Full Exposure. Diana Duncan

with cold and apprehension, she huddled into the protection afforded by his body, and he moved closer. Though he had often appeared to ignore her over the past six weeks, in reality, he was acutely responsive to her body language. A survival skill when one conducted business with the mob.

      Though their whispered conversation had been forbidden, the presence of his reassuring strength helped. The irony wasn’t lost on her. Soaking in his heat, she pressed against him, shoulder to firm shoulder, thigh to hard-muscled thigh.

      She wasn’t convinced they were headed anywhere other than the bottom of the sea. If she succumbed to her rioting fear of how it might feel, how long it might take to drown, she’d start screaming like a banshee.

      Think about something else. Anything.

      She was freezing. Neither she nor Dante were dressed for nighttime on the open water. He had been wearing a long, weathered black Florentinian leather coat over his black T-shirt and black denims, but their captors must have stripped it from him before tying him up. She wore cargo pants with a long-sleeved shirt.

      She jerked upright.

      Oh. My. God. In the midst of the trauma, she’d forgotten. Was Dante’s coat the only thing their captors had confiscated? Muddled by terror, she hadn’t thought to check if her iPod and notebook were still in her hip pocket. Ariana twisted in frustration. She couldn’t tell. She’d taken the precaution of securing her iPod in a watertight case before accepting the job aboard Alexandra’s Dream and her notebook was in a sealed plastic bag.

      The iPod hid Derek’s files, encrypted in ancient Greek, which she had spent months laboriously translating into the notebook. She’d had no idea cruise lines overlapped employee duties and that she’d be required to juggle many nonlibrary-related jobs. Duties aboard the cruise liner had kept her hopping. She’d spent every snippet of free time the past seven months decoding files. Only a long list of names and addresses, so far. Most dead ends. Finally, one had led her to the dealer in Naples. Her first break, thwarted by the Camorra.

      When Dante had kidnapped her, she’d lost the use of her shipboard dictionary. Translating the complicated language had slowed to a painful crawl. She groaned. If Megaera’s cohorts had stolen her only clues to clearing her father’s name, her crusade was doomed.

      Dante’s lips brushed her hair and his breath feathered into her ear. “Are you seasick?”

      Not risking a reply, she shook her head. He had seen her scribbling in the notebook at the house, where she’d claimed to be writing stories to pass the time. Sometimes, she was telling the truth. She’d been writing them most of her life, and they’d been a familiar source of comfort during her captivity. Dante had requested she share them. She had politely declined. Their mistrust was mutual. He had searched her room when she was showering…and when he thought she was asleep. She’d thwarted him by keeping the iPod and notebook on her at all times and in sight when bathing.

      “Are you in pain?”

      She shook her head again, and his ebony brows lowered. “You’re lying.”

      She hated deception…and she stank at it. “I’m fine.”

      “Tell me.”

      Even if she dared confide in him, what could he do? They were both victims of circumstance. Both helpless.

      Not comforting.

      “How are your bonds?” she whispered.

      His mouth hardened. Naturally, he recognized bait and switch. He was a maestro at it. “I’m making progress.”

      She peeked behind his back, and her throat constricted at the blood coating the rope. “It looks like all you’ve accomplished is further injuring yourself.”

      Wounded male pride sharpened his features. Great. She’d hurt his feelings. After seven months at sea with a cultural grab bag of employees and passengers, she should be used to macho Mediterranean males.

      Dante whispered fiercely, “Dio provvede.”

      God will provide. Odd encouragement from a criminal. “God helps those who help themselves,” she whispered back.

      “Exactly my point, Ariana. Keep the faith.”

      She studied his striking profile. The man she’d thought a sullen mobster was a Gordian knot of intriguing contradictions.

      The boat’s hull scraped land. The Greek leaped into the shallow water and dragged the craft onto a sliver of rocky beach carved out of a high cliff.

      Their time had run out.

      “Our hosts are not wearing guns,” Dante murmured. “Do as they say, and stay behind me, until I tell you otherwise.”

      Ariana was too anxious to argue. He was the criminal expert.

      Sandwiched between their two captors, she and Dante climbed awkwardly out of the boat. Coarse rock scrunched under her deck shoes as she trudged up the beach.

      The Greek halted in front of a semicircle of craggy boulders spearing from the sand. “Sit.”

      Dante uncharacteristically complied. Did he have a plan?

      Please have a plan. She followed his lead and sat beside him.

      Draped in the cold, black shroud of night, the hostile island appeared uninhabited. A cliff overshadowed the beach, bullying aside the moonlight. Waves pummeled the shore with white-capped fists.

      The thugs turned and walked toward the boat, and Ariana reached for Dante’s hands. “Are they returning to the yacht and leaving us here to die?”

      “Not if I can stop them.” He squeezed her fingers, then let go to continue his fight for freedom. “You watch them while I concentrate on escape.”

      The Greek leaned into the boat and scooped out Dante’s leather coat. The Russian snatched it away. The Greek gestured and said something, and then they began to argue in their tangled English.

      Ariana understood enough to grasp the conversational gist.

      “Nyet!” The stocky Russian clutched the coat.

      The Greek punctuated his diatribe with a vehement hand gesture.

      Dante looked up from his urgent task. “Che?”

      Ariana grimaced. “Abandonment suddenly doesn’t look so bad.” Dante had said the men weren’t armed with guns, but if the Greek still had his knife, he could cut their throats…She bit her lip. And while she was scaring herself with what-ifs, they were losing valuable seconds. “The Greek just said, ‘Do as we were told and leave it. No evidence.’”

      Dante swore vilely in Italian and redoubled his effort. He shifted, felt behind him. “I scraped my knuckles on a jagged rock. With time, I can cut myself loose.”

      Down the beach, the Greek acerbically reminded the Russian he could buy fifty coats with the price Megaera was paying them. Though the Russian couldn’t immediately agree without losing face, the debate cooled.

      “Time is in very short supply.”

      “Then you will have to stall. Distract them.”

      “How? I doubt they’ll be interested in my rendition of the Iliad.”

      His broad shoulders bunched as he vigorously scraped his ropes. He quirked a glossy brow. “There is one thing that interests all men, bella.”

      “You can’t be serious.”

      Admiration flashed briefly in his eyes. “Sei bellissima, Ariana.”

      Amazement curled through her. Most beautiful. She shook her head. “Say I get their attention…and then you can’t break free.” She shuddered. “I really don’t want to go there.”

      “My solemn oath, I will not fail you. Once my word is given, I follow through. No matter the cost.”

      That