air in the shelter of the yacht, blinking her stinging eyes clear. The inflatable’s bowline stretched above her head, tied alongside. She retrieved her knife and popped the blade.
Clinging to the yacht’s grab line, she hauled herself up as far as she dared. The yacht shifted with her weight. She froze. Deep voices murmured as the men searched. They’d find her in seconds. She stretched up. Moonlight winked off the blade. The line was inches out of her reach. Shit. Footsteps approached.
She dived and felt her way under the inflatable. The hull was metal and shaped into a deep V—no ordinary rubber boat. If she could steal it, she could get to the other end of the archipelago, at least. She’d passed a couple of inhabited islands that morning.
She popped up on the far side and clutched a cleat, forcing herself to suck in air as if through a straw. Could she sneak aboard and release the bowline before they got to her? She’d have to get in from the stern—the sides of the hull were too steep, and heaving herself up would draw attention.
Something brushed her bare calf. She gasped, drawing up her legs. Had Angry Birds found her? Nobody surfaced. Her heart thundered. If it wasn’t the man, what was—?
A nudge, then something rough skimmed her leg. Not human. A white-tipped dorsal fin sliced through the black water. Holy crap, a shark. One of the oceanic whitetips she’d seen earlier? It’d be testing her, trying to figure out if she was prey. Oh, God. She gripped the knife with one hand and the cleat with the other, forcing her legs to still. It’d expect prey to thrash, to swim away. Stillness would confuse it, right? She fought the urge to hyperventilate. From the port side of the yacht came splashing. Angry Birds. Doubly bad—he was closing in on her and baiting the shark. Her arm shook with the strain of holding herself steady.
A panicked shout burst from the yacht. Had they spotted the shark, or her? She caught movement to her left. Angry Birds slogged through the water with clumsy strokes. Blood trailed from his nose, where she’d clocked him with the winch. He flinched, and his gaze darted below. Was the whitetip scouting him out, too? Or were there more than one? She fought an urge to order him to be still.
He yelled, suddenly thrashing. Holy shit. Fast footfalls and shouts responded from the yacht. Didn’t they have a gun? The man’s body lurched downwards, his scream splitting the air. Her hand spasmed, her muscles burning. Ah, crap, she couldn’t just watch.
“Get a life preserver,” she shouted. “If he can grab it you can pull him up.”
“Where is it?” The capitaine’s tone was urgent, but not panicked, like a shark attack was a minor distraction.
“The stern, starboard side.”
She didn’t stay to watch. With shark and men occupied, she swam as smoothly as she could to the stern of the inflatable, fear clawing her stomach. She pocketed the knife and reached for the ladder, her arm still shaking. The boat swung away. Her fingers slipped off the rung, and she splattered into the water. Crap. Sandpapery skin brushed her sole. Her blood froze. A wave rocked the boat, smashing the outboard into her forehead. She swallowed the flare of pain. Ten yards away, the water churned. A feeding frenzy? The man had stopped screaming. A cry rang out, followed by a splash—too big to be the life preserver. Jesus, had another of the men gone in? Shouts echoed from everywhere—in the water, on the deck.
Another nudge on her leg, harder. She flailed for the ladder, forcing her eyes open against the water slapping her face. How many sharks were there—a whole school? Did they even travel in schools? Did it freaking matter?
A wave dunked her, sweeping her from the boat. She fought her way back, her lungs ready to burst. Her hand hit the rung and she caught it with one finger, lurched forward and clamped the palm over it. Roaring with effort, she anchored her thumb underneath and held on, the bitter burn of salt water in her throat. With the current dragging her away, she had no chance of hauling herself up. Her forearm strained near to snapping. The water swished with the force of something big shooting up underneath her. Her every muscle clenched. She hadn’t survived twenty-nine years of crap to die like this.
Something tugged on Holly’s hand, then clamped under her arms. She thrashed, a scream ripping through her. No give. No pain, either. Maybe she’d die before it set in.
She flew into the air, weightless. What the hell? Below her an oval of ragged teeth crested the water and fell away into blackness. Still she soared. Her stomach dropped. Boof. Breath smacked from her lungs, pain shot through her nose. She’d landed, on something hard. A man’s chest—the capitaine, his arms wrapped tight around her, lying under her on the floor of the inflatable. The boat tilted to starboard. He threw them toward port, then to the center. The vessel wobbled and righted. Silence cloaked them. Holy crap. The shark hadn’t caught her. He had.
Something bumped the hull. She held her breath. A few dozen teeth on a few tubes and they’d be dessert. But everything stilled except the man’s heaving chest and his quick panting rustling her hair. She wheezed in relief, gulping in air. Her nose throbbed.
“Are you hurt?” he said.
Her jellied muscles begged for reprieve. No! You’re not giving up this fight. She took a steadying breath, raised a fist and slammed it into his stomach. Her arm bounced off, pain ripping up to her shoulder. He barely flinched. His arms tightened around her, jamming her nose into his chest. He hooked his legs around hers, pinning her with solid weight. She couldn’t even wriggle.
“I’ll take that as a no,” he said, huskily.
“Let me go.”
“Sure. We can’t lie here all night. But know that you can’t overpower me. Run and I’ll catch you, fight and I’ll win. You are coming with me tonight.”
“Why are you doing this?”
He paused. “Money. What else?” His tone was flat with bitterness. “Cooperate, and no harm will come to you. You have no choice but to trust me.”
Trust him? She’d never met a man she could trust and wasn’t about to start with a pirate. He released his grip, though his muscles remained tense. She coasted down his body and sat up. He sprang to his feet, towering over her. Just what was she up against? The balaclava shaded dark eyes. A tight black T-shirt outlined the taut chest she’d landed on. No wonder his stomach was impenetrable—even in the moonlight she could count the ridges of his six-pack. His sleeves cut across biceps that looked sculpted from granite. How the hell would she escape that?
“What happened to your friends?” she said.
“Gone to a better place than the shit hole they came from.”
“I’m sorry.” What a way to die.
“I doubt that.” He grabbed her wrists and yanked them behind her.
“Ow!”
“I do not trust you to cooperate.” He deftly tied a rope around her wrists, tighter than handcuffs and just as unyielding.
“I can see trust is going to be an issue between us.”
The odds were better now, one-on-one, but he was right—if it came down to a battle of force, he’d steamroller her. He was iron strong, icy calm. Military, probably—and proper military, not some amateur militia. Wasn’t capitaine French for captain? A battle
