“If all we have to do is sit and wait, why can’t we have sex?”

He nearly choked on the banana he’d been munching. “Did you just say what I think I heard?”

She hadn’t expected to have to say it again. But she’d made up her mind and she wasn’t going to back down. “I want to have sex with you, Michael.”

He shifted away from her—clearly establishing both a physical distance and an emotional withdrawal.

“I’m not asking for a relationship or a commitment,” she told him. “I just want to forget, for a while, that every minute on this island could be my last. I want to forget that we could both end up dead.

“And the only thing I can think of that would possibly drive those thoughts from my mind is sex. With no strings attached.”

Dangerous Passions
Brenda Harlen

www.millsandboon.co.uk

BRENDA HARLEN

grew up in a small town surrounded by books and imaginary friends. Although she always dreamed of being a writer, she chose to follow a more traditional career path first. After two years of practicing as an attorney (including an appearance in front of the Supreme Court of Canada), she gave up her “real” job to be a mom and to try her hand at writing books. Three years, five manuscripts and another baby later, she sold her first book—an RWA Golden Heart Winner—to Silhouette.

Brenda lives in southern Ontario with her real-life husband/hero, two heroes-in-training and two neurotic dogs. She is still surrounded by books (“too many books,” according to her children) and imaginary friends, but she also enjoys communicating with “real” people. Readers can contact Brenda by e-mail at brendaharlen@yahoo.com or by snail mail c/o Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.

To Leslie Wainger—

For making me strive harder and write better.

To Susan Litman—

For continuing to guide me on that journey.

To Anna Perrin—

For everything.

I’ll always be grateful to the fate that crossed our paths, and to you for your incomparable friendship.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Prologue

Zane Conroy was dead—shot and killed by police in Fairweather, Pennsylvania.

Michael Courtland wasn’t surprised by the news or the method of his demise.

Conroy had been investigated frequently over the years, but no prosecutor had ever had the guts—or the evidence—to make him stand trial until Assistant District Attorney Natalie Vaughn made it her mission to build a case against him. In a desperate effort to avoid imprisonment, Conroy had taken her hostage to bargain for his freedom. It was in that final confrontation that he was killed.

The news caused shock waves to ripple throughout the entire criminal organization he’d controlled. From Pennsylvania to Florida and all points in between, Mike knew that the balance of power was now in flux. Already alliances were being forged and broken, loyalties tested, rivalries resurrected.

There was no way to predict the outcome of this violent struggle or anticipate the victor’s agenda. No way to know what it meant for Shannon Vaughn, Natalie’s sister and Mike’s current assignment.

He zeroed in on her position on the white sand beach, the vague sense of familiarity nagging at him. He was sure they’d never met before, and yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he recognized her. His gaze skimmed appreciatively over the creamy skin that showed hints of a golden tan, the fiery hair that glinted like copper in the afternoon sun and the long, lean figure clad in a two-piece bathing suit the same emerald color of her eyes.

There was one thing he knew for certain: he was going to enjoy keeping a very close eye on Shannon Vaughn.

Chapter 1

What was she thinking?

It wasn’t really a question so much as a reprimand from her shocked conscience—a reprimand Shannon was finding all too easy to ignore. With Michael’s hands and lips on her, she could barely think, never mind attempt to rationalize her behavior.

Yes, she was acting impulsively. Maybe even recklessly. But she didn’t care. Since the failure of her marriage nine years earlier, she’d focused exclusively on her career. She hadn’t let anything—or anyone—distract her.

Then she’d met Michael Courtland on the beach.

One look in his warm gray eyes, and her knees had gone weak. Then his lips had curved upward in a smile filled with charm and self-confidence, and she’d practically melted like a sno-cone in the Florida sun.

They’d strolled barefoot in the sand, eaten dinner at a little café by the water and lingered over coffee as the sun bled crimson into the ocean. Then they’d kissed under the light of the moon, and she’d invited him back to her room.

She knew his name and very little else about him. Most important, she knew that she’d never need to see him again after this night. That meant she could indulge desires too long forgotten and walk away in the morning, back to her carefully structured life, with no one but herself to ever know about the reckless indiscretion.

She’d always thought of holiday flings as tawdry and clichéd. Casual sex wasn’t something she indulged in—ever. But all her values and beliefs had been thrown into turmoil when her sister was nearly killed.

The close call had reminded Shannon to live for today, because there were no guaranteed tomorrows. So for once, for tonight, she was determined to follow her heart instead of her head.

Of course, what she was feeling right now had more to do with hormones than emotions, but that didn’t make the need any less compelling. She was a scientist. It was her job to accumulate and analyze data, to establish conclusions only after careful and thorough research. But from the first moment she’d set eyes on Michael Courtland, she’d wanted him. Nothing else seemed to matter.

His hands slid up her back, his touch burning even through the cotton barrier of her T-shirt. She wanted those hands on her bare skin; she wanted her hands on him. She wanted to feel his skin against hers, the slide of naked flesh against naked flesh as their bodies moved together in the primitive rhythm of mating.

The need pulsing through her veins was foreign to her, this kind of behavior completely out of character. She knew that regrets and recriminations would follow, but hopefully not until much, much later.

When the elevator dinged to announce their arrival on the eighth floor, Shannon was trembling with a desire unlike anything she’d ever experienced before. She led the way down the hall, her fingers shaking as she removed the keycard from her purse. She turned to the door, fumbled when Michael’s teeth closed gently over her earlobe.

Somehow she managed to jam the card into the slot and push the door open. She didn’t bother with the lights but drew him into the dark room, not stopping until the backs of her legs came into contact with the mattress, then pulled him down onto the bed with her.

His hands slid under her shirt, deftly finding and unfastening the clasp at the front of her bra. He pushed the satin aside and cupped her breasts in his palms, a low groan of satisfaction rumbling deep in his throat. His thumbs stroked over the aching tips, shooting spears of fiery heat from the peaks to the very center of her being. A soft whimper sounded from somewhere deep inside.

He dragged his lips from hers to rain kisses along her jaw, down her throat. His teeth nipped, his tongue soothed, and all the while his hands continued their delicious torment. Then he pushed the shirt up and found one throbbing nipple with his mouth. He suckled, hotly, hungrily, until she nearly screamed out with pleasure in response to his ardent caress.

She wanted him inside her. She wanted to feel him pressing into her, filling her, fulfilling her. This was desire in its most primitive form—raw, powerful, inescapable. But she didn’t want to escape. She only wanted.

She was hot, burning with hunger for him, and grateful for the air-conditioning that offered respite from the sultry heat flowing into the room. The warm breeze wafted across her skin again and a chill skittered down her spine, raising goose bumps on her flesh and turning the heat that coursed through her blood to ice.

Sensing her abrupt withdrawal, Michael raised his head. “What’s the matter?”

Shannon pushed herself into sitting position, crossed her arms over her naked breasts, her gaze fixed on the patio door.

The open patio door.

“Someone’s been in my room.”

Those few words, spoken with quiet conviction and an edge of panic, effectively shattered the moment.

Mike slid off the bed, away from Shannon, and took a deep breath—as if distance and oxygen might somehow manage to control the hormones raging in his blood. Not likely, when just looking at her made him hot, when he’d been subconsciously dreaming of this night since he’d first set eyes on her. But he disregarded the unfulfilled needs of his body to focus on the implications of her statement. “Did you say that someone’s been in your room?”

She nodded, refastening her bra and tugging her shirt back into position before leaning over to switch on the bedside lamp.

He frowned as he glanced around at the tidy space that was almost a carbon-copy of his own. “How do you know?”

“The door’s open.” She raised a hand, gestured to the curtain that fluttered gently in the summer breeze.

“Housekeeping probably just forgot to close it when they made up your room.”

“No.” She slid farther back on the bed to lean against the headboard, crossing her arms over her chest. “Someone else was here.”

“How do you know?”

“My room was already made up when I came in to change before dinner. I pulled the curtains myself.”

“Maybe the maid brought fresh towels or something.”

“Maybe.” But she sounded doubtful.

“Why don’t you call the manager?” he suggested. “He might know if housekeeping or maintenance had any reason to be in here.”

“Oh. Okay.” She exhaled a shaky breath and reached for the phone.

As she dialed, he crossed the room to examine the door and its frame. He inspected both the inside and out, relieved to find no proof of tampering.

Outside on the balcony there was a plastic table flanked by two loungers. A beach towel was draped over one of the chairs, an empty Dr Pepper can on the ground beside it.

He glanced over the railing, down to the swimming pool eight floors below. He considered the distance, shook his head. It was unlikely—if not impossible—for someone to gain entry by climbing up to the balcony.

Remembering some of the tasks he’d been required to perform in Ranger training, he revised his opinion. But while scaling the building might be possible, it couldn’t be done without someone noticing. Even at this time of night, there were dozens of guests in and around the water.

He turned back to the open door and glanced up.

It would be much easier to access the eighth floor of a ten-story building by climbing down. But the absence of any evidence of forced entry convinced Mike that scenario was equally unlikely.

Shannon was ending her call when he stepped back inside. He closed the door tight and flipped the lock into place.

