Full Exposure

Cold reality chilled his ardor. She was right.

Involvement with her could cost him everything.

He had a job to do. He couldn’t afford to pay her price. Both of them would pay dearly—with their lives—if he botched it.

He hadn’t survived years in a cutthroat occupation by being gullible enough to shut his eyes or turn his back on anyone. But he ducked his head when she slid off his lap—as much for himself as for her.

He finished dressing first and shot a glance sideways. Though she blocked the furtive movements, he watched her unearth a plastic-wrapped parcel from beneath a rock and cram it in her hip pocket. She still had her secrets.

And so did he.

Dante averted his gaze as she rose and stepped toward him. “I’m ready.” He pivoted, and she gingerly rubbed her back. “Camping on the beach sounds so romantic in stories. I don’t know about you, but sleeping on sand redefines abrasion. When I get back, we can explore.”

As he watched her slowly meander down the beach, a lightning bolt of desire seared him and he swore. Ariana was either remarkably naive, or the most cunning opponent he’d ever crossed blades with. And he’d parried with plenty of players.

Either way, he was in trouble.

He had to stay alert. Censor every word and action, so he didn’t end up speared on his own rapier.

Then again, perhaps that was his destiny.

But he’d prefer not to die today. Dante stalked in the opposite direction to complete morning necessities, and then strode to the foamy surf. He stepped over the abandoned oar and crouched to wash his hands. Hoping to invigorate his brain, he splashed his face with cold seawater.

“Dante!” Ariana yelled.

Adrenaline rocketed through his system. He snatched the oar and surged to his feet. Heart pounding, he spun, ready for battle.

Stumbling toward him, she pointed at the bluff. “Look!”

Dante tilted his head. At the top of the mountain, weak sunlight flickered on glass. The energy pumping through him ratcheted up a notch. “There appears to be a house at the crest of the bluff.” Set back from the hillside, the cottage was a speck in the craggy landscape.

She grabbed his hand. “Let’s go!”

“Un momento.” Dante shocked Ariana by towing her up the rocky shoals and into the lee of the cliff.

Her temper ignited and she rounded on him. “What is your problem?”

“You are my problem.” Dante glowered at her. “Like it or not, you are mine to protect. And I will do what I must to keep you alive.”

Ariana inhaled a slow breath. He meant well. Dante had saved her life…several times. And taken several beatings. “I appreciate that. But I asked you to stop yanking me around like a sock puppet.”

“I am not accustomed to decision by committee. In my world, hesitation is lethal.” Dante scrubbed a hand over his beard. “We were not left here at random. We don’t know who resides in that house. Who is watching us. Whether they will help us or try to kill us.”

Her hopes plummeted. Absolutely right. She was in his territory, and he held the key to survival. “Valid point.” If Dante thought he felt odd making decisions by committee, he had no idea how off balance she felt at reacting with her emotions. The life-or-death events she’d faced the past few weeks, and especially the past few days, had outed a primitive facet of herself. A wildness that scared her, but once loosed wouldn’t be caged. “Now what?”

Dante’s biceps flexed as he raised his knee and snapped the bottom off the oar. His swift, graceful demonstration of masculine power left her gaping. No one of her acquaintance could do anything as impressive.

Dante handed her the staff and inclined his head at the twisted, vertical path scored into the bluff. “Now we climb.”

The rugged goat track was barely wide enough for them to trudge side by side. Steely clouds crowded the sky, and as they left the beach, wind gusts buffeted them. He insisted she wear his coat, though two of her could fit inside. It smelled deliciously of supple leather…and Dante.

She struggled to keep up his challenging pace. Dried scrub and rocks jutted from the terrain and gnarled cypress trees clung to the hillside. Her sore muscles protested every step, and the walking stick helped. During her years of asthma attacks, she had endured not feeling well, but even then, whining wasn’t in her nature. Dante had said she was his problem, and her pride refused to give him more reasons to resent her. She would not be a burden. She raised her chin and soldiered on.

Talking would have deflected her misery as they toiled up the rocky incline, but Dante’s monosyllabic replies discouraged her numerous attempts at conversation. The only sounds were the surf’s rhythmic crash from below and squawking seagulls.

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