Chapter 17

Dagan thought he heard Chelsea mumble something that sounded like, Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit when a larger-than-usual wave momentarily tipped the catamaran at a precarious angle. He loved it when she got all Southern-fried, as she called it, on him. But even in the gloom, he could see her face had been leached of color. There was a slight tremor in her fingers where they wrapped tightly around the boat’s railing.

He would give his left nut if there was a way to save her from having to make this swim. But for the life of him, he couldn’t think of another option that would allow them to evade the Border Agency ship and avoid getting caught by Roper fuckin’ Morrison.

“This is one of those good ol’-fashioned gut-it-out situations,” he told her, hoping to convey comfort with his tone.

Her throat worked over a hard swallow. “Like Rusty said, piece of cake.” He could tell she was trying to convince herself more than she was trying to convince him, and his heart swelled with pride for her. Then she snapped her fingers and said, “Lordy. I almost forgot.”

Pulling off her glasses, she handed them to him so he could add them to the waterproof bag. After he did, she smiled her thanks. Just at that moment, the sun peeked out, throwing rays over the waves at the edge of the pier, which in turn reflected up to cast a golden glow over her pretty face. It made her look so…unguarded. And vulnerable. And not at all cut out for this kind of shit.

He was a second away from telling Rusty they needed to come up with a new plan when Ace slipped over the side of the catamaran into the choppy water. The former Navy flyboy came up gasping, squeegeeing the water from his eyes and shaking his head.

With one of his mercurial facial expressions, all laughing eyes and perpetually smiling mouth, Ace looked to Dagan as if he was on the verge of telling a joke. Admittedly, most times he was. So Dagan wasn’t surprised when Ace grinned up at them and said, “Come on in! The water’s so fine it’ll blow your dick off!”

Christian’s mouth quirked before he also slid quietly overboard. He dragged the waterproof bag with him, and it hit the water next to the boat with a gentle sploosh. The thing was buoyant. But just barely. A scant inch of the army-green material showed above the waves. Dagan did not look forward to dragging his own packed bag through thirty yards of surf.

Never one to be outdone, Emily took a deep breath and pitched herself over the side of the catamaran. She hit the water with all the grace of a buffalo and came up squawking.

“How bad is it?” Chelsea asked.

“Colder than a w-witch’s t-tit in a brass b-bra.” Emily’s teeth chattered. She wasted no time turning to tread water toward shore.

And then there were two.

“Let me go first,” Dagan told Chelsea when he saw her gather herself to take the plunge. He wanted her in the water for the shortest time possible. Blowing out two big breaths and steeling himself, he said, “Screw it. Here goes,” and shoved overboard.

The instant he hit the water, his muscles contracted, shrinking away from the shock of the cold. When he surfaced, it was to find Chelsea bobbing next to him. The wonderfully willful woman must have waited a full half-second before following him into the drink.

She was always trying to prove herself. It made him absolutely crazy. The risks she took? The shit she volunteered for?

This entire mission, for instance? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

Then again, she’d demonstrated just how capable she was time and again, so maybe he was the one with the problem. Still, he couldn’t help growling at her. “What happened to me going first?”

“B-best just to get it over w-w-with,” she chattered. Her dusky-pink lips were already tinged with blue.

“Stubborn, confounding woman,” he groused, motioning for Rusty to toss down the remaining waterproof bag.

Chelsea began stroking toward the others, but not before saying, “Oh, sh-shove a sock in it, Werewolf of London.”

If his face hadn’t been frozen, he would have smiled. There had been awkwardness between them after their conversation in the belly of Rusty’s boat. But her words gave him hope that it was a passing phase.

Wasting no time, he tied the line attached to the float bag around his chest and swam after Chelsea. Instead of focusing on how cold he was, on how much he hurt, he turned his mind back to the catamaran’s hold, to the flame Chelsea had become in his arms. Her passion had burned so hot, so bright that she had set something inside him ablaze. The fire burned still, slowly turning to ash all his fears of the future and the great unknown it held, all his reasons for not agreeing to her terms.