Mitch looked all the way down to her toes and back up again to her eyes.

Normally Kinsey didn’t give a flip what other people thought of her looks, but she wanted to meet with Mitch’s approval. Silence stretched out between them as he devoured her.

He moved so fast she hardly had time to jump. But all of a sudden he loomed before her, blacker than the night and more dangerous than sin. His hands were on her, climbing up her back, drawing her against him.

His gaze dropped to her mouth, then lifted back to her eyes. He murmured, his voice a low, tight rumble.

“I’m going to spend the entire evening imagining ripping that dress off you, throwing you down and making love to you until you scream.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Cindy Dees started flying aeroplanes while sitting in her dad’s lap at the age of three and got a pilot’s licence before she got a driver’s licence. At age fifteen, she dropped out of school and left the horse farm in Michigan where she grew up to attend the University of Michigan.

After earning a degree in Russian and East European studies, she joined the US Air Force and became the youngest female pilot in the history of the Air Force. She flew supersonic jets, VIP airlift and the “C-5” Galaxy, the world’s largest plane. She also worked part-time gathering intelligence. During her military career, she travelled to forty countries on five continents, was detained by the KGB and East German secret police, got shot at, flew in the first Gulf War, met her husband and amassed a lifetime’s worth of war stories.

Her hobbies include professional Middle Eastern dancing, Japanese gardening and medieval reenacting. She started writing on a one-dollar bet with her mother and was thrilled to win that bet with the publication of her first book in 2001. She loves to hear from readers and can be contacted at www.cindydees.com.

Dear Reader,

Welcome to the H.O.T. WATCH! I’m so excited to get to share this new series with you! Over my years of working with and writing about Special Forces operatives, I’ve always been fascinated by their real-life, yet nearly superhuman, qualities. And now you and I get to really explore that aspect of these amazing warriors.

As I sat down to plan this series, I asked myself, how am I going to do justice to this elite group of operatives? First I decided to give them a cool hideout full of high-tech gadgets. Then I had to give them some seriously evil bad guys to battle. After all, a hero is only as awe-inspiring as the villain he defeats.

Of course, I had to throw in plenty of steamy tropical islands, sultry nights, pounding surf and glistening muscles. Add a heaping helping of sex appeal, and we have a recipe for plenty of yummy fun. So get out your beach towel and suntan lotion and pour yourself a tall, cool drink. Then prepare to be swept away by the supermen and women of H.O.T. WATCH!

All my best,

Cindy

Taken By the Spy

CINDY DEES

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is for my real-life superhero friends

whose names I cannot print. You know who you

are. And may I just say, you ROCK!

For mum and mother-in-law, who in their

courageous battles with cancer have taught

me that life’s short, live hard.

Chapter 1

Smoking gun in hand, Mitch Perovski crouched over the crumpled form of the dead man and swore. One by one, droplets of blood plopped onto the boat’s deck in the charged silence. Glancing furtively around him for watching eyes, he crouched even lower and pulled out his cell phone.

“Go ahead,” a male voice said at the other end.

“Lancer here,” he muttered. “I’ve got a problem. My Plan B is dead, I’m caught out in the open at a damned marina, and I’ve got two, possibly three, gunmen on my tail. I need you guys to pull a rabbit out of your hats and get me the hell out of here.”

“We’ve got you on the satellite map in a marina near the south end of Tortola. The boss man says to stay put for a minute if you can. Meanwhile, say your status.”

For a moment, Mitch allowed himself to register the daggers of pain shooting from his left shoulder. Bad idea. He gritted his teeth, forced the agony back into a mental drawer, and slammed it shut. No time for that, yet. “I’m shot,” he ground out. “My left shoulder. I think the bullet passed through but I haven’t had time to stop and take a look. I’m low on ammo and way exposed on this freaking dock.”

“Are you bleeding?” the combat controller asked sharply.

“Hell, yes, I’m bleeding. I just took a bullet.”

“Apply pressure to the entrance and exit wounds with a clean pad, and hold it until the bleeding stops.”

“Gee, thanks, Doctor Kildaire. I had no idea what to do,” Mitch retorted dryly. All the guys in the H.O.T. Watch were qualified EMTs.

“Standard procedure to brief operatives on proper first aid when a wound is reported,” the controller replied, equally as dry. “That way when you die, your family can’t sue us over your sorry ass.”

Mitch snorted. He hadn’t spoken to any member of the Perovski clan in close to ten years and didn’t plan on doing so for at least another ten. The seconds ticked by at half speed while he scanned the area for signs of his pursuers. They weren’t showing themselves at the moment, but he didn’t doubt for an instant that they were out there, waiting. Seconds turned into minutes, and he wondered how much longer his pursuers would sit tight. Eventually, they would run out of patience and come after him. He was dead meat if they caught him out here like this.

A new, deeper voice finally came on the line. “Lancer, this is White Horse.” His temporary boss. Navy Commander Brady Hathaway. “I’ve got a Plan C for you. About a half mile down the beach, Congressman Dick Hollingsworth has a vacation home. He has a fast boat, and I just got off the horn with him. He’s given you permission to use it. The spare ignition key is taped to the back of a painting of a clipper ship in the below-deck cabin. You’ll have to break into the cabin, though. I told him we’ll repair any damage you do to the door.”

A half mile? Damn, that sounded like a long way right now. “What does the boat look like?” Mitch bit out.

“It’s a thirty-eight foot cigarette. And—” was that a wince he heard in Lancer’s voice? His boss continued “—it’s pink. Named Baby Doll. But it goes like a bat outta hell, apparently.”

“It had better,” Mitch growled. “If I die in a pink boat, I’m going to haunt you. And I won’t be a nice ghost.”

White Horse laughed shortly. “Call us when you’re safe. And take care of that shoulder when you get a chance.”

“Will do.” Mitch tucked the cell phone in his pocket and briefly considered swimming for the pink boat. But his shoulder was throbbing like hell, and the idea of adding the burn of salt in the wound was more than even his pain tolerance would stand. He eased down the dock, staying low. If his luck held, he could sneak into that fringe of palmettos and bushes up the beach, and then make his way to the pink Plan C.

If his luck held.

Just another lousy day in paradise. Kinsey sighed and sat up. She’d spent the entire afternoon napping on the cigarette boat’s sleek hull, which rocked gently beneath her as the waves rolled in. A strip of white sand beach stretched away in both directions, fringed by rustling palm trees and kissed by turquoise seas so blue they almost hurt to look at.

As dull as it was down here, it was still better than being laughed at. Laughed at! Her. The darling of Newport society. She’d fled rather than face the cruel scorn of the country club crowd and those who called themselves her friends. In a few months, when the scandal had been eclipsed by some new sensation, maybe she’d think about going home. But until then, she was hunkering down here at her father’s beach house. Okay, she’d admit it, she was hiding.

The sun was beginning to dip toward the horizon. Not quite sunset, but the day’s quality tanning time was over. She didn’t feel like going inside yet, though. Maybe a spin in the Baby Doll would clear her head. She pulled a T-shirt on over her skimpy bikini and, jumping over to the pier, cast off the forward mooring line. She strolled down the dock to cast off the aft line.

A rapid, slapping sound made Kinsey look over her shoulder sharply. Feet striking the dock. Urgent. Staccato. Running full out. Nobody ran around here. It was too hot and humid in this tropical climate—too damned languid—for anything so strenuous.

A tall man was charging down the long pier straight at her. Dark hair. Broad shoulders. Black clothes from head to foot. Bulky black duffel bag slung over his right shoulder. As mesmerizing—and lethal—as a panther charging on the attack. He never even slowed as he twisted to look behind him. She glanced in the direction of his gaze. Two more men were coming on the run…brandishing guns.

