and passed out from too much wine and anger. My ringing cell phone just woke me.
Ian hoped the men in the skiff weren’t familiar enough with the yachting set to recognize how odd it was that she was there with no obvious means of transportation from the dock, i.e. a dingy tied to the anchor.
Phoebe set the lantern down on the counter to unlock the door to the aft deck, doing it all with her left hand.
Ian hated that she was leaving the safety of the locked cabin, but he couldn’t exactly shout cautions or instructions to her at this point. And while it was true that she was putting herself in peril, he had to admit that it was what someone might do: see what had bumped into her yacht in the darkness of the night. Because in most cases it would be a what and not a who.
And because she was using her left hand—to pick the lantern back up after she’d opened the door—and because she was keeping her right concealed behind her, hidden by the fabric of that T-shirt, Ian knew that her finger was on the trigger of the Glock. Where she’d tucked the cell phone, he had no idea.
“Oh my God! Who are you?” she called, with just the right amount of drunken indignation and surprise in her voice as the light hit the faces of Dellarosa’s men. “What are you doing out here?” She drew in a deep, disapproving gasp of realization that was damn near perfect for someone who was, allegedly, not firing on all cylinders. “Did John send you?”
She didn’t let the men in the skiff speak as she stood there, lantern still held high, her chest heaving in righteous anger. The fact that her arm was raised made the T-shirt ride up to expose the edge of her panties, and the full effect made her long, bare, shapely legs look even longer, barer, and more shapely.
She was statuesque. Magnificent. Goddesslike. One hundred percent frump-free.
“I know John sent you, but it’s my yacht now,” she continued her improvised monologue. “Mine! You can tell John that it’s my yacht, my house, my Porsche nine fifty-nine, my Upper West Side pied-à-terre. You tell John that I am going to make him bleed. Go on, get out of here! Get away from my yacht! Right! Now!”
And there it was, the moment of truth.
Giant and Baseball Cap and their leader, Skinny, were either going to make apologetic noises and push off, away from the yacht or …
“We’re the marina’s security patrol, ma’am,” Skinny lied as effortlessly as Phoebe had. Maybe he was a lawyer, too. “We’ve had reports of break-ins on the boats out in this part of the harbor. I realize this is an inconvenient time for you, and I apologize for that, but I’m going to have to ask to see some ID.”
Skinny finally managed to push himself up and over the lifeline, landing with an ungraceful thud on the deck.
But Phoebe saw him coming, and backed up, quickly setting the lantern on the hard plastic of one of the built-in seats.
Skinny’s hands were both empty, but after he stumbled out of his landing, he moved to reach inside his jacket, which was never a good sign.
Phoebe apparently knew that, too. “Now, Ian!” she shouted, even as Ian yelled a slightly more efficient “Go!”
She had the Glock out and aimed at the center of Skinny’s mass, in a very fierce two-handed stance, even as Ian launched himself out of the water, grabbing Giant and hurling him back, over his shoulders, into the water with an appropriately monstrous splash.
“Freeze!” Phoebe shouted at Skinny, as Ian hauled himself up and over the side of the skiff. “Hands where I can see ’em! Now! Higher! Up and over your head! Now! Do it!”
He’d expected to have to deal with a somewhat frantic Baseball Cap, but the severe rocking motion caused by Ian’s throwing Giant into the water and then clambering up and into the skiff had apparently done the job—the man had already fallen overboard.
On the yacht, Skinny was reaching for the moon as Phoebe maintained her Charlie’s Angels pose.
Ian found himself grinning—God, he liked her more and more with each passing moment—but he was well aware that his jubilance was premature. They were not out of danger yet. It wouldn’t be more than another few seconds before the displaced men came up wet, angry, and shooting.
“Into the water, Pheebs!” Ian shouted as he grabbed the starter rope of the outboard motor and gave it a solid pull. It roared to life.
“What?” Phoebe shouted back. “Me?”
“Get him into the water,” Ian shouted back.
“Do it, mofo!” Phoebe ordered Skinny, who immediately joined his buddies in the Gulf, even as Ian brought the skiff around to the thug-free side of the yacht.
Phoebe tossed Ian the Glock, which he caught. But then she hesitated, because it was a daunting prospect, leaping down into a dingy from a much bigger boat.
But Skinny had gone so willingly over the side for one reason and one reason only: It allowed him to go for and draw his handgun without risk of getting a bullet in the chest.
Skinny’s first shot was wild—more into the sky than aimed at Phoebe, because he slipped during his attempted clamber up the starboard side of the yacht—but it wouldn’t take him long to be more accurate.
Phoebe knew that, too, and she stopped hesitating and jumped. But she went purposely wide, aiming for and hitting the water just in front of the skiff. There wasn’t enough time to pull her aboard, so Ian shouted, “Grab this, wrap it around your wrist, and don’t let go!” as he threw her the painter that was tied to the bow of the little boat.
