'Cute little tush?' Cute little tush, her ass!
Fuming, Micki watched him carefully make his way across to the other side of the murky swamp. Focusing on her irritation was preferable to thinking about what may be behind her, and she seized upon it. The last space to be negotiated was a length of several feet from log to bank, and she found herself wickedly hoping that Luke wouldn't make it and land in the foul-smelling water.
There was no such luck, and he stepped safely onto the far side. Shrugging off his camera bag and putting it down with the life vests, Luke gestured her forward.
"Come on," he urged, extending a hand, "I'll give you a pull when you get over here. It's a doozie of a last step."
Stubbornly, Micki pushed Fizz's haunches onto the makeshift bridge first. The dog wandered hesitantly out along the log, pausing every few steps to sniff the water. With a little encouragement when he reached the submerged end, Fizz bounded up the last bit of steep bank with help from Luke, who grabbed his collar to haul him to dry land.
Now it was her turn.
Micki drew a deep breath and focused on what she was doing. The dark water beneath her reeked of decaying vegetation and rippled with each step she took across the log. The backpack screwed with her center of gravity just enough to make her balance questionable, but she was determined to manage alone. When Luke's hand came into her peripheral vision she angrily batted it away. She was doing just fine, thank you. She didn't need—
The tree dipped unexpectedly, throwing her precarious balance askew, and for the second time that day she found herself toppling over with Luke reaching out to catch her.
Oh, shoot!
Micki grasped his offered hand, but instead of clinging to it for support, she tugged on it firmly in a strange impulse that surprised even her. Thrown off-balance and unable to resist gravity, Luke went headfirst into the pool with her. Even as the murky, sun-warmed water left a slimy coating of muck on her arms and clothes, a smile was curving her lips. Sitting in what she discovered was only knee-deep water, Micki clasped her hands around her knees and laughed heartily.
Luke surfaced with his sunglasses hanging crookedly. After yanking them off his face, he glared at her. "Are you crazy?"
"Crazy enough to have taken you on." Slipping the backpack from her shoulders, she nodded toward the bank where he had left the life vests and asked sweetly, "Want me to throw you one of those?"
Furious, Luke stood up in the shallow pool, the water leaving a film of slime on his bare chest. "What the hell did you do that for?"
"Do what?"
"That's the last time I save you from falling on your pretty little butt!"
Micki's glee abruptly turned to rage. Climbing to her feet, she shoved hard against his chest. "I was not going to fall."
"Like hell, you weren't. You just won't admit it. This—" he gestured at the sludge dripping off him "—is your fault!"
That was her breaking point. Temper fueled by the frustration she'd been battling ever since she had first laid eyes on him, Micki said, "Why I'd like to... to..." But a suitable retaliation wouldn't come, so she instead settled on, "Screw you, Hardigan!"
He laughed condescendingly and shook his head. "Let me tell you something, beautiful. Not even if hell froze over!"
It took a moment for Micki to realize what she'd just said, and the way Luke had heard it. Gritting her teeth against further verbal blunders, she hoisted the backpack up by its straps and began sloshing past him to the bank.
"Wait a minute—"
When Luke grabbed her wrist to restrain her, the last of her self-control evaporated like raindrops after a spring shower. Micki reacted on a gut level—professionalism be damned. In a fluid movement, she dropped the backpack, pivoted, and threw a right cross at his jaw. The punch connected firmly and sent him staggering backward in the knee-deep swamp.
Luke glared dangerously, rubbing his jaw as he rebound a step or two. For a brief moment, Micki thought he meant to hit her, and her arms came up ready to throw another punch, this time in self-defense. If he wanted a fight, fine. She'd give him a damn good one.
What he gave her was a look that blazed with fiery indignation. "What is it with you, anyway? You dress like a man. You talk and drink like a man. You even fight like a man! You—"
Infuriated, Micki abandoned all restraint and acted on pure instinct. Stepping forward, she buried both hands in fistfuls of his wet hair and jerked his head down toward hers. Driven by an impulse that she did not stop to examine, she kissed him, hard and demanding; demanding something she could not—would not—name.