“He said he has no record of the hotel staff accessing my room during the time I was out,” she told him. “But he thinks that’s probably what happened.”

Mike could tell by her tone that she remained unconvinced.

She wandered through the room looking around, into the bathroom and back again.

“Something isn’t right,” she insisted.

He wasn’t prepared to ignore her instincts. Not when her safety was the reason he’d come down to Florida in the first place. But he needed facts to back up those instincts. “Is anything missing?”

“Not that I can tell. But…”

“But what?”

She looked away, her cheeks flushing with color. “My sister likes to joke about my organization,” she admitted. “I have a specific way of doing things, a structure to my life that I never deviate from.”

Her blush deepened, and he knew she was thinking about her behavior with him tonight—which was something he was trying not to think about.

“Almost never,” she amended. “And that’s how I know someone’s been here. Someone moved my book—it was on the other side of the table when I left. And I always align the cap of the toothpaste with the bristles of the toothbrush, but the toothpaste is upside down now.”

She shook her head. “You probably think I’m a nutcase.”

On the contrary, he was starting to believe she was right. Someone had been in her room, looking around, searching for something.

But what?

And why was the patio door left open?

Unless whoever was in her room wanted her to know he’d been there. That was a far more sinister possibility than a random burglary attempt.

“I thought I heard you ask the manager about moving to another room.”

“I did, but there aren’t any vacancies in the hotel.”

“You could stay with me.”

She eyed him warily.

He smiled, trying to put her at ease. “As much as I’d like to pick up where we left off, it’s not an offer with any strings attached. There are two beds in my room, too.”

But she shook her head, rejecting the offer. “I’m sorry for the way things ended. I didn’t mean to mislead you, but I really just want to be alone right now.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I’ll be fine.”

She sounded as if she believed it, but she didn’t know the truth about who he was and why he was in Florida. She didn’t know that she might be in real danger.

Would she believe him if he told her now? Would she be willing to accept his help and his protection? Or would she feel betrayed by his deception?

Not that he’d intended to deceive her. He’d never intended to make contact with her at all. His instructions had been simply to watch out for her, but from a distance. Lieutenant Dylan Creighton—now Shannon’s sister’s fiancé—had instructed Mike to be discreet in his surveillance so as not to alarm Shannon unnecessarily.

Mike believed the break-in justified sounding the alarm. But as much as he wanted to share his suspicions with her, to make sure she understood how serious the situation could be, he had to talk to his client first.

“Please,” she said. “I’d like you to go.”

“Okay.” He relented to her request only because he had no intention of going any farther than the hall and he wanted to call Dylan without Shannon overhearing the conversation.

“Thank you,” she said stiffly.

He wanted to reach out to her, to offer her comfort and reassurance. But her spine was rigid, her arms crossed over her chest in a defensive and distinctively hands-off posture. He turned away. “Lock up behind me.”

He stood outside the door, waited to hear the lock click into place, then reached for his cell phone. He powered it up, only to have it beep once and shut down again.

Damn.

The battery was dead and the spare was in his room upstairs. He tucked the useless phone back into his pocket and leaned back against the wall. The door directly across the hall was clearly marked Stairs. He could run up to his room to retrieve the extra battery and be back within five minutes.

But still he hesitated, his instincts warning him not to leave her, not even for five minutes. Was it worry about Shannon’s safety that made him so reluctant to step away from her? Or were his instincts off-kilter because of the desire still pulsing in his veins?

He mentally cursed again.

This was exactly the reason he’d tried so hard to keep his distance from her. Because personal involvement interfered with objectivity, and emotional responses led to mistakes. It was a lesson he’d learned in Righaria, when his mistake had cost his best friend’s life, and when his guilt over Brent’s death cost him the woman he loved.

He pushed aside the past to concentrate on the present. He was here now to protect Shannon—everything else was secondary.

But he’d be better able to protect her if he could tell her the truth, and he couldn’t do that until he’d spoken to Dylan Creighton. And he couldn’t talk to Dylan without returning to his room for the spare battery.

He glanced back at her door, hesitated.

He’d checked the locks on the windows himself, heard her flip the security bar into place. She was safe inside, probably already in bed—

He shoved that thought aside and headed for the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time.

Only five minutes.

Shannon stared at the back of the door for a long moment after Michael had gone, wishing she’d let him stay. She already missed his comforting presence, his reassuring strength, but she wasn’t used to relying on anyone else or asking for help. Despite his offer, she was determined to stand on her own.

But somehow that conviction was harder to find when she was alone.

She made a quick tour of the room again, confirmed there was nothing missing. That fact bothered her more than if she’d come back to her room and found all her personal items gone. Not that she had much, and certainly nothing of significant value, but she couldn’t believe a thief wouldn’t have at least scooped up the loose change on the dresser.

Maybe Michael was right. Maybe no one had been in her room except a member of the hotel staff. She wanted to believe this explanation, but she still couldn’t shake the unease as she moved into the bathroom to get ready for bed.

Looking into the mirror, she was startled by the reflection that stared back. Her hair was tousled from Michael’s fingers running through it, her mouth red and swollen from his kisses.

She pressed her fingers to her lips, hard, trying to erase the feel of his mouth against hers. She looked like a wanton woman—hardly surprising considering the fact that she’d acted like one. And although she knew she should be embarrassed by her behavior, she only regretted the way the evening had ended.

But despite her resolution to live for the moment and regardless of how much she wanted him, she knew that having sex with Michael would have been a mistake.

The knowledge was little comfort when she continued to ache with wanting, when something inside her cried out against the injustice of a promise unfulfilled. Shannon shook off the feeling and moved back into the bedroom. Hopefully everything would be back to normal in the morning.

She opened the drawer to retrieve her nightshirt, her heart rising in her throat as her fingers tightened around the silk garment.

It was inside out.

Again, it was a small thing, but she knew without a doubt that when she’d put it away, it had been right-side out. Someone had definitely been here, gone through the dresser, pawed through her things.

Another shiver snaked up her spine.

Why?

She shoved the silk back into the drawer, trying not to think about the possible answers to that question. She would sleep in her clothes tonight. If she slept at all.

The knock at her door made her jump.

She pressed a hand to her heart as she glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was almost midnight.

The knock sounded again.

Michael?

An unexpected and comforting warmth spread through her as she considered the possibility that he’d come back. This time she promised herself as she walked on unsteady legs to the door, she would swallow her pride and ask him to stay. Not to have sex, but just to keep her company—just so she wouldn’t need to be alone.

Disappointment replaced anticipation when she looked through the peephole.

It wasn’t Michael.

In fact, she was sure this man wasn’t anyone she’d ever seen before. She hesitated, reluctant to respond to the summons of a stranger at this time of night.

He knocked again, impatience evident in the rap of his knuckles against the wood.

She swallowed. “Yes?”

“Ms. Vaughn?”

“Yes,” she said again.

“My name is Michael Courtland,” he told her. “I’m a private investigator from Fairweather, Pennsylvania. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Michael Courtland? A private investigator?

She shook her head to clear away the questions that came at her from all directions.

“It’s late,” she said.

“I apologize for that,” he said easily. “But this really can’t wait.”

She hesitated again. “Can I see some identification?”

“Of course.” He pulled a wallet out of his pocket and withdrew something the size and shape of a credit card. “I’ll slide this under the door so you can take a look at it.”

She bent down to retrieve the laminated rectangle. It was a private investigator’s license bearing the name Michael Andrew Courtland.

She’d never seen this kind of identification before and wondered if it was legitimate. Or was she being paranoid to even suspect it might be fake? Since her unfortunate experience with her ex-husband, she found it difficult to trust anyone.

“I also have a driver’s license and several credit cards if you need further proof,” he said.

His offer, and a glance at the photo, reassured her that he was who he claimed to be. The picture bore a distinct likeness to the man standing outside her door and none at all to the man who’d been in her room with her earlier. A man who’d also claimed to be Michael Courtland.

Nausea rolled in her stomach. If this man was really Michael Courtland, who was the man she’d met on the beach?

It was possible, of course, that two different men had the same name. In fact, it was possible there were several Michael Courtlands in the world. But what were the odds that she would meet two such men on the same day and in the same city?

Someone had lied to her, and as this man hadn’t hesitated to prove his identity, she had to believe it was the other Michael Courtland. The one who’d kissed her until her head was spinning, who’d touched her boldly, intimately, stoking the flames of her desire until she’d been sure they would consume her. The man with whom she’d almost had wild, passionate sex.

Her stomach churned again. Why had he lied?

What reason could he have had to pretend to be someone else? And why hadn’t she thought to ask him to prove his identity?

The answer to the last question was obvious—because she didn’t want to know. Because she’d wanted only mind-numbing, bone-melting sex without any complications.

“Ms. Vaughn?”

The question from outside the door broke through her self-recrimination. She felt the heat of shame flood her cheeks and pushed aside all thoughts of the other man as she opened the door—but only a few inches.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, handing back his identification through the narrow opening.

“There’s no need to apologize for being cautious.”

He smiled at her, and she realized he was more attractive when viewed directly. Close to six feet tall, she guessed, with sandy-blond hair, blue eyes, and a square jaw with just the hint of a dimple in the middle.

