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His shoulders bunched up in annoyance, followed by a grimace of pain, but his voice was a low, steady rumble that made her want to curl up in it. “Ma’am, I’m not kidding. That bastard’s gonna kill you.”
“He doesn’t even know who I am.”
“And two minutes on the Internet running the name of this boat or a couple quick phone calls wouldn’t produce your identity and enough information to find you and kill you? With all due respect, you’re not exactly a low-profile kind of girl.”
“Low-profile?” she repeated ominously.
He shrugged. “Yeah. Your dad’s famous, and besides, you look…rich. With that lightbulb-blond hair and those legs—” he broke off.
She got the idea. Why the sour note in his voice when he described her, though? She studied him, and he glared back inscrutably. Something primitive deep inside her rose to the challenge of this man, relishing sparring with him.
What the heck was she supposed to do now? Pretend the shooting had never happened and take the Baby Doll back to Daddy’s place? Run and hide? The pure insanity of such ruminations yanked her rudely back to reality. He was just trying to scare her. Perovski didn’t want her to toss him off the boat and was probably making up the whole business of the other shooter coming after her.
He subsided into brooding silence, staring sphinxlike at the sunset’s splendor. The moods of the sky were many, and at the moment the evening was quiet. Soft. Contemplative. Streaks of peach and lavender reached toward the east, where the distant horizon was darkening into a blue nearly as deep and unfathomable as the sea around them. Night would come soon. She got the distinct feeling the man beside her was a creature of the dark. An errant desire to walk in that world flashed through her. It might be a more interesting place than the gilded media microscope she lived under.
At least he hadn’t threatened her. And his gun was put away. As armed and dangerous night stalkers went, he could’ve been worse.
St. John, one of the U.S. Virgin Islands, wasn’t far away. She could duck into Cruz Bay—the U.S. Coast Guard guys there were on the ball. If she signaled them for help, they’d nab this man and his gun and get them off her boat. And after all, she’d only promised not to call the police. She hadn’t said anything about not contacting the Coast Guard. She set course for St. John. Now all she had to do was keep this guy calm until she got there.
She glanced over at him. He slouched in the passenger seat, far too sexy for his own good. She almost missed having not been born in the good old days before AIDS and other nasty STDs, when a girl could casually jump a guy’s bones without any thought to consequences. This guy just begged to be bedded.
He leaned his head back against the leather headrest. His eyes drifted closed. For an instant, he looked utterly exhausted. She shifted weight the slightest bit, and his eyes snapped open, alert and intelligent. His gaze traveled briefly up and down the length of her. “Are you done panicking yet?”
She blinked. Retorted with light sarcasm, “Why, yes, I’m perfectly fine. Thank you for asking. Lovely weather we’re having, aren’t we?”
A rusty sound escaped him. It took her a moment to identify it. That was a laugh—from a man who apparently didn’t do it very often.
“Jeez, that was close,” he mumbled.
Keep him talking. Make a human connection with him. So he wouldn’t view her as an object to be kidnapped or killed at will. “And just what was that?”
“A hit. Or rather an attempted hit, since I’m still alive.”
“Why were they trying to kill you?”
He shrugged. “The list of people who’d like to see me dead is long and distinguished.”
“Were those old enemies or new ones?”
He shot her a speculative look. “A perceptive question. And one to which I don’t know the answer.”
Why would someone hire assassins to take this man out? What line of work was he in? “You’re not a drug dealer, are you? Because I don’t mess with drugs, regardless of what the tabloids say. And I certainly won’t run them on this boat.”
He made a wry face at her. “Trust me. My life would be a helluva lot simpler if I were a drug runner.”
“So how do you know my father?”
“I don’t.”
“And he let you borrow his boat because…”
“Because my boss asked him for a favor. And no, I’m not going to tell you who my boss is.”
“Did my father know you were running from hit men when he agreed to this favor?”
Mitch’s lips twitched. “He probably surmised as much.”
“Why?” She didn’t waste her breath asking again what he did, but the question hung heavy in the air between them. Silence stretched out while she waited for an explanation, but none was forthcoming. She probed a little more. “Surely you’re exaggerating the threat to me. I vaguely saw two men from a distance and one of them has a giant hole in his chest now. I certainly wasn’t close enough to make out their faces.”
“You saw more than you know.”
“Like what?”
“You can accurately estimate their height and weight. Identify hair color. Skin color. Give a rough description of their clothing. Of how they ran. Their shooting stances. Tell that they used handguns and a shotgun. And if you know anything about firearms, you might be able to tell the police they used large caliber, hollow-point slugs from the sounds of the shots.”