Grunting in surprise, Luke's hands came up to her shoulders as if to push her away, but stalled there as her kiss deepened. Intent on drawing a response from him whether he liked it or not, Micki put her arms around his neck and pressed closer. At first his lips were angry and dispassionate, but slowly, perhaps after a dozen heartbeats or so, Luke began to respond to her, until she had him wanting more than she was willing to give.
Good. Very, very good. That was the idea—to make him respond. Wasn't it?
Drawing away slightly, Micki broke the kiss then claimed him once more with a gentler, feather-light brush against his parted lips. As Luke began to move in to continue the embrace, she took a step back to evade his reach.
Regaining control, and desperately fighting the chemistry that neither of them had expected to find, Micki asked, "What was that you were saying?"
Short on air, Luke took a deep breath. He gave her a hesitant grin, as if unsure of his status, and licked his lips in meager substitute for her touch. "I was... just saying you... sure as hell kiss like a woman."
Satisfied, she took another step away in silent proclamation that she'd gotten the admission she wanted and that was the end of it. "Just make sure you remember that, Yank."
Turning, she slogged through the muck and swung her backpack up onto the bank. Following it to dry land, Micki left Luke standing in the middle of the swamp staring after her. Not turning to look at the thunderstruck man behind her, she settled the pack on her shoulders again and set off at a brisk pace.
"Come on," she called, her voice remarkably neutral, as if she hadn't just been locked in a passionate embrace with a half-naked stranger. Behind her, she heard the beginnings of angry splutters but serenely ignored them in favor of a satisfied little smile.
To top it off, now she was in the lead where she belonged. All in all, it was quite a satisfactory outcome and every bit worth the wet muck-covered clothes that clung to her back. Given the chance, she'd do the whole thing over again if only for that look on his face when she'd left him standing there. For that, wet clothes were a very small price to pay.
***
A thin ribbon of rocky beach and a wide expanse of water greeted Micki on the other side of the mangrove swamp. Beyond the waves was the small island they had earlier skimmed over in their reckless flight from their anonymous pursuers.
Sliding the backpack from her shoulders, she sat on the coarsely ground coral that passed for sand, and considered the water before her. To her exhausted gaze, it looked to be miles to the other island, though in reality it was probably far less.
Distracted, she pulled off her cap and scratched her neck. The swamp water made her itch all over. Digging in her pack, she pulled out the canteen and took several greedy swallows. What she wouldn't give right now to tip the entire contents over her, although that was out of the question. The tiny one-quart canteen was their sole supply of fresh water, and who knew how long it was going to have to sustain them?
Luke appeared beside her and silently threw his four orange life vests to the ground with his camera bag. His sunglasses were back on his face, hiding the resentment she knew was there in the aftermath of their little skirmish. Noting the canteen, he put out his hand to ask for it.
For half a second she seriously considered not sharing. After all, this mess was his fault and these were her survival rations—let him find his own. Surrendering that impulse,
she gave him the water and settled for tousling one of Fizz's ears as the dog sat down, panting. After dousing the fire in his throat, Luke handed back the canteen and Micki cupped a handful of water for Fizz to lap.
"How far do you think that is?" Luke asked, nodding at the neighboring island.
Raising her free hand to shade her eyes, she looked out across the aquamarine ocean before answering. "A mile, maybe two. Hard to say." Her lips twitched in amusement at the streaks the swamp water had left as it dried along his chest and shoulders. "One heck of a swim."
Peeling off his sunglasses, Luke grunted in what Micki thought was wry acknowledgement. Then, with little warning, it seemed to transform into something much less amusing. Gaze still fixed on the ocean, he tossed his sunglasses onto the life vests. In a smooth continuation of the move that was all the more chilling for its casualness, he pulled the Beretta from the back waistband of his khaki shorts.
