Breathless Encounter

She shuddered at the idea of submerging herself in water of any kind ever again. Even the idea of submerging herself in a bathtub terrified her. Her hands and knees started to shake at the thought, in fact, and suddenly she felt more than a little nauseous. She swayed dangerously.

Aiden moved fast to her side and lifted her drink out of her nerveless, icy fingers. “You just went ghostly white. Are you all right?”

“Can we talk about something besides swimming?”

A look of dawning understanding lit his face. “Scared you, did it?”

“Wouldn’t coming within a whisker of drowning freak you out, too?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’m a pretty good swimmer. Haven’t ever come near drowning.”

“Lucky,” she muttered.

He shrugged and a shadow passed through his eyes. “That’s one word for it.”

“What word would you use to describe your swimming ability?”

He pursed his lips. “Spectacular.”

“Modest much?” she retorted.

He chuckled, thawing another few millimeters. Maybe the guy was a recluse of some kind. Or just shy. She got the feeling engaging in this much sustained conversation was unusual for him. He kept pausing as if searching for the right words.

“I’ll take you out swimming with me sometime. You’ll see what I’m talking about.”

“Not me. I’m done with fishing exposés and underwater anything, thank you very much.”

“It’s a little soon to declare yourself finished, isn’t it? Give yourself time to get over the shock of your accident.”

She shook her head resolutely. No way was she getting back in the water. The sea had taken her parents, and it had nearly taken her. She wasn’t dumb—she knew when it was time to quit and walk away. She opened her mouth to say just that but was interrupted by a male voice behind her.

“Dinner is ready, Miss Jordan. Mr. McKay.”

Aiden rolled his eyes. “A simple ‘chow’s on’ would have been sufficient, Jens.”

The steward cleared his throat. “With all due respect, you haven’t seen the meal Chef prepared. Chow is emphatically not the right word for it.”

Aiden sighed. Then, awkwardly, he held out his arm to her. She took it, eyeing the steward with new respect as Aiden guided her to the table. The sailor was burly beneath his white monkey suit and moved with the assurance of a soldier. How could she have missed that before? She must’ve been too besotted with Aiden to notice any other males on board.

She did notice, though, when Aiden gestured the steward aside and pulled out her chair for her himself. She glanced up at him in thanks and her breath caught at the way he was looking at her. As if she was the main course for dinner. Her stomach tumbled and she suddenly felt a little lightheaded. She was grateful to sink into her seat while she regained her bearings. Talk about a lady killer! The man was dangerous. He could knock her off her feet with a single glance. And she dared not even think about what his arms felt like around her.

As course after course of incredible continental cuisine came forth from the kitchen, she surreptitiously studied her companion. Aiden carried himself like a man used to wealth. Power. Having people do what he said. She didn’t care what he said. The man was definitely rich, or at least very powerful.

Not that she’d ever measured people by the thickness of their wallets. It was just interesting that he’d gone to such lengths to make sure she knew he didn’t own the Sea Nymph. If he was trying to lessen her intimidation factor at his suave sophistication, it didn’t work. It felt as if she was having supper with a movie star. He was perfectly polite, but there was a certain cool distance to him that was completely impenetrable. Of course, it was entirely her fault it was there, so it wasn’t as if she could hold his reserve against him. But it still got to her. Furthermore, it goaded her to try to break through it and find the warm, engaging man she’d glimpsed when she first met him.

“What’s your story?” she finally asked him.

“The men in my family all served a stint in the navy. My father was stationed at Pearl Harbor. I spent my youth in Hawaii. A rough gig, I know. But someone had to do it. When my father retired, my family moved back east. But I stayed in California to go to college at Stanford. I played hard, but I managed to get a degree in nanoengineering. That means I design and build tiny little robots. During my obligatory tour in the navy, I partied my way through every major port in the Pacific theater. Then Jeff Winston offered me a job in his grandfather’s company. And here I am.”

She considered the detachment with which he’d recited his life story. Beneath the lightness of the rendition, it all sounded very snooty and blue-blooded. No mention of friends, lovers, emotional connections to his family. Nor did he strike her as the party animal he’d described himself to be. She cast about for a neutral question. “How did you become a spectacular swimmer?”

