White Hot (8 page)

She couldn’t ever remember feeling so relaxed, so replete. So at one with the world. Every cell of her body pulsed with pleasure and contentment. It felt wonderful.

“You good?” he asked in a low, contented purr.

“Amazing,” she whispered in reply. God, she never wanted to move. She wanted to stay like this, exactly like this, for the rest of her life. If she died right now, she’d die a very, very happy woman.

He eased out a deep hum. “Yeah. Me, too.”

“This was a great idea.”

“Ya think?”

They chuckled and cuddled. Such a novelty. Jim had never wanted to cuddle after sex. Or even on the couch watching TV. She wondered why. It was so nice.

She knew she shouldn’t, but she let herself drift off, dozing skin to skin in Clint’s strong arms. The gentle pitch and roll of the ship as it coursed through the waves rocked the hammock like the hand of a loving mother. The steady beat of Clint’s heart and his slow, even breathing hinted that he had already given in to sleep.

She’d stay here with him for a few more minutes. She couldn’t bear to break the blissful spell just yet. Cold reality would intrude soon enough. This was so…
Mmm.

She had no idea how long they slept. It could have been minutes or hours. It felt so comfortable. So…right.

When she finally awoke, it was to the hot, delicious push of his cock between her thighs. She didn’t open her eyes, but with a smile she opened her legs and accepted him into her body. He grunted, and the hammock shifted under her as he adjusted his position to thrust deep.

She let out a throaty moan as he scythed into her, her body already slick and ready for him. He had been a generous lover earlier, giving her several inventive climaxes to his two. His first had been at her insistence, by her tongue, the second, the last mindless, pounding monkey sex that had brought them both to a panting, roaring, simultaneous explosion of pleasure. She was frankly surprised he now had the appetite for one more for the road, but was more than happy to oblige him.

She lost herself in the hard delight of his possession. In the way he hungered for her. In the way they fit together so perfectly.

This is the way it should be with a man, always.

Too bad that wasn’t possible. Men didn’t do “always.” Men got bored and moved on. Didn’t keep their vows. Didn’t care if a good, loving woman was devastated in the process.

Just one of the many hard lessons the men in Sam’s life had taught her.

Trust issues? Yeah, you could say that.

But for right now, this was good. Clint was good.
Very
good. Besides, she wasn’t looking for forever. Or even next week. Hell, no. She would take what he gave and not ask for more. Not expect any more. She would not give him her trust. And she sure as hell would not give him her heart. She’d made that mistake once too often.

But her body she would gladly give him. For the short time they’d have together.

So she did. She gave herself. Fully, and eagerly.

He took what she offered, and offered her the same in return.
Touch. Smell. Sound. Taste.

And the sight of his profound enjoyment etched starkly on his handsome bronze face.

She cried out in a torrent of physical pleasure, riding on the thrilling edge of fulfillment, and gave herself over to the moment…and to the man.

It was good. He was good. They were good together.

For right now.

And for right now, that was all she wanted.

“We should probably get back to work,” Sam said reluctantly, after they’d recovered their breath and floated back from oblivion. “Lord knows what time it is. I’m sure it’s late.”

“You don’t wear a watch?” Clint asked, extracting his arm from the quilt.

She twisted her lips. “Yeah, but when we’re underway I leave it in my stateroom. It keeps getting caught on things when I work.” And it wasn’t like she had a busy social calendar on board to keep up with.

He made a noise in his throat and winced when he glanced at his wristwatch. “You probably don’t want to know the time anyway.”

She groaned. “That bad?” The one disadvantage of being in the bowels of the ship was no portholes to the outside. No indication of passing time. How would she ever explain her absence—their absence together—all afternoon? She just hoped they hadn’t missed supper. Their empty chairs would be like a flashing neon sign announcing their guilty assignation.

“Hopefully there’s enough time to grab a quick shower before people send out a search party,” he said.

She didn’t have the energy to worry about consequences. She felt too good. “You were reading my mind. Come with me.”

As they tipped out of the hammock and gathered up their clothes, he glanced around her hideaway. It was pretty minimalist. About all she’d done was to install her hammock and cover the floor with heavy-duty Astroturf to keep the Arctic chill and the sea damp from her feet. She didn’t need
anything else. She only came down here when she wanted to decompress.

“Does the crew know you have this clever hideaway?” he asked, probably worried they’d come knocking any minute.

She shook her head. “Nope. One of the former owners of
Île de Cœur
had a problem with thievery among the crew, so he had this room installed for a secret guard to keep an eye on the supplies. I’m the only one who knows about it.”

“That’s handy.”

She led him to a door on one side of the room and opened it to reveal a primitive bathroom, complete with an ancient, rusty shower. “There’s no water heater, but the tank is right next to the engines so it gets pretty hot.”

“Believe me, this is the lap of luxury compared to some places I’ve been,” he returned.

She cut him a glance. “Like that Chinese prison?”

He just smiled mysteriously and kissed the end of her nose. “Sorry. Classified.”

She snorted and turned on the shower. She wondered if he was really that security conscious, or just trying to intrigue her.

It was working.

“Watch out, the water can be a little nasty at first,” she warned.

Despite the increasing lateness, once it ran clear, neither could resist taking their time in the shower. As Sam smoothed her soapy hands over Clint’s body, scenarios danced in her head about how he’d acquired the scatter of scars in various sizes and shapes dotting his dusky copper skin. She didn’t bother to ask, already knowing he wouldn’t answer. She concentrated instead on the exquisite geography of his broad, muscle-ripped chest and his powerful, corded arms.

“Nice tattoos,” she said, running her fingers over the eagle clutching a navy anchor that graced his left pec, then smoothed suds over the wolf on his bicep. “Why a wolf?” she asked.

