In Too Deep (19 page)

"Jesus, Tally. Listen to me—"

"Get over yourself, Black Bart. I'm having a fabulous vacation. I told you. If you're here to bug me, go away." She glanced down at his feet. "May I have my towel, please?"

"What can I say to—"

"See this?" She drew a line with her toe in the sand between them. "This is the line of death. Cross it, and you're toast."

"I'll take my chances." He stepped on her line, and brushed a finger across her shoulder. "You're getting pink. Too much sun." It was a blatant lie. Her skin was already turning a golden brown, and felt as smooth and soft as velvet. He saw the gentle swell of her breasts above the modest edge of her swimsuit, saw the nervous rapidity of her breathing, and knew he was in deep, deep trouble.

"I don't bur—" she licked her lower lip, and those blue, blue eyes lost focus as he trailed his fingers up the slender plane of her throat.

A beat too late, she retreated a step.

He advanced, his hand still on her, unable to resist the temptation.

The pulse at the base of her throat syncopated with his own heartbeat.

She took another small step back… and stumbled in her own footprints in the sand behind her.

Michael allowed himself a ghost of a smile as he shot his hand up to grasp the back of her head, keeping her from falling. Drawing her closer.

Her scalp felt warm beneath his hand, and her wet hair curled around his fingers. She felt curiously fragile beneath his touch as she stood there without moving, her gaze fixed on his face.

"I guess neither of us listens very well, do we?"

"Guess not." She trembled when he ran his other hand up her back. Past the nominal barrier of spandex, to smooth up bare skin. Her lids lowered, ridiculously long lashes fluttered like a Victorian maiden about to be ravished. He knew she was afraid to let him see the sheer panic in her expression.

Brave little Tally.

Brave, but too slow.

She should have run for the hills.

Now it was just too damn late.

Chapter Ten

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Michael lowered his head and put his mouth on hers. Desire shot to his groin, sweet and sharp. He increased the pressure, and her mouth opened eagerly beneath his. She tasted of pineapple. Temptation. Desire.

And worst of all, she tasted of trouble.

Michael slid his hands down her sun-warmed arms to capture her wrists, then slowly pulled them up and around his neck, until their bodies were flush. He wanted to groan with the pleasure of it, but tamped down the sound, knowing if it escaped, what was left of his self-control would follow.

He slowly captured her mouth, slanting his head to draw her tongue inside. She whimpered. Her nipples hardened against his chest as her slick, delightfully inept tongue tried to keep pace with his.

He'd always enjoyed kissing. Considered himself pretty good at it. But, God… kissing Tally was
amazing
. This fore-play was almost as good as the main event. Almost.

He felt the brush of her fingers against his neck, then fisting into his hair as he increased the pressure of the kiss. Asking more. Taking more. She drew him closer, tighter, against the gentle curves of her body, her nails flexing on his skin.

He could slide his hands down the modest neckline of her swimsuit, pull it aside, and cup her small, perfect breasts. He wanted to taste her nipples, salty from the sea. He wanted to push her down on the sugary beach, there in the brilliant tropical sunlight, and plunge to the heart of her.

He resisted the siren call, even as it enticed him, calling him to drown in the sheer, scented beauty of her supple body. And the promise of forgetfulness, for even a heartbeat, of what he was going to do to her when her father arrived. Hell. He released her abruptly, dropping his arms to his sides as he took a step away from her.

"Not bad," he drawled, shoving his hands deep into his pockets to keep from grabbing her again.

Her eyes narrowed. "Not
bad
? You rat, you
did
come down here to tick me off and ruin my afternoon didn't you?"

With a shake of her head, she planted both hands on his chest and shoved him out of her way. She walked around him and bent to pick up her towel, shook out the sand, then cocked her head to look at him. "Well, your reverse psychology isn't going to work. Personally, I thought it was slightly better than not bad.
Slightly
."

She wrapped the towel around her body like a clumsy pareu, and picked up her things, holding them bundled in her arms. "Not that I'm an expert on these things, but don't be so hard on yourself." She patted his arm with mock sympathy. "With a little practice, I bet you could improve. Come and find me when you feel better able to put some real effort into the project."

