Dangerous Passions. Brenda Harlen

with gratitude as she reached a hand out from beneath the cover to accept the offering.

      “Th-thanks,” she said again, minus the sarcasm this time.

      But her fingers were numb, clumsy, and she couldn’t seem to twist the lid. He placed his hand on top of hers, the warmth of his skin seeping into hers, and easily removed the top.

      She felt her cheeks flush with humiliation. There was nothing she hated more than being helpless, and there was no denying how completely weak and helpless she was now.

      Or maybe, a little voice inside her head taunted, the warmth seeping through her limbs had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with a more primal response to this man. There was nothing personal in the way he touched her, but she couldn’t deny that the strength of his hand, the heat from his skin, brought to mind very personal memories of last night.

      She tipped the bottle to her lips and drank deeply, desperately.

      “Slowly,” he admonished.

      She forced herself to take smaller sips.

      He crouched beside her chair and rubbed his hands briskly over her arms, the friction generating welcome heat. “Are you okay?”

      His eyes reflected the genuine compassion and concern she heard in his voice.

      Genuine?

      She nearly laughed aloud at the thought. As if she would recognize genuine. In the past several hours, she’d been conned by two different men, including this one—and she was determined not to let him con her again.

      “F-fine,” she finally responded to his question.

      To her surprise he smiled. “You’re one hell of a swimmer, Shannon Vaughn.”

      The hint of admiration in his voice was as unexpected as the smile. She didn’t know how to respond to such a comment, or even if she wanted to.

      “I saw you go into the water when you left the Femme Fatale,” he admitted. “Of course, I lost you when you submerged, but I figured you’d have to surface again eventually.”

      “You were l-looking for m-me? The whole t-time?”

      He shrugged, stood up.

      “Why?”

      Instead of answering her question, he said, “Maybe that should wait until we get back to Miami—in case you decide you want to throw me overboard.”

      She shook her head. “You said I c-could ask whatever questions I wanted. I n-need to know what’s going on. Why Drew wants to k-kill me. And how you f-figure into this.”

      Michael slipped his shoes back on before moving toward the bridge to restart the engines and set them on course for Florida.

      “I can’t say for certain why he wants you dead,” he said. “Except that it’s probably retribution for Conroy’s death.”

      “I didn’t even know the m-man,” Shannon protested.

      “But your sister did.”

      She pulled the ends of the blanket more tightly around her. Warmth was slowly seeping into her limbs, numbness gradually giving way to a dull ache, but she still couldn’t stop shivering. “How d-do you know that?”

      “Because I’m a private investigator hired by Dylan Creighton to watch out for you while you were on vacation.”

      She remained silent.

      “Let me guess, that’s the same story Peart told you?”

      She nodded.

      Michael swore. “He obviously planned this whole thing through carefully, starting with the break-in of your hotel room.”

      “What do you m-mean?”

      “It occurred to me that nothing was taken because he only wanted to scare you, so you’d be more susceptible to his story and more eager for his protection when he appeared at your door.”

      “But why? If he really wants m-me dead, why didn’t he just shoot m-me then? Not that I’m not grateful he didn’t, b-but why?”

      He shrugged. “Zane Conroy was a master manipulator, and it’s possible, if Peart’s goal is to avenge Conroy’s death, he plans to do so as Conroy would have done.”

      She remembered the way Natalie, as the new A.D.A. in Fairweather, had been set up to find a dead body and later to prosecute the murderer, who had also been set up by Conroy, and realized his explanation made sense.

      “Or it could simply be that Peart isn’t high enough in the organization to do the deed himself,” he suggested as another possibility.

      “He m-mentioned someone named A.J.,” she admitted. “Said he would decide how and when I was to be m-made an example of.”

      “Then I’d say you’re lucky you didn’t stick around long enough to meet him.”

      She remained silent, but nodded her agreement.

      “I know you’re scared, but you can trust me, Shannon.”

      She wanted to trust him. She wanted to believe there was someone really on her side, that she wasn’t alone in this. But how could she? How could she know for certain that this man was any better than Drew?

      Okay, he had very likely saved her from drowning, and she had to admit that was a big point in his favor. But her doubts and uncertainties were too numerous to be so easily overcome, and they multiplied further when she realized Michael was turning the boat around again.

      “Isn’t Miami the other way?”

      “It is,” he agreed, his tone grim. “And so is the Femme Fatale.”

      She squinted. She could see something in the distance—a dark blip on the horizon. But she couldn’t tell if it was even a boat, never mind Peart’s yacht.

      “How d-do you know?”

      He tossed her a pair of binoculars.

      She held them to her eyes, adjusted the focus. Her breath caught in her throat as the boat seemed to jump toward her. It was the Femme Fatale, and it was moving fast, slicing easily through the choppy water as it sped toward them.

      She lowered the binoculars, exhaling a shaky sigh when the vessel magically retreated into the distance again. “B-but there’s no way they can know I’m with you, on this b-boat.”

      Michael didn’t say anything.

      “C-can they?”

      “Peart used my name to get to you,” he reminded her. “Which means he knows who I am and why I was in Miami. It’s logical that he’d try to find me to find you again.”

      “M-maybe we should radio for help,” she suggested, wondering that she hadn’t thought of it sooner.

      “The radio doesn’t work.”

      “Oh.”

      He nodded grimly. “It’s just you and me.”

      She shivered as she stared out at the blue sky and even bluer water—less from cold than apprehension this time. “What are we g-going to do now?”

      “We’re going to duck in behind that island,” he said, nodding toward a small landmass directly ahead of them. “And hope like hell they go right past.”

      She fell silent, staring at the island that still looked so far away, not daring to watch Drew’s yacht draw steadily nearer.

      “Have you ever piloted a boat?”

      The abruptness of the question startled her, and it took a moment for her to respond. “No.”

      “Well, let’s hope you’re a quick learner.”

      “Why?”

      “Because