Time seemed to slow for Micki as foreboding slipped its icy fingers around her throat. She hardly noticed her dog move away, or that she had dropped the capped canteen. She didn't know this man, this stranger with the gun. What had she been thinking to provoke him the way she had for the sake of her own stupid ego? God alone knew what he was capable of, or what he was mixed up in to have people wanting to kill him.
Worst of all was the acute realization that there was absolutely no one out there in that vast expanse of sun and sea to come to her rescue if he... if he...
Luke Hardigan stood over her in the heat of the Florida sun, with his gun in his hand and his dark eyes hidden by shadow.
"Moment of truth, beautiful," he said with a chilling detachment that seemed to confirm her worst fears. "Take off your clothes."
CHAPTER FOUR
Luke watched Micki's tough-as-nails image disintegrate, leaving a terrified look in her blue eyes that was as clear as the azure water around them. Mystified by the reaction, he scowled as she began a slow, wary rise to her feet. What was her problem?
Her gaze flicked nervously to the Beretta in his hand, tipping him off. Is that what she thought? That he was the sort of guy who would threaten her with a gun to get his way?
"I just meant," Luke snapped, lowering the gun to a less intimidating position, "that now is the time to take that swim."
Breaking eye contact, he continued his interrupted task of putting the Navy issue weapon in his camera bag. Let her figure out the rest of it on her own; he wasn't in the mood to sweet talk her through the misunderstanding. After checking that the safety was still on, he wrapped the Beretta in his purple shirt for safekeeping and put it in his bag. She deserved a little cold-shoulder treatment anyway, after those shenanigans in the swamp. He was furious with her—at least he should be furious with her. So why was it, he asked himself with a mental growl, that the only thing he wanted to do was kiss her again?
Angered by the idea, Luke vigorously zipped his camera bag shut. Straightening, he met Micki's uncertain gaze with what he hoped was a composed look. In case she was reading more into it than he wanted, he went on the offensive.
"Don't tell me you're scared of water?"
"No, I'm not scared of water." Her chin came up in a look of defiance he was beginning to know well. "I'm not scared of anything."
Yeah, right, like she hadn't been scared thirty seconds ago either. But that wasn't really fair, and his conscience kicked him for having unintentionally frightened her.
"Whatever," he said. "Let's get this show on the road before we have an audience." With no further discussion, he unfastened the waist button on his khaki cargo shorts.
Micki's gaze dropped to watch his hands as he unzipped them. "What are you... doing?"
She blushed, and Luke suppressed a grin. Payback time.
"Getting ready to swim to that island," he explained, pushing off his shorts. Part of him devilishly enjoyed the way her eyes were glued to his every move, while another part of him just longed to disappoint her. He had been planning to charter Tim Lewis' boat that afternoon for a little scuba diving, and had worn his bathing suit under his clothes.
Micki's expression changed perceptively as she acknowledged that fact. Tearing her gaze from his black, hip-hugging, square-leg swim shorts, she looked up.
Luke, who could see a protest coming, spoke first. "I know it looks a long way to that island, but we can make it."
Squatting, he tucked his swamp-wet shorts through the strap on his camera bag and slipped his gold watch from his wrist to put in the side pocket. The Rolex was a worthless fake, but what the hell. Ignoring his silent companion, he set about tethering the four life vests together so they would have some sort of flotation to hang onto during the crossing.
"Micki, come on," he added, noting she still hadn't moved. "Take your clothes off."
"No way." She folded her arms and struck a pose that looked like it had its foundations in Jacinto Family Granite.
"Look, you've got to know how hard it is to swim fully clothed." Busy constructing his raft, he waved an absent hand at her. "Especially in jeans and boots."
"The boots, okay. But the jeans stay on."
Looking up, Luke threw her a cocky grin. "I never thought you'd turn out to be so modest."
"I'm not modest. I just didn't have the foresight to wear swimming togs under my clothes this morning. Funny enough, I didn't think I'd need them in the air."