She leaped into the boat’s open cockpit, searching frantically for the keys. Where in heck had she put them? There they were. In a cup holder. She dived for them, prayed she’d grabbed the right key, and jabbed it at the ignition. Missed! She tried again.

Four thuds in quick succession made her duck instinctively. What was that noise? Whatever it was, it sounded bad.

The Baby Doll’s three Merc 700 horsepower motors turned over with a single smooth rumble. The man with the duffel bag was almost on her. She threw the engines into gear and yanked hard on the steering wheel. The boat pivoted around practically in place, the rear hull digging deep into the water.

As the Baby Doll exploded away from the dock, a dark shape went airborne, crashing onto the boat’s deck behind her. Kinsey jerked violently. The guy in black. She started to throttle back.

“Go!” he shouted from where he sprawled. She hesitated, and he shouted, “Hit it, lady! You and I are both dead if they catch us!”

Wha—? She slammed the throttles forward while her brain hitched and stumbled, tripping over itself. Dead? Both of them? What had she done to merit getting killed? The boat shot forward like a thoroughbred bursting out of the chute, slamming her back into the pilot’s form-fitting leather seat. In the time it took Kinsey to jerk in a startled breath and release it, the Baby Doll had accelerated to nearly seventy miles per hour.

Kinsey risked a glance at the man crawling into the seat beside her. His hair was black-coffee brown, his skin bronze—by sun or genetics, she couldn’t tell. He looked Italian in an elegant, lounge-around-a-Tuscan villa way. He righted himself and commenced fishing in his duffel bag. His left sleeve was ripped at the shoulder seam and—holy cow—blood gleaned wetly over the tear.

“Who are you?” she shouted over the roar of the engines. She sincerely hoped this man was the good guy in that little chase scene back at the dock; otherwise, she could be in a world of hurt, alone and on the open ocean with a potentially violent man. Heck, even if he was the good guy, she could very well be in deep trouble.

He looked over at her. Their gazes locked and time stopped for an instant, the power of that split second staggering. His eyes were amber. As gold as the sunset beginning to form in the west and positively hypnotic. Was he the cop or the robber? No telling by his dangerous good looks. A distant roar behind them sounded like an angry lion.

“Here they come.” His voice was raspy from exertion and sent an involuntary shiver down her spine.

She glanced back toward shore. A boat was just pulling away from the next dock over, another long, sleek cigarette.

“Who are they?” she shouted.

He stared grimly over her shoulder at the cigarette roaring toward them. His reply was succinct. “Hired killers.”

Terror rushed over her; cold certainty that death was very near. Her legs abruptly felt unbearably restless and she restrained an impulse to jump up and run away.

“Can we outrun them?” he asked.

She took a closer look at the boat pursuing them. A forty-three or forty-four foot Super Vee. “Nope. This boat tops out around eighty-five miles per hour. That one will push a hundred.”

His metallic gaze swung back to her. It was cold. Utterly devoid of emotion. And that scared her worst of all. There wasn’t any question of not doing exactly what he told her.

“Then we’ll stand and fight.”

The link between reality and the nightmare unfolding around her stretched. Broke. Fight? The synapses between her conscious thoughts and having any idea what to do next shut down. Completely.

“How good a driver are you?” he demanded, yanking her back from the void.

She answered without even thinking. She’d been around water and boats since she was born. “Very good.”

“Can you get me close enough to that boat to shoot at it?”

“Get close? Intentionally?” she squeaked.

“Yes. So I can shoot them,” he repeated impatiently.

Shoot? As in guns and bullets? Was she about to die? The thought gave a terrible clarity to every breath, every sound. Her hands gripped the contoured steering wheel until they ached.

“Damn,” her passenger muttered. “He’s got an angle on us.”

If she could’ve forced words past the panic paralyzing her throat, she might have asked who “he” was and why having an angle sounded bad. But then her passenger reached into the duffel at his feet and pulled out a short, thick machine gun. Oh. My. God.

“Turn right!” he ordered tersely.

Kinsey yanked the wheel, and the nimble boat whipped around so hard it made her neck hurt. The Baby Doll slashed across the path of the black cigarette at nearly a right angle.

A flash of light exploded beside her. A burst of rattling, deafening sound. Her passenger had fired his gun at the other boat! As the other vessel passed behind them, he whirled and fired again.

“Bring us around for another pass!” he shouted. “Keep our nose or tail pointed at him and don’t give him our broadside if you can help it.”

Abjectly grateful for something to think about besides dying, her panicked brain kicked into overdrive. The sailor in her latched on to the problem his instructions posed. His orders were easier said than done. And frankly, she’d rather have the bastards shooting toward her pointed prow and the compact living quarters inside it than at her stern where the engines…and gas tanks…were housed.

The black boat slowed abruptly and turned hard to face them. Its engines roared a challenge. Coming in for a head-on pass, like a knight on a black charger. She dared not get into a contest of straight runs against the larger, faster boat. It would eat them alive. She had to keep them both going in circles. Use her more agile boat and tighter turn radius to her advantage. Keep speed out of the mix altogether.

The other boat accelerated. Coming straight at them. Her passenger grabbed the top of the short windshield to steady himself and his weapon.

“Don’t get comfortable,” she called. “I’m going to turn hard right just in front of him and you’ll get a better shot to your left. We’re going to send up a hell of a wake and it’s going to rock him violently, so time your shots accordingly.”

He spared her a startled glance. Then he grinned at her, a fleeting expression that passed across his face almost too fast to see. But she caught the flash of white, the sexy lift of the corner of his mouth. His eyes briefly glowed whiskey-warm—and then the smile was gone. He was gone. With a bunch and spring of powerful thighs, he’d leaped aft to crouch behind the seats.

The distance between the two boats closed shockingly fast. She made out the face of the other boat’s driver, a swarthy man with death in his eyes. A second man stood up in the passenger’s seat, brandishing some sort of machine gun over the windshield.

He wasn’t looking at her, though. He was searching the deck of her vessel for her passenger. The black boat’s engines roared even louder. Obviously the other driver expected to make a straight, high-speed pass and let the gunmen duke it out.

Wrongo, buckwheat. Just a few more seconds… almost…there! She yanked off the throttles and whipped the steering wheel over to the right, standing the Baby Doll up practically on her starboard side. As the port propeller came back down in the water, Kinsey jammed in the power. The boat leaped forward, up and over its own wake. Her prow slammed down and stabilized, giving her passenger a great look at the black boat.

Clearly stunned by her maneuver, the other driver slammed his throttles back and jerked right to avoid a collision. They’d have never hit…the Baby Doll had cut across his path too fast. But the guy’s sharp turn combined with her wake hitting him full broadside rocked the big cigarette violently.

The other gunman staggered, grabbing for his windshield and hanging on desperately to avoid getting dumped out of the boat altogether.

“Now!” she screamed.

Her companion popped up, firing hard and fast. The crackling sound of bullets ripping into fiberglass peppered the air. The other gunman lurched left to face them…just in time to clutch at his chest and topple over into the water. Swear to God, it looked like a stunt straight out of a Hollywood movie. Except that rapidly spreading scarlet in the water was no movie prop.

And then the Baby Doll danced away, arcing away behind the black cigarette. The other driver craned his neck around, trying to keep her in visual range. His engines roared and the chase was on again. The guy tried to cut off the angle of her curve and come straight at her again, but she hadn’t grown up on the water for nothing. She continued turning back and forth until the black cigarette was forced into following the same turning track behind her.

“Hang on,” she warned her passenger. “We’re about to zig right and hope he zags left!” She whipped her boat into a counterturn, arcing back into the path of the other boat. It was a maneuver an old Vietnam fighter pilot had shown her once. He called it a counterturn. Whatever it was called, it was highly effective. In a matter of seconds, her prow was pointed straight at the black boat’s starboard side. Her client jumped up in the passenger seat and raked the black boat with automatic gunfire. Fist-size holes abruptly marred the sleek black hull.

