Undercover Mistress

“What about all that stuff he was saying? Do you think…” Celia frowned at the fitfully quaking mound of blankets on her bed. “Maybe we should…”

The doctor made a dismissive sound. “He’s delirious—that’d be the hypothermia talking.” His lips curved in a sour smile. “Sounded rather like the plot of an Arnold Schwartzenegger movie, didn’t it? I wouldn’t worry about it, dear heart. Worry about getting him warmed up.” He stifled a yawn as he turned.

Celia gave a yelp of dismay. “You’re not leaving me!”

He sank into the armchair with a grunt and a sigh. “Thanks, love, much as I’d prefer my own bed, I’d rather not have another death on my conscience if I can possibly avoid it. Forgive me, though, if I close my eyes for a bit…and wake me if he does anything interesting, will you? Besides mumble and shake, I mean…” Doc’s voice trailed off.

Celia’s gaze returned to the gaunt, gray face on her violet-sprigged pillow. It was an arresting face, she thought, the bones strong and rugged without being coarse, the stubble of beard, slightly arched eyebrows and comma of hair on his forehead almost black against his dusky skin. His nose appeared swollen, and had a definite bump on the bridge. She wondered again what color his eyes were.

He looks like a pirate, she thought. Okay, a very sick pirate.

Another shiver rippled through her. The cold radiating from the blanket-wrapped body seemed to be seeping into hers. No…I don’t want another death on my conscience, either.

Reclaiming her seat on the edge of the mattress, she shifted and maneuvered herself until the man’s upper body was once again propped almost upright against her. “Okay…” she murmured as she picked up the mug of chicken broth, “let’s try this again.”

Once more, the man’s head rolled on her chest and she felt the faint stirring of words against her cheek.

“Shh,” she whispered, with a catch in her voice. “It’s all right. Don’t try to talk.”

But his lips moved again, and her heart quickened as she leaned closer in order to hear.

“Piece o’cake,” the man said.

It should have been.

He’d been monitoring the Bibi Lilith for over thirty-six hours, and he knew the security guards’ routine backward and forward, to the second. He’d made it all the way to the control room, even got the damn door unlocked without a hitch. Then, either his luck ran out or his intel let him down. Maybe both.

Who could have foreseen on this particular night one of the guards would just happen to get hold of some bad shrimp, or an intestinal bug—who knew what it was that sent him, at that precise moment, in search of a vacant crew’s head?

The guy came out of nowhere—Roy rounded the corner and there he was. And in that narrow passageway, there was no place for him to hide. Trapped like a deer in a hunter’s headlights.

Lord knows, things couldn’t have looked more hopeless for Momma Starr’s baby boy than they did at that moment. But life was precious to him—he hadn’t realized how precious until he’d realized he wasn’t giving his up without one helluva fight.

In that moment, instinct took over. Instinct…and then some pretty intense combat training, thanks to which, in the first chaotic moments, he very nearly succeeded in making his escape. He’d taken out the first guy and was heading for the deck, but seconds later the narrow passageway had filled to bursting with security guards, all of them big. And heavily armed. And, it seemed, all of them bent on pounding him into a lifeless bloody pulp. He could feel his body being buffeted by blows from all sides, though oddly enough, with all the adrenaline pumping through him, he felt almost no pain.

Then, suddenly, he felt nothing at all.

“Doc,” Celia sobbed, “help me—I don’t know what to do! Oh God—what’s happening? Is he dying?”

Doc’s face, as he bent over the injured man, was close to hers. She saw one bloodshot eye flick her way, then narrow in a frown as he straightened. “Just unconscious, at the moment.”

“He was shivering and mumbling, then all of a sudden he just went…like that.” She was ashamed, now, of her panic. “So…still. I thought…” She’d thought he’d died on her, that’s what she’d thought. Literally. And how awful would that be!

“Take your clothes off,” Doc said.

Celia stared at him. “What?”

“I said, take off your clothes. Now. We’ve got to get him warm. If we don’t, I’m not giving any odds on him making it. Without thermal wraps and IV fluids, and given his size and the difficulty involved in getting him into a shower or bathtub, the best way I know of to do that is the old-fashioned way—skin to skin. And I’m sure as hell not going to be the one to cuddle up to him. This was your idea. Come on, love—up you get.”