"I feel just fine," he said through his teeth.

"That's a shame. If you're feeling good now, there won't be any real improvement. Will there?"

"Tally, Goddamn it—"

"Is it that time of the month when you're just feeling low-down and cranky? Poor baby. I've heard exercise helps. And lay off the caffeine."

Without waiting for his response, Tally turned on her heel and strode briskly down the beach toward the marina. Back straight, head high, she waved to him over her shoulder.

Michael huffed a laugh. Damned crazy woman. He shook his head, then licked a finger, in the air, and sketched one point to the lady.

Although it was only early afternoon, and he preferred limiting his activities to darkness, he turned to jog down the beach in the opposite direction. The fun and games with her were amusing, but he had a job to do. And this was a perfect opportunity to scout out the cave he'd seen yesterday. He'd spent precious hours watching over Tally last night when he should've been searching. She was safe enough in broad daylight. Not that he thought the guy who'd attacked her was still hanging around, but better safe than sorry.

Michael scaled the boulders near the point and dropped down on the other side. The stretch this side was shorter and narrower than the other. He'd already done a recon of the area, and knew the strengths and weaknesses of the perimeter. The natural basin created by the rocks, beach, and sea offered complete privacy.

He scanned the cliff to his right. Because of the jaggedness of the rock and the angle of the sun, it was hard to tell, without scaling the face, exactly what was a cave and what was shadow. He'd start with the small opening in the base.

It was hellishly narrow, and a tight fit. He had to slide in sideways, but the height was ten feet or more above his head. About fifteen feet in, the narrow slit opened into a room approximately twenty by fifty feet. Michael paused, letting his eye adjust to the dimness.

Size-wise it would be a perfect spot to store the stolen arms and ammunition. Cool, and well-hidden. Easily accessible because of the slope of the beach and deeper water. Unfortunately it would also
be flooded
, come high tide. Not to mention it would be restrictive, if not downright impossible, trying to carry anything in or out through that notch-like opening. The ordnance would be in large wooden crates.

Damn
. He narrowed his eye as he scanned the gloomy interior.

There, in back. His heartbeat quickened. He moved in, his attention focused on a couple of darker areas.
Yes
! There. A couple or three openings that looked like natural tunnels in the side walls. Narrow and—he shoved an arm in one—could go back thirty more feet, for all he knew. He'd come back and check those later. He moved around the room, considerably darker in back, to make sure he wasn't missing anything.

"What
have
we here?" Man-made stairs, roughly cut in the rock.

Damn. He wished he had a flashlight. He'd come back with one later, but for now he bounded up the uneven steps. He had to slow as they took a sharp and dangerous turn, then another. The higher he climbed, the lighter it became and the more his anticipation grew.

"Are you seeing this, Bud?" he asked Hugo, grinning at the ceiling. "Oh, man." The cave was three times the size of the one below, and flooded with sunlight.

Almost every square inch of it was filled with wooden crates.

He'd found the ordnance.

Michael pushed his way between the crates to the opening looking out over the sea. Christ, how easy was this? The aperture was perfectly angled as to be almost invisible from below. But at high tide, a ship could come right below the mouth, the crates could easily be rolled down a ramp right onboard. No fuss, no muss.

His pulse raced.

Filled with elation, Michael moved through the boxes again, this time his hand lingered almost affectionately on the splintery pine as he passed through the man-made canyons.

He'd set the charges tonight while everyone slept.

He jogged down the stairs and out into the sunlight, feeling light for the first time in a year.

Michael did a high victory jump, and punched the air with his fist. "Hoo-ya! Hugo, my man. We're in!"

The sun seared his shoulders, the hot sand burned the soles of his feet. Life was good. Revenge would be sweet. Goddamn it—he was king of the world. Able to leap tall buildings, yada, yada, yada. He grinned.

A cave. Perfect.

