Heather Graham (19 page)

“Is it loaded?” Brittany asked her nervously.

“Of course,” Elly said grimly.

“Maybe I should take it,” Brittany said nervously. She didn’t want Elly shooting Flynn in cold blood. She wanted Flynn to go back to England. She wanted him to stand trial. She wanted them to lock him away for years and years, until he was so old that he could never seduce a little old lady out of her money again, or a foolish young one into loving him …

“I’ll keep it,” Elly insisted. “Shh!” Brittany became aware of voices then. Juan’s voice, first, she thought. And he was speaking in rapid Spanish. To Flynn she was certain. She heard bitter laughter—Ian’s, probably. He told Flynn that he could go to hell, adding, “I should have known. I should have known that you were the ever-illustrious El Drago.”

Elly gripped Brittany’s arm fiercely. She swallowed nervously. “They’re right through that door. In the captain’s cabin. You throw it open; I’ll hold the gun on them.”

Brittany still wasn’t sure that she liked Elly having the gun, but there really wasn’t any time to waste. Even having the gun, she wouldn’t feel safe against Flynn once he was forewarned of their presence.

She nodded and together the girls edged toward the door. They both swallowed. Elly looked at her with wide, pleading eyes.

Brittany nodded again. Elly stepped back and she threw the door open.

“Freeze right where you are, Flynn Colby! You, too, Juan. I swear, I’ll shoot you if I have to!” Elly swore.

Three pair of incredulous eyes trained on the two of them. Ian was sitting on the large masted bed that occupied a large portion of the cabin—and he was handcuffed, as Elly had said. He also had a bruise about his eye which promised to be a shiner by morning. He looked sullen and irritable. Brittany noticed that the sheets were mussed and that Ian was minus his shirt and she presumed that Flynn’s piracy had interrupted his and Elly’s lovemaking.

Juan and Flynn were in the corner of the cabin, opening a set of packing boxes. Hunched down on the balls of their feet, they stared as blankly as Ian did.

Ian looked from Brittany with surprise and a smile to Elly. “Well bless your hearts, luvs,” he murmured. “Hold that gun steady, Elly. Tell Flynn to get these things off me. Tell him you’ll shoot him in the kneecaps if he doesn’t. I should have the gun, Elly.”

Elly looked nervously from Ian to Flynn. Juan didn’t move. He kept staring at Elly. Flynn cast Brittany one scathing glance, then stood, locking his eyes with Elly’s.

“Flynn! You heard him!” Elly’s voice rose high and shrill. “Take the cuffs off him!”

Flynn didn’t move. He set his hands on his hips and stared at Elly.

“You don’t want me to do that,” he told her softly.

“Yes, she does!” Brittany suddenly screeched. What was he, an idiot? Oh, God, she wanted him locked away. She didn’t want to see him standing there, staring Elly down when Elly was holding the gun with trembling fingers.

After all this …

Oh, what a fool she was, because she knew that she wouldn’t be able to bear it if Elly did pull the trigger, if she put a bullet hole in Flynn’s broad chest, if he fell to the floor in a pool of blood …

And the stupid, stupid man! He was standing there, calm, deadly calm, watching Elly. Glancing quickly at Brittany with eyes that sizzled out a hard silver warning, as if he were still the one in charge, as if El Drago could defy bullets.

“Flynn …” Elly said. Her voice was growing weaker.

He took a step toward her, slowly, reaching out a hand.

“Elly, dammit, shoot him!” Ian shouted.

Brittany inhaled, trembling miserably. Flynn took another step toward Elly. Elly told him to stop. The gun shook in her outstretched hands.

Brittany was terrified that Elly would pull the trigger.

She was equally afraid that she would not; that Flynn would never be afraid of her, that what they had done would only make things worse. They all knew who Flynn was, and that Juan was a conspirator. Could Flynn afford to let them live?

“Elly, Elly!”

She cried out the words herself and made a sudden swoop toward the girl, wrenching the gun from the shaking fingers, holding it herself on Flynn and backing away from him. Elly cried out in a little sob and sank down to the carpeting, crying softly. Ian started to say something to her; Brittany didn’t hear it. She couldn’t even see the others. All she saw was Flynn. He stared at her now. And he didn’t pause. He kept coming toward her, too, reaching for the gun.

