Swept Away (18 page)

He stood looking at her, a little dumbfounded. “Sure, kitten,” he said quietly, not wanting to
fight her anymore. “Take your walk. I won’t stop you.”

Watching her trudge on toward the bungalow, he felt shitty. He’d been trying to protect her. In
more ways than one. But maybe, in a way, he was just as bad as her dad had always been.
Maybe Kat didn’t need protecting. Even if she did, she obviously didn’t like it. So maybe he’d
been wrong about trying to seduce her into not getting married. Maybe it was just none of his
goddamn business. And maybe he just wanted it to be.

He still craved her like he’d never craved a woman before—but maybe the truly noble thing to
do was just leave her alone until they got off this island. They still had three nights here, yet
maybe it was time to just let this go.

Exhaling a tired sigh, he dropped down into the hammock she’d just vacated. He smelled the
soft scent of her shampoo on the pillow where her head had just lain. He vaguely wished he’d
brought one of the few remaining donuts for himself, but no way he was going back in the
house right now—he was gonna put some distance between them, because he knew that’s what
she wanted.

A few minutes later, he caught sight of her marching down through the soft sand, headed for
the beach. She wore a beige halter top and a jungle-print skirt of brown that hung to her ankles
and had a little drawstring in front that drew the fabric into a sexy vee below her belly button.
He suffered the urge to follow but let her go on her way.

Once she was gone, nearly out of sight at the shore, he departed the hammock for the
bungalow. Truth was, he wanted to get away from the place right now, too, away from the little
mess he’d created here.

Looking through drawers, he found more of Nina’s ex’ s kidnapped clothing. Checking the
waistband in a pair of khaki shorts, he discovered they weren’t far off in size and put them on.
He slipped an olive golf shirt over his head and, though it was tight in the shoulders, it would do. He even found a pair of men’s water sandals with sturdy fabric straps. Funny, until now, it
hadn’t even occurred to him to put on clothes. Nope, until now, his whole mission here had
been about seducing Kat.

Well, maybe it was high time for clothes. And time to forget—for the first time in almost ten
years—about being on a mission. Maybe it was time to quit trying to save people or change the
world or influence the outcome of things. Just for a few days, dude, try to be a normal guy.

And what would he do today if he were a normal guy?

The notion of going fishing crossed his mind almost instantly. He didn’t do it often, just occasionally, when he needed to unwind. He didn’t particularly enjoy the activity, but it was
relaxing, and it always made him think of his grandfather, who’d taught him to fish when he
was a kid, and he always had this crazy idea that if his grandpa could look down from heaven
and see him with a fishing pole in his hand, he’d be happy.

Wondering where a guy might find a fishing pole around here, he glanced toward the closet
next to the bathroom, but then remembered it was locked. Then he headed outside to the storage
shed—a more likely spot anyway.

Sure enough, an old rod and reel stood against one wall, looking rusty but operational. A small,
equally rusted tackle box sat on the ground beside it. Inside, only a few hooks and lures—
hardly the tools of a master fisherman, but he’d never claimed to be a master fisherman, so it
would do.

Deciding they could afford to sacrifice a slice of cheese for bait, he retrieved one from the
fridge, then headed out on the trail that led to the boat dock. It was a nice lagoon, probably a decent fishing spot. Hell, if he got lucky, maybe they’d be grilling fresh fish for dinner tonight. Despite himself, he knew it would feel good if he could provide a meal for Kat, all things
considered.

Stepping into the clearing, he instantly surveyed what was left of her boat—which was
nothing. Any remnants remaining after the explosion had promptly sunk. Debris still scattered
the ground. He’d have to see about getting the government to handle the cleanup—particularly
getting the hull of the Stingray hauled up and out so the dock bay would be usable again. And
for the first time, as he found a nice spot to sit— a little knob of earth that jutted slightly over the
water—it occurred to him that when Clark Spencer showed up here, there’d be some
explaining to do. Shit.

Pride insisted he not let Spencer think he’d devolved into a criminal who had people shooting
at him. But he didn’t want to let Spencer know he was a fed, either. For some reason, he’d trusted Kat with the information—but he didn’t trust her father. Self-respect made him want to
let the guy know he’d done all right for himself, but at the same time, it also made him feel like
—Who gives a goddamn what he thinks of me now?

He ruminated on the unhappy parting of ways he’d had with Kat’s dad as he attached a fuzzy
fishing lure to the line, then hooked a small, jagged square of cheese over the hook. Had
Spencer ever told Kat about that? No—she’d have brought it up by now. And he could tell her, if he wanted. But even as much as he hated Clark Spencer, he didn’t hate him enough to tell
Kat what the man had done to him back then.

