Stranded With The Navy Seal. Susan Cliff

arrive on the shore of a private resort and sip fruity cocktails at noon.

      She mixed a fantasy drink with her favorite ingredients. Crushed ice. Fresh fruit. Something really bougie, like a strawberry-basil bourbon spritzer.

      Logan emptied his pockets to study the contents. In addition to his cell phone, he had a wallet with cash and credit cards. She had nothing but the dress on her back. Her purse had been lost in the melee. Her shoes had fallen off. So had his.

      His next project was hot-wiring the engine. He used his knife to disable the ignition and open the casing. He spent the better part of the morning with his head down, cursing. It reminded her of her father doing auto repairs. He flinched when one of the live wires singed his fingertips. After some trial and error, he twisted two wires together and the engine turned over. He flashed her a victorious grin. Then he disconnected it, killing the motor.

      Her spirits fell. “We’re not going anywhere?”

      “I have to save fuel,” he said. “We can’t travel far on a gas tank this size.”

      “Why did you hot-wire it?”

      “Because being able to move a short distance will help us get rescued. If we see a ship in the distance, we can approach it. If a plane goes by, I can fire it up and do some circles to get their attention.”

      She searched the horizon for signs of an airplane or a ship, with no luck. The glare of sunlight on the water burned her corneas, and constantly scanning the area exhausted her eye muscles. When she couldn’t continue, he took over. She curled up in a ball, her stomach roiling. She wondered how long it took to die from thirst. She didn’t ask Logan, because she was afraid the answer might be one day.

      The afternoon sun was brutal. He removed his shirt and dipped it in the water. Then he wrapped the wet cloth around his head, turban-style. The hunting knife he’d taken from one of the kidnappers was tucked into his belt. He looked like a storybook pirate, with perfectly defined abs and a tantalizing strip of hair below his navel.

      She remembered how his body had felt against hers on the dance floor, and how eager she’d been to touch him. Their brief, lust-drenched interlude didn’t seem real. She’d never experienced such a powerful rush of attraction before. Who meets someone at a bar and wants to tear their clothes off after ten minutes? In what alternate dimension do two mature, sober people fall into a sexual trance and make out in public? She might have been embarrassed if she wasn’t so worried about dying.

      “You need protection from the sun,” he said, drawing his knife. He motioned for her to move closer.

      “What are you doing?”

      “Cutting off this extra fabric.”

      She held still while he sliced through her tulle overskirt. The serrated blade was sharp, with a wicked point at the tip. She tried not to think about where else it had been. She couldn’t afford to throw up again.

      When he was finished, she used the fabric like a veil, covering her head and shoulders. It was blisteringly hot. Her lips were dry. His were already cracked.

      They didn’t speak, because it hurt to talk.

      After what seemed like ten or twelve hours, clouds gathered in the sky. There was a sudden, intense downpour. She closed her eyes and opened her mouth, desperate for moisture. The raindrops didn’t quench her thirst, but the cool water felt like heaven against her skin. When she opened her eyes again, he was watching her. She wondered if he was thinking about the kisses they’d shared. Was it a strange, distant memory for him, too? A moment of passion that had slipped between his fingers?

      He pulled his gaze away, flushing. She doubted he felt any embarrassment or shame about his behavior. Men never did. Maybe he was just sunburned, or he couldn’t figure out why he’d been so enthralled with her. She probably looked like a bedraggled sea witch. Humidity wasn’t kind to her hair.

      When puddles gathered on the bottom of the raft, they both drank their fill. With the sun behind the clouds, the temperature was pleasant. For a short time, she almost felt comfortable, and hopeful about getting rescued. Then the temperature dropped and darkness fell. They spent another night shivering, huddled for warmth.

      In the dead of night, she was awoken by a bump against the side of the boat. She sprang upright, clutching Logan’s arm. He was alert beside her, his muscles tense. It was very dark. There was a sliver of moon, high in the sky.

      The bump came again, on the opposite side. A fin skimmed the surface of the water.

      Shark.

      She let out a terrified scream.

      He clamped his hand over her mouth, which only increased her panic. It reminded her of the kidnapping. She’d been silenced with a rough slap during the attack, and she still had a tender spot on her cheek. His fingertips pressed into it, adding to her discomfort. She pushed his hand away, incensed.

      “Shh,” Logan warned. He studied the surface of the water intently. She crossed her arms over her chest, her throat tight. She supposed that screaming wasn’t helpful, but it was a normal reaction. There were freaking sharks circling!

      “Can they puncture the raft?” she asked.

      “Maybe.”

      His answer chilled her to the bone. She scooted closer to him.

      “They won’t do it as a strategy. But if they decide to take an exploratory bite...”

      She gripped the crook of his arm. “What should we do?”

      “Stay calm and quiet.”

      Although she wasn’t calm by any stretch, she didn’t make a sound. Neither did he. After a few tense moments, his shoulders relaxed. The sharks didn’t bump the raft or flash fins again. Hopefully they’d lost interest.

      “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

      “You didn’t. One of the kidnappers did.”

      His eyes glinted in the dark. “He hit you?”

      “Yes.”

      “Which one?”

      “The one you killed.”

      He nodded, as if the man had gotten what he deserved. “Go back to sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

      She curled up in the raft and closed her eyes, but she didn’t sleep. She was cold and hungry and sick with fear. She’d applied for a job on a cruise ship because she’d wanted to get away from it all. Her longtime boyfriend had become enamored with another woman on reality TV. She’d watched every episode, just to torture herself. Their breakup had turned her entire life upside down. She’d left San Francisco and moved back home with her parents.

      It was a low point, to say the least.

      She’d needed an escape. Well, she got one. Now Andrew seemed like a blip of the radar, tiny and insignificant. She didn’t miss him.

      She spent most of the night praying for day, and most of the next day praying for night. The heat was unbearable. The sun sucked the life out of her, beating down in relentless waves. There were no ships, no planes, no clouds, no rain.

      Logan stripped down to his boxers and used his pants to shade different parts of his body. He gave her his shirt to wear. The fabric kept the sun off her back. She leaned over the side of the raft and trailed her fingers through the water. So much water. Clear, blue, deadly water. She made a cup with her hands.

      “Don’t even think about it,” he said.

      She splayed her fingers, letting the liquid fall out. She knew they couldn’t drink salt water. “Why can’t we swim?”

      “With the sharks?”

      “They only come at night.”

      “Salt water robs moisture from your skin. You’ll dehydrate faster.”

      “What