“Mr. Courtland—”

“Call me Drew.”

She frowned. “I thought your name was Michael.”

“It’s also my dad’s name,” he said. “Andrew’s my middle name. My mom started calling me Drew when I was a kid—it made things less confusing around the house.”

“Oh.” She relaxed again at the easy explanation. “Okay, now I know who you are, but I still don’t know why you’re here.”

“Lieutenant Creighton didn’t call you?”

“No.” Bony fingers of fear slid along her skin. “Has something else happened to my sister?”

“No,” he responded quickly to her obvious panic. “Natalie’s fine. I’m here because of you.”

“Why?”

“Because Creighton is concerned that Zane Conroy’s associates may have followed you to Florida.”

She remembered the strange feeling that had persisted over the past couple of days, the uncomfortable sensation of being watched. She’d finally discarded the idea as paranoia, but now she wondered.

“In fact, you may have been tracked to this hotel.”

She swallowed. “I think someone was in my room tonight. Earlier. While I was out.”

His gaze sharpened. “Then we need to get you out of here as soon as possible. If they’ve already been here, confirmed you’re staying here, they’ll be back.”

The chill went through to her bones. “Why?”

“Because they’ll be seeking revenge for his murder.”

“But I had nothing to do with anything,” she protested. “I didn’t even know Conroy.”

“Your sister did,” he reminded her. “And that puts you at risk.”

His warning shook her to the core. Shannon had thought Conroy’s death was a blessing, but if what this man said was true, not only could she be in danger, but Natalie and Jack might be, as well.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said. “But you need to understand why Creighton wants you out of this hotel.”

“Where—” she swallowed “—where am I supposed to go?”

“I have a safe house ready.”

It was all too much for her to comprehend, but she wasn’t quite ready to run off with a total stranger just because he’d flashed his ID. “I want to call my sister before I go anywhere.”

“Of course.”

Somewhat reassured by his response, she closed the door again, leaving him outside in the hall. She moved across the room to the phone, her hand trembling as she picked up the receiver. She took a deep breath before dialing.

Natalie answered on the second ring, sounding groggy and slightly panicked. “Hello?”

She cringed. “I forgot what time it was.”

“Shannon?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry I woke you.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I, uh, is Dylan there?”

“Dylan?” Natalie was obviously awake now. “No. He was paged about an hour ago. What’s going on?”

Shannon hesitated. Her sister had been through so much in the past two days and she didn’t want to cause her any more concern. But she also didn’t want to go off with Michael Courtland without confirming the information he’d given her.

“Did Dylan mention anything to you about sending a private investigator to Florida?”

“Oh, yeah. I meant to tell you about that when I spoke to you earlier.”

“Tell me what?” Shannon prompted.

“Just that Dylan asked Michael Courtland to keep an eye on you while you were on vacation because of Conroy’s connections down there. But I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about now.”

“The P.I. seems to think otherwise.”

“Why?” Natalie asked.

She didn’t want to worry her sister further by telling her about the break-in of her room, so she only said, “I’m not sure, but he’s suggesting that I go to a safe house with him.”

“Oh, Shan. I’m so sorry. I never expected any of this to affect you.”

“It’s not your fault.” As shaken as she was by recent events, Shannon didn’t want her sister to feel responsible for something over which she had no control. “I just wanted to know what you thought of his plan before I agreed to it.”

“Dylan didn’t say anything to me about this,” her sister admitted. “But maybe he didn’t have a chance.”

“What do you think I should do?”

Natalie didn’t hesitate. “Go with him. If Dylan trusted him enough to send him, you can trust that he’ll take care of you.”

Shannon wasn’t comfortable with the thought of anyone taking care of her, but after the recent attempt on her sister’s life, she was willing to make some concessions. At least until she had more details about what was going on.

“Okay,” she agreed. But because her suspicions weren’t completely alleviated, she asked, “What does Michael Courtland look like?”

“Why are you asking? I thought you’d already met him.”

“No, um, he called me,” she hedged. “I just want to make sure I don’t run off with the wrong man.”

“If this situation wasn’t so serious, I might be able to laugh at the thought of you running off with any man,” Natalie said. “But under the circumstances, I’m glad you’re being careful.”

“I’m always careful.”

“I know,” her sister agreed. “As for Michael, I’ve only met him once or twice, but I remember that he was tall—around six feet, maybe a little taller—brown hair, blue eyes.”

Her sister’s response didn’t alleviate Shannon’s uncertainty. Both of the men who had identified themselves as Michael Courtland had been at least six feet. The first one had brown hair, but his smoky-gray eyes would never be described as blue. The second one—the one waiting in the hallway outside her room—had blue eyes, but his hair was dark blond. She didn’t think it was dark enough to be mistaken for brown, but Natalie admitted she’d only met him twice. It was possible her sister was mistaken.

“I know that description’s vague enough to fit almost anyone,” she continued. “But he stands out from a crowd. Very good-looking. Very sexy.”

Sexy.

It was definitely the thought that had come to mind when she’d met the first man, but as attraction was always subjective, she didn’t consider that conclusive evidence.

“The more I think about it,” Natalie said. “The more I’m thinking that you and he trapped in close quarters together might not be such a bad idea.”

“You wouldn’t,” Shannon said dryly. Her sister had always been a romantic at heart.

“Give me a call when you get a chance,” Natalie said. “But if I don’t hear from you for a few days, I’ll assume you’re—” she paused dramatically “—otherwise occupied.”

“I’ll call you.”

Natalie laughed and said goodbye.

Shannon hung up the phone but didn’t move off of the bed.

Go with him, Natalie had said.

But despite her sister’s assurance, there was something about the man standing outside in the hall that made her uneasy.

As she heard a soft click, like that of a door latching, another chill snaked up her spine. She turned her head to see that he was now inside her room.

She jumped up from the bed, her heart hammering furiously as she took an instinctive step backward.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Drew said. “But we really need to hurry.”

“H-how did you get in here?”

He held up a keycard. “I borrowed it from the maid.”

His voice was gentle, almost soothing, as if his explanation was perfectly reasonable.

But the smile—

She watched the way his lips curved with slow satisfaction. She saw the predatory gleam in his eyes. And she instinctively knew that despite what he’d said earlier, despite what Natalie had told her, this man wasn’t here to protect her.

She rubbed sweaty palms down the front of her skirt as her brain desperately scrambled for a response to the situation. But her usually rational mind had gone blank, fear and panic escalating until there was room for nothing else, no way to compute anything beyond the obvious threat. She drew in a deep breath, battled back the fear.

But what could she do?

She eyed the phone, but Drew was moving steadily closer and she knew she wouldn’t have a chance to press a single button before he reached her.

“I, uh, just need a few minutes to pack my things.”

He frowned, evidently surprised—and maybe a little disappointed—by her compliance. “Be quick.”

She threw her suitcase onto the bed, then began opening drawers and pulling out articles of clothing.

He was standing between her and the hotel phone, but maybe she could use her cell. If she could somehow slip into the bathroom for a minute…

Her gaze slid back to the corner of the dresser, to her purse with the phone inside it.

She continued shoving clothes into the case, as if she was as anxious as he to get out of this room, away from this hotel. The knots in her stomach tightened painfully, but she couldn’t let him see her fear, couldn’t let him suspect that she knew.

“Ready?” he asked.

She realized the last drawer was empty.

“I need some things…from the bathroom.”

His gaze narrowed.

Could he hear the tremor in her voice?

“And…I should go…before we go.”

It would give her a reason to close the door, to implement her plan. She scooped up her purse, turned toward the small room that was her last hope of escape.

She hadn’t gone two steps when he caught her arm.

“We can’t afford to waste any more time.”

“But I really need—”

It was all she managed before she felt the prick of the needle in her arm.

Chapter 2

Where the hell was she?

Mike banged on the door again, more than loud enough to wake her if she was sleeping.

There was still no response.

He’d been gone twenty minutes—fifteen minutes longer than he’d intended. But his phone had been ringing when he’d stepped into the room and he’d automatically picked it up. It had been Romeo Garcia, a detective with the Miami P.D. and a friend of Dylan Creighton, calling to update him on the situation with respect to Conroy’s connections in Florida.

According to Garcia, word on the street was that certain key players in Conroy’s organization had a new quest: to avenge their leader’s death. Although Natalie was the most obvious target for retaliation, her relationship with Lieutenant Creighton made another attempt on her life risky. As a result, Garcia believed Shannon could be in danger for no reason other than that her sister had been involved in the altercation that had cost Conroy his life.

Armed with his new information, the back-up battery in his cell phone, and his Glock, Mike had returned to Shannon’s room. But in the twenty minutes he was gone, something had happened.

He turned back to the stairwell, racing away from the memories that haunted him as much as he was racing to find her.

He was on his way toward the manager on duty at the registration desk, to demand to be let into Shannon’s room, when he spotted her. She was outside the front doors of the hotel, being helped into the passenger side of a late-model silver-colored Mercedes sedan.

He started to run.

The car was pulling away from the curb before he’d even made it outside.

Damn. He’d been an idiot to expect that she’d stay put in her room until morning. Now, everything was FUBAR.

