Swept Away (6 page)

Damn it. He’d have sworn he’d made a clean getaway, but they must have either seen him
swimming to shore or found him missing quickly enough to figure out where he’d gone. He’d
been in a rush to contact the Bureau and get someone else on the brothers’ trail before the
whole mission was lost, but this stopped him dead in his tracks. Both brothers stood on the
bow staring back at him, and Francisco was pointing his big bad-ass gun in Brock’s direction.

He could run, but he knew and they knew that they couldn’t let him live—he was an FBI agent
and he had too much information. If he ran, they’d just come onto the island, and then Kat
would be involved, and they’d probably kill her, too, before it was over.

“Kiss your double-crossing ass good-bye, fed!” Francisco yelled, sounding too maniacal for comfort.

Brock had a split second to react, but no reaction to make that would solve anything.

So when Francisco pulled the trigger and the deafening shot blasted through the hot air, Brock
followed a whim—he jerked backward, pretending he was hit, then clutched his gut and
pitched forward into the dirt, where he lay still as a stone.

Damn, that was good—you still got it, Denton. So long as they bought it.

It was hard as hell to just lie there, facing away from them into a green island jungle, waiting to
see if Francisco would shoot again just to make sure—and hit him this time. His heart beat like a drum against the ground, and a bead of sweat rolled ticklishly down the side of his face—but he couldn’t reach to wipe it away.

And then the next urgent problem struck him—Kat. He’d told her to hurry. Which was exactly what he didn’t need her to do now. Don’t rush, kitten—take your time. Put on some lipstick or
something. Don’t find me like this, don’t see me and scream—and for God’s sake, don’t let
them see you.

“What the hell are you doing now?” Carlos’s voice echoed, growing closer, which meant the
yacht was getting closer, too. Shit, don’t come ashore.

“Got to make sure the son of a bitch isn’t breathing,” Francisco said. Shit, they’re coming
ashore.

“He’s dead already, for Christ’s sake. You happy now? Let’s go! There’s a boat, somebody
else here.” Listen to your brother, Francisco. Go the hell away.

Silence pervaded then, and Brock could practically hear Francisco thinking it through. He
prayed the evil brother made the wrong decision and just believed Brock was dead.

“Where could that key be?” Francisco muttered, a little lower, almost as if to himself but still
loud enough for Brock to make out. “Where the hell could it be?”

“Don’t look at me for this one, bro. You lost it. So I guess you can tell Omega it’s your fault
we got nothing to give him tonight.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t have lost it if I hadn’t been dealing with the asshole fed you let into our
business!”

Brock smiled, glad he was looking away from them and didn’t have to hold it in. So the key
did unlock the artifacts. Maybe today hadn’t been so lousy, after all. He’d managed to keep the
Morales boys away from the Mayan treasures—and he’d gotten to see an all-grown-up version
of Katrina Spencer, something he’d wondered about more than once over the years. Just get the
hell out of here before Kat shows up, he willed the brothers. Then she can get me to shore, and I can get somebody following you guys before the whole operation is blown.

He was almost on the verge of feeling confident until Francisco said, “Well, whoever else is on
that island, they ain’t getting off it anytime soon,” then fired his .45 again—one, two, three,
four gun blasts, apparently at the gas tank of Kat’ s boat judging from the earth-shattering boom
of the explosion that followed and the ensuing fireball whooshing upward. Shit!

Heat scorched his skin as bits of wood, metal, and other boat debris rained down all around
him, and it was all he could do to remain still and not follow the instinct to cover his head. Just
breathe evenly, dude. And don’t move a muscle.

When the air turned mostly quiet again, he heard one of the girls uttering, “Oh my God!” and
Francisco laughing. Guy got a kick out of blowing things up, he guessed.

Carlos yelled, “Jesus Christ, sometimes I think you’re crazy!”

“Just getting the job done,” Francisco replied, then let out another peal of deep, bellowing
laughter.

“Come on, man,” Carlos urged, “let’s get the hell out of here—now.”
“You in a hurry to get somewhere, little brother?”

Carlos sounded troubled, another indicator that the younger Morales wasn’t cut out for a life of
crime. “I just want to get away from all this shit—clear my head. Maybe then we can figure out where you left the key.”

Just then, Brock heard a twig snap, spotted a flash of pink among the green leaves and palm
fronds before him—getting closer fast, and he knew Kat had come running to see what the hell
had just happened.

“Stay where you are,” he bit off, praying it was enough to stop her but not enough for anyone on the yacht to hear.

She flinched to a halt just before breaking through to the clearing, then caught sight of him and
gasped.

“Don’t come out of the woods. Don’t make a sound.”

She remained motionless, but her eyes looked frightened. Not that he could blame her. He’d
just brought a world of trouble down on her and had no idea what the hell would happen next.

