Rachel Gibson: Lola Carlyle Reveals All

Max tossed the wallet on the table. Damn. The situation just got a bit more complicated. A bit less easy for the government to cover up. And if he was recaptured before he made it back to the States, the soft pampered woman on the bridge didn’t stand a chance. A few minutes ago, he would have sworn that his luck couldn’t get any worse, but it sure as shit had just gotten a lot worse.

A grim line sealed his lips as he grabbed the rum and the ice-filled towel and headed back up to the bridge. Maybe the woman upstairs wasn’t Lola Carlyle. Just because Lola Carlyle’s purse was in the galley didn’t mean the tall blond woman he’d tied up was her. Yeah, maybe, and maybe he could just go ahead and sprout wings and fly home.

Climbing the stairs on the way up to the galley didn’t hurt any less than on the way down. He paused twice and held his side against the sharp pain before continuing. In the past, Max had broken about every bone in his body, and ribs were by far the worst. Mostly because it hurt to even breathe.

Within the dark cabin, he picked out her white shirt. She was exactly where he’d left her, and he moved to the console and placed the bottle of rum and the towel next to the throttle.

“This will all be over soon,” he said in an effort to reassure her. Although, after she’d tried to knock his head off, he didn’t know why he was bothering. Maybe because if he were in the same situation, he would have done the same thing. But, he thought as he pressed the ice against his left eye, he would have succeeded.

“Could you please untie me? I have to go to the bathroom.”

The only lethal weapon on board sat next to his rum on the console, so he considered her request. “If I do, are you going to clock me again?”

“No.”

Max stared at her outline, looking for any detail that might identify her as the woman known throughout the world by her first name alone. He couldn’t make a positive determination one way or the other. “That’s what you said last time.”

“Please. I really have to go.”

Max looked around. “Where’s your mutt?”

“Right here, asleep. He won’t bite you again. I’ve talked to him about it, and he’s really sorry.”

“Uh-huh.” He grabbed the fish knife and crossed the deck and, keeping his back as straight as possible, knelt beside her outline. Within the dark corner he felt for her feet, then easily slid the knife through the cotton strip. “Turn around,” he said, and when she’d done as he’d told her, he sliced the material binding her hands. He grabbed his side, and with more difficulty than it had taken him to kneel, he rose to his feet. “This could have been avoided in the first place,” he said through the pain, “if you’d just done what I told you to do.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

A warning bell sounded in his splitting head as he replaced the knife in its scabbard, then slid it in his waistband at the small of his back. He didn’t trust her sudden passiveness, but perhaps she’d realized that she couldn’t win and it was in her best interest not to fight with him anymore. Yeah, maybe. Or maybe he really was getting soft in his old age.

She slipped past him with her dog in her arms and headed for the door. At the top of the stairs, the moon shone across her back and bottom, and in her hurry to get by him, she left the scent of her hair in her wake.

He moved to stand by the captain’s chair and grabbed the bottle of rum. He took a drink and looked out the front windshield at the Caribbean moon. At the rolling waves before him and the vast emptiness of the ocean. Beside a folded-up newspaper, he spotted a pair of binoculars. He carefully raised them to his eyes, but saw nothing except black ocean. He relaxed a degree.

Max had always taken the worst that life could throw at him, and he’d always mastered it. He’d made it through six months of SEAL training, been in Desert Storm, taken out terrorists in Afghanistan, Yemen, and in the South China Sea, but tonight had been the worst. Because of Jose Cosella’s desire to impress his father with his brutality, and a shoddy piece-of-shit handgun, Max was still alive. The same could not be said of Jose.

Still fresh in Max’s mind, he recalled in precise detail the click of the jammed gun, Jose taking his eyes off him to examine it, and Max making his move. The chair splintering and coming apart within the ropes that bound his hands. Him using a piece of the wooden back to save his own life. Running to the docks, hiding in the shadows, and picking his opportunity.

Max set the bottle on top of the newspaper and caught a flash of white reflection in the windshield.

“Turn this boat around,” the woman behind him commanded in a slightly breathless, faintly southern voice. She flipped on the galley lights and the glare immediately stabbed Max’s corneas. “Turn it around or I’ll shoot.”

Max squinted against the pain and light that suddenly flooded the bridge. He slowly turned and no longer had to wonder if he’d accidently commandeered a famous underwear model along with the yacht.

Lola Carlyle was just as gorgeous in person as she was staring back from the cover of fashion magazines. She stood in the doorway, half her blond hair piled on top of her head, the other half curled about her shoulders as if she’d just gotten out of bed. Her deep brown eyes stared back at him from beneath the perfect arch of her brows. She’d untied the white shirt from between her breasts and had buttoned it all the way to her bottom. Her long smooth legs were every man’s fantasy. She might have been his, too. If it weren’t for the orange flare gun pointed right at his chest. Ms. Carlyle had been busy.

Well, he’d wondered if his night could get any worse, and it sure as shit just had. He should have known. He should have followed her, but he’d rather face a dozen flare guns than a trip down those stairs again. “What are you going to do with that thing?” he asked.

“Shoot you if you don’t turn this boat around. Now.”

“Are you sure?” He really didn’t believe she’d shoot him. Most people didn’t have what it took to look a man right in the eyes and end his life.

“That’ll leave a mighty big hole. Make a really big mess, too.”

“I don’t care. Turn the yacht around.”

Maybe she had what it took. Maybe not, but there was no way in hell he was turning back to Nassau.

“Now!”

He shook his head. “Not even for you, Miss July.” Her eyes narrowed, and he provoked her further, waiting for her to make a move so he could make his. “What was the name of that magazine where you appeared on the cover wearing that red thong bikini? Hustler ?”

“It was Sports Illustrated .”

He raised his hand to touch his split lip. “Ah, yes.” He looked at the traces of blood on his fingers, then returned his gaze to her. “I remember.” Her brows scrunched together even more. “You were a real hit with the teams that year. I do believe Scooter McLafferty cuffed the carrot several times in your honor.”

“Charming.” Her frown told him she was neither flattered nor amused. “The boat,” she reminded him, and waved the flare gun. “Turn it around. I’m not kidding.”

“I told you I can’t do that.” He folded his arms over his chest as if he were relaxed. But the fact was, he could have the knife out of its scabbard and in her right eye before she took another breath. Now, he didn’t want to do that. He didn’t want to kill a famous lingerie model. The government frowned on the killing of civilians, so maybe he’d just kick the gun out of her hand. That was going to hurt like a bitch and he wasn’t looking forward to it. “If you want this yacht headed back to Nassau, you’ll have to come over here and turn it around yourself.”