“Brittany, give it to me. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Flynn, get back. I’m not eighteen and I swear I don’t want to hurt you, but Ian is right, if I shoot your kneecap, you’ll survive, but you’ll do so in a great deal of pain.”

He did pause then. He stared at her. Then he spun around, staring toward the bed, shouting, “What was that?”

Surely, surely, it was the oldest trick in the book.

And Brittany fell for it. Her eyes followed his warning, and in those split seconds, he made a dive for her. She was suddenly flat on the floor with his weight over her, his face grim, his mouth a line as he shook her wrist, tensing his hold, until she dropped the pistol.

Then he smiled icily. “Thank you.”

He stood up, dragging her along with him, keeping a twist lock on her arm so that she couldn’t begin to escape him. “Juan,” he murmured, sounding weary, “Juan,
amigo
, can you handle things this side until the troops arrive?”

Juan gazed down at Elly, who was still crying softly on the floor. He gazed toward Ian—silent and hostile. He shrugged and grinned at Flynn.

“
Sí
.”

Then he gazed at Brittany and smiled broadly. “
Sí
,” he repeated.

Brittany winced as Flynn forced her to turn about and prodded her back through the salon, and up the steps.

“Where are we going now?” she demanded harshly.

“Should I make you walk the plank?” he queried at her earlobe.

“I really don’t see one,” she replied coolly. It couldn’t be happening. Why did her heart still pound? How could she still think that the subtle scent he carried was pleasant and alluring and sexual …

He was probably going to kill her. He would be charming until the very end. She would be torn like this until she drew her last breath …

No. She stiffened. He wasn’t a cold-blooded murderer. He would probably set them adrift and disappear. Somewhere else. Down to Africa, perhaps.

“Let’s go, my little mermaid. Back to my—uh—pirate ship.”

She really didn’t have any choice. When she balked, he picked her up bodily and scissored his legs from deck to deck with her in his arms.

Fear enveloped her when he headed straight down the steps and back to the cabin where she had been his prisoner. She stiffened, and when he kicked the door open, she panicked. She tried to twist and flail against him but he laughed and cast her down to the bunk and then fell upon her, his weight trapping her, his wet clothing soaking through the sheer damp fabric she had left to clothe her. She stared at him, frightened, hating him …

Still in disbelief. He was so arresting. Dark and dangerously handsome and alluring and she had fallen in love with a thief …

“Why didn’t you shoot?”

“What?”

“Why didn’t you shoot? You had the chance.”

She squirmed beneath his weight. She would never shift him, and she knew it. She only succeeded in bringing them closer and closer.

She lifted her chin.

“I didn’t wish to kill you in cold blood.”

“That was noble of you.”

“I would now,” she promised.

He smiled, lowered his lashes, and brought his hand to her cheek. “Would you really?”

“I would! And stop that!”

“Why?”

“I despise you! You killed my aunt! You’ve robbed time and time again and—”

“You don’t despise me. You would have shot me,” he whispered softly.

“I do despise you,” she swore, and then she went hastily silent because a sob threatened in her voice and at this late date, she swore she wasn’t going to be a coward where he was concerned.

“You still don’t see …” he whispered. “Oh well.”

He sat up suddenly, pulling his damp black shirt over his shoulders and casting it aside. Brittany looked at him in horror.

“What are you doing?” she rasped out.

He stared at her, smiling broadly. For all the world like a true pirate, victorious after hauling a great booty.

But then he was victorious, wasn’t he?

“Well, I’m a pirate, aren’t I?” he asked her, quite naturally. He stood, and in utter amazement, she stared at him. His shoulders were damp and glowing in that sleekness. All the sinews and muscles of his shoulders and chest were sharply delineated and all his power seemed evident.

And all she could do was stare …

He smiled again, sat at the edge of the bed even as she crept as high and tight as she could against the headboard. He cast off his squeaking sneakers and socks and then stood, and even as she gasped, he grimaced, and struggled out of his wet black jeans.

He leaned over her and smiled again.

“Pirates ravish people, you know,” he told her lightly.

“I’ll scream!” she promised him stupidly.

He shrugged. What the hell difference did it make?

But he didn’t touch her. He walked, easy and comfortable in his nudity—and why not? They had been together easy and comfortable that way dozens of times—and went over to the wardrobe.

He drew out a new pair of worn jeans and slid into them, his back to her. He found a yellow knit shirt and slipped that over his head and then returned to the wardrobe, producing a terry robe which he tossed to her.

