Rachel Gibson: Lola Carlyle Reveals All

Some of the swelling in his face had gone down, but it was still puffy and very black and blue. He was only slightly less scary.

“I’m sure he couldn’t help it,” she said, determined not to show her fear. She glanced about the bridge but didn’t see a dog mess.

“I cleaned it up. But from now on, that’s your job.”

She returned her gaze to his and noticed that his eyes were blue. The same light blue of the Caribbean waves just before they hit the beach. Given his dark complexion and hair, not to mention his bruises, they were a startling contrast.

“I don’t like worthless dogs,” he said. “And yours is as about worthless as they come.”

“You’re a thief and a kidnapper, and you’re calling a little dog worthless?”

“I told you last night that I commandeered the yacht, and you aren’t kidnapped.”

Lola shrugged. “That’s what you say, but here I am. Taken against my will on a boat that doesn’t belong to you. I don’t know where you’re from, but I think in most countries around the world, that’s against the law.”

He reached behind him and grabbed the top of the gunwale. As he struggled to his feet, Lola took a cautious step back. “If you hadn’t set the helm on fire, you’d be in Florida right now all safe and cozy, with nothing more to worry about than what to order for breakfast. Or you’d be on your way to Washington, where at least one general would be kissing your ass and apologizing on the behalf of the U.S. of A. Instead you had to get hysterical and fuck things up.”

“Me!”

“Now I’m stuck in the Bermuda Triangle during hurricane season with an underwear model and a wussy dog.”

He made it sound as if the whole situation was her fault. Anger replaced her fear and she pointed a finger at him. “Now, just a minute. None of this is my fault. I was asleep when you snuck aboard and ‘commandeered’ Baby and me.”

“Probably more like passed out. I made enough noise to wake the dead.” He made a sound, half grunt, half groan, and pressed a hand to his side.

“I wasn’t passed out. I was very tired,” she defended herself, although she didn’t know why she bothered, since she really didn’t care what he thought.

“And you aren’t commandeered. The yacht was commandeered. You weren’t supposed to be here.” She opened her mouth to argue, but he interrupted her before she could speak. “And you aren’t kidnapped, either.”

“Than what am I?”

He shook his head. “Offhand, I’d say you’re a real pain in the ass.”

Baby, having finally given up on the stare-down, scrambled over to Lola and she picked him up. She didn’t even bother with a reply, and instead turned on her heels and left him alone on the bridge. She had more important concerns than arguing with a deranged kidnapper.

There had to be a way to signal a rescue vessel, she thought as she entered the galley and dug around until she found a box of granola bars in one of the cabinets. She chose honey nut for herself, cinnamon crunch for Baby, and slid behind the dinette table. She would have killed for a cup of coffee, and once again thought of the knife in the buckskin-colored sheath. He must have taken it from her while she slept. She wanted it to back. As she polished off her breakfast, Max entered the galley, seemingly filling the space with his broad shoulders and dark energy. “Do you have my knife?” she asked.

“Yep.” He tore into the box of granola bars and added, “I took it back.”

“I need it.”

He ripped open a honey nut and raisin and looked at her. “Why?”

“I just do.”

“Are you going to stab me in the back while I’m not looking?”

“No.”

His blue eyes stared into hers as he reached behind him and pulled the knife from the waistband of his pants. “Sure you won’t,” he said, and took a step toward her. She sank back into the seat cushions as he set the knife on the table.

“You can stop that.”

“What?”

“Jumping like I’m going to attack you.”

“I’m not.” But she knew she was, he frightened her, no doubt about it. She estimated him to be at least six-five. The top of his head barely cleared the ceiling, and she knew from recent experience that he was solid muscle.

“If I wanted to hurt you, I would have already.”

She didn’t say a word, just reached for the knife and slid it into her lap.

“And if I really wanted to hurt you now, that knife wouldn’t stop me.”

She believed him but held on to it anyway.

“Did I hurt you last night?” It was a rhetorical question, but she answered anyway.

“Yes.”

He took a bite of his granola bar, then asked, “Where?”

She held up her wrists and exposed the faint purple marks his fingers had left on her skin. He leaned forward for a better look, and Lola held her breath, steeling herself for what he might do. At the moment he was being perfectly amiable, but she didn’t trust his mood.

“Those are so small, they don’t even count.” He straightened and popped the rest of the granola bar into his mouth. He watched her as he chewed, his gaze serious, and then he shrugged. “You’re too soft.”

“Are you blaming me again?”

Instead of answering, he dug into the granola box and pulled out another bar. “You can relax your grip on that knife. I’m not going to rape you.”

A criminal with scruples? She wasn’t reassured and held the knife tight in her hand.

“I’ve never forced a woman to be with me.”

She didn’t comment, but raised a brow as if she had her doubts.

He broke off a piece of a granola bar and tossed it toward Baby. The little dog caught it midair. “Never had to,” he continued. “You can strip naked and run around in the buff and I won’t feel a thing. Not an itch, twitch, or semi-stiffy for good old Max.”

“Charming,” she said as Baby crunched away on his breakfast bar.

“I’m a charming guy.” He managed half a smile and looked down the galley to the salon.

Right, and she was a natural size two. “Is the radio working?”

His quiet laughter was her answer, then he asked a question of his own. “Does this yacht belong to you?” he wanted to know.

“No.”

“Boyfriend’s?”

“No.”

He returned his gaze to her. “Why don’t you tell me who provided me with their yacht?”

“Why should I tell you anything?”

He folded his arms across his big chest and leaned his behind into the edge of the counter. “If I know who holds the owner’s papers, I can probably tell you how soon you’re likely to be rescued.”

“Mel Thatch,” she answered without hesitation. “He owns Dolphin Cay, the island where I’ve been vacationing.”

He studied her face. “Never heard of him. Is he somebody famous?”

“No.”

“Anyone sitting on Dolphin Cay waiting for you? A Kennedy, Rockefeller, or crusty old billionaire?”

She’d never dated a crusty old billionaire. “No. I’m not seeing anyone at the moment.”

He straightened and it was his turn to raise a dubious brow over his good eye. “You’re on vacation alone?”

“No, I’m with Baby,” she answered. “How long before someone finds us?”

“Hard to say. I’m sure the yacht’s been reported stolen by now, but the thing is, yachts are stolen all the time, or sunk for insurance money. The Coast Guard will search, but no one will get real worked up about it. Except the owner, of course, but he’s probably already called his insurance company. And he won’t feel real bad, since he’s likely to get more for it than it’s worth, especially since this boat has been neglected and seen better days.”

Her gaze narrowed. “How long?”