He considered getting his own vehicle, but it was parked at the back of the hotel. By the time he got to it, Shannon would be long gone. Instead, he jumped into the back of a taxi parked beside the hotel and directed the driver to follow the Mercedes.

He tried to convince himself that there was no reason for the humming of his nerves, no rational foundation for the escalating feeling of dread. But he knew better. After Brent was killed in Righaria, Mike had stopped fighting his instincts, and he was cursing himself now for ignoring the intuition that had warned him against leaving her alone—for even a few minutes.

But he’d been so caught up in wanting her, he’d been unable to separate his personal desires from his professional instincts. Mistakes were made when impulse was allowed to overrule reason, and mistakes could cost lives. Brent’s death had taught him that more effectively than any training exercise ever could.

He pushed the memory to the back of his mind. He didn’t have time to deal with the ghosts of the past; he couldn’t let himself be paralyzed by grief and guilt—not if he was going to protect Shannon.

Protect her from what?

The question nagged at him, unanswered, as he pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number Garcia had given him. From what he could see, Shannon had gotten into the vehicle willingly. She certainly hadn’t appeared to be in any danger.

But Mike knew that things weren’t always what they seemed, and what Garcia told him confirmed this suspicion. The registered owner of the Mercedes was Andrew Peart, a suspected illegal arms dealer and member of Conroy’s organization.

Again his instincts hummed. The information had been too readily available. If Peart was abducting Shannon, why wouldn’t he have taken more care to cover his tracks? Why would he have used his own vehicle? What kind of game was he playing?

The taxi driver signaled to turn onto the private drive leading to the exclusive Tradewinds Marina. Mike ordered him to stop. If Peart caught sight of another vehicle on this road at this hour, he’d know he was being followed. He shoved a fistful of money at the driver, then slipped out of the vehicle and into the shadows to continue his pursuit on foot.

He followed the taillights of the Mercedes, conscious of the growing distance between himself and the vehicle. Again he thought of Brent, about the obstacles he’d failed to overcome to save his friend. He couldn’t fail again. He ran harder, refusing to believe that he would be too late.

He had to save Shannon.

Shannon shifted in her seat, turning to press her cheek against the cool leather. She blinked, but her vision remained fuzzy. She tried to think, but her mind was even fuzzier.

She was conscious of only two things. The first she accepted with overwhelming relief: she wasn’t dead.

At least, not yet.

The second caused trepidation rather than relief: she was going to vomit.

Whether it was fear of imminent death that had churned up her insides to the point of nausea or a reaction to whatever drug had been injected into her system, she only knew that she was going to throw up.

Drew braked abruptly, threw the gearshift into Park.

It was the final straw for her heaving stomach. She felt the bile rise up in her throat, groped frantically for the door handle. Her fingers finally closed around the metal but seemed unable to interpret the command from her brain to pull.

Then the door opened from the other side.

She fell out of the car, the rough concrete abrading her palms and her knees. She tried to swallow, gagged.

“What the—?” Drew started to reach for her.

She clamped a desperate hand over her mouth and tried to will away the nausea.

He finally seemed to recognize the reason for her position and carefully stepped back, out of range, just before her stomach spasmed and emptied its contents.

“Are you okay?” he asked, almost courteously.

She would have laughed at the absurdity of the question if she wasn’t too groggy and weak to do anything but nod.

“Come on, then.” He took her arm to help her to her feet.

The world tilted and swayed.

He tightened his grip and hurried her along.

Where were they going? And why was he in such a hurry?

She tried to focus, but everything remained a blur.

“Shannon, wait!”

The distant call, the vaguely familiar voice, startled Shannon and spurred Drew into action. He picked her up and lifted her onto the deck of a boat.

A few seconds later she heard the rumble of engines and felt a cool breeze against her cheeks. She could smell salt in the air now, confirming that they were on the ocean.

But where was he taking her?

Why?

She had so many questions but her brain was still too muddled to attempt to come up with any answers.

Instead she closed her eyes and drifted into sleep.

From as far back as he could remember, Mike had been groomed to take over the family business. For almost the same amount of time, he’d balked at being fitted for that mold. He wanted to make his own way, without reliance on the family fortune or social connections. He’d done so, first by joining the army and later—and quite successfully—through his partnership in Courtland & Logan Investigations.

Still, Mike’s father never passed up an opportunity to express disappointment that his only son had abandoned his legacy. And his mother never failed to point to his single status as proof of the unsuitability of his career for someone of their social standing.

Only his sister, Rachel, supported his choice. Partly because she coveted the job he’d been offered at Courtland Enterprises, but mostly because she understood him—what he wanted and what he needed—better than anyone else ever had.

So when he found himself at the end of the dock, watching Peart’s boat disappear into the darkness, he didn’t think twice about what he was going to do. He didn’t wonder whether it was luck or coincidence that Peart had chosen to moor his yacht at the same marina where Rachel docked Pure Pleasure. His only concern was getting to Shannon.

Not that his sister’s boat was any match for the powerful engines on Peart’s luxury yacht, but if he couldn’t catch up immediately, Mike was confident he could at least keep track of it while he radioed back to the Coast Guard for help.

He wasn’t too proud to ask for backup, not when Shannon’s life could be in danger.

He picked up the handset, saw that it had been forcibly disconnected from the receiver/transmitter. He stared at the broken radio, suddenly sure Peart’s choice of location had been deliberate—an intentional act to bait him into following.

Which meant that his cover had been blown. Somehow Peart had figured out that he was in Miami to protect Shannon, and he was counting on Mike to go after her.

Even knowing it was a setup, he considered no other option.

He flipped open his cell phone, glanced at the signal indicator. It was weak but steady. He kept his eyes focused on the dwindling shape of Peart’s boat as he steered through the choppy water and pressed redial.

She was still on the boat.

It was Shannon’s first thought when she woke up, substantiated by the gentle rolling motion of the vessel moving through the water.

She glanced around the room, at surroundings illuminated by the gentle glow of light from a shaded lamp on the bedside table. Dark walnut furniture polished to a high gloss and trimmed with gleaming brass hardware. A wide bed with fluffy pillows and a cream-colored satin comforter.

She sat up cautiously, leaned back against the headboard and exhaled a slow sigh of relief that the world remained upright and relatively stable.

Her vision was clear but her throat was tight and dry and the inside of her mouth tasted sour. She slid her legs over the side of the bed, found the floor.

Her legs trembled when she stood, but she carefully made her way toward the door only a few feet away.

A bathroom.

Head, she automatically corrected herself. On a boat it was called a head.

She nearly whimpered with relief as she opened the taps and cool, clear water poured out.

She splashed her face, rinsed her mouth, then drank, deeply, greedily. As she drank, her trembling eased and her mind cleared, and the events of the past several hours came flooding back to her.

A spiral of events that had all started with the man on the beach.

She thought she’d learned from the mistakes of her disastrous relationship with Doug. The impulsive marriage had been followed by a carefully planned divorce and a determination to never again succumb to impetuous desires that could easily lead her astray.

Then she’d met Michael—or whatever his real name was—and invited him back to her hotel room.

It was humiliating to admit that she could be so weak, embarrassing to accept that her more-basic instincts could overrule her common sense.

She turned off the water, dried her hands.

She felt no compunction about rummaging through the cupboards, and when she found an unopened toothbrush, she didn’t hesitate to use it. She hadn’t had a chance to retrieve her own toiletries and she was desperate to clean her teeth.

After she’d done so, she went back to the stateroom to search for her suitcase. She remembered packing it, but she couldn’t remember carrying it out of her room. She didn’t even remember leaving the hotel, and she still wasn’t entirely sure why she was here.

All she knew was that she was on a yacht in the Atlantic Ocean on the way to God-and-Drew-only-knew-where. She frowned, desperately trying to get a handle on the direction in which they were headed. They’d been moving eastward when they’d left the marina, her senses hadn’t been so disoriented she’d failed to register that fact, but she didn’t know if they’d changed direction since then.

Maybe she’d take a walk around and try to get her bearings.

It wasn’t until she was tiptoeing down the narrow, dimly lit corridor of the boat that she found herself wondering why she hadn’t been locked in the stateroom. Why wasn’t Drew concerned about her wandering around the boat?

She made her way up onto the deck and stared out at the endless expanse of ocean, the answer to her questions suddenly and painfully obvious: Drew wasn’t concerned about her going anywhere because there wasn’t anywhere to go. Everywhere she looked was water—eerily dark and ominously deep.

She looked up at the sky, at the thin crescent moon and the brilliant array of stars sparkling in the black velvet darkness. She could see the outline of an island in the distance, faint but discernible. The Bahamas?

If she knew anything about astronomy, she could use the stars to ascertain their direction, maybe figure out where they were going. Unfortunately, she knew nothing about the subject.

She sighed as despair threatened to overwhelm her. She shook off the sense of impending doom. Maybe she’d be able to see something more from the other side of the boat.

Silently she made her way around the stern, biting back a yelp of pain when she rapped her shin on a large wooden crate. As she bent to rub her injured leg, she saw that the lid had been knocked askew by her collision with it. Curious, she pushed it aside farther and stared in a combination of shock and disbelief at the contents.