He hesitated, then said, “My clan name is Wolf Walker.”

She smiled. “Clint Wolf Walker. I like it. It suits you.”

One black brow went up. “Thanks. I think.”

She took in his features. Firm, square jaw. Sharp, high cheekbones. The midnight black hair, straight and a little short for her taste. His dark eyes had lusciously long lashes and a slight exotic tilt to them. Not the features of an Inuit, the most common native tribe in these parts.

“What nation are you?” she asked curiously.

His soapy hands were tracing the curves of her waist and hips. He paused and searched her face. Apparently deciding she was sincere, he answered, “Kind of a mix. Arapaho mostly. Some Apache and Cree. And a dash of
wasichu
of course.” He winked. “That’s Indian for ‘gringo.’”

She laughed. “And a very nice mix it is.” She pulled his face toward her for a long kiss.

“What about you?” he asked. “Who are your people?”

She was tempted to say she didn’t have any people. Because she
didn’t
have any people. Not anymore. Jim was gone, her mother had died several years ago, and her father…well, he was her father. But her family or lack of it was the last thing she wanted to talk about at the moment. “Oh, the usual Heinz 57, I expect,” she evaded. “Now, hand me that soap, Lieutenant Commander.”

His smile broadened. “Yes, ma’am.”

Long minutes later, showered and dressed, they reluctantly headed for the stairs—or ladder as most stairs were called on a ship—that would take them to the upper decks, back to the real world. He checked his watch. “Just in time for dinner,” he said ruefully.

“Be prepared for the Spanish Inquisition,” she drawled, pulling on her cap. “I suppose it’ll be useless to deny we were—”

Suddenly, a loud
rat-a-tat-tat
echoed down from the deck above, stopping them in their tracks.

“What the hell was
that
?” Suddenly, she realized it was far too quiet out there, on a broader level. “My God. The engines have stopped.”

He looked at her sharply, listened, and swore.

She took a step, preparing to launch into a sprint up the narrow stairway to the weather deck.

His firm grip on her arm yanked her to a halt. “Stop,” he ordered. His face, his entire body had changed, as though an internal switch had been flipped. He was all hard angles now, and tight muscles and frowns. Gone was the tender lover. This man was all business, and scary as hell.

“What?” she demanded, trying to pry him loose from her.

He held on like a limpet. “Slow down. You’re not going anywhere.”

“What the hell? Let me go!” She needed to find out what was happening up there.

Another report blasted through the space, sending her pulse into the stratosphere. His grip on her arm tightened even more.

“Sorry. I can’t let you do that.”

An insidious, cold fear clawed through her belly as a rapid series of horrible thoughts streaked through her mind.

What was going on?

Why wouldn’t he let go of her arm?

And worst of all…just how badly had she misjudged this man?

Was he a terrorist, after all? Sent as an advance soldier to distract the captain? And, once he’d seen the captain was a woman, to use his considerable skills at seduction to keep her occupied elsewhere…while his comrades hijacked her ship?

Because one thing was for damned certain.

The
rat-a-tat-tat
? That was the unmistakable sound of
machine gun fire
.

Sonofabitch!

Clint’s whole body went on high alert.
Automatic weapons fire?
What in God’s name was happening up there on deck?

Samantha continued to struggle against him. “Stop!” he repeated tightly, pulling her up against him to prevent her from wriggling away. “Let me listen, for godsake!” He couldn’t believe he’d missed the engines being shut off. How distracted had he
been
?

He could feel her gaze bore holes in his face. He ignored her and strained to hear something in the eerie mechanical silence, anything that would clue him in to the situation topside.

Not that there was a whole lot of doubt.

The shrill of a high-pitched scream stabbed down from above, confirming his worst fears.

Samantha jerked at him again. “That was Ginger!” she exclaimed, the pitch of her voice urgent but thankfully hushed. Drawing attention to themselves was
not
a good idea. “I need to go—”

He cut her off. “I said you’re not going anywhere.” He scanned around for a hiding place where they could hear and observe, but not be seen. “Not until I figure out what the hell is going on.”

“I think it’s fairly obvious what’s going on,” she hissed, her angry expression filled with accusation.

He did a double take. And suddenly it dawned on him exactly what she must be thinking.

“Really?” he asked, instantly furious and…yeah, and hurt. “We just fucked each other’s brains out for five hours! And you think I’m
part of this
?”

“Charming,” she said between clamped teeth, but at least had the grace to look uncomfortable. For a split second, anyway. But suspicion came roaring back over her face as he pulled her toward an open door behind the steep metal companionway stairs. “It’s a pretty damn big coincidence, don’t you think?” she continued under her breath. “You sneak aboard in the middle of the night, seduce me, and suddenly the ship is hijacked by pirates?”

“Se
duce
?” He glared at her. “As I recall,
you
were the one to suggest this little interlude.”

She sputtered. But because they both knew it was true, she had no comeback.

“Besides,” he bit out, a sizeable lance of guilt piercing through his anger, “you don’t know it’s pirates.”

Though he hoped to God it
was
pirates. The alternative was potentially far more dangerous. Pirates were motivated by greed. Greed they—he—could deal with. Political zealots and stone-cold assassination squads were far more difficult.

“Oh, right,” she said, slapping her forehead. “What was I thinking? It’s just the Coast Guard paying us a visit and firing off their guns in anticipation of the Fourth of July.”

He shoved her through the door into a dark, narrow space, and dove in after her. “You’re avoiding the issue.”

“No
you’re
avoiding the issue.” She narrowed her eyes, peering up at him in the dark. “
Are
you part of this?”