“Lower!” she called. “Down by the water line!”

He didn’t acknowledge her instruction. But, he must’ve changed his aim, for immediately a new line of fissures erupted along the black hull mere inches above the water. The fiberglass cracked and shattered under the relentless spray of lead. She peeled hard left, sending up a rooster tail of water that had to have drenched the other driver. If she was lucky, the other guy’s hull should be badly compromised and starting to take on water.

“Get down!” her companion shouted.

She ducked as popping noises burst all around her. The Baby Doll shuddered as something—a whole bunch of somethings—hit her. Not good. The other gunman was firing back. Kinsey slammed the throttles forward. The Baby Doll bounded away from the spray of lead. The sound of the other boat diminished. She looked over her shoulder. The black boat wasn’t giving chase. For that matter, it looked to be riding noticeably low in the water.

She guided the Baby Doll around a rocky point and the crippled black boat disappeared from view. They raced onward for another two minutes or so, flying down the coast of Tortola, the largest of the British Virgin Islands.

“I’ve got to slow down and check out my boat soon,” she called. Although the Baby Doll didn’t handle like it was taking on water, it was a half-million-dollar piece of equipment, and it wasn’t hers. Her father would kill her if she sank his favorite toy.

“Do it,” her passenger replied.

She powered back to idle, and the sudden quiet was a shock. “Take the wheel while I have a look at the hull.”

She stepped out of the cockpit and, balancing carefully, made her way out onto the forward hull. She stretched out on her stomach and leaned over the edge of the boat to have a look at the damage. A series of dents marred the cotton-candy-pink hull, but shockingly, it didn’t look like there were any holes. Stunned, she shifted over the other side of the boat. No hull breaches there, either. Thank God.

“How’s it looking?” the man asked.

“Fine,” she replied in disbelief. She pressed to her feet and made her way back to the deck.

He offered her a hand as she stepped over the windshield. Their palms met, his large and callused and impossibly gentle. An actual tremor passed through her. And she wasn’t a trembly kind of girl, thank you very much. Wow. She hopped down, still holding his hand. He waited a millisecond too long to release her fingers. But she noticed. And her stomach did a neat flip.

She cleared her throat nervously. “None of the bullets seem to have punctured the hull. Now that I think about it, I remember hearing something about this boat having a hybrid epoxy hull that uses layers of Kevlar instead of fiberglass or carbon cloth.”

Her passenger’s eyebrows shot straight up. “A bulletproof boat?”

“Sort of.” Belatedly, caution speared through her. “Who are you? And who were those guys chasing you?”

“It doesn’t matter. For what it’s worth, my employer will pay for any damage to the boat incurred while you saved my a—” he amended, “my behind.”

“Not to worry. Anyone who can afford a boat like this can afford repairs on it.” She might have delivered that line in a supremely unconcerned manner, but she was shaking from head to foot. She’d actually been shot at! For that matter, this guy was still casually brandishing his machine gun. He’d slung it from a strap over his right shoulder, and it pointed down the length of his muscular thigh. She jerked her gaze away from his weapon nervously.

She ticked off on her fingers, “Boat chase, check. Gun battle, check. Narrow escape, check. What’s next on the agenda, Mister—?” She broke off, leaving the obvious question of his name hanging.

He hesitated just an instant too long. “Perovski. Mitch Perovski.”

“For today, at any rate?” she replied lightly.

“Something like that,” he responded, as dry as the Gobi desert.

Not much of a talker. But then, she could relate. She’d come down here to the islands in search of silence, herself. Relief from the vapid noise of humanity. “My name’s Kinsey—” she hesitated. Rather than give him her well-known last name, she substituted her middle name. “—Pierpont. Kinsey Pierpont.”

She powered the boat up to a safe and inconspicuous cruising speed, closer to twenty knots than eighty. “Where can I take you?”

He snorted. “Anywhere that’s not Tortola, or the British Virgin Islands for that matter.”

The Baby Doll carried fuel for a few hours of cruising, which would reach several nearby islands outside the British chain—not that she’d decided to take him anywhere. “Did you kill that guy?” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.

He shrugged. “A gut shot like that is usually fatal, but since we didn’t stick around to check him out, I wouldn’t call it a confirmed kill.”

He sounded so bloody calm about it. Her heart practically pounded its way out of her chest at the mere thought of that guy toppling overboard.

“What islands can we reach on our current fuel load?” the man asked, abruptly serious again. He’d gone from relaxed to full predator mode in the blink of an eye. The shift was disconcerting.

She glanced down at the fuel gauges. “Where did you have in mind?”

Another shrug. Cagey, he was. “You were the Plan C I wasn’t supposed to need. I didn’t work out the details after the part where you saved my hide. Thanks, by the way.”

“You’re welcome, I think. You are one of the good guys, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

That was it? No explanation? No identification? No reason offered for carrying around that monstrous gun and using it on someone? “And the guy you shot?”

“Definite bad guy.”

It would be far too easy to take this man at his word. She needed to believe him. Needed to believe he wouldn’t turn that gun on her with the same casual ease he had those other guys. Heck, she needed to get on the radio and call the British Coast Guard. She reached for the radio mike and jumped violently when her passenger’s hand whipped out to cover hers. His grip wasn’t painful, but was unmistakably powerful.

“What are you doing?” His voice was a low, dangerous rumble.

The sound vibrated deep in her belly, stirring part fear and part something else altogether. She replied lightly, “I’m calling in the cavalry.”

“Don’t.”

“But—”

“You don’t know what you’re involved in. Don’t call the authorities or the blood of a whole lot of good men could end up on your hands.”

“But those guys were shooting at us—”

“And we shot back.”

“You shot back.”

“I shot back. I need you to leave the police out of this for now. I can’t go into the details but you have to trust me.”

Riiight. Trust him. Not.

“I need you to promise you won’t contact the police. I don’t want to have to restrain you.”

“Restrain—”

He cut her off with a sharp slash of his hand through the air. “Promise.”

Their gazes clashed, hers defiant and his…the sun turned his a molten gold that could consume her whole and melt her down to nothing. A girl could lose herself in those eyes if she wasn’t careful. Very careful.

“Well?” he demanded. “Do we do this the easy way or the hard way?”

Chapter 2

Her gaze narrowed. Oh, how tempting it was to tell him to go to hell. But he was bigger than she was, stronger than she was, and undoubtedly meaner. Then there was his machine gun to consider. Reining in her surliness, she retorted, “I won’t call the police if you’ll put that gun away.”

He stared intently at her for a moment more, clearly weighing her honesty. Then he nodded. “Fair enough.” He pivoted with that extreme, muscular grace of his and padded to the back of the deck where his duffel still lay. She caught the wince that passed across his features.

“Are you okay?” she asked in quick concern. If those guys in the black boat came back, Mitch was her only protection.

“Yeah. It’s a flesh wound. I’ll clean it up when I know we’re safe.”

“It looks bad.”

He glanced down, surprised. “Nah, that’s a little scratch. No organs hanging out or bones showing. I’m good.”

He wasn’t good—he was hurt.

She watched cautiously as he wiped down the machine gun and stowed it in the canvas bag.

Thank God. Being in the presence of that giant weapon made her too nervous to function rationally. Not to mention, he was gorgeous enough to send her pulse into the stratosphere. Her thoughts jumped around as disjointedly as caged monkeys.

“I know your name, but who are you?” she asked more sharply than she’d intended. Panic hovered too close, waiting for the slightest opening in which to pounce.

“I’m American.”

“I can tell you’re American from your accent. But who are you?”

