He closed his fist and lowered his hand. He’d been extremely shortsighted. Caught off guard, something that didn’t happen often. There was no feeling of macho triumph. No urge to beat his chest or tell his buddies. Just the knowledge that he’d given in to his lust for her under extremely dangerous conditions. That he’d gone too far, and if given half the chance, he’d go there again. And again.
Max sat in the shadows for half an hour before he moved back through the trees and shrubs to a point where the island curved around and was out of sight of the beach. If there was one thing Max had always trusted in himself, it was his instincts, but lately his instincts were proving unreliable. They’d failed him during his operation in Nassau, and they’d failed him where Lola was concerned, too. Or perhaps his instincts weren’t failing; maybe he just wasn’t listening.
Tepid waves rushed over the toes of his boots as he bent to pull out the fish knife. In Lola’s case, he figured the problem was the latter. He wanted her, and no matter how much he told himself that having her was likely to get him killed, he hadn’t listened.
Now that he’d been with her, he knew without a doubt it had been a mistake, and he wasn’t talking about the physical threat. Making love to Lola Carlyle wasn’t as mind-blowing as he’d figured. As lustful as a thousand different fantasies. No, it was better. More. Being with her, looking down into her face as he buried himself in her warm wet body, he’d gotten a glimpse of something bigger than lust. Something bigger than the desire pulling at his groin and urging him to plunge faster and deeper. To make her belong to him so completely, she wouldn’t know where he began and she ended. He’d gotten a glimpse of what his life could be with her, and for those few moments, he’d given in to it. He’d let it crawl into his chest, steal his breath, and block his reason.
But it was just a glimpse. A fantasy, after all. In the real world, Max wasn’t a forever kind of guy, and Lola wasn’t the kind of girl who’d settle for someone like him. A man who couldn’t guarantee he’d be around tomorrow.
Max waded into the surf and forced thoughts of Lola from his mind. She was a civilian, just like any other civilian. This was a job, like so many others he’d been given. Years of discipline allowed him to detach himself from everything but what needed to be done. Waves hit his chest as he stuck the fish knife between his teeth so he wouldn’t lose it, then he kicked out and swam. Just the top of his head and his eyes broke the surface of the water as he made his way out five hundred feet. He made not a ripple or a splash as he turned and swam parallel to the shore.
From a distance, the white outline of the Dora Mae resembled an enormous beached whale, a sad and pathetic waste. The closer he swam, the more the yacht took its recognizable shape, but no less sad or pathetic. The go-fast lay twenty feet to the left of the yacht, yet it rode so low in the water, he wouldn’t have seen it if he hadn’t known where to look.
The open-hulled speedboat rocked within the gentle waves as Max silently hoisted himself over the side. He took the knife from this mouth and gave his eyes a moment to adjust to the light within the hull. Three plastic barrels were stowed starboard next to what looked like an army ammunition crate. He glanced toward the beach, counted all four bad guys, then lifted the lid.
Bingo. A cache of all kinds of goodies. Through the light of the moon, Max made out several MP4 machine guns, but no ammo. There were about a dozen sticks of dynamite and blasting caps, and the last thing he touched made him smile.
“Hello,” he whispered, and pulled out one of his all-time favorite weapons, a.50-caliber sniper rifle. Right after he’d completed SEAL training and received his BUD/S, he’d been sent to sniper school at Fort Bragg. For months he’d hidden within the North Carolina weeds, shooting the hell out of paper targets and dummy vehicles while chiggers feasted on his ankles and wrists. A few years later, he’d used his training in real combat during Desert Storm, taking out necessary targets and learning a whole lot about living and dying.
He’d been just a kid.
What those boys on the beach wanted with a weapon that was capable of blowing a big hole in a target from a mile and a half away was anyone’s guess. Max took a quick inventory of what he had and what he didn’t. He didn’t have ammunition for the MP4s, and figured the men had used it all to shoot the hell out of the trees. He didn’t have a detonation cord for the dynamite, but in the bottom of the crate he found five half-inch.50-caliber bullets.
After a quick check of the beach, he slipped over the side of the boat and, keeping the rifle and ammo above his head, swam to the Dora Mae. Except for patches of light filtering in through the windows, the inside of the yacht was as dark as a tomb. It didn’t help that the interior had been ransacked and things were thrown everywhere. Glass crunched beneath his boots as he made his way to the stateroom. It took less than a minute to find what he was looking for. He shoved half a dozen condoms in his pocket, then opened several packs and stretched the thin latex over the rifle. He dumped the bullets in the last condom, tied it to his belt loop, then left the yacht once more.
Relief tugged at one corner of his mouth as he slipped into the ocean and headed again toward the go-fast. He was finally in familiar territory. Things were definitely looking up. Hell, all he had to do was snatch Baby Doll Carlyle from beneath the chair of a passed-out drug runner, get Lola and the dog aboard the powdercraft without the bad men on the beach suspecting anything, then haul ass out of the Bahamas.
Piece of cake.
Chapter 10
Beyond the firelight on the beach, Lola could see very little. Her eyebrows ached, but she refused to lower the binoculars. Max had been gone at least an hour. He was out there somewhere, yet she hadn’t caught a glimpse of him. A few times she thought she’d spotted him, but each time the sighting had turned out to be nothing more than waves. She lowered her gaze to the beach. She hadn’t been able to spot Baby, either, even though she knew where he was.
The sound of mariachi music floated up to Lola, as loud and clear as if the actual band were playing on the beach. She wasn’t a big fan of mariachi music, and from now on she was sure she would hate it. She had dirt in her hair, bug bites on her arms, and her only consolation was that no one was shooting at her. The only thing that gave her peace of mind was that no one was shooting at Max, either. Not yet, anyway.
Finally her arms gave out and she lowered the binoculars. She’d wrapped her pashmina around her legs, but the bugs on the island were nasty and seemed to bite right through the cashmere. She was tired and itchy, and so hungry she’d sell her soul for a pan of macaroni and cheese or a king-sized Snickers. She slapped at a mosquito having dinner on her neck. If Max didn’t hurry, she doubted she’d be able to walk from loss of blood.
Just thinking of him brought a smile to her face. It wasn’t logical. It didn’t make sense, but she supposed Stockholm syndrome didn’t make sense. In the whole mixed-up mess, he was the only constant. The only thing that was stable. Real.
He’d certainly seemed very real when he’d made love to her. The touch of his hands and his mouth on her, the incredible feeling of his body joined with hers. Of all the men she’d known, of the men she’d loved, she’d never felt as connected as she did with Max.
As if her thoughts conjured him out of air, he suddenly appeared next to her. In his arm, he held Baby, and Lola didn’t think she’d ever seen anything so wonderful. She wanted to give Max a big smack on the mouth, then cover his entire body with kisses. The dog squirmed with excitement as Lola stood, but Max’s hand on his muzzle kept him from barking.