Weapons packed in a bed of straw. Lethal-looking military hardware she’d only ever seen on news reports about wars or terrorism in faraway countries.

Then she heard voices, softly at first, distant, then growing louder as they drew nearer.

Her breath caught in her throat; her pulse hammered.

She glanced around frantically. There was a pile of scuba gear in the corner: wetsuits and tanks and masks and fins. She moved in that direction, crouching down to melt into the shadow of the equipment.

“…she wasn’t part of the plan,” an unfamiliar voice protested.

“The plan changed.” It was Drew who answered, unapologetically.

“I didn’t sign on for this,” the other man grumbled.

“When you signed on with the organization, Rico, you signed on to do whatever needed to be done.”

“Not murder.”

She’d known what Drew was planning, had seen the blood-lust in his eyes before he’d jabbed the needle in her arm, but it still shocked her to hear the word spoken and know they were talking about her.

“I’ll do it,” a third man offered.

“No one is being asked to do anything…yet,” Drew said. “But I appreciate your enthusiasm, Jazz, and will be sure to communicate your offer to A.J.—along with any concerns I may have about employee loyalty.”

It was obviously a threat, and it hung heavy in the air between the three men.

The one referred to as Rico cleared his throat. “My loyalty is, and always has been, to the organization.”

“Good.” Drew obviously wasn’t concerned by the lack of enthusiasm in his cohort’s statement. “Because I’m leaving the two of you in charge while I return to Pennsylvania to attend Mr. Conroy’s funeral.”

“For how long?”

“Until I get back.”

“But the shipment—”

“Will be made tomorrow afternoon as scheduled.”

“What about the woman?” It was Jazz who asked this question, obviously relishing the prospect of her demise.

“She will pay for the role her sister played in killing Conroy,” Drew said. “But A.J. will determine when and how she dies. No one is to do anything until then.”

They moved farther along the deck to continue their conversation, their voices fading into the distance. Shannon had overheard more than enough and she had no intention of sticking around to find out the when and the how. She had to get off this boat before “when” became “now.”

But they were in the middle of the ocean. How could she possibly escape?

She rose to her feet unsteadily, put a hand out for balance. Her fingers braced against the cool metal of an oxygen tank, and the first seeds of an idea were planted in her mind.

No—it was crazy.

She couldn’t just strap on a tank and flippers and swim back to Miami. Even if the night wasn’t dark and the distance prohibitive, she hadn’t been diving in more than two years.

Although she’d planned to book an excursion while she was on vacation, she’d changed her mind when she’d heard a group of returning tourists raving about the incredible pair of hammerhead sharks they’d encountered on their dive. Shannon had walked away from the tour desk with no regrets, because if there was one thing she hated, it was sharks. Well, sharks and snakes, actually.

Even if she knew where she was going and was willing to swim with the fish, there was the fact that she’d been injected with some kind of drug only a few hours earlier. She didn’t know what substance she’d been given or whether traces of it might still be lingering in her system, but she knew it would be dangerous to dive under such conditions.

Despite the obvious and numerous risks of such an escape attempt, Shannon didn’t see that there was any other choice.

If she stayed on this boat, she would die.

She felt the tremor of fear ripple through her. She wasn’t ready to die. There was too much she hadn’t seen and done, too much living she still needed to do. There was no way she was going to give up without a fight.

She’d have to take her chances in the water.

Impatient fingers drummed on the scarred oak desktop as the second ring echoed through the handset. Each unanswered ring represented yet another delay, and there had been too many of those already.

The organization could afford no more.

A.J. would tolerate no more.

Conroy’s death—so sudden and unexpected—had shaken everyone. The powerful, fearless leader taken down in a simple sting operation he should have been able to smell from a mile away. It was an unnecessary tragedy, but not really a surprising one.

Because Conroy had been weak.

His affection for a woman had interfered with his reason, allowed him to get caught. Or maybe it was the fault of his ego as much as his fondness for the woman, because he’d truly believed he was invincible.

And he had been—until three bullets snuffed out his life.

There had been widespread shock and some tears, subtle shifts of power and bold demands for vengeance. Through it all, A.J. had risen to the top and was determined to stay there.

At last there was a click as the connection was made, then he answered. “Peart.”

“Why are you on the boat?” The demand was made without preamble. There was neither the time nor the need to exchange pleasantries—a hierarchy was being reconstructed and the only purpose of this call was to enforce the new order.

“A.J., I was just going to call you.” There was surprise, and maybe just a hint of fear, in his response.

“You shouldn’t be calling. You should be on your way back here by now.”

“I know. But I’ve got her.” There was pride in his voice now, bold and unapologetic.

Both his confidence and his pride would need to be squashed. He was a tool—a valuable and necessary instrument on occasion, but still just a tool—and he needed to be reminded of that fact.

“I didn’t tell you to get her. In fact, I didn’t tell you to go anywhere near her.”

“But I know you wanted—”

“You don’t know anything about what I want unless and until it is expressed in terms of a direct order.”

He didn’t respond. He knew better than to speak out of turn again.

A.J. let the silence grow, felt his tension mount, before asking, “What about Courtland?”

“He’s in pursuit. We’re waiting for him to get close enough to—I mean, we, uh, we’re waiting for orders to, uh, eliminate him.”

It was satisfying to hear the stammer, to know he already recognized his mistake.

“You’re going to wait a while longer,” A.J. said. “What I want now is for you to get on the next plane to Pennsylvania.”

There was a pause as Peart fought to swallow the silent “but” that hummed across the line as loudly as if it had been spoken.

To his credit he managed to conceal his dissent and respond, “I’ve already made plans. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“He will be buried tomorrow.” A.J.’s voice had lowered, thickened with just the slightest hint of what might have been grief. In reality, it was excitement—the anticipation of opportunity overshadowing any remnants of sorrow. Tomorrow, finally, all the key players would be in place. “And we have some serious planning to do.”

“What—” he hesitated, aware that he was treading on dangerous ground. “What about the woman?”

There was a pause, long enough to make him sweat, before the response. “I’m not going to commend you for over-stepping your bounds, but I recognize the value of the offering and I will decide how to deal with her.”

“Of course.”

A.J. smiled at the submissive response and disconnected the call.

Peart was falling in line, as so many others had already done, recognizing the rightful heir to the throne of power.

Zane Conroy’s authority had been absolute, his name spoken with reverence; his orders obeyed without question. He’d been unforgiving of mistakes, intolerant of fools and ruthless in dealing with any hint of disloyalty.

He’d been a truly great leader.

A.J. would be greater.

Chapter 3

Shannon didn’t know how long she’d been underwater when the level of air in her tank forced her to surface. She was grateful when she did so to find that the first rays of light were starting to lighten the sky.

She had no idea how far she’d come, she could only hope it was far enough. But when she looked toward the island she’d focused on as she’d gone into the water, the hope slipped through her fingers.

The land mass was closer now, but still so far away. What had been an admittedly foolish and reckless impulse at the time seemed even more so now. She was a strong swimmer, but the ocean had far more breadth and endurance.

No, she couldn’t think like that. She’d come too far to give up. She would push forward, ignoring the fact that her muscles were already screaming with the pain of exertion. She would embrace the pain, knowing that as long as it hurt, she was still alive, she still had a chance.

But how much of a chance? How could she ever have expected to succeed in this battle against nature? Maybe she couldn’t. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to give in, either.

She would persevere—in a minute.

For now, she just wanted to float. She used the last of the air to reinflate the life vest, then dumped the empty tank. Her limbs felt heavy and weak. She was exhausted, physically and mentally, and shivering uncontrollably. She was tempted to give in to the fatigue and the cold, to close her burning eyes and let herself drift into the blissful oblivion of sleep.

Logically, she knew she had to keep moving, she was still a long way from the island. How many more strokes would it take to reach the shore? One hundred? Two hundred? More? How was she ever going to find the strength when her arms and legs were already numb?

The questions shook her already-faltering confidence. Weariness weighed down her limbs; despair filled her heart. She couldn’t believe this was happening. She was supposed to be on vacation—a much-deserved holiday before she accepted the promotion she’d been offered and moved to Paris.

She’d always wanted to visit France—stroll the Champs Elysées, cruise the River Seine, climb the Eiffel Tower. There was so much to look forward to; so much she might never get a chance to do.

No, she refused to succumb to negative thoughts. She would swim and swim until she couldn’t lift her arms or kick her legs anymore. She would make it to the island. She would.

But for now she tipped her head back and let her eyelids drift shut—just for a second.

More than two hours had passed since Mike had watched Shannon slip over the side of the Femme Fatale and into the ocean. Two hours during which he’d tried to anticipate and match her path through the dark water. Two hours without a single glimpse of her.

He’d seen her climbing overboard, but he’d been too far away to reach her before she submerged. And he couldn’t signal to catch her attention because doing so would alert Peart’s men to her movements and his presence. So he’d watched, silently, helplessly, as she’d disappeared into the sea.

She had to be very brave or completely desperate to think she could survive such an escape attempt. He guessed she was a little of both.