Odd. He looked away evasively, but he did answer. “I’ve always lived near water. I suppose it came naturally. What about you? What’s your story?”

Trying to distract her. Weird. She supposed she owed him an answer, though, since he’d told her about himself. But she didn’t usually like to talk about her past.

She answered reluctantly. “My parents were environmental activists. And yes, they were raging hippies. We even lived in San Francisco when we weren’t be-bopping all over the world. I have a little sister, Chloe. She’s the ultimate anti-hippie, however. Don’t get me wrong. She’s awesome. But we have absolutely nothing in common. Most people who meet us don’t even think we’re related. At any rate, my family went to wherever the next big environmental crisis was brewing and tried to stir up public concern about it.”

“Where are your parents now?”

“Dead.” She was able to say it without opening the door to all the old grief and loss and anger, but she desperately hoped he’d get the hint and leave the subject alone.

He didn’t. “How?” At least he seemed to have sensed that he’d touched a nerve and was keeping this conversation brief and to the point.

“They went down at sea. No one knows how.”

“Where?”

“Not far from here, in fact. A couple hundred kilometers south of our current position.” She’d finally worked up the nerve to sail through the area a few days ago. It had been eerie, knowing she was following the last known coordinates her parents had reported before they disappeared.

For all she knew, she’d sailed right over their watery graves. She hoped she had, at any rate. She’d waited nearly a decade to say a proper goodbye to them. Although, she wasn’t at all sure that downing most of a bottle of cheap wine and going on a drunk crying jag had been much of a farewell. Yet another screwup in her life to live with.

She noticed that Aiden was staring at her. “What?”

“No wonder you freaked out at nearly drowning. It had to bring back thoughts of how your parents must have died. I’m sorry.”

Thank God she hadn’t thought about it when she’d been fighting for her own life against the sea. It would have done her in. Even now, thinking that was how her parents had spent their final moments was enough to choke her up. She laid down her fork with excessive care and stared unseeing at the china pattern wavering beyond her tears.

Hands reached down for her. Pulled her to her feet. A warm chest materialized against her cheek and awkward arms surrounded her.

A chagrined voice murmured in her hair, “I’ve gone and done it again, haven’t I? I’ve upset you.” A sigh. “I’m sorry.”

Why so many tears came, she had no idea. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t shed plenty over the years for her parents. They’d died ten years ago, for crying out loud. And yet, the wound felt as raw and unbearable as ever. Maybe it was being out here so close to where they’d died that brought out the old feelings of loss and abandonment.

She cried hard enough on Aiden’s chest that her borrowed mascara had no doubt ruined his shirt. She must look as bedraggled as a wet dog. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I never cry this much.”

“You had a pretty bad scare.”

“But I’m not normally a wimp.”

“I already gathered that. Any woman who’d come out here alone and take on big international fishing companies has too much courage for her own good.”

She swiped at her face. “I must look like a bad clown.”

He handed her a discreetly monogrammed handkerchief. “I think I like you better without makeup.”

She smiled gratefully. “You’re a gentleman for saying so, but it’s not necessary with me.”

“Why not? Don’t you deserve to be treated with respect? Like a lady?”

That made her laugh. “A lady? Me?” She was a hippie environmentalist wannabe following somewhat pathetically and entirely unsuccessfully in her family’s footsteps.

He looked her up and down in a way that stole her breath away. “Yes, you, a lady.”

“Brain’s a little waterlogged from all that swimming, huh?”

One corner of his mouth twitched up wryly. “I’ve been told that before.”

“By whom?”

“Gemma says so frequently.”

“Why is she out here helping you guys nab pirates? She doesn’t strike me as the type.”

“She’s a scientist,” Aiden answered cryptically.

She got the distinct feeling he didn’t want to say any more on the subject. “What’s she studying?” Sunny persisted.

“Aquatic stuff.”