She immediately understood. The nylon rope that he’d tossed her was long enough so that it wouldn’t put her in danger from the propeller of the outboard motor. She quickly called back, “I’ve got it! Go!”
So Ian opened up the throttle and the skiff jumped forward.
It took a few seconds for the line to go taut, but then Phoebe was pulled, like a water skier sans skis, bumping and jerking along behind the skiff, no doubt getting a face full of water, spitting and gasping for air.
But the range on most handguns wasn’t all that large, so it wasn’t long before Ian cut the motor and turned the boat. Her momentum brought her right up to the side, and he reached over and caught her, keeping her from crashing into the skiff. She was gasping and breathless, but she understood that this stop was only temporary—to get her aboard as quickly as possible so that they could flee more thoroughly.
She tossed her glasses into the skiff along with something else that was hard to see in the moonlight—apparently she’d been holding it all with her free hand—before she grabbed on to Ian. Together they got her up and over the side, where she lay like a landed fish in the briny water that sloshed in the bottom of the little boat, catching her breath, as he opened the throttle and took off once again, skimming north along the coastline.
“They might be working with a team on shore, who could have access to another boat, so I want to ditch this t
hing and go ashore as soon as we can,” Ian shouted over the motor as Phoebe coughed and spat and even retched a little.
Still she nodded and found enough of her voice to call back, “Good idea.” She pushed her hair from her face, squeegeeing the water out of it, before she started feeling around for her glasses. She found them, and put them on. And then quickly looked away from him.
Ah, yes.
“Sorry I lost the dish towel while I was saving our lives,” Ian said. He still had the stupid string tied around his waist—fat lotta good it was doing there now. But untying the knot would require both hands and his full attention. Plus, having a piece of string might come in handy, wherever they ended up.
“Yeah, well, I was saving our lives, too,” she said. “But I kept my shirt on.”
“It’s my shirt,” he pointed out.
The look Phoebe gave him was so dark that he couldn’t help but laugh.
“But I’ll let you keep it as a token of my gratitude,” he added as he finally slowed, not wanting to attract attention as a too-loud boat going too fast in the darkness past a well-moneyed neighborhood.
The slower speed made it easier to talk without having to shout. Which maybe wasn’t a good thing, as she accused him, “You’re having fun again.”
What? “Fun? Not really. Not with Shelly grabbed by Berto Dellarosa, and Aaron out there doing God knows what to try to save him. Forget about the fact that after I take care of that goatfuck, I’m supposed to engineer some magical rescue of two kidnapped children, in order to save the world.”
Phoebe immediately sobered. “You’re right. I wasn’t thinking about … I’m so sorry.”
He could tell from the way that her face changed, and from the look in her eyes, that she was going to start up with the whole Everything you’ve done is for your brother conversation again. Allying yourself with Manny Dellarosa, prison time, risking your life—I know it’s all for Aaron and Shelly, which makes you honorable and heroic and worthy and sweet.
Sweet.
Jesus.
Ian didn’t want to go there. Not right now. So he needled her by saying, “It’s okay, though, if you’re having fun.”
It worked. She gave him an exasperated gasp. “You seriously think I’m—”
Ian didn’t let her finish. “To glass-half-full it,” he pointed out, “or to make the best of a bad situation, I will absolutely agree that a boat ride in the moonlight is not unpleasant. It’s been a long time since I’ve been out on the open water. I’m definitely enjoying that, too.”
Now she was looking at him as if he were crazy.
“Naked,” she said. “Naked boat ride on the very, very open water.”
“Some might see that as a negative,” he agreed. “Although really, you’re the one who should’ve grabbed more of our clothes, so …” He let his voice trail off.
But Phoebe wasn’t an idiot. She narrowed her eyes at him. “Wow, you are working hard to piss me off. What? To keep me over here, on this side of the boat? Are you really afraid I’m going to find your naked magnificence irresistible?”
“I am pretty freaking magnificent,” he said, well aware that that was the exact word that had come to his mind as he’d watched her earlier, in the lantern light.
Truth be told, it still pertained.
Phoebe didn’t realize it, but the soaking wet T-shirt she was wearing—his T-shirt—was a lost cause. It was glued against her. And in the moonlight …? She might as well have been naked, too.
And that added to the not-unpleasantness of the boat ride, despite his worries about his brother and Shel, and the upcoming rescue op from hell. Although Ian was forced to spend a large portion of his attention checking to see that they weren’t being followed, either by sea or by land, he still felt it was also his duty to keep glancing at Phoebe, to be absolutely sure that she wasn’t about to fall overboard.
She was half laughing, half shaking her head. “I’m sorry, but I’m pretty sure I made it crystal clear, back on the yacht—”
“I’m just being cautious. What’s that old saying?” Ian interrupted her. “Jump me once, shame on you; jump me twice, double shame on you …?”
She fully laughed her disdain at that. “That’s hilarious, coming from a man who’s completely shameless.”
