was suddenly aware of the softness of her breasts pressed against his back, the firmness of her buttocks beneath his splayed fingers. With every step, his breathing grew more labored—not from exertion but awareness.
He’d been too busy over the past few months to worry about his own physical needs—an oversight that his body had been protesting since he’d accepted this assignment and first set eyes on Shannon. He concentrated on the final rung, accepting that he would have to endure the protests a while longer.
Once on the bridge, he dumped her unceremoniously onto a padded leather seat. He knew there were towels belowdeck, but he didn’t want to leave her for a minute. He didn’t trust her not to disappear into the water again while his back was turned. Instead, he grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders.
“You can ask all the questions you want on the way back,” he promised her. “If at any point you don’t like my answers—you’re free to jump overboard again.”
Shannon drew her knees toward her chest, tucking the ends of the blanket around her bare legs.
“Th-thanks.” The shiver in her voice didn’t quite conceal the sarcasm.
She was still so cold, so tired, so thirsty. But at least now she could close her eyes and not worry about drowning. Unfortunately, until all her questions had been answered, she wasn’t going to take her eyes off this man who continued to claim he was Michael Courtland.
She shivered again, pulled the blanket tighter.
He held a plastic bottle of water toward her. “Drink.”
She nearly wept with gratitude as she reached a hand out from beneath the cover to accept the offering.
“Th-thanks,” she said again, minus the sarcasm this time.
But her fingers were numb, clumsy, and she couldn’t seem to twist the lid. He placed his hand on top of hers, the warmth of his skin seeping into hers, and easily removed the top.
She felt her cheeks flush with humiliation. There was nothing she hated more than being helpless, and there was no denying how completely weak and helpless she was now.
Or maybe, a little voice inside her head taunted, the warmth seeping through her limbs had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with a more primal response to this man. There was nothing personal in the way he touched her, but she couldn’t deny that the strength of his hand, the heat from his skin, brought to mind very personal memories of last night.
She tipped the bottle to her lips and drank deeply, desperately.
“Slowly,” he admonished.
She forced herself to take smaller sips.
He crouched beside her chair and rubbed his hands briskly over her arms, the friction generating welcome heat. “Are you okay?”
His eyes reflected the genuine compassion and concern she heard in his voice.
Genuine?
She nearly laughed aloud at the thought. As if she would recognize genuine. In the past several hours, she’d been conned by two different men, including this one—and she was determined not to let him con her again.
“F-fine,” she finally responded to his question.
To her surprise he smiled. “You’re one hell of a swimmer, Shannon Vaughn.”
The hint of admiration in his voice was as unexpected as the smile. She didn’t know how to respond to such a comment, or even if she wanted to.
“I saw you go into the water when you left the Femme Fatale,” he admitted. “Of course, I lost you when you submerged, but I figured you’d have to surface again eventually.”
“You were l-looking for m-me? The whole t-time?”
He shrugged, stood up.
“Why?”
Instead of answering her question, he said, “Maybe that should wait until we get back to Miami—in case you decide you want to throw me overboard.”
She shook her head. “You said I c-could ask whatever questions I wanted. I n-need to know what’s going on. Why Drew wants to k-kill me. And how you f-figure into this.”
Michael slipped his shoes back on before moving toward the bridge to restart the engines and set them on course for Florida.
“I can’t say for certain why he wants you dead,” he said. “Except that it’s probably retribution for Conroy’s death.”
“I didn’t even know the m-man,” Shannon protested.
“But your sister did.”
She pulled the ends of the blanket more tightly around her. Warmth was slowly seeping into her limbs, numbness gradually giving way to a dull ache, but she still couldn’t stop shivering. “How d-do you know that?”
“Because I’m a private investigator hired by Dylan Creighton to watch out for you while you were on vacation.”
She remained silent.
“Let me guess, that’s the same story Peart told you?”
She nodded.
Michael swore. “He obviously planned this whole thing through carefully, starting with the break-in of your hotel room.”
“What do you m-mean?”
“It occurred to me that nothing was taken because he only wanted to scare you, so you’d be more susceptible to his story and more eager for his protection when he appeared at your door.”
“But why? If he really wants m-me dead, why didn’t he just shoot m-me then? Not that I’m not grateful he didn’t, b-but why?”
He shrugged. “Zane Conroy was a master manipulator, and it’s possible, if Peart’s goal is to avenge Conroy’s death, he plans to do so as Conroy would have done.”
She remembered the way Natalie, as the new A.D.A. in Fairweather, had been set up to find a dead body and later to prosecute the murderer, who had also been set up by Conroy, and realized his explanation made sense.
“Or it could simply be that Peart isn’t high enough in the organization to do the deed himself,” he suggested as another possibility.
“He m-mentioned someone named A.J.,” she admitted. “Said he would decide how and when I was to be m-made an example of.”
“Then I’d say you’re lucky you didn’t stick around long enough to meet him.”
She remained silent, but nodded her agreement.
“I know you’re scared, but you can trust me, Shannon.”
She wanted to trust him. She wanted to believe there was someone really on her side, that she wasn’t alone in this. But how could she? How could she know for certain that this man was any better than Drew?
Okay,