Wow. That was descriptive. Was there some big secret around the doctor’s research? Maybe he was worried she’d film Gemma’s work or something. She was trying to figure out a delicate way to ask him if that was his concern when a male voice intruded sharply over a loudspeaker.

“Incoming pirate vessel. All hands on deck. Prepare for combat.”

Chapter 3

Sunny started as the man across from her transformed from an urbane, sophisticated host who wore this yacht with the same ease he wore his suit into … she wasn’t quite sure what. His face went hard, his eyes glittering with violent satisfaction.

“Go to your cabin,” he ordered her tersely. “Lock yourself in and don’t come out until Steig or I come for you.”

“What’s going on?” she demanded.

He shoved away from the table, already unbuttoning his shirt. What the heck? He ripped the fabric off shoulders that made her gulp as he kicked off his shoes and reached for his fly. Was he going to strip in front of her? Here? Now? Confused, she sat unmoving and stared at him. He peeled down his trousers, revealing powerful thighs. Thankfully, he was wearing some sort of compression briefs like a biker might wear.

“What are you waiting for?” he bit out. “Get out of here!”

“Where are you going?”

He reached into the pocket of his discarded pants and came up with, of all things, a pair of goggles like swimmers would wear. “I’m going fishing.” He moved across the room to a desk and opened a drawer. He pulled out a round disk about the size and shape of a smoke detector and stuck it inside the waistband of his shorts. Its circular outline poked out on his hip.

“What on earth are you talking about?” she demanded.

“Go.” He turned and raced for the door. He dashed out onto the walkway around the salon as he snapped the rubber strap of the goggles around his head. She heard someone shout—it sounded as if they were telling Aiden to wait for something—and then he jumped. Or dived, to be more precise. He soared out into space in a graceful swan dive reminiscent of a cliff diver. Or a complete nut job.

She didn’t hear the splash as he hit the water, for more shouting erupted. And then gunshots. A massive, noisy fusillade of them that sent her diving for the floor in panic. An overwhelming urge to run for her life made her tremble from head to foot. But where to go? No power on earth was convincing her to follow Aiden’s example and jump into the ocean. Cabin. Hide. Lock the door.

She jumped up on legs that felt too weak to hold her weight and too fast to belong to her. She bolted for the salon door, but skidded to a stop as gunfire exploded down the passageway. A man in white sprinted into view then ducked down a side passage. A second man, this one dark-skinned and dressed in green fatigues, barged around the corner and into view.

For the first time in her life, she froze. Her entire body refused to move. Not a single muscle would respond to her command to take cover. She just stared at the man’s ginormous gun and the wild look in his eyes. His weapon came up in front of him. The barrel swung toward her. An evil grin spread across his face. He took aim.

And then the entire right side of his body exploded in a fountain of blood and flesh as a barrage of automatic-weapon fire raked him from head to toe. The sweep of nausea through her gut, her stomach retching against the combination of rich food and incomprehensible gore, finally unfroze her.

Stumbling, she turned and ran back into the salon looking around frantically. She had to hide. But it wasn’t as if ships were rife with unused nooks and crannies that would conceal an adult. More gunfire erupted somewhere close and she dived for the oak bar, careening around its bulk and ducking down. She curled up in a little ball, hugging her knees like she hadn’t since she was a child. She rocked back and forth, more or less incoherent with fear.

Where was Aiden? Was he all right? What had he meant by going fishing? She prayed urgently that the Sea Nymph’s crew would win the fight. That they would be safe. That no one would die. But from the amount of gunfire out there, wholesale slaughter sounded more likely.

Did pirates still take female prisoners? Make them clean their cabins and warm their beds? Or force her to walk the plank? The very idea of plunging off a board into the ocean made her quake with terror.

Footsteps pounded nearby. It sounded as if someone was running down the hall in this direction. She swore under her breath and prayed they’d go away. But someone entered the room moving stealthily.

She had to find something to defend herself with. A weapon. She was not getting kidnapped by pirates, and that was all there was to it. She glanced around for something likely. Unopened bottles of liquor were stored on a shelf under the bar. She grabbed two with long necks. Then, tucking herself as far under the bar as she could, she cocked her arm back and waited grimly for the bastards to come.

