Swept Away (20 page)

“I thought I’d lost this outfit somehow, but I guess I left it out here last summer. I just
stumbled across it this morning.”

Note to self: To distract Kat, talk about fashion. He found his gaze moving from her drawn-up
knees behind them to her cleavage. “This top does great things for your breasts, by the way.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “At a time like this, you’re talking about my breasts?”
He shrugged. “Gotta talk about something.”

She let out a disgusted breath, but he didn’t mind—at least they’d gotten off the topic of
smuggling.

“And for your information, that was a sincere compliment. So now that you know, maybe you
want to wear this top for old Ian, give him a thrill.” Although by the time he finished, he had a
feeling any chances of her believing in his sincerity had been blown.

Her reply sounded speculative, like she was thinking aloud. “Ian’s not really much of a boob
man.”

Brock blinked his disbelief. What self-respecting guy wasn’t a boob man? “What kind of guy is he?”

She thought it over for a minute. “He’s the kind of guy who just loves me for me, for the person I am.”

Damn, that was just weird. Not the loving her for her part—but add what she’d just said to the
fact that she and Ian hadn’t had sex, and he got a lot more skeptical about the whole
relationship. A guy who couldn’t appreciate Kat’ s beauty and sex appeal in addition to the rest of her well, there was something wrong with him. “Kitten,” he said hesitantly, “don’t scream
at me for saying this—especially given that we’re trying to keep quiet here—but is it possible
Ian’s gay?”

Her eyes flew wide, and he instinctively slapped his hand over her mouth.

Clearly realizing it was to keep her from letting out the shriek he’d seen coming, she whooshed
out a big, warm breath against his palm, then reached up and pulled it away. She spoke quiet
but cuttingly. “How dare you, you presumptuous idiot. I get what you’re thinking—we haven’t had sex, and I just told you he wasn’t into my breasts. Which I regret sharing immensely now,
by the way. But for your info, it’s not as if he hasn’t tried to have sex with me. He has—quite
vehemently, I might add. So trust me—he’s not gay. And come Saturday night, after our
wedding, we’re going to make wild monkey love all night, swing from the chandeliers naked, and do all kinds of things you haven’t ever even thought about.”

He worked to hide his smile, but said, “Now that I doubt. I’ve done a lot of stuff, kitten, and if
there’s anything I haven’t done, I’ve definitely thought about it.”

It earned him another eye roll, this one accompanied by a scowl.

He ignored both, instead opting to imagine Kat making wild monkey love—but not with Ian.
He suspected the guy wouldn’t even appreciate the vision of Kat swinging naked from a chandelier. Gay or not, something felt very wrong between Kat and her fianc, no matter how
hard she tried to convince Brock otherwise.

Just then, a slight rustling sound quickened his pulse. He grabbed Kat’s wrist and their eyes
met, his issuing a silent warning. She stayed quiet, and they both heard it again—something
large moving through the woods nearby. Shit.

Brock’s vantage point didn’t allow him to see far, and nothing in his line of sight appeared out
of place. But when the noise grew closer, he exchanged another glance with Kat, and this time
slid his arm around her, pulled her close, squeezed her shoulder. He worked to make his
whisper nearly inaudible. “Just stay quiet, kitten.”

Her body had gone tense against his, and he couldn’t blame her. This wasn’t the first time he’d
been on the run from a criminal, nor the first time he’d been without his weapon—but it was
the first time he’d had to protect someone he knew and cared about.

Closer, closer came the movement through the trees. So close that Brock would have sworn
one of the brothers had to be practically standing on top of them. Looking up, he saw a dark
hand push a hanging banyan vine out of the way. Stay still as a statue, kitten. No movement
now—none. His heart pounded against his chest as sweat beaded on his forehead.

That’s when Francisco Morales came into view, directly in front of them, not five feet away.
His eyes glimmered with hate and grim determination—he clutched his trademark .45 firmly in
one hand.

Brock could have sworn he almost heard Kat’s heart beating as his grip on her shoulder tightened involuntarily.

And then, slowly, so slowly, Francisco moved on. And Brock let himself breathe again. He looked at Kat in time to see her eyes drop shut in relief.

They remained silent as Francisco waded slowly through the ferns and myrtle, leaves shushing
around him, until, little by little, the sound faded to nothing.
Finally, Brock felt it was safe to whisper again. “You okay?”

She nodded, looking none the worse for wear, and without thinking, he leaned over and kissed
her forehead, tasting the sweet, salty sheen on her skin. After, she looked surprised but not
upset.