“I’m not taking off everything,” Celia said, glaring at the doctor as she eased herself out from under the injured man’s limp body. “I’m keeping my underpants on, and that’s final.”

Doc grunted impatiently. “If you feel you must. Just hurry up, will you?”

“Turn around.”

“Dear girl, might I remind you that I am a doctor?”

“Not anymore,” Celia said darkly, standing her ground.

Doc rolled his eyes, but obediently turned his back. With fingers that felt stiff and uncoordinated, she unbuttoned and unzipped her shorts, shook them down to her ankles and stepped out of them. She stood for a moment chewing on her lips. Then, throwing a nervous glance over her shoulder at Doc’s rigid back, she peeled off the damp and sandy sports bra and dropped it on top of the shorts.

Her breasts shivered and her nipples puckered as she lifted the edge of the quilt and perched gingerly on the edge of the mattress. Taking a deep breath and sucking in her stomach in a futile effort to avoid making contact with his body, she arranged herself alongside the injured man.

“Okay, now what?” Although she wasn’t cold herself—not really—her teeth insisted on chattering. She tensed her jaws to make them stop doing that.

“Snuggle up to him, darling. Wrap your arms and legs around him. Do I really have to explain it to you?” Doc sounded amused.

Oh…God. Every nerve ending in her skin rebelled at the touch of that clammy body. That hard, unfamiliar masculine body.

She gasped. “He’s naked.”

“What did you expect? Would you rather I’d left those sandy wet drawers on him? Don’t be such a prude. Anyhow, I doubt he even knows you’re there.” Doc was leaning across her, lifting and pushing at the man’s loglike form. “Here—scoot in and wrap yourself around his backside. That’s the ticket…as close as you can get. Skin to skin, dear. I shouldn’t have to tell you how, should I? Touch him everywhere you can.” And he pulled the comforters tightly around her, tucking them in behind her so that she was trapped…cocooned inside the bundle with the unconscious stranger.

Celia closed her eyes and counted the rapid thumping of her heartbeats. Her face was pressed between cold, gritty shoulder blades. She didn’t know what to do with her hands. Her palms, stiffly flattened over his rib cage, measured the faint, slow tick of his pulse. Her tightened nipples hurt where they mashed against hard muscle. Shivers cascaded through her body in waves. Between them she muttered brokenly, “Okay…what…now?”

“Now?” Doc exhaled in a gust as he sank once more into the armchair. “I don’t know, dear heart. Hope and pray you’re the hot-blooded type, I suppose.”

Roy became aware of the pain first, a dull throbbing ache in his head, his belly, his back—in fact, in just about every part of him. That soon led to the realization that he was cold and uncomfortable on top of the pain, and only a little additional mental exercise told him the reason: he was lying on his side on a hard slick surface—the deck of a ship? Yes, and—he was wearing only a pair of shorts—what had happened to his wet suit? Additionally, there was a piece of duct tape over his mouth, and his wrists were bound together behind his back—also with duct tape. The deck beneath his cheek was vibrating, a deep, throbbing thrum, and a cold, damp wind was stirring across his naked skin.

He remembered now. He was on board the megayacht Bibi Lilith. And, apparently, the yacht was no longer riding at anchor just outside the marina. She was now under way, heading at full speed out to sea.

Careful to move nothing else, he opened his eyes. Still dark. Apparently not much time had elapsed since he’d been caught trying to plant a Trojan horse chip in the engine control computer.

The chip. Where’s the damned chip?

They’d stripped him down to his shorts, and the packet had been tucked inside his wet suit. They’d found it—had to have found it. And were probably at that very moment trying to figure out what it was and what he’d intended to do with it. It was, he reasoned, probably the only reason they hadn’t killed him yet. They’d want to know what damage he’d done, who had sent him, how much he knew. His heart thumped and his skin crawled at the thought of the means they might be planning to employ to extract that information from him before they killed him and threw his body overboard.

Overboard. Well, hell. That was the reason the yacht was heading out to sea. They’d want to be in deep water when they dumped him.