Silence. A frown wrinkled his brow, but he ignored her question. Or maybe chose not to answer.

How rude was that? He’d dragged her into the middle of a shoot-out, for goodness’ sake. A tiny voice in the back of her head said her anger was irrational, but the much louder voice of her fear-morphed-to-fury overruled it. “Who were those men chasing you?”

That got more reaction out of him. A full-blown shrug. Wow. Some communicator. A flinch flickered across his face, then his expression went smooth and impassive again. Except for those incredible eyes of his. They all but ate her alive.

Her insides quailing with some reaction she chose not to examine closely, she tried again. “Why were they shooting at you?”

His gaze, now tinted orange by the blossoming sunset, snapped with irritation. What did he have to be irritated about? She was the injured party here. She announced, “I want you off the boat. Now.”

“I’ll bet you do,” he purred.

He could stop sending shivers across her skin like that any time now. “I’m serious.”

He glanced around at the water on all sides with distaste. “You want me to jump overboard?”

“I was thinking more in terms of walking the plank. But I want you off the Baby Doll. I want no part of whatever it is you’re mixed up in.”

Dammit, the guy had a smile so hot it threatened to melt her righteous fury into a completely ineffectual puddle of lust. Spine, woman. Spine! Her gaze narrowed belatedly.

The humor drained from his expression, abruptly leaving it as cold as the arctic. Dread clawed her gut. Absolutely nothing radiated off him now. Not anger, not irritation, not even danger. He went absolutely, totally, completely still.

“There are sharks in these waters,” he finally muttered.

Yeah, and she was looking at the most deadly one of all. Taking a deep breath and mustering up all her courage to stare him down, she replied, “There’s no history in this area of shark attacks on humans. I don’t want any trouble. Please go. The water’s warm and it’s only about a quarter mile to shore.”

The southwestern tip of Tortola was sliding past their port side now.

He sighed and replied almost soothingly, “I’m sorry. I can’t leave you.”

“Can’t you swim?” she challenged a bit tartly.

Aggravation flashed in his gaze, and matching satisfaction surged in her. He snapped, “I swim very well, thank you. Why, I’ve swum with—” He broke off. “Look. We have a little problem. The driver of that boat got a good look at you. Too good a look.”

“And this is a problem why?”

“Because now he has to kill you.”

She huffed in disbelieving laughter. “I’ve never seen that man in my life! Why in the world would he hurt me?”

Perovski’s voice dropped into a careful, reasonable timbre. “I didn’t say hurt. I said kill. And he’d do it because he thinks you got too good a look at him.”

“I barely caught a glimpse of him what with all the bullets flying and wild driving I was doing.”

In an even gentler tone, he replied, “But he doesn’t know that. For all he knows, you could pick him out of a mug book or a lineup. He can’t afford to let you live.”

Her jaw dropped. A killer thought she could finger him? She felt a distinct urge to throw up. “Great. Why did I have to get dragged into this?”

Sounding downright apologetic now, he answered, “No one said anything about there being anyone aboard the Baby Doll. Congressman Hollingsworth said I could borrow his boat, but he didn’t say anything about you being here.”

“He doesn’t know I’m here.”

Perovski started. “Did you steal this boat?”

“Of course not! I just didn’t tell my father I was coming down to the beach house.”

“Your father?” His voice was deadly quiet.

She exhaled hard. “Yeah. My father. Richard Hollingsworth.”

He pounced immediately. “I thought you said your name was Kinsey Pierpont.”

“It is. Kinsey Pierpont Hollingsworth.”

He absorbed that one in silence. So much for anonymity on this little retreat of hers. This guy would brag to someone in a bar about running into Kinsey Hollingsworth, and someone would overhear him. Before she knew it, the local paparazzi would mob her. And any chance at hiding in peace would be blown.

“Your middle name is really Pierpont?”

He didn’t have to sound so bloody amused about it. “What’s yours?” she challenged.

“Edgar,” he admitted.

She suppressed a spurt of laughter. “And you’re giving me grief about Pierpont?”

“I’m named after my grandfather,” he said defensively.

“So am I,” she retorted.

Laughter danced in his eyes, transforming their dangerous depths to a warm, inviting amber. Belatedly, she shook herself free of their spell.

She sighed. “Since you’re the reason I’ve apparently run afoul of the guy in the boat, what do you suggest I do about it?”

He clammed up on her again. It figured. Honestly, the whole idea of some killer tracking her down and offing her was too preposterous. She faced her impromptu companion squarely and said resolutely, “Please leave.”

His shoulders bunched up in annoyance, followed by a grimace of pain, but his voice was a low, steady rumble that made her want to curl up in it. “Ma’am, I’m not kidding. That bastard’s gonna kill you.”

“He doesn’t even know who I am.”

“And two minutes on the Internet running the name of this boat or a couple quick phone calls wouldn’t produce your identity and enough information to find you and kill you? With all due respect, you’re not exactly a low-profile kind of girl.”

“Low-profile?” she repeated ominously.

He shrugged. “Yeah. Your dad’s famous, and besides, you look…rich. With that lightbulb-blond hair and those legs—” he broke off.

She got the idea. Why the sour note in his voice when he described her, though? She studied him, and he glared back inscrutably. Something primitive deep inside her rose to the challenge of this man, relishing sparring with him.

What the heck was she supposed to do now? Pretend the shooting had never happened and take the Baby Doll back to Daddy’s place? Run and hide? The pure insanity of such ruminations yanked her rudely back to reality. He was just trying to scare her. Perovski didn’t want her to toss him off the boat and was probably making up the whole business of the other shooter coming after her.

He subsided into brooding silence, staring sphinxlike at the sunset’s splendor. The moods of the sky were many, and at the moment the evening was quiet. Soft. Contemplative. Streaks of peach and lavender reached toward the east, where the distant horizon was darkening into a blue nearly as deep and unfathomable as the sea around them. Night would come soon. She got the distinct feeling the man beside her was a creature of the dark. An errant desire to walk in that world flashed through her. It might be a more interesting place than the gilded media microscope she lived under.

At least he hadn’t threatened her. And his gun was put away. As armed and dangerous night stalkers went, he could’ve been worse.

St. John, one of the U.S. Virgin Islands, wasn’t far away. She could duck into Cruz Bay—the U.S. Coast Guard guys there were on the ball. If she signaled them for help, they’d nab this man and his gun and get them off her boat. And after all, she’d only promised not to call the police. She hadn’t said anything about not contacting the Coast Guard. She set course for St. John. Now all she had to do was keep this guy calm until she got there.

She glanced over at him. He slouched in the passenger seat, far too sexy for his own good. She almost missed having not been born in the good old days before AIDS and other nasty STDs, when a girl could casually jump a guy’s bones without any thought to consequences. This guy just begged to be bedded.

He leaned his head back against the leather headrest. His eyes drifted closed. For an instant, he looked utterly exhausted. She shifted weight the slightest bit, and his eyes snapped open, alert and intelligent. His gaze traveled briefly up and down the length of her. “Are you done panicking yet?”

She blinked. Retorted with light sarcasm, “Why, yes, I’m perfectly fine. Thank you for asking. Lovely weather we’re having, aren’t we?”

A rusty sound escaped him. It took her a moment to identify it. That was a laugh—from a man who apparently didn’t do it very often.

“Jeez, that was close,” he mumbled.

Keep him talking. Make a human connection with him. So he wouldn’t view her as an object to be kidnapped or killed at will. “And just what was that?”

“A hit. Or rather an attempted hit, since I’m still alive.”

“Why were they trying to kill you?”

He shrugged. “The list of people who’d like to see me dead is long and distinguished.”

“Were those old enemies or new ones?”

He shot her a speculative look. “A perceptive question. And one to which I don’t know the answer.”