She was tempted to swear under her breath. He was right. Darn it. She’d just wanted some peace and quiet. To be left alone. Was that too much to ask for? She fiddled with the GPS navigation system, checked the coordinates for St. John, and made a course correction to point more directly at the island and its Coast Guard contingent. They’d remove this guy from her boat and her life, and then, if she was lucky, paradise would settle back down to its dull, safe and monotonous routine.
If she was lucky.
Mitch’s cell phone vibrated insistently against his hip. Again. Yeah, he bet they wanted to talk to him. In a big way. They’d probably picked up a report of a dead man in the water from Coast Guard radio scanners in Tortola. Thank God Kinsey had already been on the Baby Doll and had the boat untied and engines running. Otherwise, he’d be shark bait now instead of the Cuban killer.
Interesting female, Kinsey Hollingsworth. Very East Coast upper crust. The whole package screamed old money. Her attractiveness went way beyond good grooming and expensive packaging. She was genuinely beautiful. Her blue eyes, long blond hair and aristocratic bones were very easy on the eye. She ran to the tall side, maybe five foot eight. In good shape. Just enough curves in the right places to give a man hot sweats. Which set his teeth thoroughly on edge. He probably shouldn’t despise every leggy, gorgeous blonde he met, but damned if he could stop the reaction. Even after all these years, the gall of betrayal tasted bitter in his mouth.
At least the princess hadn’t panicked when the chips were down.
Nobody should’ve known about tonight’s meeting between him and Zaragosa. How in the hell had the Cubans found out about it? Worse, how had they found out about the meeting early enough to position assassins to disrupt it?
He didn’t like it. Not one bit. This was the sort of wrinkle that got a mission scrubbed. But he wasn’t so sure the boys upstairs would call this one off. Too much rode on it. And like it or not, he was the best man for the job. Hell, the only man for the job.
He pushed wearily to his feet. He probably ought to see to his shoulder now.
“I need somewhere dry to stow my bag,” he announced.
Kinsey replied, “Inside the cabin. There’s storage under the sofa cushions.”
She turned away to have a look at the propellers, and he took the opportunity to surreptitiously unplug the microphone from the boat’s radio. He pocketed it quickly, grabbed his bag, and headed inside.
Sure enough, the bullet had grazed the meaty part of his upper arm just below the shoulder joint. After awkwardly cleaning and bandaging the shallow wound, he fished out his cell phone. He needed to let the boys in the Bat Cave know he was alive and find out if the mission was still green-lighted after this fiasco.
The Baby Doll’s cabin was low and compact. A flat-screen TV, tufted leather upholstery, and lots of brushed chrome oozed money. Nearly as sexy and expensive as the woman up top. A tiny porthole let in a wash of red light as he dialed. The phone barely finished a single ring before it was picked up.
“White Horse, here. Go.”
Usually, Mitch worked on the civilian side of the house for Jennifer Blackfoot, the civilian agent-in-charge of the Hunter Operation Team. Casually dubbed the H.O.T. Watch. But for this mission, he’d been put under the control of her equivalent on the military side of the operation, Commander Hathaway.
Mitch replied, “Lancer here. Thought you’d like an update.”
“It’s good to hear your voice.”
Mitch snorted. “It’s good to be alive. This afternoon was a little too close for me.”
“Where are you now?”
“Sitting on the Baby Doll in the middle of the Caribbean watching the prettiest sunset you ever saw. Thanks for arranging the Plan C, by the way. Needless to say, I’m not gonna make the rendezvous at twenty hundred hours.”
“What happened?”
He had to give Hathaway credit. The guy didn’t waste time moaning and groaning when a plan went to hell. He got right to the point.
“I left the hotel early to sanitize my tail before the meeting with Zaragosa. A pair of men picked me up immediately. As soon as I made a move to shake them, they closed in and tried to off me. I ran for the emergency egress point. When I got there, the driver was dead and his boat’s engine sabotaged. You know the next bit. I headed for Hollingsworth’s boat.”
“Did you get away clean?”
“Nope. The bastards followed me. Stole a boat and came after us.”
“Us?” Hathaway asked sharply.
“Uhh, yeah. Small complication to Plan C. When I got to the Baby Doll, Hollingsworth’s daughter was already aboard her. Which worked out pretty slick, by the way. She already had the boat untied and fired up when I got there. I jumped aboard and she took off. Probably saved my life.”
“Then what?” Hathaway asked grimly.
“I exchanged fire with the hostiles while we fled.”
“How’s Hollingsworth’s daughter?”
“Not a hair on her pretty little head out of place. She’s a hell of a driver, by the way.”
Hathaway replied wryly, “I’ll be sure to pass your compliments on to the Congressman. Status of the shooters?”
“One down. Probably dead but not confirmed. The other’s still up.”
“Any idea who they were?”
“I got a half-decent look at the one who’s still alive. He’s a Cuban player. Guy by the name of Camarillo.”