Luke turned his attention back to what he was doing. "Bra and panties will be easier." He chuckled. "Besides I bet you don't have anything I haven't seen before."
"Oh, I'm sure you've seen it all, Hardigan. Many, many, many times."
Standing, Luke looked over at the dog. "Maybe Fizz should stay here."
"Maybe we all should."
"This island isn't big enough for us to outmaneuver them for much longer. They won't be expecting us to swim to another one... so that's exactly what we do."
"You seem to have a pretty good handle on these guys," Micki said suspiciously. "How do I know you're not one of them? How do I know this isn't all some elaborate ruse, or that you're not leading me into a trap right now?"
He snorted. "How do I know you told me the truth about that emergency transmitter thing? For all I know, it's really a homing beacon. Maybe you activated it behind my back and your friends are surrounding us as we speak."
"You don't trust me? Fine!" She set off toward the trees. "The feeling's mutual."
Luke straightened. Where was she going?
After three steps, she stopped and drilled him with a ferocious glare. "Turn around."
"What?" Luke packed all the incredulity he could manage into that single word.
"Are you deaf or just dense?" Micki parked her fists on her hips in a way he found both amusing and infuriating. "Turn around and offer me at least a little privacy."
Privacy. Realizing that he was staring, Luke made a show of turning his back. There were men with guns closing on their tails, and all she was worried about was showing some skin!
"Fine," he echoed, kneeling to resume work on the raft. "Just don't take all day. We're working on a deadline here."
Mumbling something that was mercifully unintelligible, Micki spun in a way that sent a shower of sand at him, and headed toward the relative cover of the mangrove trees.
Gazing after her, Fizz sank to his belly beside the life vests. Resting his head on his front paws, he rolled his eyes Luke's way and sighed softly.
"My feelings exactly, fella," Luke grumbled. "My feelings exactly."
***
Luke's makeshift raft actually worked. Tied together, the four life vests provided enough flotation to keep the camera bag and backpack more or less above the water, and a handhold on the long swim. Micki only had to stop once, hanging onto the makeshift raft for a short rest. She claimed she was ready to go again even before Luke felt compelled to suggest it. In the open water they were sitting ducks, and he had an itchy, vulnerable sensation between his shoulder blades the whole distance.
Even harden
ed by Navy training, Luke was fatigued by the swim, and the feel of sand beneath his feet was a welcomed relief. Winded, he found a foothold and, shoving their raft ahead of them, reached out to help Micki the last few yards.
His arm closed about her waist and she staggered against him. For an instant, the way her body pressed against his side—warm, curved, and clad only in her clinging t-shirt and hipster panties—sent a bolt of desire through him. The moment ended when she stiff-armed him away in a tenacious streak of plain old bullheadedness.
"What—do you think—you're doing—Yank?" The question came in winded gasps as she bent over in the shallows pulling for breath, but tempered with Jacinto fire all the same.
Helping you. The words nearly came out of his mouth, but since he didn't have the energy to deal with the fallout they would cause, he settled for ignoring her. Catching Fizz's collar as the dog attempted to move past him onto the beach, Luke fought for breath to speak. His lungs felt like they were on fire.
"Not here," he said. He nodded down the water line to where the natural curve of the beach took it around a small peninsula; a place protected from the view of anyone following their crossing. Having made it this far, they didn't need to announce themselves by leaving exiting footprints in the sand. "There."
Suddenly, further down the shoreline beyond their line of sight, came the sound of an approaching speedboat. It was a safe bet that it wasn't the Coast Guard, and the itch between Luke's shoulder blades escalated to a full-grown fire. They were going to be caught unless they found immediate cover. Letting go of the dog, he grabbed the backpack and the camera bag before Micki could argue, and thrust the life vests into her hands.
Indicating the water-lapped sand that would hide their route, he nodded toward the peninsula. "Run!"
The look Micki shot him was far more eloquent than anything she could have said. She moved forward all the same, hauling with her the orange life vests that would give them away if they were abandoned there.
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