Why would someone hire assassins to take this man out? What line of work was he in? “You’re not a drug dealer, are you? Because I don’t mess with drugs, regardless of what the tabloids say. And I certainly won’t run them on this boat.”

He made a wry face at her. “Trust me. My life would be a helluva lot simpler if I were a drug runner.”

“So how do you know my father?”

“I don’t.”

“And he let you borrow his boat because…”

“Because my boss asked him for a favor. And no, I’m not going to tell you who my boss is.”

“Did my father know you were running from hit men when he agreed to this favor?”

Mitch’s lips twitched. “He probably surmised as much.”

“Why?” She didn’t waste her breath asking again what he did, but the question hung heavy in the air between them. Silence stretched out while she waited for an explanation, but none was forthcoming. She probed a little more. “Surely you’re exaggerating the threat to me. I vaguely saw two men from a distance and one of them has a giant hole in his chest now. I certainly wasn’t close enough to make out their faces.”

“You saw more than you know.”

“Like what?”

“You can accurately estimate their height and weight. Identify hair color. Skin color. Give a rough description of their clothing. Of how they ran. Their shooting stances. Tell that they used handguns and a shotgun. And if you know anything about firearms, you might be able to tell the police they used large caliber, hollow-point slugs from the sounds of the shots.”

She was tempted to swear under her breath. He was right. Darn it. She’d just wanted some peace and quiet. To be left alone. Was that too much to ask for? She fiddled with the GPS navigation system, checked the coordinates for St. John, and made a course correction to point more directly at the island and its Coast Guard contingent. They’d remove this guy from her boat and her life, and then, if she was lucky, paradise would settle back down to its dull, safe and monotonous routine.

If she was lucky.

Mitch’s cell phone vibrated insistently against his hip. Again. Yeah, he bet they wanted to talk to him. In a big way. They’d probably picked up a report of a dead man in the water from Coast Guard radio scanners in Tortola. Thank God Kinsey had already been on the Baby Doll and had the boat untied and engines running. Otherwise, he’d be shark bait now instead of the Cuban killer.

Interesting female, Kinsey Hollingsworth. Very East Coast upper crust. The whole package screamed old money. Her attractiveness went way beyond good grooming and expensive packaging. She was genuinely beautiful. Her blue eyes, long blond hair and aristocratic bones were very easy on the eye. She ran to the tall side, maybe five foot eight. In good shape. Just enough curves in the right places to give a man hot sweats. Which set his teeth thoroughly on edge. He probably shouldn’t despise every leggy, gorgeous blonde he met, but damned if he could stop the reaction. Even after all these years, the gall of betrayal tasted bitter in his mouth.

At least the princess hadn’t panicked when the chips were down.

Nobody should’ve known about tonight’s meeting between him and Zaragosa. How in the hell had the Cubans found out about it? Worse, how had they found out about the meeting early enough to position assassins to disrupt it?

He didn’t like it. Not one bit. This was the sort of wrinkle that got a mission scrubbed. But he wasn’t so sure the boys upstairs would call this one off. Too much rode on it. And like it or not, he was the best man for the job. Hell, the only man for the job.

He pushed wearily to his feet. He probably ought to see to his shoulder now.

“I need somewhere dry to stow my bag,” he announced.

Kinsey replied, “Inside the cabin. There’s storage under the sofa cushions.”

She turned away to have a look at the propellers, and he took the opportunity to surreptitiously unplug the microphone from the boat’s radio. He pocketed it quickly, grabbed his bag, and headed inside.

Sure enough, the bullet had grazed the meaty part of his upper arm just below the shoulder joint. After awkwardly cleaning and bandaging the shallow wound, he fished out his cell phone. He needed to let the boys in the Bat Cave know he was alive and find out if the mission was still green-lighted after this fiasco.

The Baby Doll’s cabin was low and compact. A flat-screen TV, tufted leather upholstery, and lots of brushed chrome oozed money. Nearly as sexy and expensive as the woman up top. A tiny porthole let in a wash of red light as he dialed. The phone barely finished a single ring before it was picked up.

“White Horse, here. Go.”

Usually, Mitch worked on the civilian side of the house for Jennifer Blackfoot, the civilian agent-in-charge of the Hunter Operation Team. Casually dubbed the H.O.T. Watch. But for this mission, he’d been put under the control of her equivalent on the military side of the operation, Commander Hathaway.

Mitch replied, “Lancer here. Thought you’d like an update.”

“It’s good to hear your voice.”

Mitch snorted. “It’s good to be alive. This afternoon was a little too close for me.”

“Where are you now?”

“Sitting on the Baby Doll in the middle of the Caribbean watching the prettiest sunset you ever saw. Thanks for arranging the Plan C, by the way. Needless to say, I’m not gonna make the rendezvous at twenty hundred hours.”

“What happened?”

He had to give Hathaway credit. The guy didn’t waste time moaning and groaning when a plan went to hell. He got right to the point.

“I left the hotel early to sanitize my tail before the meeting with Zaragosa. A pair of men picked me up immediately. As soon as I made a move to shake them, they closed in and tried to off me. I ran for the emergency egress point. When I got there, the driver was dead and his boat’s engine sabotaged. You know the next bit. I headed for Hollingsworth’s boat.”

“Did you get away clean?”

“Nope. The bastards followed me. Stole a boat and came after us.”

“Us?” Hathaway asked sharply.

“Uhh, yeah. Small complication to Plan C. When I got to the Baby Doll, Hollingsworth’s daughter was already aboard her. Which worked out pretty slick, by the way. She already had the boat untied and fired up when I got there. I jumped aboard and she took off. Probably saved my life.”

“Then what?” Hathaway asked grimly.

“I exchanged fire with the hostiles while we fled.”

“How’s Hollingsworth’s daughter?”

“Not a hair on her pretty little head out of place. She’s a hell of a driver, by the way.”

Hathaway replied wryly, “I’ll be sure to pass your compliments on to the Congressman. Status of the shooters?”

“One down. Probably dead but not confirmed. The other’s still up.”

“Any idea who they were?”

“I got a half-decent look at the one who’s still alive. He’s a Cuban player. Guy by the name of Camarillo.”

Hathaway whistled between his teeth. “Camarillo’s a heavy hitter. Rumor has it he used to work directly for Fidel himself.”

Mitch retorted in mock shock, “Why, sir! Fidel was a peace-loving guy. He would never stoop to violence to gain an end.”

Hathaway laughed. “Save the politically correct bull for the media. You and I have both operated in Cuba and know exactly what the Old Man was capable of.”

“And to think, the new regime has exponentially less scruples than he had.”

Silence fell between them for a moment. Then Hathaway said, “Any idea who sent Camarillo after you? He could be freelancing these days.”

Mitch turned over the concept. Fidel Castro’s personal assassin cut loose to sell his skills and knowledge to anyone willing to pay? Nah. The regime in Cuba was smarter than that. They’d keep the guy on retainer. “He’s not freelancing. The Cuban government had to have sent Camarillo after me.”

“How did they find out about your meeting?”

Mitch sighed. Aye, and there was the rub. “How well do you know Zaragosa, sir?”

Startled silence echoed in Mitch’s ear. Finally, Hathaway answered, “I’ve never worked with him personally. Supposedly, he’s one of the CIA’s best sources in Cuba. And you’ve got to admit, we couldn’t place a mole in a much higher position if we tried.”

No kidding. Zaragosa was the Deputy Prime Minister of Cuba and widely expected to be the next Presidente of that tiny, but pesky nation.

A shadow crossed the hatch, and Mitch’s eyes narrowed. Was Kinsey eavesdropping or harmlessly moving around the deck?

