Under the Covers (9 page)

Now look at him. He was leading a double life and lying to the woman he loved. If that wasn't fucked up, he didn't know what was.

He'd made a shitload of money in the last five years, designing security systems and protocols for the richest of the world's rich, but money had never been an issue. His family was loaded, always had been. He had trust funds up the wazoo. But ever since he'd put on his first superhero cape when he was a kid, he'd known he wasn't the kind of person to sit around and watch others have all the fun.

He lurched to his feet and crossed to the tiny balcony. Fresh salt-tinged air buffeted his face. His family would be pissed when they found out he'd gone back to the DIA. Particularly the Admiral. He'd get over it, or he wouldn't. Drew couldn't let that matter to him. You'd think an Admiral would recognize the service DIA operatives did for their country, but not Admiral Whitcomb. Drew tried to tell himself his father only wanted his son safe, but hell, these days you weren't even safe in the Pentagon. No way was he going to sit behind a desk and wait for the bad guys to come for him. He'd rather hunt them down. If that made him a control freak, then so be it. In that, he and his father were very much alike.

It hurt like hell to think about his mother's reaction. Before he took his present job, she'd worried constantly about him, never knowing where he was or what kind of danger he faced. She'd applauded his decision to leave the DIA, but not necessarily his decision to leave public service. She wanted the best for her firstborn, and probably had visions of him in the White House or some such shit. But she also wanted him happy, and he wasn't.

 His little brother, Rand, could fill the familial shoes, or maybe even his sister, Cammie. Both inherited more smile-and-shake-hands genes than he had. And from what he heard through the family grapevine, either or both of them had political genius in spades. He wouldn't mind being the brother of the President, but actually aspiring to the office? Hell no. He shook his head to clear the ridiculous image in his brain. Was it possible his little brother or sister was that ambitious? He didn't know enough about them to judge. He'd left home when they were both little, and his life since then had kept him at a distance.

He was on his own now. When this mission was over he'd be assigned to a new team, but it took years to build the kind of trust he had with Sean and Celeste. Could he find that again? His life would depend on it.

He stepped back into his cabin and stopped short. How the hell had he forgotten about Bree? Shit. He'd be leaving Bree behind too. He sank to the edge of the bed. She said she was moving on – but to where? He'd just found her, and he had no intention of letting her go, no matter what she said. Hell, she wouldn't be content as the little woman, patiently waiting for her spook of a husband to reappear in her life. She was too much like him for that. She thrived on excitement, on the thrill of the chase. She was good at her job, and he had no doubt she'd complete this mission successfully. Then what? Where would she go? If the FBI wasn't enough excitement for her, what was?

He had plenty of questions, and not a single satisfying answer. All he knew for sure was he couldn't let Bree Stanton go. How he was going to keep her, he hadn't a clue.

****

Bree reviewed the report sent from her superior at the FBI and cursed. Still nothing on Vernon Cannon. At this rate, she'd be on this floating rust bucket until retirement age. She clicked through the reports she'd received over the last few months, isolating the bits and pieces of information into a separate file. There had to be something there. Every attack on the
Lothario
had been more severe than the previous one. The last time, Cannon had arranged to kidnap and hold for ransom the wives of the ship's owners. Where would he go from there? If he intended to escalate the next attack
—
and she knew in her gut there would be one
—well,
obsessed people didn't just forget their obsession and move on. She had to figure out what he'd do next. Otherwise, they'd be scraping rust off her, too.

Bleary eyed, she shut down the computer and said goodnight to the underling who had the overnight shift watching the security monitors. She needed air. Lots of it. For once, she took the elevator to the Mediterranean deck. Air. Food. Drink. That's what she needed, and not necessarily in that order.

Tonight was oldies night, and a band played slow love songs for the dancers on the deck below. This was one of her favorite times on the ship. The party going on now was nothing like the wild mixers on the first night of the cruise. After days at sea, many of the passengers paired off, so this event was for lovers. Special alcoves were set up around the pools where couples could have some privacy while they 'danced' to the music. Still, some preferred to do their dancing in plain sight of whoever might walk by. A few people stood at the rail nearby, watching the dancers from above.

She claimed a lounge chair along the port-side rail, stretched out and closed her eyes. Sheets of Plexiglas shielded this portion of the deck from the stiff winds as the ship cut through the ink-black night. She inhaled deeply. The soft, moist air filled her lungs, taking a day's worth of worry with it when it left. For the first time in days, she was aware of the tension in every muscle of her body. No wonder she hadn't slept well. She dredged up a relaxation technique she'd learned in her college years when finals kept her tied in knots and unable to sleep.

Beginning with her toes and working her way up to her neck, she focused on each muscle group, willing the tension away, until she lay as limp as a becalmed sail. She slipped into a deep sleep, lulled by an old love song and the gentle motion of the ship beneath her.

She woke slowly, vaguely aware first of the quiet. Beyond the wind whipping her hair, the music had stopped. Without opening her eyes, she knew it had to be early morning, the only time the ship was truly quiet. How long had she slept? She shifted, testing muscles stiff from lying in one position for hours. A cool breeze teased her toes and her face, but the rest of her was toasty warm. Someone had covered her with a blanket, even tucked it in so it wouldn't fly away in the constant wind on deck. Her heart kicked against her ribcage as she bolted upright, looking around for the one person she knew who would have done such a thing.

Drew lounged on the chair beside her, his eyes closed and his body relaxed, yet taut, as only someone in complete control could manage.

