She was the injured party here. She announced, “I want you off the boat. Now.”
“I’ll bet you do,” he purred.
He could stop sending shivers across her skin like that any time now. “I’m serious.”
He glanced around at the water on all sides with distaste. “You want me to jump overboard?”
“I was thinking more in terms of walking the plank. But I want you off the Baby Doll. I want no part of whatever it is you’re mixed up in.”
Dammit, the guy had a smile so hot it threatened to melt her righteous fury into a completely ineffectual puddle of lust. Spine, woman. Spine! Her gaze narrowed belatedly.
The humor drained from his expression, abruptly leaving it as cold as the arctic. Dread clawed her gut. Absolutely nothing radiated off him now. Not anger, not irritation, not even danger. He went absolutely, totally, completely still.
“There are sharks in these waters,” he finally muttered.
Yeah, and she was looking at the most deadly one of all. Taking a deep breath and mustering up all her courage to stare him down, she replied, “There’s no history in this area of shark attacks on humans. I don’t want any trouble. Please go. The water’s warm and it’s only about a quarter mile to shore.”
The southwestern tip of Tortola was sliding past their port side now.
He sighed and replied almost soothingly, “I’m sorry. I can’t leave you.”
“Can’t you swim?” she challenged a bit tartly.
Aggravation flashed in his gaze, and matching satisfaction surged in her. He snapped, “I swim very well, thank you. Why, I’ve swum with—” He broke off. “Look. We have a little problem. The driver of that boat got a good look at you. Too good a look.”
“And this is a problem why?”
“Because now he has to kill you.”
She huffed in disbelieving laughter. “I’ve never seen that man in my life! Why in the world would he hurt me?”
Perovski’s voice dropped into a careful, reasonable timbre. “I didn’t say hurt. I said kill. And he’d do it because he thinks you got too good a look at him.”
“I barely caught a glimpse of him what with all the bullets flying and wild driving I was doing.”
In an even gentler tone, he replied, “But he doesn’t know that. For all he knows, you could pick him out of a mug book or a lineup. He can’t afford to let you live.”
Her jaw dropped. A killer thought she could finger him? She felt a distinct urge to throw up. “Great. Why did I have to get dragged into this?”
Sounding downright apologetic now, he answered, “No one said anything about there being anyone aboard the Baby Doll. Congressman Hollingsworth said I could borrow his boat, but he didn’t say anything about you being here.”
“He doesn’t know I’m here.”
Perovski started. “Did you steal this boat?”
“Of course not! I just didn’t tell my father I was coming down to the beach house.”
“Your father?” His voice was deadly quiet.
She exhaled hard. “Yeah. My father. Richard Hollingsworth.”
He pounced immediately. “I thought you said your name was Kinsey Pierpont.”
“It is. Kinsey Pierpont Hollingsworth.”
He absorbed that one in silence. So much for anonymity on this little retreat of hers. This guy would brag to someone in a bar about running into Kinsey Hollingsworth, and someone would overhear him. Before she knew it, the local paparazzi would mob her. And any chance at hiding in peace would be blown.
“Your middle name is really Pierpont?”
He didn’t have to sound so bloody amused about it. “What’s yours?” she challenged.
“Edgar,” he admitted.
She suppressed a spurt of laughter. “And you’re giving me grief about Pierpont?”
“I’m named after my grandfather,” he said defensively.
“So am I,” she retorted.
Laughter danced in his eyes, transforming their dangerous depths to a warm, inviting amber. Belatedly, she shook herself free of their spell.
She sighed. “Since you’re the reason I’ve apparently run afoul of the guy in the boat, what do you suggest I do about it?”
He clammed up on her again. It figured. Honestly, the whole idea of some killer tracking her down and offing her was too preposterous. She faced her impromptu companion squarely and said resolutely, “Please leave.”
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