He switched to rapid Spanish. Even if she spoke the tongue, she probably wouldn’t catch it at first. “Talk to me about the Congressman’s daughter, sir.”

Hathaway didn’t miss a beat. Mitch registered yet again how good it was to work with active field operators. It cut out so much red tape and bureaucratic hemming and hawing. The navy man answered evenly, “Miss Hollingsworth has had a tough year. She caught her fiancé humping her best friend a couple weeks back and dumped him. The tabloids have had a field day with it.”

That was a switch. In his experience, it was the stunning blonde who screwed around.

Hathaway continued, “Apparently the ex wasn’t appreciative of the negative media coverage. To divert attention from himself, he published a series of, uhh, explicit photos of Miss Hollingsworth on the Internet.”

Ouch. What a scumbag. Even spoiled little rich girls didn’t deserve that.

“I expect she’s looking to lie low. Blend in with the locals.”

“On a hot-pink cigarette boat with her looks?” Mitch exclaimed.

Hathaway chuckled. “Any port in a storm, my friend.”

Mitch thought fast. His job was to make contact with Zaragosa, infiltrate Cuba with identity papers the guy provided, then once in the country, spot any conspiracies against the guy, and protect Zaragosa’s back.

Of course, having now missed the meeting with Zaragosa, that plan was shot to hell. The Cuban politician was due to return to Havana later this evening and there would be no time to arrange for a second meeting. Mitch wasn’t going to get his papers today. Which meant his easy-as-pie, walk-through-the-front-door entry into Cuba was blown. Now he had to find his own way into that closed country. Illegally. Not that sneaking into Cuba posed any great challenge at the end of the day. He’d infiltrated a hell of a lot more difficult places to penetrate than Cuba in his career. But it was still a pain in the rear. Not to mention any change of plans represented a risk to the mission.

Mitch asked, “Can you guys contact Zaragosa and set up an alternate meeting with him in Cuba? Not Havana. Something on the south coast in a day or two. Maybe Cienfuegos. That’s close to Zaragosa’s old stomping grounds. He ought to be able to come up with an excuse to go there.”

“What about you? Are you gonna be able to get there and blend in with the locals?”

“I’ve spent a fair bit of time operating in that neck of the woods. I’ll be fine. Just tell Zaragosa to press on to Cuba without me and I’ll hook up with him there.”

Kinsey’s shadow passed the porthole as she did some chore outside. Probably trying to keep busy to stave off the panic he’d seen lurking at the back of her baby blues. Odd how fate had thrust this woman into his path. Not being one to look gift horses in the mouth, however, an interesting thought struck him. He could just possibly use her looks to his advantage.

Mitch said thoughtfully, “I may have an idea of how to get into Cuba fast. Can you scrounge up a catamaran for me? Something berthed close to Cuba.”

“I’ll see what I can do. I show you sailing toward the U.S. Virgin Islands right now. Is that correct?”

He glanced out the porthole. “If that means we’re heading south by southwest in the middle of a whole bunch of water, that would be correct.”

“I’ll get the gang working on a catamaran for you.”

“Not pink.”

Hathaway laughed. “Roger that.”

Mitch disconnected the call and pocketed the phone. He ducked through the hatch and squinted at the blazing wedge of red melting across the black water to their feet. It shrunk quickly to a narrow slash of red pulsing on the horizon.

Kinsey was already squinting at the fiery sunset. She commented over her shoulder, “Conditions are good to see the Green Flash tonight.”

“The Green Flash?”

“When the sun dips below the horizon, there’s an instant when its light refracts through the maximum thickness of the Earth’s atmosphere and throws off the different colors of the spectrum. Sometimes you can see a flash of green. Legend says it’s good luck to spot it.”

Her enthusiasm was contagious. And hell, he’d take any luck he could get right about now. He squinted into the last vestiges of the setting sun. For just a second, its final rays turned a brilliant emerald green. And then they winked out. “Hey! There it was!”

She smiled over at him. “I guess that means you’re gonna have good luck on this trip.” Aww, hell. The princess had dimples. They added a little-girl charm to her bombshell looks that blew him clean away. Damn, damn, damn. He hated blondes. He didn’t trust beautiful women. And he was not attracted to Kinsey Pierpont Hollingsworth!

Thankfully, his brain kicked back in before too many more seconds passed. Time to talk her into helping him. He forcibly relaxed his shoulders and shrugged, packing as much casual friendliness into his expression as he could. “For what it’s worth, I work in law enforcement. I can’t go into a lot of details, though.”

“Do you have a badge?”

He reached for his wallet. “Sort of.” He pulled out his brand, spanking-new Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms agent ID card in the name of one Mitch Perovski, and handed it to her.

She examined it carefully, looking from the picture to him a couple times. She held the ID card out to him. “Nice picture. You’re a photogenic guy.”

Unaccountably, the back of his neck heated up. Every now and then someone made a comment that pierced his current legend and went all the way to the real man. It never failed to catch him off guard.

Into the suddenly awkward silence, she asked, “What brings you to the sunny Caribbean? You’re a long way from home, sailor.”

“Cigars.”

She blinked. Frowned.

He elaborated. “Cuban cigars.” The papers Zaragosa was supposed to deliver declared him to be a tobacco importer looking for new sources of fine cigars.

“Ahh. I hear they can be lucrative.”

He shrugged. “A good box of Cohibas run six hundred bucks. If your father would like a box, I’ll send him some when I get home.”

“He doesn’t smoke,” she murmured.

The conversation lagged. He didn’t know what to talk about with a socialite like her. Finally, he said, “Thanks again for saving my life.”

“No problem.”

“I’m serious. Thank you.”

“Any time,” she mumbled, turning away to stare down at the navigation instruments.

The line of her neck arrested him. It was graceful. Slender. Sensuous. Wisps of hair curled at her nape underneath her short ponytail. What would happen if he breathed warmth across her skin just there? Would she cross her arms to rub away the goose bumps? Turn and melt into his arms? Kiss him into last week?

She’d kiss him right up to the part where she buried a knife in his back. He had places to go and things to do. A future president to protect. A few assassinations to commit along the way if he had to guess. Nothing out of the ordinary. He did not need a pampered princess like Kinsey Hollingsworth flitting around in his universe, fouling up the works and making him think thoughts he distinctly didn’t want to think. First order of business: use the pretty lady to get into Cuba.

Next order of business: get rid of her.

Chapter 3

Kinsey was almost glad when darkness settled around the two of them. The rhythmic rumble of the two remaining engines soothed her—number three was running hot, and unable to find the source of the problem, she’d shut it down. The familiar salt and seaweed scent of the ocean was strong tonight. Everything about the night was magnified by the man’s brooding presence beside her. Or maybe it was just her reaction to him heightening her senses to a near painful pitch. She registered his slightest movement, even a change in the depth of his breathing, every blink of his eyes, every shift in his wary gaze.

The black sky and blacker sea merged into a single great expanse, a beast that had swallowed them whole. Normally, she loved this magnificent solitude. But tonight her soul was turbulent, disturbed by the leashed energy of the stranger beside her.

Reluctantly, she turned on the instrument back lighting. Its red glow intruded into the sensual mystery of the dark, breaking the spell.

“Head for the nearest inhabited island at our best forward speed.”

He was back to orders and demands, this hard man. Nothing compromising or yielding about him.

She scanned the horizon and made out a faint black hump in the distance, a few lights twinkling along its spine. “There’s the north coast of St. Thomas now,” she replied.

“Find us somewhere to put ashore where we can hide this garish boat. Whatever possessed your father to paint it peppermint-pink, anyway?”

Kinsey rolled her eyes. “The trophy wife.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My father traded in my mother when she hit fifty for a new model. Giselle is twenty-eight now.”

“Isn’t that about how old you are?”