Time held still as his eyes met hers, as he willed her to heed his warning, and as he waited,
praying the Morales brothers would decide they’d done enough damage and leave.

They were blue, her eyes. Had he ever noticed that when they were young? Probably not—
he’d been a little self-absorbed then. Hell, he was self-absorbed now. But he still noticed when
a shaft of sunlight shone down through the green canopy where she stood, turning her gaze
almost the color of the Caribbean, complete with a sparkle or two. He concentrated on those
sparkles and wondered if she hated him and worried how he was going to explain all this to her without giving away top secret information.

And then he took in what she wore. Not a tank top and shorts, or maybe some sort of beach
cover-up—no, not his kitten. She’d topped the scant white bikini bottoms with a tiny, strappy
pink top, no bra. On her dainty feet, matching flip-flops with little pink rhinestones lining the
vee that met between her toes. After a long, leisurely perusal, he lifted his eyes back to hers.
Damn, she was hot. Then. And now.

“They’re gone,” she said quietly—and he realized that in the back of his mind he had indeed heard the yacht’s motor hum to life and then fade with distance. And that he’d just somehow forgotten he was in the middle of a life-or-death situation because of Kat’ s nipples jutting
through her little top and those long, tan legs stretching all the way from heaven to earth.

“Completely out of sight?” he asked before daring to move.
She nodded shortly.

Cautiously, Brock braced his hands on the ground beneath him and pushed to a sitting position
to look around at the debris. A small blaze still burned in what remained of Kat’s boat, popping
and crackling in the distance like an autumn bonfire. Jesus.

But she didn’t even seem to notice, instead rushing from the cover of the trees to drop to her knees beside him. “My God, are you hurt?” He’d never seen such genuine worry on her face,
her eyes glassy with emotion, the corners of her mouth turning jaggedly down.

“No,” he said, shaking his head, sitting up a little straighter, getting his bearings back. “No, I’m
fine.”

“Good,” she said on a heavy sigh—and her relieved demeanor vanished instantly, to be
replaced with something much more cutting. “Now, what the hell’s going on here?”

He shifted his gaze to hers, finding her closer than he’d realized. Even with the scent of gas and burning wood in the air, he could smell the light fruity scent of her suntan lotion. He meant to
answer brusquely, but his words came out gentler than intended. “I already explained—I could
tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

Her angry expression slowly softened into something more like... sadness. “And that wasn’t
funny the first time you said it. Seriously, Brock. Are you...” Another long, pretty sigh, and a
hint of... was that fear in her eyes? “Should I be afraid of you? Because something really
serious is going on here, and I have no idea if you’re a good guy or a bad one.”

Maybe she was scared—but she hadn’t moved away from him. So he lifted one hand to her
slightly pinkened cheek, and leaned in closer, close enough to kiss her if he wanted. “I’m good,
kitten, I promise you that much.”

And he did want to kiss her. He wanted to kiss that bit of fear away. But this was no time for kissing. He’d been right about one thing—Kat Spencer equaled major distraction.

Which was probably what led his gaze down to her cute little top. “So this is what you put on to cover up? Not that I’m complaining.”
She pulled back slightly, as if suddenly remembering to be mad at him. “I didn’t exactly bring a
lot of clothes on this trip. Because I thought I’d be alone. As opposed to having a nightmare
from my past wash up on the beach, then having my boat blown to bits, thereby stranding me
with said nightmare.”

He knowingly arched one brow. “You didn’t think I was such a nightmare then.”
She gave her head a typically saucy tilt. “I was young and stupid.”

Impudent as ever, he thought, amused—but something a little more urgent needed exploring
here. “You, uh, used the word ‘stranded.’ Care to explain that?”

Kat emitted yet another huge sigh, so God only knew what was coming. “I... think maybe I
forgot to pack my phone charger.”

“Okay.” A minor problem, but not the end of the world. “And?”

“And... since I’d planned to stay here until Thursday, no one will be looking for me for a
while.”

It was Saturday. He was starting to see the scope of their dilemma. Shit. “So we’re really stuck
here.”

“So it would appear.” She cast a dejected gaze toward the remains of her Stingray before
raising her eyes more hopefully. “But maybe we could build a big fire on the beach. We’re not
that far from shore—someone in a plane or boat would see it. I even have matches.”

She suddenly sounded so enthusiastic. Sorry to disappoint you, kitten, but...

He sighed. “I was thinking the same thing as I swam here, only now I don’t think it’s a good
idea. Wrong people might see it. As in my friends on the yacht.” The last thing he wanted to do
was draw Carlos and Francisco back to the island.

“Who are?” she demanded. “And if you threaten to kill me one more time, Brock, I’ll kill you. I
just saw my boat blown to smithereens—you owe me some kind of explanation.”

He knew she had every right to be angry, but he also couldn’t answer her questions. So he changed the subject. “Got anything to eat?”