He squinted against the brightness of the rising sun as he scanned the water again. During the night, the ocean had seemed black and treacherous. In the light of day, it was gloriously blue and temptingly inviting. It wasn’t, however, any less deadly. And with every minute that passed, the likelihood of Shannon’s survival decreased and his feeling of failure intensified.

He refused to give in to it; refused to give up. He refused to fail again.

But the memories hovered at the back of his mind, haunting him, taunting him. Memories so real he could almost smell the heavy scent of the Righarian jungle, feel the drip of moisture from the sodden leaves down his back, taste the fear that had risen like bile in his throat. And he could see—all too clearly—the picture of his friend as he lay dying: his helmet knocked askew, his blond hair matted with crimson blood, his dark eyes wide as they stared unseeingly at the man who’d let him down.

They’d been through so much together, seen so much death and destruction. But nothing they’d seen had prepared Mike for the shocking horror of Brent’s usually smiling visage hideously twisted with pain.

He blinked in an effort to dispel the gruesome image. The picture didn’t disappear, it only changed. The blond hair grew longer, darker, until it was brilliant auburn, the dark eyes softened to the color of green moss, the lips became wider, fuller, yet remained twisted in an expression of unbearable agony.

No—he refused to believe he was too late.

He started the engine again, steered slowly through the choppy water.

Shannon jolted, blinked into the bright sun.

She was tired and cold and so incredibly thirsty. She licked her parched lips, tasted the sharp tang of the ocean’s salt.

So thirsty.

She shivered.

So cold.

Her eyelids drifted downward again.

So tired.

Then she heard it, the low drone of a motor across the water. Fatigue was chased away by fear, her heart sinking like the empty tank she’d discarded as tears of frustration and despair filled her eyes.

Dammit.

She didn’t have the energy to swear aloud, but the oath echoed in her mind. She hadn’t come this far only to let Drew find her, and she sank lower in the water now, hoping the boat would pass by without noticing her.

But as the vessel drew nearer she realized it was too small to be the Femme Fatale.

Relief surged through her as she forgot about the island and started praying for a rescue. A tourist charter, a fishing boat—she really didn’t care.

She waved her arms over her head, hope expanding in her chest as the boat turned toward her. She continued to tread water as the vessel slowed and drew nearer.

Then she recognized the man at the helm.

Her jaw dropped, and she choked on a mouthful of seawater.

It was the man she’d met on the beach.

The one she’d invited back to her hotel room, almost made love to, and had last seen racing after her at the marina.

What was he doing out here?

Mike had never been as happy as he was when he recognized the spot of neon orange bobbing in the water as Shannon’s life vest.

He slowed the boat so she wouldn’t have to fight the waves churned up by the motor, then cut the engine completely as he came nearer. She was here. She was alive.

He hurried toward the ladder at the back of the boat to help her board. He was grinning like an idiot, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. He wasn’t too late. He hadn’t failed her.

The realization, the relief, almost overwhelmed him.

Until he got closer to her.

Her deep-green eyes were shadowed and glassy with fatigue, her skin was pale and waxy, and she was shivering. He recognized the visible symptoms of impending hypothermia and knew she’d been in the water too long.

“I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever find you,” he said, deliberately casual. He didn’t want to alarm her by remarking on her physical condition. He just wanted to get her out of the water.

Shannon, apparently, wasn’t so eager. She made no move toward the ladder and her only response to his comment was, “Why were you l-looking for m-me?”

“It’s a long story,” he admitted. “Why don’t we talk about this on our way back to Miami?”

“B-because I’m not g-going anywhere with you until I know who you are and what you’re d-doing here.”

Who he was?

Mike’s concern escalated. Maybe it wasn’t just hypothermia. Maybe she’d suffered some kind of trauma or head injury and had amnesia.

“You know who I am,” he reminded her. “Michael Courtland.”

“I know that’s who you s-said you were,” she admitted.

Okay, so she didn’t have amnesia, just a sudden case of distrust. He felt ridiculous carrying on this conversation over the side of a boat while she was shivering in the water, but he could understand that she needed some reassurance. He didn’t know what had happened on that yacht to make Shannon jump overboard, but he knew it had to have been significant for her to take such drastic action.

“I don’t know what Peart told you, but I’m exactly who I said I was.”

She frowned. “Who’s P-Peart?”

“Andrew Peart. The guy you left the hotel with.”

“He said…” she trailed off, as if reluctant to confide anything the other man had told her.

As anxious as Mike was to finish this conversation, he was more anxious to get her out of the cold water. The bluish tinge of her skin worried him. “Would you please climb onboard so we can continue this conversation on our way back to Miami?”

“He said he was M-Michael Courtland. And he showed m-me identification.”

He couldn’t blame her for her doubts. During the time they’d spent together the previous evening, they’d talked about little of a personal nature. He’d certainly never told her about his reasons for being in Florida, his work or his indirect connection to her sister. And keeping that information from her—even if it had been his client’s decision—had been a mistake.

“That’s how he convinced you to leave the hotel with him,” he guessed.

“He got m-me to leave by d-drugging m-me.”

“If he drugged you, then it shouldn’t surprise you to know he lied to you, too.”

“It d-doesn’t,” she agreed. “B-but I want to know if you lied to m-me, too.”

He met her gaze evenly, knowing that his assignment would be a lot more difficult—if not impossible—to carry out without her trust. “I didn’t,” he told her. “I might not have been completely honest about some things, but I never lied to you.”

Still she hesitated.

He realized she was stubborn enough to freeze to death before she’d admit it was happening. But he refused to continue playing twenty questions while she was shivering. Not to mention that Peart’s men were likely looking for her—for both of them. “Are you going to come aboard now or do I have to come in and get you?”

Her eyes widened. “You w-wouldn’t—”

It was the chattering of her teeth more than the challenge of her words that mobilized him. He kicked off his shoes and dove into the water.

Shannon was sputtering when he surfaced beside her. “Are you crazy?”

His only response was to band an arm around her waist, then he started towing her back to the boat.

“I’m not getting on that boat with you.” She struggled to free herself from his hold but was too tired to put much effort into her resistance.

“You don’t have any other options.”

As he reached the ladder, he lifted her onto his shoulder in a one-armed fireman’s hold. He was suddenly aware of the softness of her breasts pressed against his back, the firmness of her buttocks beneath his splayed fingers. With every step, his breathing grew more labored—not from exertion but awareness.

He’d been too busy over the past few months to worry about his own physical needs—an oversight that his body had been protesting since he’d accepted this assignment and first set eyes on Shannon. He concentrated on the final rung, accepting that he would have to endure the protests a while longer.

Once on the bridge, he dumped her unceremoniously onto a padded leather seat. He knew there were towels belowdeck, but he didn’t want to leave her for a minute. He didn’t trust her not to disappear into the water again while his back was turned. Instead, he grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders.

“You can ask all the questions you want on the way back,” he promised her. “If at any point you don’t like my answers—you’re free to jump overboard again.”

Shannon drew her knees toward her chest, tucking the ends of the blanket around her bare legs.

“Th-thanks.” The shiver in her voice didn’t quite conceal the sarcasm.

She was still so cold, so tired, so thirsty. But at least now she could close her eyes and not worry about drowning. Unfortunately, until all her questions had been answered, she wasn’t going to take her eyes off this man who continued to claim he was Michael Courtland.

She shivered again, pulled the blanket tighter.

He held a plastic bottle of water toward her. “Drink.”

She nearly wept with gratitude as she reached a hand out from beneath the cover to accept the offering.

“Th-thanks,” she said again, minus the sarcasm this time.

But her fingers were numb, clumsy, and she couldn’t seem to twist the lid. He placed his hand on top of hers, the warmth of his skin seeping into hers, and easily removed the top.

She felt her cheeks flush with humiliation. There was nothing she hated more than being helpless, and there was no denying how completely weak and helpless she was now.

Or maybe, a little voice inside her head taunted, the warmth seeping through her limbs had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with a more primal response to this man. There was nothing personal in the way he touched her, but she couldn’t deny that the strength of his hand, the heat from his skin, brought to mind very personal memories of last night.

She tipped the bottle to her lips and drank deeply, desperately.

“Slowly,” he admonished.

She forced herself to take smaller sips.

He crouched beside her chair and rubbed his hands briskly over her arms, the friction generating welcome heat. “Are you okay?”

His eyes reflected the genuine compassion and concern she heard in his voice.

Genuine?

She nearly laughed aloud at the thought. As if she would recognize genuine. In the past several hours, she’d been conned by two different men, including this one—and she was determined not to let him con her again.

“F-fine,” she finally responded to his question.

To her surprise he smiled. “You’re one hell of a swimmer, Shannon Vaughn.”

The hint of admiration in his voice was as unexpected as the smile. She didn’t know how to respond to such a comment, or even if she wanted to.

“I saw you go into the water when you left the Femme Fatale,” he admitted. “Of course, I lost you when you submerged, but I figured you’d have to surface again eventually.”

“You were l-looking for m-me? The whole t-time?”

He shrugged, stood up.

“Why?”

Instead of answering her question, he said, “Maybe that should wait until we get back to Miami—in case you decide you want to throw me overboard.”