It took only a few seconds for his senses to gather all this information, and for his brain to process it. After that, his brain wasted a good bit more time skittering around trying to figure a way out of the situation he was in. The only thing that activity produced was the conclusion that his prospects weren’t good. He was alone on this mission, without backup, vastly outnumbered, and what weapons or means of calling for help he’d had were on his belt, which had been removed from him along with his wet suit.

Looking on the bright side, he was alive, at least for the moment. And, they hadn’t gone too far offshore yet. The lights of L.A. were still visible out there, rising and falling on the horizon. If he could make it to the water, he might have a chance. A small one, for sure, but it beat the hell out of anything that could happen to him if he stayed on this boat.

I have to make it to the water….

He moved experimentally and heard a mutter of voices respond immediately from somewhere nearby but beyond his line of vision. The voices were speaking something other than English. Arabic? Persian?

He heard the scuff of footsteps, and a dark shape bent over him. He moaned, again as an experiment, and was rewarded with a vicious kick in the ribs for his trouble. Another voice spoke, and Roy felt himself jerked roughly to his feet. The tape was ripped cruelly from his mouth.

He stood swaying, licking his stinging lips as the dark shapes closed in around him. Now? Shall I make a move now? His mind calculated the distance to the railing. Too far! Besides which, his legs still felt wobbly and his head was swimming. He’d never make it alive.

While he was making that assessment, the line of dark shapes directly in front of Roy broke apart, and another shape moved into the gap. This man, obviously the one in charge, lifted a hand and drew long and deeply on a cigarette, briefly and faintly illuminating hawklike, angular features—good-looking in a dark-browed and bearded sort of way. I’ll know him, Roy thought. If I live to see him again, I’ll know him.

“Who do you work for?” The words coming at him from out of the darkness were spits of sound—short and sharp, but deadly, like the sounds a gun makes when it has been equipped with a silencer. “Why are you here?”

“I don’t…work for anybody…except myself,” Roy said, with what he hoped were convincingly weak-sounding coughs. “Figured…a yacht like this…there’s gotta be something worth stealing—”

A fist thudded without warning into his stomach. He doubled over, retching feebly. Lights ricocheted inside his skull.

“Wrong answer,” the staccato voice said calmly. “If you wanted to steal you would have been upstairs, in the salon, or the staterooms. What were you doing outside the control room? Answer me correctly this time, or the next thing to hit your stomach will be a bullet.”

Roy considered his options and kept his mouth shut.

His interrogator shrugged as he drew once more on his cigarette, then tossed it over the railing. Roy watched the reddish spark arc downward and out of sight, like a short-lived shooting star.

“It doesn’t matter,” the interrogator said in his curiously passionless voice. “I know who you are. You are an agent of the United States government. You are trespassing on this yacht. The computer chip you were carrying with you will be analyzed and your intentions will be discovered. But in any case, whatever you were sent to do, you have failed. Whatever else you may have left behind, it will be found.” He gestured to the other shapes. “Take care of him.”

Roy’s heart lurched as he heard the unmistakable jangle of heavy chain from somewhere close behind him. Whatever I do, I can’t let them put that chain on me.

Still clinging to the guise of casual and inept thief, Roy whined, “Wait! What—what are you doing? Hold on a minute! Jeez! What’s with you guys? What ever happened to calling the cops?”

The interrogator paused to look back, and a light from somewhere on the yacht’s upper decks caught and illuminated his smile. “Police ask too many questions.” The voice now sounded almost gentle. “This is much simpler. Cleaner. Nothing of you will ever be found…no evidence. Fewer questions.” He turned to continue on his way.

Roy shook away the nearest of his captors and lurched toward the interrogator, calling out, “Wait—dammit!” as if he were bent on pleading his case, arguing for his life.

It was a desperate gamble, but the deception gave him the split second he needed. For that split second his captors froze expectantly, and he surged past them on a wave of pure adrenaline, veering instead toward the ship’s railing.

The railing loomed ahead of him, an impossible distance away. He focused on it and ran…no, dove for it—his legs didn’t seem to touch the deck. An awkward half crouch was all he could manage with his hands secured behind his back. As he lurched forward, he heard angry exclamations from behind him. Then shouts. He plowed on, every nerve in his body humming, every muscle spasming in expectation of the brutal slam of bullets into his flesh.