Aiden sliced through the water cleanly, exhilarated that his plan was finally coming to fruition. He had faith Steig and his crew would have no trouble fighting off the pirates. Most of them in this part of the world were abjectly poor Somali with little to no education, ancient weapons and barely seaworthy boats.

But because of their small vessels and familiarity with the local coast, the pirates were slippery and hard to track. Various navies of the world had failed to find and eradicate their highly mobile and secret bases of operation. And that’s why he was out here. Several private shipping companies, fed up with government failures, had hired Winston Security to kick a little pirate ass.

He swam deep enough that he wouldn’t be readily visible from the surface but not so deep that he couldn’t see his target. There. Just ahead. The curving hull of a wooden boat. If the ramshackle underside was any indication of its overall condition, it was in grave danger of sinking momentarily. But then he spied the twin propellers—state-of-the-art and brand-spanking-new. He’d lay odds the engines turning those babies were in similar shape. The bastards knew where to put their ill-gotten money.

He knifed upward directly underneath the pirate boat. With one hand on the hull to steady himself, he pulled out the tracking device and pondered where to put it. A powerful magnet would hold it in place, but he had to find something metal to attach it to. He eased back toward the propellers, which were idling at the moment.

It would be dangerous, but if he could get his arm past the blades and stick this thing inside the hull, the odds of it being discovered anytime soon were nil. He approached the props cautiously. He happened to love his fingers—his entire arm, in fact. As long as the boat didn’t move while he did this, he should be fine.

He reached past the nearest prop carefully. There were only about six inches to spare between the turning blades and his biceps. He felt around with his fingertips and found a flat metal plate that was probably part of the engine mount. He slapped the tracker down onto the plate and then gave it a good tug. It didn’t budge.

He eased his arm out of the narrow opening. If he were above water, he’d breathe a big sigh of relief. Now that it was done, he had to admit it had probably been a stupid maneuver to attempt. But all was well that ended well.

A massive explosion of turbulence slammed into him as the engines on the pirate vessel were abruptly jammed into gear.

Crap! He pulled back against the suction of the props with all his might but couldn’t resist the force of hundreds of horsepower drawing him in. He got an arm against the hull a foot above the props, and then a foot on the other side of the twin blades. He gave a mighty shove and flung himself to the side.

Clear.

He swam down and away from the vessel as fast as he could go. Damn, that had been close. He searched in the gloom behind him for the white bulk of the Sea Nymph, but visibility was too poor to see it from here. He probably ought to head back to her before Steig got any bright ideas about giving chase to the pirates and accidentally left him behind. He hadn’t had time to tell the captain he’d gone overboard in the moments before the attack. Until Steig went looking for Sunny and she told the captain he’d jumped, he was on his own.

He estimated he had another two minutes worth of air. He swam for the Nymph, angling deep to avoid any stray bullets. Sure enough, as he drew close to the yacht, occasional white tracks zinged into the water where bullets penetrated the sea.

He surfaced on the far side of the yacht from the pirate boat. The smooth white curve of the Nymph’s hull loomed over him as he breathed deeply. How to get back on board? The ship would be in full security lockdown, which meant the swimming deck would be retracted and locked that way. Unless the crew deployed a ladder or rope down to him, he was pretty much out of luck. He could shout, but over the cacophony of the gunfight still in full swing, no one would hear him. Besides, he didn’t need to draw the attention of any armed pirates.

And then something alarming dawned on him. All the gunfire he was hearing was automatic. Since when did the local pirates carry heavy artillery like that? They usually used crappy World War II surplus M-1s and their ilk. A few pirates on any given crew would have modern weapons that could lay down a lot of lead fast, but it sounded as if they all were carrying AK-47’s or better up there.

What was happening? Was Sunny okay? Had she done like he’d told her and gone to her cabin to hide? Somehow, he doubted she would follow his orders. A bit of a … nonconformist streak clung to her. Darned hippie.