Just as he drew the fishing rod back over his head, ready to cast his line, a gunshot blasted
through the air, whirring past his head. Jesus Christ. He swung his gaze to the open water—
and found a big white yacht headed his way.

Brock let the pole drop from his hand as he jumped up and lunged toward the cover of trees.
Breaking through dense leaves, he landed hard on the ground. He didn’t stop once he was
hidden, though—he barreled over the trail, through the dense greenery, with one lone thought
pummeling him. Gotta get to Kat. Gotta get her off the beach.

By the time he reached the bungalow, his heart pounded painfully against his ribs, and his brain was working just about as fast. He and Kat couldn’t come back here, to the house—they’d be
sitting ducks. They’d have to take to the interior, make this a game of hide-and-seek—it was
their only chance. He had the water sandals he’d snagged from inside, figuring they’d make walking the trail to the dock a little easier—but Kat would need shoes, too, if they were to have
even a chance of survival.

He stormed through the screen door, scanning the room. Shoes, shoes—where were they? He
rushed to the armoire next to the bed, and voilà—Kat’s pink flip-flops sat on the floor next to a
slightly sturdier-looking pair of leather sandals, which he snatched up in his hand before racing
back out.

Once he hit the sand, it was full throttle—he ran toward the beach like a man on fire.

Upon reaching the sand packed more firmly by the tide, he spotted her footsteps, thankful they
told him which way she’d gone, since the beach stretched for as far as he could see in both directions. She’d walked away from the side of the island where the Morales brothers were
currently pulling up to shore—thank God.

Never breaking his stride, he kept running, running, until finally he caught sight of her walking along the water’s edge as it lapped gently over her feet with each rush of the morning tide. He
wanted desperately to call to her, warn her of trouble, but he also couldn’t risk leading the
brothers to them any sooner than necessary by yelling. If they were lucky, they could hide in
the woods until Francisco gave up and went away—so long as they got a head start without alerting the smugglers to where they were.

So he sprinted as fast as his feet would carry him, and it was only when a few yards separated them that she heard his approach and turned around. The look on her face said she was about to
yell at him for following her—until she saw the look on his face.

“What?” she said, sounding as breathless as he felt.

He let his palms curve softly around her elbows as he peered into frightened eyes. “Boat’s
back, kitten.”

Her gaze widened, saying she understood exactly which boat he meant. “Wh-what do we do?”

She looked around nervously. “Where?”

“Put these on,” he said, holding out her shoes.

“Oh,” she murmured, then hurried to slip them on her sand-covered feet.

“And come with me.” He took her hand and set off in a jog toward the treed area that lay just
over a small bluff above the beach.

By the time they were under cover beneath the big, shady canopy of green, Kat’s heart was in
her throat. How had this happened? How was it possible those bad men had actually come
back?

Brock had told her it could happen, but she’d been so preoccupied—with him—that she hadn’t
really believed it.

The fear she’d felt the other day was nothing compared to what assailed her now. Because the
first time the bad guys had been here, she hadn’t exactly known about it until it was over. But now they were coming onto her island. To chase Brock down. Which meant chasing her down,
too. The two of them were going to be hunted like animals.

She dropped to her knees at the hideous realization, her hand slipping from Brock’s as she fell,
her knees digging into the soft dirt beneath her.

“What—” he started to ask, stopping, turning, but he went quiet as she heaved, throwing up her
donut.

She rested on hands and knees, breathing heavy, tasting vomit, not believing any of this was
true—and yet it was. And she had to deal.

Trying to swallow back the bad taste, she pushed to her feet. “I’m sorry.”

Brock’s hand rose warm to her cheek, his face close, as he whispered. “Nothing to be sorry
for, kitten. But listen to me, and listen very carefully.”

She lifted her gaze to his, heart pounding fast.

Their eyes locked for a long moment before he finally spoke. “Anything happens to me, you
don’t waste time crying, or stopping to see if I’m all right. You run, you hide, you stay hidden,
and quiet, for as long as you have to. Understand?”

She stood before him, not quite able to fathom how their bickering had suddenly changed into
this—talk of life or death. His death. She swallowed.

“Tell me you understand, kitten. Tell me you get it. I need to know.”
She forced herself to nod, with his hand still cupping her jaw. “I get it.”
“Okay,” he said. Then, “You all right now? Better?”

Better was a stretch, but she faked it. “Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s go.”

“Good girl,” he said, and under other circumstances, she might have resented that, but his eyes shone reverent, worried, and she knew he was honestly praising her for pulling herself together
and being tough enough to continue.

Grabbing her hand once more, Brock led her through the woods again, but they soon battled thick vines and undergrowth. He tried to knock them away and hold them aside, and Kat
followed dutifully behind, trying to watch where she stepped. “There are probably big snakes in here,” she said.