The railing was there, right in front of him. He struck it hard, then arched and twisted his torso up and over, and he was falling, falling free through the darkness. From far, far away, he heard the crackle of gunfire, the zing of bullets slicing past him, the hiss and spit as they hit the water.

He felt a searing, burning sensation slam into his side and knife through his chest and had time for only one thought: Oh, hell, I’m hit!

The black Pacific swell rose up to swallow him.

The cold…

Roy had never been so cold. Being a Southern boy, born and bred, Lord, how he hated to be cold.

But, at least he was alive, and at the moment, being cold was the least of his worries. For starters, he was alone in a vast, dark ocean, although maybe the alone part wasn’t altogether a bad thing, considering the company he’d just left. At first, he’d feared his erstwhile captors might turn the yacht around and come to search for him to finish him off—maybe even launch one of the outboards. The moment of euphoria he’d felt when he’d realized they weren’t going to do that was short. Clearly, his would-be killers were confident the sea could be counted on to complete what they’d started. They didn’t even consider it worth their trouble to make certain.

Taking stock of his current circumstances, he could see their point. He was shot and bleeding profusely, miles from shore, in an ocean full of sharks. With his hands taped together. Behind him. It was, he thought, one of those Perils of Pauline cliff-hanger moments, where it looked as if things couldn’t possibly get any worse.

Except that, in those old movie serials, rescue always came at the beginning of the next episode. He was pretty sure nothing like that was going to happen here. In his case, things definitely could get worse.

Fighting back panic, Roy floated on his back and rested. While he rested, he took stock of his situation. And, in those first few minutes, the best he could do was draw courage from small victories.

Number one, I’m alive.

That was a biggie. And, he was no longer being hunted, at least by anything human. And, while the water was god-awful cold, that was a good thing, too, it seemed to him, in that it appeared to help numb the pain of the bullet wound in his side.

Or chest? Side? Both? And if that’s the case, why am I still alive?

Oddly, though, he didn’t feel as if anything vital had been damaged. The blood… He didn’t like to think about that blood.

Normally a fly-by-the-seat-of-the-pants kind of guy, now Roy forced himself to think methodically. To prioritize. First things first. One thing at a time. Think about sharks, for instance, only if and when they show up.

In the meantime, if he was going to swim to shore—and that did seem to be his only hope for survival—he was going to need the use of his arms. So, the taped wrists were obviously his first priority.

It turned out to be easier than he’d expected. His captors, clearly never intending the bonds to have to hold him for very long, had made the mistake of taping his wrists overlapping each other in opposite directions, leaving him enough slack in his joints and muscles so that, in his semiweightless state, it was possible for him to contort his body and maneuver his feet through the closed circle of his arms. Once he had his hands in front of him, his teeth made relatively short work of the tape. Now his arms were free—another victory.

But it was one he’d paid a high price for.

Intent on his task, he’d closed his mind to the pain in his chest and side, and to the fact that way too much of his blood was leaking out of his body. Now, rising and falling with the swell, he fought waves of nausea and dizziness, of the invading chill and weakness. Once again he floated, looking up at the milky sky…resting, and struggling, now, to keep his tenuous grip on consciousness.

He lost track of time. Stay awake…keep moving…stay alive. That was his existence now. That, and the rise and fall of the ocean beneath him, like the respirations of a giant living being. From the top of each swell, he could find a measure of encouragement in the line of lights along the shore, never seeming to move closer, but still there…always there…a beacon and a hope. Then…down he’d plunge into the trough…and he was alone again with the darkness and the cold.

Chapter 3

The man was stirring again. And muttering. Not the wild litany of horror Celia had listened to with chilled fascination for most of the night, but a single word, repeated with choked and pitiful desperation:

“Cold…c-cold…”

“I know…” she whispered against his back, tightening her arms around him, her hands unthinkingly stroking. “Shh…it’s okay…it’s okay…”

“C-cold.” He turned suddenly, reaching for her.

She gave a gasp as his arms came around her, folding her against his naked body in a shockingly intimate embrace. Her face was trapped now in the hollowed curve of neck and jaw, held there by the weight of a bony masculine chin, her lips pressed against a tickling thread of pulse. “Doc!” she squeaked in panic. “Doc—help!”