How would her lips taste? he couldn’t help wondering. He’d shared that one long kiss with
her, a million years ago, but she’d refused him last night—and he wondered how she would
taste right here, right now, beneath the heavy, draping pine boughs, the island moisture
seeming to cocoon them. Her breast pressing against his side made him wonder how they
would taste, too, and he suffered the yearning to feel her taut nipple on his tongue.

He found his gaze dropping there, to her tanned cleavage, before raising it back to her eyes. Where he saw exactly what he expected: trepidation and guilt mixed with a heavy measure of
desire.

But the guilt must have won out, since she whispered, “Brock, you can’t kiss me, even on the
forehead.”

“Shhh,” he said, putting a finger to his lips almost before she’d finished talking. “Quiet, kitten.”

Because Francisco’s movements had only just now weakened to nothing—it wasn’t yet safe to chitchat. And because he just really didn’t want to hear her say he couldn’t have her at the
moment. Despite the fear for her running through his veins, something else raced through them, as well: a red-hot hunger, perhaps deeper and more intense than he’d ever felt for a
woman before.

Just because you can’t have her, because she turned you down?

Or just because you’re afraid for her right now, want to keep her safe?

It was both of those things, but it was something else, too. Something in her bluer-than-blue
eyes, something in the smiles he drew from her when he least expected her to give him
anything so sweet. Something in the way she looked so comfortable in those tiny little tops— until she remembered to cover them up. Something in the memory of the forbidden seduction
she’d once attempted, and which he regretted rejecting more with each passing minute.

You broke the rules for me once, kitten. He wanted, more than anything, to make her break
them again. He wanted to bring back the Kat who would never walk down the aisle with some
schlep she didn’t feel any passion for.

Not that he should be thinking about sex at the moment. He had to hope he got them out of this alive before sex could ever again become an issue between them. But it was a hell of a good
motivation.

“Tell me about your life, kitten,” he said softly.

Kat looked up, surprised. His eyes loomed close. “Does this mean it’s safe to talk now?”
He gave a short nod. “Quietly. I haven’t heard anything in a while.”

Something about the simple question set her heart beating as rapidly as pursuit by mad killers.
Since when did Brock Denton ask about “her life”? “What do you want to know?”

His gray gaze looked thoughtful, almost probing and sincere—although she hesitated to give
him that much credit. “Anything you want to tell me about. Where do you live? With your
parents? Or a place of your own?”

“I have an apartment near the shore. Dad really wanted me to get a condo—you know, invest
and not throw money away on renting—but I wasn’t ready to commit to something that big at
the time.”

“Live alone?”

She nodded, then balked slightly. “Well, except for my cat, Vincent.”
“Weird cat name.”

She flashed a look of annoyance. “After Van Gogh. He happens to be one of my favorite
painters.”

“Is the cat missing an ear or something?”

“No, his ears are perfectly intact.” But she couldn’t help being impressed that he knew a little
something about Van Gogh. “It so happens that his fur is a yellowy color that reminds me of a
shade Van Gogh was particularly fond of using.”

“Well, if the cat starts acting depressed, I’d hide the knives.”

She couldn’t resist a small grin, mainly because he was giving her one, and it made him
dreadfully handsome.

“What kind of cat?”

She blinked. “What kind?”

Next to her, Brock shrugged. His arm still rested around her shoulder, so she felt the slight movement all across her upper back—which sent it echoing through her chest, as well. “Just thought it might be some special breed or something. Seems like something your dad would
insist upon.”

She couldn’t help laughing—softly, of course, under the circumstances. She loved her father,
but Brock had him pegged. “He tried to, actually. But I thought it would be smarter to go to a shelter and get a kitty who might not find a home otherwise.”

“So is Vincent fending for himself this week, out hunting mice, what?”

“My mom’s feeding him and spending a little time with him each day so he won’t be too
lonely. He sleeps with me most nights, so he’s probably wondering where I am.”

His expression locked on to her so sexually that she felt it in her panties. “Lucky cat. Not the
wondering-where-you-are part—the sleeping-with-you part.”

She unwittingly slid her tongue halfway across her upper lip before she realized his gaze was parked there. She dropped her eyes to his chest and pulled her tongue back into her mouth.
“Yeah, I figured that’s what you meant.”

“So, gonna miss your apartment?”

She gave a reluctant nod, not liking to admit she was giving up anything at all to marry Ian. Yet didn’t big change always require some kind of sacrifice? “Kind of, but you can’t live in two
places.”

“Does Vincent get to come?”

“Of course.”

“Does he still get to sleep with you?”

God, she hadn’t even thought about that. Ian would just have to realize that the move was going to be jarring enough for the cat without tossing him out of bed, too. “Of course,” she
said again, as if there were no question.

“Ian’s an understanding man,” Brock replied. “’Cause me—I don’t know that I’d be willing to
share you.”