The explosive charge would be contained. The C4 would take out every last piece of crap within the rock walls, and chew up half the cliff face in the doing. Anything that survived the initial bang would be wasted by the ricochet effect.

The disposal of Church himself would be one on one, and a lot more personal.

Now, there was just one more small task before he headed back.

He looked out over the calm water, and the jubilation of only minutes ago faded. His heartbeat slowed to a familiar thud. Thud. Thud.

Shit.

The sand was cooler where it was wet as Michael approached the lacy foam trimming the waves. He didn't bother looking around. He knew no one could see him back here behind the boulders. And hell, fact was, even if they could, who the hell cared? Doing a final visual check was one more displacement activity he used to delay the inevitable.

The sapphire water was deeper because of a sharp drop-off close to shore. Great. He didn't have far to walk before he freaked out.

He paused, drew in a deep breath. Centered himself. He could do this. Goddamn it. He
had
to do this.

While the French Polynesian sun beat down on his head, Michael remembered a rainy summer's day in the Sierras. All four boys were determined to teach their seven-year-old sister how to swim. Mamie had been more than enthusiastic, despite her bad heart.

The river had been fairly deep, but sluggish. Michael had jumped in first, ready to catch his sister. Kyle had instructed her how to hold her breath; Derek had grabbed her skinny little arms and demonstrated how she was supposed to move. And Kane had run around screaming like a wild Indian, and dive-bombed the water, splashing them all amidst shrieks of laughter.

God, he'd fearlessly loved the water, even then.

Michael scrubbed his jaw, his throat tight as he stared unblinkingly at the placid skin on the water.

"Hugo? Help me out here, Bud. Help me so Church doesn't win. Again."

He could do this. He could. Just a second. That's all he needed. A second submerged. Christ, he
could
do this. He drew in a ragged breath.

"One-two—" He took off running. "Three," full tilt. "Hoo-yah!"

The water felt as cold as ether on his shins.
Jesus
. It clawed at his calves like icy knives. His brain went numb with terror. Felt like a heart attack. Fear—intense—debilitated, paralyzing. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't even fucking run.

"Hugo. For God's sake, man…"

They were like two halves of a whole. Together since basic training, together through Hell Week and BUD/S. Inseparable. Invincible. The best of the best, and cockily aware of it, too. Even in the pitch-dark, Michael was as aware of Hugo as if they were holding hands instead of tied together on a six-foot line. They knew each other's moves so damn well, it was as though they shared a single brain. One mind. One thought. One goal.

Only the two of them had been inserted for this extremely dangerous op. The
Marie Jose
had been pirated by Trevor Church, a modern-day buccaneer who'd become the scourge of French Polynesian waters for years. There wasn't much a single government could do about him. He did his dirty work on the high seas, and out of territorial waters. But this time, he couldn't be ignored. He'd progressed from minor infractions to the big leagues. He'd hijacked an enormous shipment of weapons being transported from Santiago. There was enough ordnance on board to blow away a large chunk of the Orient, for which it was headed
.

Right now the ship was riding anchor hundreds of miles from any inhabited islands as Church awaited the buyers. Intel had reported the terrorists would be there tomorrow. Noon. When they arrived, the
Marie Jose
would be a dimple in the ocean
.

Hugo signaled. Target. Dead ahead…

Michael blinked back the clausty darkness and cold and shoved them back into memory.

The sun beat down on his head, the light breeze felt chill on his sweat-drenched skin. He extended his right foot; one more large stride and he'd be thigh deep. He could do this, goddamn it. He could do this… light-headed enough to pass out, he jerked the leg back in place.

He'd made it knee-deep before admitting defeat. Sick to his stomach, he stood there like a statue, the ocean sucking at his legs like some vile creature determined to drag him below. As if the sea had let him go once before and it was still trying to make up for the mistake. He felt sick, dizzy with fear. His body drenched in sweat, his heart manic. He forced himself to stay there. Knee-deep in the crystal-clear water. Counting each frantic heartbeat.

After ten, agonized minutes, Michael allowed himself to turn tail. He trudged out of the viscous water, almost blind with fury and despair.