Hathaway whistled between his teeth. “Camarillo’s a heavy hitter. Rumor has it he used to work directly for Fidel himself.”
Mitch retorted in mock shock, “Why, sir! Fidel was a peace-loving guy. He would never stoop to violence to gain an end.”
Hathaway laughed. “Save the politically correct bull for the media. You and I have both operated in Cuba and know exactly what the Old Man was capable of.”
“And to think, the new regime has exponentially less scruples than he had.”
Silence fell between them for a moment. Then Hathaway said, “Any idea who sent Camarillo after you? He could be freelancing these days.”
Mitch turned over the concept. Fidel Castro’s personal assassin cut loose to sell his skills and knowledge to anyone willing to pay? Nah. The regime in Cuba was smarter than that. They’d keep the guy on retainer. “He’s not freelancing. The Cuban government had to have sent Camarillo after me.”
“How did they find out about your meeting?”
Mitch sighed. Aye, and there was the rub. “How well do you know Zaragosa, sir?”
Startled silence echoed in Mitch’s ear. Finally, Hathaway answered, “I’ve never worked with him personally. Supposedly, he’s one of the CIA’s best sources in Cuba. And you’ve got to admit, we couldn’t place a mole in a much higher position if we tried.”
No kidding. Zaragosa was the Deputy Prime Minister of Cuba and widely expected to be the next Presidente of that tiny, but pesky nation.
A shadow crossed the hatch, and Mitch’s eyes narrowed. Was Kinsey eavesdropping or harmlessly moving around the deck?
He switched to rapid Spanish. Even if she spoke the tongue, she probably wouldn’t catch it at first. “Talk to me about the Congressman’s daughter, sir.”
Hathaway didn’t miss a beat. Mitch registered yet again how good it was to work with active field operators. It cut out so much red tape and bureaucratic hemming and hawing. The navy man answered evenly, “Miss Hollingsworth has had a tough year. She caught her fiancé humping her best friend a couple weeks back and dumped him. The tabloids have had a field day with it.”
That was a switch. In his experience, it was the stunning blonde who screwed around.
Hathaway continued, “Apparently the ex wasn’t appreciative of the negative media coverage. To divert attention from himself, he published a series of, uhh, explicit photos of Miss Hollingsworth on the Internet.”
Ouch. What a scumbag. Even spoiled little rich girls didn’t deserve that.
“I expect she’s looking to lie low. Blend in with the locals.”
“On a hot-pink cigarette boat with her looks?” Mitch exclaimed.
Hathaway chuckled. “Any port in a storm, my friend.”
Mitch thought fast. His job was to make contact with Zaragosa, infiltrate Cuba with identity papers the guy provided, then once in the country, spot any conspiracies against the guy, and protect Zaragosa’s back.
Of course, having now missed the meeting with Zaragosa, that plan was shot to hell. The Cuban politician was due to return to Havana later this evening and there would be no time to arrange for a second meeting. Mitch wasn’t going to get his papers today. Which meant his easy-as-pie, walk-through-the-front-door entry into Cuba was blown. Now he had to find his own way into that closed country. Illegally. Not that sneaking into Cuba posed any great challenge at the end of the day. He’d infiltrated a hell of a lot more difficult places to penetrate than Cuba in his career. But it was still a pain in the rear. Not to mention any change of plans represented a risk to the mission.
Mitch asked, “Can you guys contact Zaragosa and set up an alternate meeting with him in Cuba? Not Havana. Something on the south coast in a day or two. Maybe Cienfuegos. That’s close to Zaragosa’s old stomping grounds. He ought to be able to come up with an excuse to go there.”
“What about you? Are you gonna be able to get there and blend in with the locals?”
“I’ve spent a fair bit of time operating in that neck of the woods. I’ll be fine. Just tell Zaragosa to press on to Cuba without me and I’ll hook up with him there.”
Kinsey’s shadow passed the porthole as she did some chore outside. Probably trying to keep busy to stave off the panic he’d seen lurking at the back of her baby blues. Odd how fate had thrust this woman into his path. Not being one to look gift horses in the mouth, however, an interesting thought struck him. He could just possibly use her looks to his advantage.
Mitch said thoughtfully, “I may have an idea of how to get into Cuba fast. Can you scrounge up a catamaran for me? Something berthed close to Cuba.”
“I’ll see what I can do. I show you sailing toward the U.S. Virgin Islands right now. Is that correct?”
He glanced out the porthole. “If that means we’re heading south by southwest in the middle of a whole bunch of water, that would be correct.”
“I’ll get the gang working on a catamaran for you.”
“Not pink.”
Hathaway laughed. “Roger that.”
Mitch disconnected the call and pocketed the phone. He ducked through the hatch and squinted at the blazing wedge of red melting across the black water to their feet. It shrunk quickly to a narrow slash of red pulsing on the horizon.
