He’d slung it from a strap over his right shoulder, and it pointed down the length of his muscular thigh. She jerked her gaze away from his weapon nervously.
She ticked off on her fingers, “Boat chase, check. Gun battle, check. Narrow escape, check. What’s next on the agenda, Mister—?” She broke off, leaving the obvious question of his name hanging.
He hesitated just an instant too long. “Perovski. Mitch Perovski.”
“For today, at any rate?” she replied lightly.
“Something like that,” he responded, as dry as the Gobi desert.
Not much of a talker. But then, she could relate. She’d come down here to the islands in search of silence, herself. Relief from the vapid noise of humanity. “My name’s Kinsey—” she hesitated. Rather than give him her well-known last name, she substituted her middle name. “—Pierpont. Kinsey Pierpont.”
She powered the boat up to a safe and inconspicuous cruising speed, closer to twenty knots than eighty. “Where can I take you?”
He snorted. “Anywhere that’s not Tortola, or the British Virgin Islands for that matter.”
The Baby Doll carried fuel for a few hours of cruising, which would reach several nearby islands outside the British chain—not that she’d decided to take him anywhere. “Did you kill that guy?” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.
He shrugged. “A gut shot like that is usually fatal, but since we didn’t stick around to check him out, I wouldn’t call it a confirmed kill.”
He sounded so bloody calm about it. Her heart practically pounded its way out of her chest at the mere thought of that guy toppling overboard.
“What islands can we reach on our current fuel load?” the man asked, abruptly serious again. He’d gone from relaxed to full predator mode in the blink of an eye. The shift was disconcerting.
She glanced down at the fuel gauges. “Where did you have in mind?”
Another shrug. Cagey, he was. “You were the Plan C I wasn’t supposed to need. I didn’t work out the details after the part where you saved my hide. Thanks, by the way.”
“You’re welcome, I think. You are one of the good guys, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
That was it? No explanation? No identification? No reason offered for carrying around that monstrous gun and using it on someone? “And the guy you shot?”
“Definite bad guy.”
It would be far too easy to take this man at his word. She needed to believe him. Needed to believe he wouldn’t turn that gun on her with the same casual ease he had those other guys. Heck, she needed to get on the radio and call the British Coast Guard. She reached for the radio mike and jumped violently when her passenger’s hand whipped out to cover hers. His grip wasn’t painful, but was unmistakably powerful.
“What are you doing?” His voice was a low, dangerous rumble.
The sound vibrated deep in her belly, stirring part fear and part something else altogether. She replied lightly, “I’m calling in the cavalry.”
“Don’t.”
“But—”
“You don’t know what you’re involved in. Don’t call the authorities or the blood of a whole lot of good men could end up on your hands.”
“But those guys were shooting at us—”
“And we shot back.”
“You shot back.”
“I shot back. I need you to leave the police out of this for now. I can’t go into the details but you have to trust me.”
Riiight. Trust him. Not.
“I need you to promise you won’t contact the police. I don’t want to have to restrain you.”
“Restrain—”
He cut her off with a sharp slash of his hand through the air. “Promise.”
Their gazes clashed, hers defiant and his…the sun turned his a molten gold that could consume her whole and melt her down to nothing. A girl could lose herself in those eyes if she wasn’t careful. Very careful.
“Well?” he demanded. “Do we do this the easy way or the hard way?”
Chapter 2
Her gaze narrowed. Oh, how tempting it was to tell him to go to hell. But he was bigger than she was, stronger than she was, and undoubtedly meaner. Then there was his machine gun to consider. Reining in her surliness, she retorted, “I won’t call the police if you’ll put that gun away.”
He stared intently at her for a moment more, clearly weighing her honesty. Then he nodded. “Fair enough.” He pivoted with that extreme, muscular grace of his and padded to the back of the deck where his duffel still lay. She caught the wince that passed across his features.
“Are you okay?” she asked in quick concern. If those guys in the black boat came back, Mitch was her only protection.
“Yeah. It’s a flesh wound. I’ll clean it up when I know we’re safe.”
“It looks bad.”
He glanced down, surprised. “Nah, that’s a little scratch. No organs hanging out or bones showing. I’m good.”
He wasn’t good—he was hurt.
She watched cautiously as he wiped down the machine gun and stowed it in the canvas bag.
Thank God. Being in the presence of that giant weapon made her too nervous to function rationally. Not to mention, he was gorgeous enough to send her pulse into the stratosphere. Her thoughts jumped around as disjointedly as caged monkeys.
“I know your name, but who are you?” she asked more sharply than she’d intended. Panic hovered too close, waiting for the slightest opening in which to pounce.
“I’m American.”
“I can tell you’re American from your accent. But who are you?”
Silence. A frown wrinkled his brow, but he ignored her question. Or maybe chose not to answer.
How rude was that? He’d dragged her into the middle of a shoot-out, for goodness’ sake. A tiny voice in the back of her head said her anger was irrational, but the much louder voice of her fear-morphed-to-fury overruled it. “Who were those men chasing you?”
That got more reaction out of him. A full-blown shrug. Wow. Some communicator. A flinch flickered across his face, then his expression went smooth and impassive again. Except for those incredible eyes of his. They all but ate her alive.
Her insides quailing with some reaction she chose not to examine