The loud snores coming from the direction of the armchair continued unabated.

Oh, God. What now? She squeezed her eyes shut and held herself still, holding even her breath. Okay…okay. Don’t panic. He’s unconscious. Delirious. This is okay. You’re fine.

Willing herself to the discipline of slow, deep breaths, she felt calm gradually overtake her. And with the quieting of her own mind and body, became aware that the man was shaking again. Not the terrible, racking shudders of hypothermia, but something gentler, and oddly rhythmic. She held herself utterly still, listening…and came to a stunning but inescapable realization: the man was crying.

Incredible, but yes, it was true. Though still less than fully conscious, the man in her arms was silently weeping.

The feeling that came over Celia then was unlike anything she’d ever known, an emotion she could neither name nor describe. It awoke from somewhere deep inside her, rippled through her chest and shivered over every inch of her skin. She felt almost frighteningly fierce and primitive and powerful…and at the same time incredibly soft and gentle and nurturing.

“So…cold,” the man whispered.

“I know…” Celia answered, her throat husky with the new emotions, “I know…but it’s okay…you’re safe…I’ve got you.”

In that moment, in some strange way, she felt he belonged to her.

When the first slithery something brushed his skin, he felt it like the sting of a whip. Fresh adrenaline slammed into his exhausted body. His mind shrieked, Shark! Every muscle, nerve and sinew braced for the jolt of teeth tearing into his flesh.

Instead, there it was again—that light, slithery touch, almost like a caress. Like cold, clammy fingers drawn flirtatiously along his torso…his arms…his legs. Sick with horror, it was several long seconds before the truth penetrated his tired brain: Not sharks. Nor any kind of fish, in fact.

It was seaweed.

It came to him that he must have drifted into one of the vast beds of giant kelp that lie off the coast of Southern California. But what did that mean for his chances of survival? He knew next to nothing about kelp, his entire experience limited to the rubbery tangles he’d seen washed up on the beaches, smelling of brine and dead sea creatures. Good thing or bad thing?

In the end, he supposed, it probably didn’t matter much, one way or the other. He was so cold…so weak…and still so far from the lights. So far…

Keep moving…stay awake…stay alive…

Something bumped him. Definitely something big, this time. Something heavy. Definitely not seaweed.

He struck at it weakly, still fighting for life, out of raw instinct, to his last living breath. Take that, shark!

But whatever it was didn’t seem at all impressed by his futile gesture of defiance. It didn’t bother to move away from him. It didn’t move in for the kill, either. It merely dipped sluggishly into the flattened slick between waving fronds of kelp, then surfaced and nudged him again. And again. As if, he thought, it was trying to get his attention.

Vaguely annoyed—Either finish me or get the hell out of my way, damn you!—Roy pushed at the object again. Again it dipped and bobbed, in what seemed to him almost like a friendly invitation. And on the very edges of consciousness, his reason flashed the word: driftwood.

Instinctively, without even knowing why, with the last remnants of his strength and will, he grasped the floating log and hitched himself onto its gnarled length. Clinging to it, he gave in once more to the darkness and the cold.

It wasn’t as bad as he’d thought it would be, dying. Rather a relief, in fact, after the cold and the pain and the constant, unrelenting struggle to keep swimming…keep moving…stay alive.

He couldn’t very well be expected to keep moving, keep swimming, could he, when he couldn’t feel his arms and legs. Couldn’t feel much of anything, in fact. He seemed to recall knowing this was because his body was concentrating its remaining resources, bringing everything into its core to keep the vital organs alive. Soon, even those would quit functioning. Heart or brain…which would be the last to go? His heart, probably. He could already feel his brain shutting down—at least, he assumed that was what was happening, since he was having such weird fantasies—pictures and sounds and sensations that made no sense to him. Voices—strangers’ voices. One in particular, a woman’s, crooning to him as if he were a child. A little baby. He found it unexpectedly comforting.

He dreamed a face to go with the voice—an angel’s, naturally. This angel, though, had a body like a Playboy centerfold, which was definitely something they hadn’t told him about in Sunday School. The angel snuggled her voluptuous body next to his, warming him. Soothing him with her voice…warming him with her body.