Pilot Error (10 page)

"Come on," she called, her voice remarkably neutral, as if she hadn't just been locked in a passionate embrace with a half-naked stranger. Behind her, she heard the beginnings of angry splutters but serenely ignored them in favor of a satisfied little smile.

To top it off, now she was in the lead where she belonged. All in all, it was quite a satisfactory outcome and every bit worth the wet muck-covered clothes that clung to her back. Given the chance, she'd do the whole thing over again if only for that look on his face when she'd left him standing there. For that, wet clothes were a very small price to pay.

***

A thin ribbon of rocky beach and a wide expanse of water greeted Micki on the other side of the mangrove swamp. Beyond the waves was the small island they had earlier skimmed over in their reckless flight from their anonymous pursuers.

Sliding the backpack from her shoulders, she sat on the coarsely ground coral that passed for sand, and considered the water before her. To her exhausted gaze, it looked to be miles to the other island, though in reality it was probably far less.

Distracted, she pulled off her cap and scratched her neck. The swamp water made her itch all over. Digging in her pack, she pulled out the canteen and took several greedy swallows. What she wouldn't give right now to tip the entire contents over her, although that was out of the question. The tiny one-quart canteen was their sole supply of fresh water, and who knew how long it was going to have to sustain them?

Luke appeared beside her and silently threw his four orange life vests to the ground with his camera bag. His sunglasses were back on his face, hiding the resentment she knew was there in the aftermath of their little skirmish. Noting the canteen, he put out his hand to ask for it.

For half a second she seriously considered not sharing. After all, this mess was his fault and these were her survival rations—let him find his own. Surrendering that impulse, she gave him the water and settled for tousling one of Fizz's ears as the dog sat down, panting. After dousing the fire in his throat, Luke handed back the canteen and Micki cupped a handful of water for Fizz to lap.

"How far do you think that is?" Luke asked, nodding at the neighboring island.

Raising her free hand to shade her eyes, she looked out across the aquamarine ocean before answering. "A mile, maybe two. Hard to say." Her lips twitched in amusement at the streaks the swamp water had left as it dried along his chest and shoulders. "One heck of a swim."

Peeling off his sunglasses, Luke grunted in what Micki thought was wry acknowledgement. Then, with little warning, it seemed to transform into something much less amusing. Gaze still fixed on the ocean, he tossed his sunglasses onto the life vests. In a smooth continuation of the move that was all the more chilling for its casualness, he pulled the Beretta from the back waistband of his khaki shorts.

Time seemed to slow for Micki as foreboding slipped its icy fingers around her throat. She hardly noticed her dog move away, or that she had dropped the capped canteen. She didn't know this man, this stranger with the gun. What had she been thinking to provoke him the way she had for the sake of her own stupid ego? God alone knew what he was capable of, or what he was mixed up in to have people wanting to kill him.

Worst of all was the acute realization that there was absolutely no one out there in that vast expanse of sun and sea to come to her rescue if he...
if
he...

Luke Hardigan stood over her in the heat of the Florida sun, with his gun in his hand and his dark eyes hidden by shadow.

"Moment of truth, beautiful," he said with a chilling detachment that seemed to confirm her worst fears. "Take off your clothes."

Luke watched Micki's tough-as-nails image disintegrate, leaving a terrified look in her blue eyes that was as clear as the azure water around them. Mystified by the reaction, he scowled as she began a slow, wary rise to her feet. What was her problem?

Her gaze flicked nervously to the Beretta in his hand, tipping him off. Is that what she thought? That he was the sort of guy who would threaten her with a gun to get his way?

"I just meant," Luke snapped, lowering the gun to a less intimidating position, "that now is the time to take that swim."

Breaking eye contact, he continued his interrupted task of putting the Navy issue weapon in his camera bag. Let her figure out the rest of it on her own; he wasn't in the mood to sweet talk her through the misunderstanding. After checking that the safety was still on, he wrapped the Beretta in his purple shirt for safekeeping and put it in his bag. She deserved a little cold-shoulder treatment anyway, after those shenanigans in the swamp. He was furious with her—at least he should be furious with her. So why was it, he asked himself with a mental growl, that the only thing he wanted to do was kiss her again?

Angered by the idea, Luke vigorously zipped his camera bag shut. Straightening, he met Micki's uncertain gaze with what he hoped was a composed look. In case she was reading more into it than he wanted, he went on the offensive.

"Don't tell me you're scared of water?"

"No, I'm not scared of water." Her chin came up in a look of defiance he was beginning to know well. "I'm not scared of anything."

Yeah, right, like she hadn't been scared thirty seconds ago either. But that wasn't really fair, and his conscience kicked him for having unintentionally frightened her.

"Whatever," he said. "Let's get this show on the road before we have an audience." With no further discussion, he unfastened the waist button on his khaki cargo shorts.

Micki's gaze dropped to watch his hands as he unzipped them. "What are you... doing?"

She blushed, and Luke suppressed a grin. Payback time.

"Getting ready to swim to that island," he explained, pushing off his shorts. Part of him devilishly enjoyed the way her eyes were glued to his every move, while another part of him just longed to disappoint her. He had been planning to charter Tim Lewis' boat that afternoon for a little scuba diving, and had worn his bathing suit under his clothes.

Micki's expression changed perceptively as she acknowledged that fact. Tearing her gaze from his black, hip-hugging, square-leg swim shorts, she looked up.

Luke, who could see a protest coming, spoke first. "I know it looks a long way to that island, but we can make it."

Squatting, he tucked his swamp-wet shorts through the strap on his camera bag and slipped his gold watch from his wrist to put in the side pocket. The Rolex was a worthless fake, but what the hell. Ignoring his silent companion, he set about tethering the four life vests together so they would have some sort of flotation to hang onto during the crossing.