He swam around to the rear of the ship, tested the slit where the swim deck was stowed and was able to wedge his fingers in it. He pulled himself partially out of the water and reached up for a ring that a waterskiing line would normally be routed through. He hauled himself out of the water and got his toes in the slit. It was painstaking work finding finger and toe holds, and he had a few tense moments when he nearly lost his grip. But finally, he managed to pull himself onto the lower aft deck, where he lay panting for a moment.

No time to rest and recuperate, though. He had to join the fight. The crew would no doubt mount a pitched defense of the bridge and the engine room. He could hook up with Steig’s guys in the engine compartment, assuming they didn’t shoot him as he approached.

He pressed to his feet and moved cautiously toward the passage that would take him belowdecks. Nothing like strolling into a war zone armed with a Speedo and an attitude. This might possibly be dumber than sticking his arm past that propeller. Why was it he’d volunteered to become a superhero, anyway?

Quiet footsteps slid across the carpet, drawing near. Sunny tensed, waiting in an agony of impatience. And then a leg came into view. Clothed in ragged denim and terminating in scratched and unpolished combat boots. No way would any member of Steig Carlson’s crew get away with a crappy shoe shine like that. She swung the bottle with all her might, smashing it into the guy’s knee. The bottle shattered and glass and booze sprayed everywhere. The pirate collapsed, shouting, his weapon discharging wildly at the ceiling.

She pounced out from behind the bar, shifting her spare bottle to her right hand. She brought it down over the guy’s head fast and hard. It, too, smashed into smithereens with a satisfying thud.

The pirate lay still and unmoving, drenched in vodka. God bless those heavy Russian bottles. She didn’t stick around to see if she’d killed the guy. Not when she heard shouting and running feet headed her way.

She looked around the salon in panic and on a hunch raced for the built-in sofa under a picture window. A yank at the seat cushion and, sure enough, it lifted to reveal a storage compartment. She shoved aside a pile of blankets, climbed inside and was encased in stuffy blackness. Feet and voices came into the salon. But they were muffled enough that she couldn’t tell if they belonged to good guys or bad guys.

Frankly, she didn’t care. She wanted no part of this fight whatsoever. She just wanted to curl up and jam her fists over her ears until it all went away.

Aiden ducked back around the corner just in time to avoid a barrage of bullets flying out of the engine room. “Hold your fire!” he shouted. “It’s me. Aiden McKay.”

“Cease fire!” someone bellowed.

He poked his head around the corner cautiously, prepared to yank back again fast. But this time no rain of bullets peppered the wall above his head. He moved forward into the engine room quickly. Someone pressed an assault rifle into his hand and he slung the shoulder strap over his head.

“Is that your formal combat attire?” someone asked drily.

He grimaced and started to make a snappy retort, but incoming gunfire silenced him. Apparently, he was just in time for a breakout from the engine room because the chief engineer, coincidentally a senior Special Forces man, hand signaled for them to move out.

For once, Steig’s obsession with good order and discipline paid off. They’d practiced this drill a dozen times and every crew member knew exactly what to do. Aiden counted his position in line. Number five. Which meant his field of fire would be to the extreme left and high. He pointed his weapon in that direction as they burst into the first stateroom to clear it. Cabin by cabin they cleared the deck, leaving men behind to ensure this deck stayed cleared and no pirates snuck in behind them to hide.

“How’s the fight going?” he asked the chief engineer during a break in the action while they waited on instructions from Steig on the bridge as to where to go next. Coordination was vital in a fight like this with multiple skirmishes in separate locations.

“Rough. Bastards are numerous and well armed.”

“Do we have any prisoners?”

“They’re fighting to the death.”

Since when did pirates do that? Aiden frowned. The plan had been to capture a few of the pirates and lean on them for information. The more they knew about the pirates’ organization, tactics and logistics, the easier it would be to take them down. But if the pirates were dying rather than surrendering, that could be a problem.

Steig’s voice crackled over the radio, ordering their team to secure the mid-decks while his men cleared the topside. Aiden was just spinning into a tiny bathroom and clearing the empty shower when a shout went up outside. He poked his head out cautiously.