"Good morning." His lips moved, but other than that, he didn't even bat an eyelash. "Are you hungry?"

Her stomach growled, answering for itself. Drew turned his head, opened one eye, looked her over and returned to his repose. "Breakfast will be here in a few minutes."

What was she supposed to say to that? "Thank you," rolled off her dry lips. "For the blanket. For breakfast. You didn't…?"

"Yes, I did. No need to thank me. I'll always take care of you. You should know that right from the beginning."

Her mouth felt like the Sahara. She tried to generate enough spit to ask what he meant by the beginning, but two stewards arrived with a tray laden with a breakfast fit for the gods.

Bree excused herself and ran to the nearest restroom. Her face was chapped and dry from sleeping outdoors, and her hair looked like a fright wig. She felt better than she looked, that was for sure. She did what she could to tame her hair, splashed some water on her face, and headed back to face Drew. He deserved to have to look at her in her present state, if only because of all the sleep she'd lost over the last few weeks thinking about him. Even last night, she'd dreamed of his hands on her, stroking, arousing.

She stopped dead in her tracks. Oh god! Had he touched her while she slept? She leaned against the bulkhead and took stock. No. Her body always hummed for hours, days even, after being with Drew. She felt none of that now. Only rested, and a little annoyed at herself for falling asleep on deck, and annoyed at Drew for not waking her up and making her body hum. Shit. She had it bad.

Bree approached the cozy breakfast set-up, aware the scowl she wore was only a mask for what she really felt. She wanted Drew. She'd entertained all manner of fantasies since the last time they were together. He'd restrained her, something she never thought she'd willingly allow, and then he took her to heights of arousal beyond her imagining. He was like a mind-altering drug, addictive as hell.

To hell with her convictions and good intentions. Besides, it was too late to save her heart. It was going to be broken, no matter what, so she might as well enjoy the time she had left with Drew.

She needed a fix, and she was going to get one.

****

Damned if she wasn't sexy as hell, all rumpled and wind-tossed. It had taken everything noble in him last night not to scoop her up and take her to his bed, but she'd looked so damned vulnerable sleeping like a ragdoll on the hard chaise. Instead, he took the chair beside her, thinking she'd awaken and he could apologize, again, for his behavior. But it soon became apparent she was out for the night. Pirates could have taken the ship, and she would have slept through it. He knew she'd be pissed if she woke in his bed, so he'd asked for a blanket, covered her and kept vigil beside her. He was well aware not everyone onboard had his scruples. Such as they were.

Now that she was awake, he had a headache in both heads, neither of which was likely to go away anytime soon.

"You look
—
"

"Like hell," she finished for him.

"I was going to say something more flattering, but yeah, you've looked better."

"Well, thanks, Drew. You're a prince among men." She pulled her blanket around her and sat. "Seriously, thanks for the blanket and the food."

He watched helplessly as she drained her water glass. He offered his and she drained it too. Soft morning light glinted off the glass and bathed her features in a warm glow. He wanted to see that glow every morning on the pillow beside his. That alone would be reason enough to wake every day. "Want some coffee now?"

She held out her cup and he filled it from the insulated pot before refilling his own. He waited until she'd taken a good long drink before he voiced the conclusion he'd come to sometime just before dawn. "I think you should move into my cabin."

Bree returned her coffee cup to the tray, setting it down with a gentle click against its saucer. Her chin dipped to her chest, and he could see the thin line of her lips. Her pink tongue darted out, coating them with moisture. His cock grew harder imagining those lips on him, surrounding him. Nevertheless, he braced for the storm he knew was brewing. He'd had enough time to think his decision through, and he'd prepared himself for an argument. A lengthy one.

"Does your cabin have a window?"

"Yes, and a balcony. And don't you dare suggest I throw myself off it. You can't go on like this, Bree." He indicated the open deck, her wrapped in a blanket. "For God's sake, you were so exhausted you fell asleep on deck. That’s twice now. It would be dangerous as hell on any ship, but this one? Anybody could have found you up here, and done God only knows what to you. Did you know your bare ass was exposed when I found you?"

From the way her face paled, he could tell that had been news to her. She had about the cutest ass he'd ever seen, and the thought of someone else ogling it made his blood boil. It had taken more restraint than he knew he had to keep from touching her, tasting her last night.

Figuring his best defense was an offense, Drew kept going. "You could have been molested, or it might have rained." At her raised eyebrow, he admitted to himself that was an unlikely occurrence in the Caribbean this time of year. "What if there had been an emergency? If the ship listed like it did when that Hunter kid reprogrammed the ballast water computers, you might have slid off the deck, and no one would have seen you. You’d have gone overboard and not a soul would have known." He waved his hand at the plastic panels beneath the railing. "Did you really want to trust your life to a sheet of plastic?"

"Are you through?"

"I think I said everything I needed to say. If you're too thickheaded to see I'm right, I'll have your stuff moved anyway. I'm tired of playing games with you. I intend to take care of you, whether you like it or not." He squared his shoulders, prepared for the blast of a female foghorn.

"Okay."

"Okay, what?" He didn't trust her answer. She was too calm. There had to be more.

She didn't disappoint. "Okay to moving into your cabin. Not okay to the taking care of me part. I can take care of myself."

He didn't know what to say, so he stuffed half a muffin in his mouth.

"I'm tired of living like a sardine,” she said. “I don't know how you Navy types do it. I don't plan to be on the
Lothario
much longer, but if you're offering a room with a view, I'm taking it."