He surprised her by agreeing. “True.”
Still, she wasn’t ready to accept her win—there was more she wanted to fight about. “I’m not the one who kissed you in the bathroom. In case you’re thinking I forgot about that, or somehow missed it, or …”
“Kind of hard to miss,” Ian again agreed. “Your lips, mine. A distinct smacking sound. Yup, that was me kissing you. Still, it was short—quickly over and done. A kiss good-bye. The subtext was I hope we don’t die, but if we do, it was nice meeting you. Not at all like that under-the-dock kiss.” He paused. “The one where you jumped me. The first time. So far.” He narrowed his eyes at her, much the way she’d done to him. “Naturally I’m suspicious. Did you intentionally leave my clothes behind?”
“If I’d known we were leaving the yacht—” Phoebe told him tartly, but then interrupted herself to ask, “And that was your intention after the cell phone rang, wasn’t it? To leave?”
Ian nodded. “Once they’d found us, taking their skiff was our only real option.”
“Thanks so much for sharing that with me,” she said. “And I’m not just being snarky. I’m serious. You really should have told me. It would’ve been far more useful than any allegedly subtext-laden good-bye kiss.”
“I was thinking on my feet,” he admitted. “Plus I thought it was obvious. Even if they bought your whole angry wife act, we couldn’t just let them go away—and maybe come back with reinforcements. I mean, we could’ve, but we’d’ve ended up swimming again.”
“Still, if I’d known, I could’ve taken more of the clothes,” she said. “Along with my bag—with my wallet. And all my credit cards. Which are now in the hands of criminals. Oh my God, what a pain in the butt.”
“A minor inconvenience,” he corrected her.
But she’d picked up whatever it was that she’d tossed into the skiff when he’d first pulled her in, and she held it up. He realized that it was the cell phone. “Instead, I have this—which, congratulations, is finally fried.” She laughed. “Nice job, by the way, for failing to set it on silent.”
“It was on silent,” Ian said. “It probably reset to default when I took out the battery. And better that it’s fried than left behind. I’m glad you took it—I was worrying about it.”
He could tell she didn’t quite believe him.
“I’m serious,” he echoed her words. “If you’d left it there, they might’ve been able to pull up some information from it that could’ve put Aaron and the others in danger. I’m pretty sure that was him calling—patience is not his strong suit. So, well done. And as far as your credit cards go, you’re working with the FBI. I’m sure you can get what’s-her-name—Deb—to cancel them for you.”
“First, we need to reconnect with Deb,” Phoebe pointed out.
“Won’t be too much longer now,” Ian said.
“What’s our plan?” she asked.
“I’m still working on it,” he said.
“Oh, good.”
They were approaching the lights of Sarasota’s main marina. The line of private homes—mansions, really—ended, and a public park claimed the shore, followed by several busy waterside restaurants. Ian could see, even from the distance, that people—many of them—were out in the evening air, strolling through the sculpture gardens, eating dinner on those open decks, sitting on benches, walking dogs …
And where there were that many people, there were always large, shadowy parking lots somewhere nearby.
They rode in silence for a few moments before Phoebe spoke again. “Look, I understand that it’s no big deal for you. But I know that you must often get mixed signals from women, and I apologize if I’ve done that, too. Because you are magnificent.” Sh
e quickly added, “I mean in your own arrogant, totalitarian way, of course.”
“Of course.” Ian aimed the skiff toward the edge of the park lights, and that last private dock, tucking the skiff in toward the seawall. On the far side of the wall, up a rolling lawn, the house was dark.
But the neighbors to the south were home. The neighboring dock was well lit, plus a full set of little sparkly white lights adorned most of the palm trees in that yard. Still, heading for the unlit house was their best option, since he hoped that its neighbor to the north was—bingo!—the parking lot for the park.
“I respect you,” Phoebe continued, and it was clear she was choosing her words carefully. “And despite having been unwillingly dragged into a frustrating, inappropriate, and highly dangerous situation, thanks to your less than conventional lifestyle choices, I really do want to be your friend. Without any fear or threat—from either of us—of inadvertent jumping.”
Friends.
Huh.
Ian knew damn well that he wasn’t the most handsome man on the planet. But he also knew how to make his eyes twinkle in just the right way as he smiled, and that, combined with the genes that had given him his impressive physique, made him enormously attractive to many women. It had been decades since he’d gotten the friends speech, in part due to his appearance, but mostly because he’d gotten really good at recognizing women who were ready, willing, and able to have a fling.
And there was no doubt about it. If he’d walked into a bar and seen Phoebe sitting alone at a table, he would have avoided her at all cost. Not because he didn’t find her attractive. And not even because she probably would’ve had legal files spread out across the table, along with an open laptop. A busy, hardworking woman was often a good target for a one-nighter.
But Phoebe gave off a vibe that screamed trouble. She was complex and intriguing, yes, but way too much work, even at very first glance. There was nothing simple about her.
