Dangerous Passions

Okay, he had very likely saved her from drowning, and she had to admit that was a big point in his favor. But her doubts and uncertainties were too numerous to be so easily overcome, and they multiplied further when she realized Michael was turning the boat around again.

“Isn’t Miami the other way?”

“It is,” he agreed, his tone grim. “And so is the Femme Fatale.”

She squinted. She could see something in the distance—a dark blip on the horizon. But she couldn’t tell if it was even a boat, never mind Peart’s yacht.

“How d-do you know?”

He tossed her a pair of binoculars.

She held them to her eyes, adjusted the focus. Her breath caught in her throat as the boat seemed to jump toward her. It was the Femme Fatale, and it was moving fast, slicing easily through the choppy water as it sped toward them.

She lowered the binoculars, exhaling a shaky sigh when the vessel magically retreated into the distance again. “B-but there’s no way they can know I’m with you, on this b-boat.”

Michael didn’t say anything.

“C-can they?”

“Peart used my name to get to you,” he reminded her. “Which means he knows who I am and why I was in Miami. It’s logical that he’d try to find me to find you again.”

“M-maybe we should radio for help,” she suggested, wondering that she hadn’t thought of it sooner.

“The radio doesn’t work.”

“Oh.”

He nodded grimly. “It’s just you and me.”

She shivered as she stared out at the blue sky and even bluer water—less from cold than apprehension this time. “What are we g-going to do now?”

“We’re going to duck in behind that island,” he said, nodding toward a small landmass directly ahead of them. “And hope like hell they go right past.”

She fell silent, staring at the island that still looked so far away, not daring to watch Drew’s yacht draw steadily nearer.

“Have you ever piloted a boat?”

The abruptness of the question startled her, and it took a moment for her to respond. “No.”

“Well, let’s hope you’re a quick learner.”

“Why?”

“Because I need you to take over here, just for a couple of minutes.”

When she hesitated, Mike put his hands on her waist, guiding her into position at the helm. There was nothing of the passionate lover in his touch, yet somehow it evoked a flood of memories of those same hands on her skin the night before.

“Why?” she asked again.

But he’d already disappeared below deck.

Shannon blew out a breath and tightened her fingers around the wheel. She hoped he didn’t have any particular course he expected her to follow, because she had no idea what she was doing. She simply fought to hold the craft steady as it bounced along on top of the rolling waves, lurching and swaying.

The blanket fell from her shoulders, but she didn’t dare let go to retrieve it.

A couple of minutes, he’d said.

It was the longest two minutes of her life—except maybe those last two minutes she was in the water. Two endless minutes in which she couldn’t help but wonder how her life had turned down this path, how everything had spun so completely out of her control.

Michael’s return put an end to her ineffectual ruminations.

He carried a backpack slung over one shoulder, which he dropped at his feet before nudging her away from the wheel. “I’ll take over now.”

She stepped back gratefully, her gaze once again drawn reluctantly to the pursuing boat.

It was closer now. Too close.

Michael was right—there was no way they could outrun Drew’s yacht. And although she still wasn’t sure she trusted him, she couldn’t deny that she needed him right now. Which meant that he needed to know the full extent of the threat they were facing.

She swallowed, forcing down the fear that was clawing its way up her throat, then said, “They have weapons on the yacht.”

The information didn’t surprise Mike; the fact that Shannon knew about the illegal arsenal did.

“What kind of weapons?” he asked.

“I don’t know. They were packed in straw inside a wooden crate. Guns of some kind, and some tube-shaped things.”

Her description, vague though it was, confirmed what Garcia had told him. “Could be AK-47s,” he told her. “And shoulder-mounted rockets and RPGs.”

He maneuvered the boat around the tip of the island, cutting the Femme Fatale from view—at least for the moment.

She worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “What does all that mean?”

He could give her any number of specs on each of those weapons: caliber, velocity, effective range. But he figured all she really needed to know could be summed up in a single word. “Trouble.”

“I’m starting to wish I’d never left Chicago,” she admitted.

“If Peart had already made up his mind that you were his target, you wouldn’t have been any safer there.”

She fell silent again.

He wished there was something he could say or do to reassure her, some way he could comfort her. But his priority right now was to keep her safe, and to do that he needed to stay focused. If last night had taught him nothing else, it had at least proven that touching Shannon Vaughn blew his focus all to hell.

He concentrated on steering the boat. They were getting into shallower water now, closer to the island. Close enough he could see through the turquoise water to the rocks on the bottom, and he didn’t want to risk damaging the hull.

He heard Shannon’s quick intake of breath and turned to see the bow of the Femme Fatale appear around the bend.

“We need to get to the island,” he said. “It will be easier to evade them on land.”