White Hot (22 page)

He swallowed.
Made love.
Good old-fashioned sex was all he’d had in mind when he’d followed her into that secret room nearly fifteen hours ago. But it had turned into so much more.

Hell, no wonder she looked reluctant. It scared the crap out of him, too, this thing arcing between them like one of those detonators in his dry-bag. Neither of them needed this happening right now.

But Jesus, the feelings were too overwhelming. He was already in way over his depth, and she was the air he needed to survive this dive into the unknown.

As he gazed up at her, he hoped to hell she felt the same about him.

With all five tangos staring down over the rail—thankfully they couldn’t see her from where they stood—he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t do what he devoutly wished to do. Which was to get up there any way he could, sweep her into his arms, and kiss her until neither of them could breathe. And then make love to her until they couldn’t walk.

Her lips parted and the tip of her tongue wet them, as if she were thinking exactly the same thing.

Ho-boy.
The damn wetsuit was shrinking by the second.

Suddenly, a rope ladder came hurtling down from above and to the side, jerking them back to the present. They ripped their startled gazes from each other. Unfurling as it flew, the ladder smacked against the big ship’s hull a dozen yards aft and bounced. On the trawler, Tango One caught the bottom rung, and a chorus of orders erupted from the gang of five. Most of the men looked downright suspicious; Xing Guan looked royally pissed.

About what?

He really hoped this wasn’t about the dead guy.
Damn.
Had Tango One gone below again and found the bathroom empty? Realized the other man wasn’t on board at all and already warned the others? He’d hoped for a bit more time before all hell broke loose.

Clint tensed, willing Tango One to start climbing up the ladder. “Go on, you little prick,” he muttered under his breath.

The little prick didn’t go up. The others started to climb down. Guan came first, agile as a monkey, the rest close on his heels.

Clint gave a silent, virulent curse.
Shit.

The good news was the tangos had their backs to him. So he moved in the opposite direction, following the shadows, dodging equipment lockers, and rolled under the fish sorting table to land in a tight crouch at the edge of the gunwale.

Giving the dry-bag and dive knife quick tugs to make sure they were clipped fast, he grimaced at his ripped wetsuit and bloody arm. Yeah, this should be fun.

He grabbed the taffrail, braced himself for the icy bite of Arctic water, and dropped over the side into the sea.

For the second time today, Sam was forced to watch Clint die.

Almost
die, she told herself firmly.

Which was just as bad, she thought in despair.

Almost.

He’d moved like a shadowy apparition flowing across the deck as he made his escape in plain sight of all six hijackers. Her heart throbbed painfully in her throat, terrified for him, both hands pressed against her mouth to keep herself from crying out as he leapt into the sea and instantly disappeared under the waves.

She just stood and stared, scarcely able to believe she’d gotten him back only to lose him again.

No, she
wouldn’t
lose him. It had been a miracle the hijackers didn’t see him cross the deck, but they hadn’t.
And the ships were lashed together—he’d find a way back on board
Île de Cœur
.
Before
he froze to death in that water. He was a SEAL. This was what he did. He’d be
fine
.

She hadn’t lost him.

A joy-filled wonder flooded through her. He was
alive
!

My God! Clint was alive!

He hadn’t been shot! What had happened to the man with the gun? How had Clint escaped? Her mind buzzed with questions.

He surely must have nine lives.

Thank God.

She stepped back from the crack in the door, blinking against the inside darkness and a new onslaught of ragged emotions—fear, elation, hope, and profound relief.

But the relief was short-lived. Clint was alive, but not safe. Not yet. She wouldn’t stop worrying until he was back on
Île de Cœur
, and safely in her arms.

Blindly, she eased the heavy door shut, giving the wheel a twist to lock. She realized she was shaking. For a long moment, she closed her eyes and clung to the solid steel, battling for control. But it was no use.

She wanted to see him. To touch him. She needed to put her arms around him and hold him. Just hold him. To have solid evidence she wasn’t losing it, that the shadowy figure in black really had been Clint, not some PTSD-induced vision playing cruel tricks with her mind.

Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself firmly. She wasn’t that far gone. It was him.

And there was only one place she could think of to get back on board where the hijackers couldn’t see him: the matching bay doors on the opposite side of the ship.

She turned and started to run.

When she got to the matching port bay, she threw open the smaller door and started to lean out so she could see better. Her foot caught on something. Still in her slippery stocking feet, she lost her balance and nearly catapulted over the side. With a yelp, she grabbed the rusty frame and dragged herself back inside by her fingertips.

Her heartbeat thundered.
Good lord.
That
would have been just great. She really needed to retrieve her shoes.

She looked down for what had tripped her. A long, thin line had been made fast to a ring on the outside of the door. The end was almost touching the water. Instantly, she realized Clint must have left it there for his return trip.

Obviously, he’d done this before.

She eased out a breath to steady her nerves, hung on tight, and carefully leaned out again, scanning the waves for him. A cold breeze teased the straggling ends of her hair, and she pushed them back, shading her eyes.

The midnight sun had turned to dawn in a bright, fiery ball. It broke its kiss with the eastern horizon, sending shafts of brilliant orange and yellow streaking across the surface of the sea and breaking into glittering shards on the blue-gray waves. Between the shiny reflections and her tired eyes, it was hard to see anything at all.

She searched in a slow half circle for a sign of his black wetsuit. There was only water.

“Come on, come on,” she murmured, growing more anxious with every passing second. He should be here by now.

There!
A black dot appeared in the morning chop and then disappeared again.
Was that…?
Heck, maybe she was so tired she was seeing spots.
No!
There it was again. She had definitely not imagined the flash of black that time.

