“Right. So you’d want tanks with oxygen, helium, and nitrogen. Trimix, yeah? And a special high-performance regulator?”Whattheblueblazesdoyouthinkyou’re doin’?She felt all eyes in the room land on her. “What? My oldest brother is a diver. And he wanted to go down on a wreck that was past the 130-foot mark, so he got certified. All his gear is on board and—”
“Maddy,” Mr. Swoon-Worthy said, and she glanced up to see him smiling at her. She nearly ass-planted at the sight. Because if he was swoon-worthy before, now he was panty-melting. She’d never seen a man quite so handsome.Itshouldbeoutlawed.
“What?” she asked, unconsciously licking her lips.
“Anybody ever tell you that big brass balls and a loud mouth are sexy as hell when they’re combined with deep-dive equipment?”
She snorted, the sound not at all ladylike. “Nope,” she told him, a wry smirk kicking up the corners of her mouth. What the heckfire was wrong with her? Nothing about this situation should make her smile. But here she was, grinning like a loon. “You’d be the first.”
Chapter Fourteen
3:37 p.m.…
“Have they found it yet?” Leo asked, closing the refrigerator door and leaning against it.
Olivia propped her hip on the counter in the yacht’s galley. Unlike the one onWayfarer-I, this floating kitchen had all the bells and whistles. Stainless-steel countertops, rich teakwood cabinets, and a wine refrigerator stocked to the gills with expensive vintages.Fancy. But she preferred the salvage boat’s galley. Probably because it reminded her of Leo. No frills, no frippery, a little rough around the edges, but completely, one hundred percent dependable. Practical. Unfortunately, thanks to her,thatgalley was now sitting at the bottom of the Straits.
Guilt and regret had pretty much become her constant companions since Syria. And when you added in the steaming pile of shit that this day had become? Yeah, she might need to come up with some pet names for the twin emotions soon.
“No.” She shook her head. “But it’s not for lack of trying. Everyone except the engineer and the deckhand, who I suspect are in their cabins slathering themselves in aloe, is on the bridge with eyes on the depth reader and the fish-finder sonar.”
“That can’t be fun,” Leo said, twisting off the cap on a bottle of Fiji water.
“Well, it’s not nearly as high-tech as the equipment onyourship, but since we know approximately where to search, the gear on board should be enough to do the job.”
“I meant bein’ up on the bridge. You know, what with the near-headless terrorist and all.”
“Oh. Yeah.” There wasthat.“Maddy put a sheet over him and another over most of the mess.” The woman was like a shaken soda can, fizzing with energy and vitality. “So it’s not as bad as it was. But, still…” She shuddered.
“You’re not very good around dead bodies, are you?” He took a swig of water, his tan throat working over the liquid. She wanted to stop talking about corpses and walk over there to run her tongue over his pulse point, feel the life in him thrumming hot and heavy against her lips. He would welcome it, she knew.Morethan welcome it. He’d probably make that low, growly noise in the back of his throat, the one that was both a supplication and a warning. But to do that would be the coward’s way out.
She crossed her arms, not sure if the gesture was one of self-defense or more because the interior of the yacht was air-conditioned and the cool air against her damp clothes raised goose bumps. “Isanyonegood around dead bodies?” she asked.
He shrugged one huge, bare shoulder.Hedidn’t seem to notice the chill. Probably because he’d already changed out of his soaking clothes and donned a wet suit. Orpartiallydonned a wet suit. He was only really wearing the lower half. The upper half was unzipped and rolled down around his trim waist, the neoprene arms dangling beside his thickly muscled thighs. That meant his mile-wide chest with its smattering of burnished blond hair was on display. Maddy had called him a golden god. Olivia couldn’t refute her. All that tan skin, all those gleaming muscles, all that health and breadth and heightdidmake him seem almost ethereal. Too perfect to be mortal.
But then there were his scars…
Addonemoretothelist.He’d hurriedly pulled the edges of the torn flesh on his right shoulder together with a half-dozen butterfly bandages. But no amount of suturing would keep it from leaving one whopper of a mark above his big, colorful Navy SEAL Budweiser tattoo. And besides revealing that he was, indeed, corporeal, all the evidence on his body of past injuries spoke rather loudly of the life he’d led. A life of fighting and violence. A life ofkilling.
“Do you ever think maybe the things we do in the name of the flag make us bad people?” she asked, fiddling with the long black thread that had come unraveled from the hem of her tank top. Not meeting his eyes.
“Nope,” he said, his lips making theP-sound really pop. “IknowI’m a bad person.” Andthathad her gaze snapping up to search his face. “I think you have to have a bit of bad in you to do what we do. But we’re bad people workin’ on the good side. And that makes it okay. Because the bad people workin’ on the good side are the only things standin’ between the good people and the bad people who are workin’ on thebadside. Every lie I’ve ever told, every life I’ve ever taken was in the name of keepin’ innocents safe. Andthat’swhat lets me sleep at night.”
Which made sense.Perfectsense. Still…
“I just feel like—” She blew out a breath and glanced over her shoulder toward the line of oblong portholes and the rays of golden light shining through them. Dust motes danced on the beams like tiny sparkling fairies. So pretty. So simple.
Whycan’t everything be that simple? A dance of dust in the sun?
But that was a ridiculous question, wasn’t it? Considering she’d spent her entire life dreaming of being a spy, which was about as far fromsimpleas a person could get. Of course, there was that saying about being careful what you wish for. And its bosom buddy: “Nothing is ever what it seems.”
Maybe she’d justconvincedherself that’s the kind of life she wanted because it was easier. If shechosea solitary existence, a life that kept her from ever getting too close to anyone, no one could ever reject her or pass her over again. Remaining aloof and unloved would beherdecision and—
Whoathere, Nelly. Don’t go getting all maudlin. Next thing you know, you’ll be sporting sweats, eating frozen dinners, and drinking boxed wine. Olivia Mortier: cover girl ofWoe Is Memagazine.
Okay, so, armchair psychoanalysis aside, the fact remained that she still had physical symptoms to worry about. “I get sick to my stomach when I see mortal violence,” she admitted to him. “Literally sick. That’s why I had to leave the bridge. It was either that or introduce everyone up there to the breakfast I had on this morning’s flight to Key West.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