She shook her head. “You said I c-could ask whatever questions I wanted. I n-need to know what’s going on. Why Drew wants to k-kill me. And how you f-figure into this.”

Michael slipped his shoes back on before moving toward the bridge to restart the engines and set them on course for Florida.

“I can’t say for certain why he wants you dead,” he said. “Except that it’s probably retribution for Conroy’s death.”

“I didn’t even know the m-man,” Shannon protested.

“But your sister did.”

She pulled the ends of the blanket more tightly around her. Warmth was slowly seeping into her limbs, numbness gradually giving way to a dull ache, but she still couldn’t stop shivering. “How d-do you know that?”

“Because I’m a private investigator hired by Dylan Creighton to watch out for you while you were on vacation.”

She remained silent.

“Let me guess, that’s the same story Peart told you?”

She nodded.

Michael swore. “He obviously planned this whole thing through carefully, starting with the break-in of your hotel room.”

“What do you m-mean?”

“It occurred to me that nothing was taken because he only wanted to scare you, so you’d be more susceptible to his story and more eager for his protection when he appeared at your door.”

“But why? If he really wants m-me dead, why didn’t he just shoot m-me then? Not that I’m not grateful he didn’t, b-but why?”

He shrugged. “Zane Conroy was a master manipulator, and it’s possible, if Peart’s goal is to avenge Conroy’s death, he plans to do so as Conroy would have done.”

She remembered the way Natalie, as the new A.D.A. in Fairweather, had been set up to find a dead body and later to prosecute the murderer, who had also been set up by Conroy, and realized his explanation made sense.

“Or it could simply be that Peart isn’t high enough in the organization to do the deed himself,” he suggested as another possibility.

“He m-mentioned someone named A.J.,” she admitted. “Said he would decide how and when I was to be m-made an example of.”

“Then I’d say you’re lucky you didn’t stick around long enough to meet him.”

She remained silent, but nodded her agreement.

“I know you’re scared, but you can trust me, Shannon.”

She wanted to trust him. She wanted to believe there was someone really on her side, that she wasn’t alone in this. But how could she? How could she know for certain that this man was any better than Drew?

Okay, he had very likely saved her from drowning, and she had to admit that was a big point in his favor. But her doubts and uncertainties were too numerous to be so easily overcome, and they multiplied further when she realized Michael was turning the boat around again.

“Isn’t Miami the other way?”

“It is,” he agreed, his tone grim. “And so is the Femme Fatale.”

She squinted. She could see something in the distance—a dark blip on the horizon. But she couldn’t tell if it was even a boat, never mind Peart’s yacht.

“How d-do you know?”

He tossed her a pair of binoculars.

She held them to her eyes, adjusted the focus. Her breath caught in her throat as the boat seemed to jump toward her. It was the Femme Fatale, and it was moving fast, slicing easily through the choppy water as it sped toward them.

She lowered the binoculars, exhaling a shaky sigh when the vessel magically retreated into the distance again. “B-but there’s no way they can know I’m with you, on this b-boat.”

Michael didn’t say anything.

“C-can they?”

“Peart used my name to get to you,” he reminded her. “Which means he knows who I am and why I was in Miami. It’s logical that he’d try to find me to find you again.”

“M-maybe we should radio for help,” she suggested, wondering that she hadn’t thought of it sooner.

“The radio doesn’t work.”

“Oh.”

He nodded grimly. “It’s just you and me.”

She shivered as she stared out at the blue sky and even bluer water—less from cold than apprehension this time. “What are we g-going to do now?”

“We’re going to duck in behind that island,” he said, nodding toward a small landmass directly ahead of them. “And hope like hell they go right past.”

She fell silent, staring at the island that still looked so far away, not daring to watch Drew’s yacht draw steadily nearer.

“Have you ever piloted a boat?”

The abruptness of the question startled her, and it took a moment for her to respond. “No.”

“Well, let’s hope you’re a quick learner.”

“Why?”

“Because I need you to take over here, just for a couple of minutes.”

When she hesitated, Mike put his hands on her waist, guiding her into position at the helm. There was nothing of the passionate lover in his touch, yet somehow it evoked a flood of memories of those same hands on her skin the night before.

“Why?” she asked again.

But he’d already disappeared below deck.

Shannon blew out a breath and tightened her fingers around the wheel. She hoped he didn’t have any particular course he expected her to follow, because she had no idea what she was doing. She simply fought to hold the craft steady as it bounced along on top of the rolling waves, lurching and swaying.

The blanket fell from her shoulders, but she didn’t dare let go to retrieve it.

A couple of minutes, he’d said.

It was the longest two minutes of her life—except maybe those last two minutes she was in the water. Two endless minutes in which she couldn’t help but wonder how her life had turned down this path, how everything had spun so completely out of her control.

Michael’s return put an end to her ineffectual ruminations.

He carried a backpack slung over one shoulder, which he dropped at his feet before nudging her away from the wheel. “I’ll take over now.”

She stepped back gratefully, her gaze once again drawn reluctantly to the pursuing boat.

It was closer now. Too close.

Michael was right—there was no way they could outrun Drew’s yacht. And although she still wasn’t sure she trusted him, she couldn’t deny that she needed him right now. Which meant that he needed to know the full extent of the threat they were facing.

She swallowed, forcing down the fear that was clawing its way up her throat, then said, “They have weapons on the yacht.”

The information didn’t surprise Mike; the fact that Shannon knew about the illegal arsenal did.

“What kind of weapons?” he asked.

“I don’t know. They were packed in straw inside a wooden crate. Guns of some kind, and some tube-shaped things.”

Her description, vague though it was, confirmed what Garcia had told him. “Could be AK-47s,” he told her. “And shoulder-mounted rockets and RPGs.”

He maneuvered the boat around the tip of the island, cutting the Femme Fatale from view—at least for the moment.

She worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “What does all that mean?”

He could give her any number of specs on each of those weapons: caliber, velocity, effective range. But he figured all she really needed to know could be summed up in a single word. “Trouble.”

“I’m starting to wish I’d never left Chicago,” she admitted.

“If Peart had already made up his mind that you were his target, you wouldn’t have been any safer there.”

She fell silent again.

He wished there was something he could say or do to reassure her, some way he could comfort her. But his priority right now was to keep her safe, and to do that he needed to stay focused. If last night had taught him nothing else, it had at least proven that touching Shannon Vaughn blew his focus all to hell.

He concentrated on steering the boat. They were getting into shallower water now, closer to the island. Close enough he could see through the turquoise water to the rocks on the bottom, and he didn’t want to risk damaging the hull.

He heard Shannon’s quick intake of breath and turned to see the bow of the Femme Fatale appear around the bend.

“We need to get to the island,” he said. “It will be easier to evade them on land.”

“Do you think we can evade them?”

“I know we can.” He didn’t believe in making empty promises, but he was confident the skills he’d learned and honed with the U.S. Army Rangers would ensure their survival—if they made it to shore.

He didn’t know if she believed him, but she didn’t argue the point. After a minute of tense silence, she spoke again. “They’re not following anymore.”

He turned to see that the Femme Fatale had, in fact, stopped pursuing them.

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Her voice was filled with cautious optimism.

“I wouldn’t count on it.” Even if the water was too shallow for the yacht to come farther, he didn’t believe for a minute that Peart would give up.

Mike squinted against the sun, focused on the tall, dark-haired man on deck. Or, more specifically, on the weapon he was settling on his bulky shoulder.

He cut the engines and turned to Shannon. “We’re going to have to swim.”

She balked. “What? Why?”

He understood her resistance. She’d already spent too much time in the water, and now he was asking her to dive right back in. He understood, but he didn’t have time to argue with her or explain.

Instead, he snagged the backpack with one arm, Shannon with the other, and jumped.

They hit the water only a heartbeat before the boat exploded.

Chapter 4

Shannon kicked her way toward the surface, sputtering and gasping as she broke through the water. She sucked in a lungful of air and blinked to clear her vision. The acrid smoke stung her eyes, burned her lungs. Broken pieces of fiberglass and twisted shards of metal—all that remained of the boat—slowly sank to their watery grave.

She twisted around, searching frantically through the debris for any sign of Michael, breathing an audible sigh of relief when he surfaced next to her.

She’d been shocked, even angry, at the way he’d thrown her overboard—until, even under the water, she’d felt the shock waves from the explosion.

He reached for her, squeezed her hand. “Are you okay?”

She nodded.

“Good. Because now we definitely have to swim.”

This time, she didn’t ask any questions. He’d saved her life, and that, she decided, entitled him to a certain level of trust.

Her muscles screamed in agony, but she swam. She found reserves of strength she hadn’t known she possessed and followed Michael as he cut through the water. But her strokes weren’t as strong or as smooth as his, and she quickly found herself falling behind.

Or she would have, if he hadn’t taken her in a rescue hold and towed her.

She felt guilty for being such a burden, but she had no reserves of strength to draw on. He didn’t release her until they were only in hip-deep water. “Can you run?”

She nodded, determined to at least make the effort.

And it was an effort, the drag of the water and the slickness of the rocks conspiring to impede their progress toward the beach. Her already overtaxed muscles threatened to give up entirely, and she knew it was only the solid grip of Michael’s hand on hers that kept her moving.