“Put that on.” He grinned. “That’s the most outlandish outfit I’ve ever seen. I might rather like it myself. I’ve always been fond of garters. But you look like a stripper out of some little joint on 42nd Street in the Big Apple.”

The robe landed on her lap. Brittany looked from the robe to Flynn in astonishment.

“I’m sorry—did I disappoint you? If I’m supposed to ravish you, I’ll gladly oblige. Really I—”

He paused suddenly, listening. Then he snapped his fingers.

“Sorry, Ms. Martin. Your ravishment will have to wait.”

Ignoring her, he turned around and left her in the cabin. Free. And the door was open.

Hopelessly confused and aching, Brittany bounded from the bunk and followed him. He was up on deck—and a third vessel was coming alongside them. A man in white was waving to Flynn.

“Everything all right?”

“Fine,” Flynn shouted back. He noticed that Brittany was behind him. “Want to cast over a line, there, Brit?”

“What?”

Juan made an appearance on the deck of Ian’s yacht. “Eh,
amigo
! How’s it going?”

“Great—we’ve got the big fish!”

Brittany found that her knees didn’t hold her anymore. They buckled, and she found herself sitting on the deck, staring as the boats came together, as the lines were thrown and drawn, as the gray-haired man with the very proper British accent came hopping from deck to deck.

He glanced at her curiously, smiled, but offered his hand quickly to Flynn. Juan hopped from boat to boat, and shook hands with the gray-haired man, too.

“We’ve got everything?” he asked then, a little anxiously.

Flynn nodded. “The jewelry is all in the crate in Drury’s cabin. It’s what we’ve been waiting for. A definite connection.”

The gray-haired man nodded, made a motion toward his own ship, and was joined by two other men who nodded at Flynn and Juan but did not stop to chat—they proceeded on to Ian’s yacht and disappeared below.

“Well, that’s it, then. We can’t tarry long,” the gray-haired man said, “we’re not really in international waters. We’ve got to move out. I promise drinks and dinner as soon as you’re back in London, though. Juan,
amigo
, you must take a vacation, too.”

“
Sí
, I think that I will,” Juan said. He looked at Brittany, grinning. “
Sí
, I think that I will make it to London for the wedding.”

“Wedding?”

The gray-haired man turned back to Brittany with surprise, then he stared at Flynn with astonishment and came over to Brittany, helping her back up to her feet.

“Chief Ellsworth Harrington, Brittany Martin—my fiancée,” Flynn explained. “Oh—and if you need help at the trial … well, you know. I told you about her aunt. Alice Whalen.”

“Oh, yes,” Ellsworth Harrington said. He patted Brittany’s hand. “I’m sorry, lass, truly sorry. If we should need your help—?”

She couldn’t speak. She was still too confused to speak. She nodded.

“London then!” Harrington said. He squeezed Brittany’s hand again, then dropped it easily. He saluted Flynn and started back for his own craft. One of the other men appeared topside of Ian’s yacht with Elly Jones in tow.

“Colby!” he called out to Flynn. “Am I supposed to take this one too?”

“No, she’s not guilty of anything but lovesickness,” Flynn called back. Juan moved to help Elly from Ian’s yacht to Flynn’s little powerboat. Flynn gazed over at Brittany, his eyes shimmering now with humor.

“It’s a rather hopeless disease,” he said softly, for her ears only, “with definitely dangerous potential.”

Ellsworth Harrington shouted to his men to cast off. Flynn stopped gazing at Brittany to free Ian’s yacht and Harrington’s craft from his own. Juan held Elly; the four of them silent while the other ships moved until they blended in with the velvet-and-ink darkness of the night.

Elly was still crying. Flynn turned to her, gently.

“Elly, you have to understand,” he told her with quiet patience. “He was hurting people. Really hurting them—”

Elly didn’t let him finish. She tore from Juan and threw herself against Flynn’s chest.

“I’m sorry, Flynn. I’m sorry, I didn’t want to believe you, I didn’t—Flynn, I could have shot you. Flynn …?”

“Elly,” he said. “You didn’t shoot me. That’s what is important.” He smoothed blond hair from her forehead and smiled. “We won’t tell your dad a thing, huh? Why don’t you go down to the galley and get yourself a glass of wine and maybe take a little nap while we head back in, huh?”

Elly nodded. Tears were welling in her eyes again. When she turned around and had to face Brittany, she started crying all over again.