Born Ready. Lori Wilde

honked his horn.

      She refused to look over. Fear was a marching band, ramming a cacophony of adrenaline through her veins. Her temple throbbed. Her fisted hands tightened around the wheel. Her thoughts galloped, but no solutions materialized. She should have moved her equipment when she’d run across him this morning. Why hadn’t she moved her equipment?

      Because that was where her research had led her. Because in her single-mindedness she’d neglected to realize how vulnerable she was. Because she’d been so invested in showing up her father that she hadn’t paid any attention to the threats around her.

      Stupid, stupid girl. She could hear her father now.

      Berating herself wasn’t helping. She had to think. What was she going to do?

      Everly’s boat overtook hers. He pulled around in front of her, and started slowing down. She had no choice but to slow down, too, or ram into him.

       Go ahead ram him.

      Except her skiff would smash to smithereens in the process. He had one hand on the wheel, but he was looking back at her, the gun extended from his other hand. Moonlight washed over his bare chest. He was still mostly naked except for a pair of dark boxer briefs.

      “Stop your boat,” he ordered.

      She started to jerk the wheel to the left to try to bolt.

      “Don’t make me shoot you,” he warned.

      Defeat drained every bit of energy from her body. She turned off the engine.

      “Good move,” he said in a tone so patronizing she wanted to smack him. He wheeled his boat around, edged it alongside hers, cut the engine.

      Narrowed, steely eyes met hers. His jaw was set. His gun pointed right at her heart. “Hands up.”

      Slowly, she raised her arms over her head.

      Time slowed, moved like syrup.

      This was it. She was about to be raped or killed or both. She gritted her teeth, curled her fingernails into her palms.

       No, no, I’m not going down without a fight. I’ll take my last breath fighting.

      “United States Coast Guard,” Scott barked. “Face down on the floor. Prepare to be boarded.”

       4

      There’s no such thing as a Coast Guard on vacation.

       —Marcy Dugan, public relations liaison, Sector Key West

      SCOTT STOOD ON THE BOW of her small craft, playing his flashlight over the prostrate woman, alarmed by the jolt of sexual awareness passing through him. He couldn’t want her. He shouldn’t want her.

      But he did.

       Gotta stop these inappropriate impulses, Everly. Six months is too long. You need to get laid. Clear your head. ASAP.

      “You … you’re really Coast Guard?” Relief leaked from her voice, filled the starry night air.

      She lay on the floor of the boat, her hands clasped behind her back, wrists crossed together over her fanny, awaiting his handcuffs. Problem was, his cuffs were in the pants pocket of his uniform on his boat. Not to mention he was standing there in nothing but boxer briefs plastered wetly against his thighs and his half boner.

      Briefly, he closed his eyes, licked his lips, struggled for control.

      She raised her head from the floor, turned her face upward, squinted into the light.

      Terrified that she would get a glimpse of his arousal, Scott commanded, “Face down!”

      She obeyed, planting her chin back on the Astro Turf.

      Scott wasn’t sure what to do next. He couldn’t let her up until he’d resolved his body’s unwanted involuntary response. He swallowed hard.

       Quick, think of something libido crushing.

      But all he could think about was how long and sexy her legs looked in those cutoff blue jeans.

      Scott clenched his jaw. Global warming. The state of health care. The national debt.

      “What have I done?” she asked. “What laws have I broken?”

      He didn’t know what to do. Let her up? Go put on his clothes? But if he stopped to put on his clothes, she could make another run for it. Not that she could escape, but he didn’t want the hassle of chasing her down again.

      Scott shone the light around her boat, looking for something to restrain her with, spied a rope coiled in the corner. It was too big and thick, but it would have to do.

      “The least you could do is answer me,” she said. “This is pretty outrageous. You chase me down, pull a gun on me—”

      “You pulled a gun on me first.” He retrieved the rope.

      “I didn’t have a gun.”

      “I didn’t know that.” He settled his SIG Sauer P229R and the flashlight on the short bow and leaned over to tie her up.

      “Are you sure you’re Coast Guard?”

      His fingers skimmed her soft skin as he looped the rope around her slender wrists. He could feel her breathing in angry gulps of air. The erection he thought he’d conquered stirred again.

      Dammit!

      Scott tugged on the ropes, making sure they were secure.

      “You’re rude, you know that? How am I supposed to know you’re Coast Guard? You don’t identify yourself. You’re not in a Coast Guard cutter. You’re in your underwear—”

      “Lieutenant Commander Scott Everly at your service,” he said. “And I’m on leave.”

      “So if you’re on vacation do you even have the authority to manhandle me?” she seethed.

      “I am when I see a crime being committed.”

      “What crime?” she yelled.

      “Easy there, mermaid.”

      “Don’t patronize me.” She chafed.

      He straightened, turned, moved away.

      “Hey! Where are you going?”

      “To solve the underwear situation.”

      “What are you talking about?”

      Ignoring her, he picked up his duty weapon and flashlight and stepped back onto his boat.

      “What are you doing? You’re not just going to leave me tied up here!”

      In spite of himself, Scott smiled. She was a feisty one. He’d grant her that. He dressed quickly, finally feeling fully in control again, holstered his duty weapon, retrieved the cylinder he’d found attached to the Kevlar cable and returned to her skiff. He reached down, hauled her to her feet and played the beam of his flashlight over her.

      She sent him a blistering scowl. “I demand to know what I’m being charged with.”

      “Have a seat,” he said mildly, indicating the captain’s chair.

      “No.” Defiantly, she raised her chin.

      He gave her his sternest military officer glare. “Do you really want to go there?”

      “Bully.” Petulantly, she settled onto the seat.

      “You’ve got some mouth on you.” He sank onto the small bench seat opposite her.

      She narrowed her eyes, stuck out her tongue.

      “Height of maturity.”

      “Just tell me what the hell you want.”

      He