She heard the sound of an outboard motor and knew that Rico and Jazz were in pursuit. She didn’t turn to look. She didn’t want to know how close they were.

The water was at her thighs, her knees, her ankles.

They were moving faster now, but the sound of the approaching engine was almost deafening. Or maybe that was the sound of her heart pounding in her ears.

The rocks gave way to sand, heavy and wet at first, then soft and hot beneath her bare feet. She was running as fast as she could, breathing hard with the effort of trying to keep up with him.

“I can’t—”

“You can,” Michael interrupted. “Into those trees.”

Over the drone of the motor, she heard the staccato burst of gunfire. She recognized the sound because she’d heard it so often in movies, but it was louder and sharper in real life. And infinitely more terrifying.

He released her hand to position himself behind her, his hand now on her back to propel her forward. “Move!”

She felt the spray of sand against her legs as the bullets hit the beach.

Their pursuers were too close.

There was no way she and Michael could continue to outrun them.

Finally they pushed into the cover of the trees.

He didn’t let her stop to catch her breath but led her deeper.

“Stop.” He breathed the word softly, almost soundlessly.

Shannon halted beside him and saw that they were now facing the beach less than fifty yards down from where they’d disappeared into the trees.

The beach onto which the Zodiac was now being dragged ashore.

Jazz was in front, pulling the bow of the craft with one hand, holding some kind of gun in the other.

“They can’t have gone far.” He dropped the boat, striding toward the opening between the trees where Shannon and Michael had disappeared. His hand gripped the weapon with easy familiarity, and she knew he was eager to start shooting again.

Rico stayed beside the boat, shaking his head. “We don’t have time to go after them now.”

“We can’t leave them here.” Jazz’s voice was filled with anger, frustration.

In contrast, Rico’s was controlled, almost unconcerned. “Where are they going to go?”

“That’s not the point.”

“That’s exactly the point. We have other things to take care of first—we’ll deal with the woman and Courtland when we get back.”

“But—”

“We can’t kill her yet, anyway, and if we don’t make that shipment, A.J. will kill us.”

Jazz hesitated a moment, then nodded.

Shannon felt some of the tension slowly seep from her body as she watched Jazz move back toward the Zodiac. But she didn’t breathe until she heard the motor start up again, and she didn’t speak until she saw the small boat heading back to the yacht.

“What are we going to do now?”

Mike had been prepared for the question. Unfortunately, he couldn’t give her a more definitive answer than to say, “Hope the Sarsat beacon on the boat was working.”

“What’s a Sarsat beacon?”

“It’s a distress signal sent via satellite to a search-and-rescue center. The coast guard might already be on its way.” If it was working.

“Might?”

He should have known she’d pounce on that word. “Since the radio was destroyed, we have to consider the possibility that the emergency signal may have been, as well.”

“Destroyed?” She frowned.

Damn.

“It had been tampered with,” he admitted.

“Oh.”

But it was obvious she didn’t fully understand the implications of his explanation, and he didn’t want to expand on the details right now.

“Let’s take a walk around,” he said. “Get our bearings.”

He bent to retrieve the backpack, wincing when his arm flexed with the movement.

Frowning, he glanced at the bicep, at the sticky crimson fluid trickling down his arm. He’d felt the bite of the bullet, the searing heat as the metal projectile cut through the flesh, but he’d put it out of his mind. Now that more immediate dangers had passed, he knew he should take care of the wound. It really wasn’t deep, but in this environment, infection was a definite possibility.

“Which way—” Shannon gasped when she turned and saw the blood. “What happened?”

“Those weapons you were telling me about,” he said. “Definitely AK-47s.”

“You were shot?”

“Flesh wound,” he said dismissively.

“There’s an awful lot of blood….”

Her face seemed to drain of color right before his eyes, and he was afraid, for a moment, that she might pass out. “Are you okay?”

She drew in a breath, steadied herself. “I’m not the one who was shot.”

He glanced at the wound, the blood still seeping down his arm. It really was minor—the bullet just having grazed the skin. “It’s fine.”

She shook her head and muttered something that sounded like “macho idiot” under her breath.

This time he did smile.

“Is there a first-aid kit in the backpack?” she asked.

“Yeah.” He reached inside for the metal box with the familiar red cross on the top, scowling when he realized the box was wet, that everything inside the waterproof pack was wet. His scowl deepened when he realized there was a bullet hole in the fabric, and the canteen he’d packed was both broken and empty. He was almost more annoyed at the loss of the water than his injury. He bit back a curse and handed Shannon the first-aid kit.

She rummaged inside until she found an antibiotic wipe, gauze pads and tape. Her fingers were cool and gentle as she dabbed at the blood around the torn flesh.

The light touch reminded him of the way those same hands had skimmed over the bare skin of his chest, gripped his shoulders. The memory made him tense, tightening the muscles in his arm.

He swore.

She pulled her hand away. “Did I hurt you?”

Yeah, but the pain he was feeling had nothing to do with her nursing skills.

“No,” he responded to her question, his voice sounding hoarse, aroused, even to his own ears.

She glanced at him warily, then away quickly, returning her attention to his arm.

He tried to focus on the scarlet blossom of a hibiscus flower visible in the distance, but his gaze kept being drawn back to Shannon. Her head was bent down as she applied herself to her task. Her long hair hung in a tangled, dripping mass down her back, but even the saltwater residue failed to dim its fiery color. Her neck was long and slender, the skin pale and smooth.

He wondered how she would respond if he dipped his head to nibble the soft lobe of her ear, press his lips to the graceful curve of her neck, touch his tongue to the racing pulse point at the base of her throat.

His eyes riveted on that pulse point.

It was racing.

She might project cool competence and a hands-off attitude, but Shannon Vaughn wasn’t as unaffected as she wanted him to believe. Or maybe it was adrenaline that was causing her heart to pump so furiously.

He let his gaze drop further, to the wet T-shirt that clung provocatively to her generous curves. Her nipples pebbled beneath his stare, confirming that there was more than just adrenaline at work here.

She lifted his arm gently, to clean away some already dried blood, and his elbow brushed against her breast.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

Her response was automatic, but he noticed that her cheeks had turned pink and her hands weren’t quite as steady when she unrolled and tore off a piece of tape to fasten the gauze to his arm.

She definitely wasn’t unaffected, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to bridge the distance between them and cover her mouth with his own.

It was a natural desire under the circumstances—the result of adrenaline pumping through his own system. Because he understood the reaction, he was able to resist the impulse.

Besides, he knew one kiss wouldn’t be enough. He wanted not just to taste her lips but to touch her all over. He wanted to hear her soft sighs and throaty whimpers as his hands moved over her naked flesh, to feel the yield of her soft curves to the press of his body as they merged together and finished what they’d started in her room.

He exhaled a ragged breath.

One kiss definitely would not be enough.

She finished applying the second piece of tape. Then she glanced up, her eyes locking with his, and he saw the desire that raged through him reflected in the dark-green depths of her gaze.

He heard her sharp intake of breath, noted the slight parting of her lips.

If he leaned toward her now, would she pull away?

Or would she meet him halfway?

He stepped back, away from Shannon, out of reach of temptation.

She closed the first-aid kit, put it away, then slung the bag over her shoulder.

“Let’s go.”

She sighed. “I’m guessing since Rico and Jazz left us here, there isn’t anyone else on this island.”

“That’s right,” he admitted. “We’ve landed on our very own Gilligan’s Island, and the first order of business is to find water and make shelter.”

“Make shelter?”

He nodded.

“What do you plan to do, Gilligan? Build a little hut out of palm fronds?”

His eyes narrowed. As if her sarcasm wasn’t enough, now she was insulting him. “Gilligan?”

She shrugged. “You were the one who brought up the show.”

“But—Gilligan?”

“Believe me, I’d be much happier if you were a professor who could miraculously fabricate some kind of communication device out of coconut shells and vines.”

Right now that would make him happy, too, but it wasn’t going to happen. And although he had certain survival skills that no doubt would be useful in this situation, that wasn’t one of them.

“You’re the scientist,” he reminded her. “I’ll leave that up to you.”

She looked around. “Well, I’m a little out of my element here.”

“Then we’ll have to give you another role.” He decided turnabout was fair play. “Ginger or Mary-Ann?”

“Neither,” she snapped.

But the idea was too intriguing to let go.

He let his gaze skim over her long, shapely legs, the softly curved hips, trim waist. He lingered for a moment on her full breasts, remembering the weight of them in his palms, the taste of her rosy nipples. His body responded predictably to the mental image as he continued his survey.

He took in the graceful line of her neck, the stubborn tilt of her chin, the tempting lushness of her lips. And the dark-green eyes that were currently spitting fire. Then there was the hair. He grinned. “Definitely Ginger.”

She glared at him.

“She was so hot.”

Shannon didn’t say anything.

“Of course, there’s something to be said for Mary-Ann’s sweet innocence. And the way her curves filled out those little shirts and short shorts.”

“You’re a pervert.”

“Just a healthy red-blooded man.”

“Same thing,” she muttered, pushing past him to lead the way.

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