The talk with Jake had given my temper a chance to cool down, although I was still frustrated and pissed off.

Mila’s stubbornness was one of the things I appreciated about her, but right now, it wasn’t doing anything but making things worse.

You’re not helping. Try to understand where she’s coming from.

I wanted to silence the voice, but I couldn’t.

I did get why Mila wasn’t happy, maybe even more than she did. Mila appreciated being in control, in being able to control the things around her. Now she was in a situation that was completely out of her control, and there was only so much she could do.

As somebody who appreciated control myself, I could understand how that was frustrating to her.

On top of that, the helplessness she probably felt was only going to make it worse.

I sure as hell had some of those feelings of helplessness surging inside me, along with a whole bunch of what ifs. What if I’d been a little faster getting to the bungalow? What if Mila had gone back there, unaware of the danger, and the guy who tossed her place was lying in wait?

What if we weren’t able to find who was responsible before he went after Mila again?

The answers to those scenarios did nothing to help calm my thoughts, and I made myself stop the what-if game.

There was no winning that game, and all it would do was complicate matters when I needed them to be terribly simple.

I needed to go back to the bungalow and talk to Mila – talk, not dictate.

And somewhere along the line, I needed to figure out how to tell her what I’d just figured out.

I’m in love with her.

I didn’t know when it had happened. I don’t know how it happened.

But it had happened, and now I needed to figure out how to handle what I felt for her and still be objective enough to take care of her. Personally, I’d be fine with locking her in a room and lying in wait for anybody who didn’t belong to dare come near her.

But Mila was pissed off enough just being asked to keep a couple of security guards with her and to be careful. She’d probably pelt me with whatever hard objects came to hand if I suggested she lock herself inside until we had this dealt with. That wasn’t the woman I knew.

It wasn’t the woman I’d fallen in love with either.

We’d find some way around this – something we could do to keep her safe without her feeling like she was stifling.

* * *

The two security guards outside Mila’s temporary bungalow nodded at me as I approached.

“It’s been quiet,” the older of the two told me. “I think she’s been watching some TV.”

Swiping my keycard, I slid inside.

The TV was on, but a quick look at the couch told me Mila wasn’t sitting there watching.

I spied an empty wine glass on the coffee table as I walked through the room.

Had she gone to bed?

It wasn’t really late, but she’d had a rough day. I knew I was worn out.

If she was asleep…

I brushed the thought aside. If she was asleep, I’d join her, and we’d finish this talk tomorrow.

But the door to the bedroom hung open, and as I approached, I saw light spilling out into the hallway.

And it was quiet – the whole bungalow was quiet.

My stomach went tight as I processed that. “Mila?” I called out.

There wasn’t an answer.

I shoved into the bedroom and found the bed empty. The bathroom door stood open, the lights off. I swore and spun around, hurriedly checking the rest of the bungalow. It was empty.

I yanked open the door to the terrace, but she wasn’t out there.

Turning on my heel, I ran through the bungalow and shoved the door open. “She’s gone,” I said, the words coming out in a growl. “I think she went out through the terrace, but she’s not there now.”

Immediately, the older security guard grabbed his radio from his belt.

I pointed at the younger one. “Call Millie. Let her know. See if there’s any place she thinks Mila might have gone.”

I turned on my heel and went right back through the bungalow, into the bedroom and out the terrace door. Following the stone path to the gate that led out of the terraced area, I moved to stand in one of the many pathways that connected one part of the resort to another. I stood there and listened.

I didn’t hear anything.

Turning my head, I spied one of the discreet signs etched into a post set along the pathway.

One arrow pointed toward the main lodge.

Another pointed toward the grotto and swimming pool.

Another still pointed away from the lodge itself…toward the beach.

I followed that path, my ears pricked, eyes searching everything.

* * *

I didn’t run into anybody on my way down to the beach.

That, in and of itself, was odd.

The entire island seemed to be a hotbed of activity no matter what the hour, and here it was, early Friday evening and nobody was heading back to the resort from the beach.

The cool wind whipping through the air probably had something to do with that, but I ignored it as I trudged along the path, my eyes scanning everything, everywhere.

I caught the first, faint sound when I was still too far away to make out much of anything beyond the circles of light cast down by the carefully spaced out street lights.

I paused, head cocked as I listened for it to come again.

Shouting.

I took off running, heading in the direction of the shout – toward the beach.

My heart lunged up into my throat as I rounded the final bend in the path.

The electric lights that lit most of the pathways stopped here. They didn’t extend down to the beach front, and I was light-blinded by them as I first moved off the path. I squinted my eyes to better see what I was looking at.

I heard nothing but my heart pounding in my ears.

A scream exploded into the night, and adrenaline surged through me as I ran toward the sound.

My eyes adjusted to the dark, and I could finally make out the deeper shadows of the water, the beach chairs placed side by side in the sand.

And out in the surf, there were two people.

My instincts sharpened. One of them was Mila.

I knew it in my gut.

I ran harder, faster, blood roaring in my ears, my heart racing.

Mila was fighting against the grip of a man who looked like he stood a good head taller than me. He was yanking her along, and when she jerked back against him, he turned and backhanded her.

I ran harder, harder than I’d ever run in my life as Mila sagged, dazed.

She went limp, and a shout burned its way up my throat. I silenced it, my focus locked on the man who was now pulling Mila’s limp body along behind him.

He heard me when I was still a few feet away and spun to face me, one hand dipping inside his coat.

I hurled myself at him, and the two of us went down into the surf.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Mila stagger to her feet, then sway. She shook her head and somehow stayed on her feet.

Movement off to my left caught my attention, and I came out of the water just as the man I’d tackled stood up on unsteady legs and swung a gun toward Mila.

Grabbing his wrist, I shoved it upward.

The shot went wild.

I slammed a fist into the man’s face, feeling like I’d just decked a granite wall.

He swung a fist at me in retaliation, and as it connected with my jaw, pain exploded.

But I held onto his arm.

He roared and shifted his focus to me.

“Mila,” I called back over my shoulder. I didn’t so much as blink as I faced off with the big guy. “Run.”