"Micki, come on," he added, noting she still hadn't moved. "Take your clothes off."

"No way." She folded her arms and struck a pose that looked like it had its foundations in Jacinto Family Granite.

"Look, you've got to know how hard it is to swim fully clothed." Busy constructing his raft, he waved an absent hand at her. "Especially in jeans and boots."

"The boots, okay. But the jeans stay on."

Looking up, Luke threw her a cocky grin. "I never thought you'd turn out to be so modest."

"I'm not modest. I just didn't have the foresight to wear swimming togs under my clothes this morning. Funny enough, I didn't think I'd need them
in the air
."

Luke turned his attention back to what he was doing. "Bra and panties will be easier." He chuckled. "Besides I bet you don't have anything I haven't seen before."

"Oh, I'm sure you've seen it all, Hardigan. Many, many, many times."

Standing, Luke looked over at the dog. "Maybe Fizz should stay here."

"Maybe we all should."

"This island isn't big enough for us to outmaneuver them for much longer. They won't be expecting us to swim to another one... so that's exactly what we do."

"You seem to have a pretty good handle on these guys," Micki said suspiciously. "How do I know you're not one of them? How do I know this isn't all some elaborate ruse, or that you're not leading me into a trap right now?"

He snorted. "How do I know you told me the truth about that emergency transmitter thing? For all I know, it's really a homing beacon. Maybe you activated it behind my back and your friends are surrounding us as we speak."

"You don't trust me? Fine!" She set off toward the trees. "The feeling's mutual."

Luke straightened. Where was she going?

After three steps, she stopped and drilled him with a ferocious glare. "Turn around."

"What?" Luke packed all the incredulity he could manage into that single word.

"Are you deaf or just dense?" Micki parked her fists on her hips in a way he found both amusing and infuriating. "Turn around and offer me at least a little privacy."

Privacy. Realizing that he was staring, Luke made a show of turning his back. There were men with guns closing on their tails, and all she was worried about was showing some skin!

"Fine," he echoed, kneeling to resume work on the raft. "Just don't take all day. We're working on a deadline here."

Mumbling something that was mercifully unintelligible, Micki spun in a way that sent a shower of sand at him, and headed toward the relative cover of the mangrove trees.

Gazing after her, Fizz sank to his belly beside the life vests. Resting his head on his front paws, he rolled his eyes Luke's way and sighed softly.

"My feelings exactly, fella," Luke grumbled. "My feelings exactly."

***

Luke's makeshift raft actually worked. Tied together, the four life vests provided enough flotation to keep the camera bag and backpack more or less above the water, and a handhold on the long swim. Micki only had to stop once, hanging onto the makeshift raft for a short rest. She claimed she was ready to go again even before Luke felt compelled to suggest it. In the open water they were sitting ducks, and he had an itchy, vulnerable sensation between his shoulder blades the whole distance.

Even hardened by Navy training, Luke was fatigued by the swim, and the feel of sand beneath his feet was a welcomed relief. Winded, he found a foothold and, shoving their raft ahead of them, reached out to help Micki the last few yards.

His arm closed about her waist and she staggered against him. For an instant, the way her body pressed against his side—warm, curved, and clad only in her clinging t-shirt and hipster panties—sent a bolt of desire through him. The moment ended when she stiff-armed him away in a tenacious streak of plain old bullheadedness.

"What—do you think—you're doing—Yank?" The question came in winded gasps as she bent over in the shallows pulling for breath, but tempered with Jacinto fire all the same.

Helping you.
The words nearly came out of his mouth, but since he didn't have the energy to deal with the fallout they would cause, he settled for ignoring her. Catching Fizz's collar as the dog attempted to move past him onto the beach, Luke fought for breath to speak. His lungs felt like they were on fire.

"Not here," he said. He nodded down the water line to where the natural curve of the beach took it around a small peninsula; a place protected from the view of anyone following their crossing. Having made it this far, they didn't need to announce themselves by leaving exiting footprints in the sand. "There."

Suddenly, further down the shoreline beyond their line of sight, came the sound of an approaching speedboat. It was a safe bet that it wasn't the Coast Guard, and the itch between Luke's shoulder blades escalated to a full-grown fire. They were going to be caught unless they found immediate cover. Letting go of the dog, he grabbed the backpack and the camera bag before Micki could argue, and thrust the life vests into her hands.

Indicating the water-lapped sand that would hide their route, he nodded toward the peninsula. "Run!"

The look Micki shot him was far more eloquent than anything she could have said. She moved forward all the same, hauling with her the orange life vests that would give them away if they were abandoned there.

Leading the way, Luke plunged through the water that reached halfway up his calves and made moving difficult. The sound of the boat engine drew ever closer behind them, and he grimly increased his pace. They had to make the peninsula or all their struggles would be in vain. Fizz kept up well, bounding through the shallow water, but Micki was lagging dangerously behind. Reaching back to her, Luke meant to offer assistance, but was instead met with a hiss that said quite clearly what she did not have the breath to say in words, and a stinging swat at his arm.

Gritting his teeth, he cursed the luck that he was too loaded down with the bags to bodily pick her up and carry her. Not, he had to admit, with the noise of their frenzied splashing and the approaching outboard loud in his ears, that he had much more strength left than her. Staggering onto the beach at last, just past the sharp curve that would keep them from being seen, he was aware of Fizz and Micki following. Sprinting across the ground coral in wide strides to leave the minimum of tracks, Luke dove for the cover of the ever-present mangrove trees.

Mercifully, there was a slight depression just beyond the tree line, and he dropped into it and rolled to his belly. As he shoved the things he carried away from him, further into the brush, the sound of the boat became a full-throated roar. It was coming up on them too fast.