Her heartbeat sped with anticipation as she caught more glimpses of him. Why didn’t he come up to the surface? The tangos on the trawler couldn’t see him over on this side.

Maybe it was easier to swim underwater. She frowned. Okay. But why was he so far out?

The black spot surfaced once more, this time clearly visible as it glided through the water, coming toward the ship.

Her eyes bugged.

Oh, God.

It wasn’t a wetsuit hood, or a snorkel….

But a distinctively curved fin.

A shark!

Horror filled Sam to the soles of her feet. Frantically, she scoured the sea for Clint as the curved fin cut through the water, coming closer and closer.

Suddenly, it veered off at a sharp angle, sped up, and vanished into the deep—in exactly the direction Clint would be coming from.

“No,” she murmured desperately. Please, God, this could
not
be happening. “Please. Please,
please
,” she whispered over and over, white-knuckling the metal doorframe until her fingers ached.

All at once, something big and black broke the surface just below her and shot up from the water in a spout of foam. She gasped and instinctively jumped backward. The line at her feet jerked taut. Then it started to whip back and forth like a manic metronome. She jumped out of the way with a curse, but after a tense moment, decided to risk a peek over the edge.

Her heart nearly leapt from her chest.

Clint!

At least…she hoped it was Clint. The hood and mask obscured most of his face.

He was coming up fast, hand over fist, body straight, and flippered feet pushing off the hull like Spider-Man. Or maybe Waterbugman.

In places, his wetsuit carried a sheen of red. And there was an ugly gash across his forearm.
Oh, no.

But to her confusion, his lips were curved in a diabolical grin that grew wider and wider the closer he got. Within seconds, he was at her feet.

“Showed that fucker,” he said in a gravelly rumble that sent a chill down her spine. “
Damn
, I needed that.”

Her jaw dropped. Was he
crazy
? A
shark
had almost—

She didn’t have time to complete the thought. He was up and through the door, flippers and snorkel were flying, and suddenly she was in his arms. “Damn, I needed this, too,” he said. And then he was kissing her, and kissing her, and kissing her.

“Oh, Clint.” She melted into his embrace, weak with relief. “I am so glad you’re—”

“Show,” he interrupted, pushing her up against the bulkhead. “Don’t tell.” His mouth covered hers, swallowing her gasp at the icy wall of metal at her back and the frigid, wet wall of man against her front.

His tall, hard body pressed into her and his strong arms lifted her off her feet. Suddenly she was warm all over.

With a sigh of intense pleasure, she raked her fingers through his short, thick hair and held his face to hers. He smelled of the sea and tasted like the salty spray on a windy day—two of the things she loved best in the world. The man himself was rapidly climbing her top ten list, too.

She kissed him back, deep and thorough, opening her mouth and her body to him. Showing him all the feelings she’d been holding inside all day. Everything she’d regretted not telling him…and never thought she’d get the chance to. He was so right, showing was better. Much better.

He groaned at her eager response, and something hard hit the deck at his feet. His hand went to his wetsuit jacket,
and the zipper flew down as they kissed feverishly, their tongues blending and swirling.

Her fingers bumped up against the ragged rip in the thick fabric on his arm. How could she have forgotten? She pushed on his shoulders to put a sliver of space between them. “My God. You’re bleeding!” she said, blanching at the sight of his arm. “Did the shark—”

“Hell, no. It’s nothing.” He set her on her feet and yanked impatiently at the jacket. “Help me take this thing off.”

She peeled it over his shoulders, unzipped the wrists, and tugged it off his good arm. He did the other side himself and tossed the jacket away. Blood trickled down from the wound, but he didn’t seem to care.

With a masculine grunt, he pressed her back onto the bulkhead. Harder this time. His free hand dipped under her sweatshirt, leaving no doubt what was on his mind. “Now where was I?”

With a laugh, she attempted to elude him, glancing up toward the quarterdeck.

“But the hijackers—”

“Are busy on the trawler. We’ve got time.”

“But—”

“Don’t worry. We’ll hear them.”

His nails raked lightly up her ribs, erupting in trills of arousal everywhere he touched. She forgot all about her reservations and arched against him, humming with need.

He cursed at the wet, rubbery fabric between them. “Damned wetsuit,” he muttered, and shot the zipper of his Farmer John down, frowning when it got stuck just below his chest.

She took the opportunity to pull off her sweatshirt. He forgot all about the zipper.

Just as she’d intended. They might not get this chance again. She wanted to take full advantage.

He reached for her bra and found his totem bracelet hidden there, next to her heart. He touched it, and the look he gave her melted her to a warm puddle.

The wetsuit splayed open across his broad chest at the
parted zipper. “Now you,” she said, returning the look. She found the jerry-rigged ropes at his shoulders and began untying them. Or tried to. But her anxious fingers were useless.

He dropped the leather thong with her bra and ran a calloused hand over her breasts. They zinged in pleasure, and she fumbled with the knots. And fumbled some more.

Oh, why had she tied those knots so well? Tight and wet, they were impossible to unravel.

Unlike herself.

Tight and wet,
God, yes
, but she was about to come apart at the seams.

His tongue licked at her pouting lips…and teased them into parting.

She gave up on the knots and moaned in frustration. “Fuck,” she breathed into his questing mouth.

His response was instant, whispered in a gravelly, possessive rumble. “Oh, I intend to.”

Goose bumps spilled over her whole body. She believed him. Her insides clenched with exquisite arousal. Being so desired by this incredible man was the most powerful aphrodisiac imaginable.