“Yeah. How creepy is that? But hey, she’s gotten three Vogue covers and looks great on television.”

Mitch sounded almost bitter when he commented, “I learned a long time ago not to put any stock in a woman’s looks.”

Wow. Definite raw nerve there. She changed the subject quickly. “If you want to hide this monster, we’ll need to get her under a roof. There’s a big marina near Frenchtown with some covered slips, but it’s right by where the cruise ships come in. People crawl all over that area. Maybe something private…” She ran through the list of who she knew on the island. “I’ve got it. A sorority sister of mine and her husband have a place in Magen’s Bay. And I think they have a boathouse.”

A cynical look passed across his features. “Of course they do.”

What was his problem? She shrugged and pointed the Baby Doll toward Magen’s Bay. Only about half the estates lining its very exclusive, very private shores were lit tonight. Summer wasn’t prime season for Caribbean vacation homes. She had a little trouble finding the right mansion, but eventually spotted it high above the water. Its windows were dark.

“Looks like nobody’s home,” she commented.

“Think they’ll mind if we help ourselves to the boathouse?” Mitch murmured.

“No. We go way back. They’ll understand.”

“How do you know these people’s boathouse will have an empty slip?”

She shrugged. “They always move their yacht up to Hyannis for the summer.”

“Right. Hyannis.”

She glanced over at him. “Look, I can’t help it if I know some rich people. Mitzi and her husband are actually very nice.”

“It’s not the rich part I object to. It’s the spoiled part.”

She cut the engine and let the Baby Doll drift toward the boathouse. “Are you calling me spoiled?”

“If the shoe fits.”

“The shoe does not fit. I can’t help being born into a wealthy family.” He was doing the same thing everyone else did. They took one look at her, labeled her a spoiled little rich girl and completely wrote her off as a waste of oxygen on the planet. What was it going to take for someone to take her seriously?

Gritting her teeth in frustration, she guided the Baby Doll to the dock and Mitch jumped ashore. He made his way to the locked boathouse doors and did something to them that didn’t take more than a few seconds. And then they swung open. She eased the Baby Doll into the empty slip and tossed him a line. While he tied off the prow, she shut down the engines and tied off the aft line.

In the abrupt silence inside the barnlike structure, a thick blanket of darkness wrapped around them, as warm and sultry as the night without.

“What jobs have you ever held?” he challenged.

Still grinding that axe, was he? “I graduated with honors in English from Vassar and was an intern in my father’s law firm. And I was a darned good one, too.”

He shook his head, a sharp movement in the dark. “Not a paying job, and you were working for daddy. Nobody was going to bust your chops or fire you from that place. Name me one real job you’ve ever had.”

She huffed in irritation.

“I rest my case,” he stated archly.

Annoyed, she replied, “How many charity balls for thousands of guests have you organized from scratch? How many millions of dollars have you raised for worthy causes and given away? How many scholarships have you interviewed a hundred people for and then granted? How many press conferences have you endured? How many political campaigns have you spent a year working on around the clock, road tripping and stumping and getting by on two and three hours of sleep a night for months on end?”

He threw up his hands in mock surrender. “All right, all right. So you don’t sit around on daddy’s fancy boat every day working on your perfect tan.” But he still didn’t sound convinced.

She wasn’t quite sure why, but it was tremendously important to her that this supremely competent man perceive her as being able to do something worthwhile. Maybe she was sick of being compared to tabloid princesses. Or maybe it was because she’d felt so helpless in the face of being shot at. He, on the other hand, had taken action. He shot back. He took out his enemies. And she…she splashed some water at them with her cute pink boat.

Chad slept with her best friend and then posted those damned pictures of her on the Internet when she dared to be mad about him sleeping with her maid of honor two weeks before their wedding. And all she’d managed to do was tuck her tail and run away. She wished she had a gun like Mitch’s. She’d have blown off both their heads with it. Okay. Maybe not shot them. But she’d have scared them both to death. But no. She’d been as weak and spineless, as useless, as Mitch thought she was. Her face burned with the humiliation of it all.

She was useful, dammit! Just because her entire family and everyone she knew thought she was supposed to spend her life doing nothing more than being attractive fluff to decorate the arm of some powerful successful man, didn’t mean it was true.

She finished buttoning up the Baby Doll for the night, her movements a little too jerky. Mitch prowled a circuit around both the outside and inside of the boathouse and finally came to a halt beside the boat. His gaze was black. Inscrutable in the near-total darkness.

“Now what?” she grumbled, still miffed.

“Now I make a phone call. And we sit tight until the cavalry comes for us.”

She watched as he pulled out his cell phone.

“It’s me,” he muttered into it. “St. Thomas. In a boathouse at some private estate on Magen’s Bay. Heh, swanky doesn’t quite cover it. Any luck on a catamaran?”

A short pause while he listened to whomever he was talking with. She could swear his eyes glowed in the dark, gold and dangerous. It must be a trick of the faint moonlight creeping in through the boathouse windows, but the effect was eerie.

Without warning, his gaze speared into her, pinning her in place. “I’m telling you, she can do it. She’s perfect for it.” A short pause. “Yes, I know the risks. And yes, I’m sure.”

He sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as the person on the other end of the line about whatever they were talking about.

“Okay. Call me back.” He disconnected.

Not long on words, her pantherlike companion. When he didn’t say anything to her after he pocketed the phone, she said, “And?”

“And we stay here while my people set up transportation for us.”

“To where?”

He didn’t answer right away. In fact, he almost looked hesitant to tell her. How bad could it be? He’d need to take her someplace secluded, far away from Cuba where the killer wouldn’t think to look for her. Maybe Europe. It was nice there at this time of year.

“How do you feel about big game hunting?” he asked.

“Africa?” she blurted, surprised, “It’s awfully hot there at this time of year. But I suppose I’m up for a safari. As long as we don’t shoot anything. But I could go for some big game photography.” Now that she thought about it, she could see where he’d feel at home on the Dark Continent.

“Not Africa,” he bit out.

“Then where?”

Finally, he said reluctantly, “Cuba.”

“What?” she squawked. “But that’s where your assassin is from.”

“That’s correct. It’ll just be for a few days. Long enough for me to find our guy and neutralize him. His name’s Camarillo, by the way.”

“We need to stay away from him. He’ll try to kill us again!”

“That’s why we’re going to hunt him down and eliminate him before he gets us. Ops thinks it would be safer to go on the offensive and not sit back and wait for him to come to us.”

Shock rendered her speechless. They were going hunting for their would-be killer? She burst out, “That’s the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard of.”

He snorted without humor. “Wait till you get a load of the next part, where you act as my cover to smuggle me into Cuba.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“Can you handle a sailboat as well as you handle a motorboat?”

“Well, yes.” She frowned. “How did you know that?”

He made a noise that might pass in some circles for a laugh. “Tortola? Hyannis? Magen’s Bay? You grew up on water. And where there are rich people and water, there are sailboats.”

“I happen to prefer motorboats,” she replied a little stiffly. She hated fitting his stereotype of her, but she had, in fact, grown up around boats of all kinds.

Mitch’s voice rasped across her skin like a cat’s rough tongue, drawing her attention once more. “I need you to sail a wounded catamaran into port on the south side of Cuba and request repairs. They’ll let you come ashore in an emergency. I’m going to hide in one of the pontoons. Once you’ve docked, I’ll sneak out and we’ll head inland from there.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Not especially. If the Cubans catch us, they’ll only throw us into prison. In six months, a year tops, the U.S. government will negotiate our release. I figure with your father being who he is, the Cubans will spring us after a few weeks. At least, they’ll spring you that fast.”

“I do not want to be incarcerated in a Cuban jail, thank you very much.”

“Me, neither. That’s why you’re going to pay attention and do what I tell you to.”

“I don’t like it,” she announced.

“Neither do I. But I’ve got no time to fool around with setting up another entry into Cuba. You’re it, Miss Hollingsworth. We need to stick together anyway until I kill Camarillo. I may as well put you to some good use.”

“Gee, thanks. I always love sounding like some sort of disposable power tool.”

“You don’t throw out power tools,” he corrected gently.

She merely narrowed her eyes and glared at him. Fine. So she’d never seen a power tool in person in her life. He knew darn good and well what she had meant. She sulked for several minutes, trying to figure out some better way to get into Cuba. But she was completely out of her league on this one. She turned her attention to something that had bothered her from the very beginning. “How did Camarillo find you? Wasn’t your meeting with whoever you were supposed to meet with a secret?”

He looked roundly irritated that she dared to question his work and didn’t bother to answer.

She wasn’t about to let him go all strong and silent on her, like she didn’t matter enough to talk to. No, sirree. She got enough of that from her father. She poked again—something simple to get him talking. “How did you get those boathouse doors open?”

His teeth flashed white in the darkness. “Have you ever heard of a don’t ask, don’t tell policy? If you won’t ask, I won’t tell.”

She absorbed that one in silence. Eventually, she asked, “How long are we supposed to sit here, waiting for your phone call?”

He shrugged. “Could be all night.”

Great. All night in a dark, secluded place with this macho male. Darned if that didn’t make her heart beat a little faster. More in an attempt to distract herself than actually make conversation, she commented lightly, “I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry.”

“Gee, I’ll just call the local French gourmet delivery joint and have them bring us a seven-course meal,” he retorted.

She glared and replied loftily, “There’s food in the Baby Doll’s galley.”

He looked startled, like he’d forgotten for a moment that the Baby Doll had a compact, but completely stocked, cabin.

She ducked below and turned on the halogen track lighting. It twinkled subtly overhead, lending the space a romantic glow. She opened the small cupboard above the microwave oven. “There’s canned spaghetti or tuna fish,” she called up.

“I’ll take spaghetti.” He joined her in the tiny cabin, filling its entire space with his dark presence. He sprawled on the leather couch, a feline predator at rest. She passed him a piping hot container of spaghetti and zapped one for herself. When it was ready, she moved to the far end of the couch and perched cautiously on it. She promptly burned her tongue, but did her best not to show it. Darn, that man flustered her! She shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

“We could always break into the main house and raid the pantry,” he suggested.

“Let’s not,” Kinsey said dryly. “We’re already imposing. And these are my friends.”

His only reply was a casual shrug.

They finished their meal, such as it was, in silence. Mitch arose and held out his hand for her cup and spoon. She handed them over and he tossed them in the galley’s sink. He’d just turned to head for the steps when his cell phone shattered the deep silence. Kinsey jumped nearly as hard as he did. He fished it out of his pocket.

“Go,” he bit out.

His eyebrows drew together in a frown as he listened, and his gaze flicked over to her. Whoever was on the other end of the conversation was talking about her, she was sure of it.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Mitch rumbled. He disconnected. Turned to face her. “Seems we’ve got a little problem. Your father doesn’t want you to help us with this operation. He thinks it’ll place you in too much danger. You’re, and I quote, totally unprepared to deal with the pressures of the situation.”

Heat flooded her face. This was exactly what she was talking about! People took one look at her and assumed she wasn’t good for anything. “In other words, he thinks I can’t hack it,” she forced out.

“More or less.”

“Give me your phone,” she snapped. She held out her open palm expectantly. One eyebrow raised, he laid the device in her hand.

She stabbed out her father’s private number and waited impatiently for the call to go through. Richard Hollingsworth’s voice came on the line. “Hello?”

“Hi Dad, it’s your useless, spoiled daughter calling.”

“Honey, are you all right? They told me some guy shot at you today.”

“Oh, I’m fine. And that guy’s shark bait,” she replied breezily. “The man who saved my life today needs a favor from me, though, and I’m going to do it. I hear you’re worried, so I’m calling to tell you I’ll be fine. He says I need to stay with him and I believe him. I trust this man implicitly to keep me safe.”

Mitch’s gaze riveted on her at those words. Her embarrassed gaze skittered away from his.

“Kinsey, do you have any idea who this Perovski fellow is? I had my staff run a profile on him, and you can’t believe some of the things he’s done. Plainly put, he’s a killer. He’s a covert operator and runs around blowing things up and assassinating people for a living. You have no business being around someone like him.”

The condescension in her father’s voice set her teeth on edge. “Be that as it may, I’m going to help him with the next phase of his current mission.”

“No.”

“I wasn’t calling to ask permission, Dad. I’m telling you how it’s going to be.”

Her father’s voice rose to a bull roar. “Don’t you take that tone with me, young lady. I control your trust fund. And I forbid you to do this.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way. But I am going to do it.”

“I’ll cut you off. No money, no credit cards, no bank account. Nothing.”

Twenty minutes ago, that threat might have given her pause. But after Mitch’s scathing opinion of her utter uselessness as a human being, she’d be damned if her father would bully her out of this.

“Do what you have to, Dad, but my decision’s made. Good night.” She closed the phone and handed it back to Mitch in silence.

“What did he threaten to do to you?” Mitch asked quietly.

“He’s cutting me off financially.”

“Totally?” Mitch sounded surprised.

“Yup.”

“Man, that sucks. I can look into having the boys put you on the payroll for the duration of this op if you’d like.”

She grinned ruefully. “Thanks, but I’ll muddle through until he gets over his snit. My mother is loaded, compliments of her divorce lawyer, and she’ll slip me some cash if I empty my bank account before he gets over his snit. Besides, I can always threaten to go public with what my father’s doing to me and he’ll back off. Negative publicity is very bad for a man in his position. He’s up for reelection this November.”

Mitch winced and grinned simultaneously. “Ouch. Blackmailing your old man? That’s cold. I like it.”

She grinned back, reassured she’d made the right decision. She wanted some of the competence that was Mitch Perovski for herself. If she spent a few days with him, maybe some of that cool confidence of his would rub off on her. Goodness knew, she needed it. If he could show her how to get people to take her even a little more seriously, it would be worth all the money in her trust fund and more. She was sick and tired of being walked all over.

In fact, the more she thought about it, the more she liked the idea. If she could shed her socialite image and become a strong, independent woman…oh, yes. The idea made her tingle from head to toe. Wild horses weren’t going to keep her away from Mitch Perovski, no matter what risk that entailed.

Chapter 4

Mitch glanced around the tight confines of the Baby Doll’s cabin. The sofa no doubt folded out into a bed. One bed. Two people. He winced mentally. He could be a gentleman and offer to sleep up top, propped up in one of the chairs or stretched out on the hard deck. But this was likely to be the last decent night’s sleep he got for the next several months, and dammit, they were both adults. They could sleep in the same bed without anything untoward happening between them.

Kinsey stifled a yawn.

He said lightly, “Let’s get some shut-eye. No telling when the boys will be here to pick us up. Operations rule number one: sleep when you can.”

She nodded without protest, unlocked the sofa, and pulled it out into a bed. With her working at one end and him at the other, they made the bed with satin sheets—what else for the Baby Doll?—cashmere blankets, and fluffy eiderdown pillows.

“Where are you sleeping?” she asked, all innocence.

“Here. How about you?”

Her alarmed blue gaze snapped to his. She looked down at the inviting bed. Back up at him. “Oh.”

He shrugged, but it didn’t relieve the abrupt tension in his shoulders. “I don’t know about you, but I’m beat. And tomorrow promises to be rougher than today.” Why did he give a damn if she refused to sleep with him or not? She wasn’t some princess—which she was taking great pains to convince him of. She was just a person. Just like him.

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