Burn: A Novel (36 page)

She walked toward him, her movements slow and easy as she worked against the water, which lapped around her breasts. She pulled off her mask, shook the water out of her hair.

“The first night we were onboard, you made me kiss you.”

He pulled off his mask, too, watching her with hooded eyes. “People were watching,” he said flatly. “It was necessary.”

“No one’s watching now,” she said as she came to a stop, so close she was almost touching him. She tilted her head back and looked up at him. She pushed away her anger, her frustration, her hurt, and tried to let herself look at Cael as nothing more than a man. From the beginning she’d been attracted to him, drawn to him in an instinctive way, but she’d fought her response to him—as would any right-minded woman who found herself in the same situation.

But everything wasn’t as it had initially seemed, she knew that now. And she didn’t want to lose him. What a kick in the ass that was!

“Kiss me again,” she said. “Not because anyone’s watching and you have to, not because it’s necessary but just … because.”

He blew out a breath. “That’s not a good idea.” His smooth voice had a rough edge to it, one that made everything in her tighten in response.

“Agreed,” she said. “Do it anyway.”

He didn’t move. She laid her hand on his chest, feeling the crispness of hair, the warmth of his skin, the pound of his heart.

“Kiss me,” she said again, and her own heart was thudding so hard and fast she could barely breathe. “With no one to sell it to but the fishes.”

She took the half-step forward that brought her against him, he put his arm around her and pulled her close, and he closed his mouth over hers.

There was no fear this time, no panic. She leaned into him, got lost in the sensations of his mouth on hers, his wet body against hers. His heat was a sharp contrast to the coolness of the water, of her wet skin, and she drank it in.

The isolation, the water, the feel of Cael’s skin against hers and the pleasure his mouth gave made her dizzy with sheer pleasure. For this short moment, she wasn’t worried about tomorrow, revenge, or once again being the outsider when she wanted desperately to be on the inside. It was just a kiss, a kiss for them and no one else.

He cupped her bottom and lifted her, fitting her to him, wrapping her legs around him. He was rock hard, his erection pressing into her. Slowly he moved her against him, undulating her back and forth. A soft cry clogged her throat as she clung to his shoulders, and “just a kiss” changed so rapidly into something else that she felt as if she were spinning out of reality. The throbbing between her legs went from pleasurable to frantic in just a few seconds. Her second cry was taut, aching.

He shoved his hand down the back of her bikini bottoms, his
long fingers reaching down and in. She jerked as two of them penetrated her, hard and rough, and just like that everything in her tightened and peaked and she began coming, her raspy cries floating over the sound of the waves. Frantically she tried to stop the cries, tried to stop her body from moving against him so obviously, tried to control the rhythmic tightening around his fingers. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. All she’d wanted was a kiss, something to tell her she wasn’t in this alone. She hadn’t expected things to blast out of control that way.

He let her down gently—physically, at least. When she could breathe again, think again, when her legs would hold her weight he uncoiled her legs and let her slide down his body. She leaned against him for a moment, her eyes closed, caught between acute satisfaction and embarrassment.

He solved that dilemma, though. He said, “I thought you said you weren’t going Stockholm syndromy on me.” Shock and humiliation roared through her. His breath came as hard-fought as hers did, but that was a tiny detail when compared to what he’d just said.

“Do you really think that’s what happening here?” She managed to be calm. She managed to keep her voice even. What she couldn’t manage to do was look at him. She didn’t know if she’d ever be able to look him in the eye again. She had never felt so sick as she did right then, and the plunge from exquisite pleasure to humiliation was so breathtaking it was like a punch in the gut.

“What the hell else am I supposed to think?”

“A kiss and an erection really shouldn’t annoy you so much,” she said, determined to keep her voice cool even if it killed her. “I think you have issues.”

“I wasn’t the one having the orgasm.”

She
could
look at him, she found. Enough anger worked wonders. “That,” she said, “is entirely your problem. I got what I wanted. Too bad you didn’t.”

He took her hand in his and headed for shore, practically dragging her along. “We’re going back to the ship, and you’re moving in with Faith and Ryan. Today.”

“No,” she countered, “I’m not.”

He ignored her. “I’m not sure how we’ll explain it, but we’ll think of a way.”

“I’m not going anywhere. That’s my suite. If you don’t want to stay there, then move your ass out.
You
go stay with Faith and Ryan.”

They walked out of the water, the last of the cove washing against their feet. She jerked her hand out of his, and they faced off like two gunslingers.

Surprisingly, a sudden grin flashed across his face. “Why am I not surprised that a climax makes you cranky?”

Unbelievable.

She opened her mouth to blast him, but a family—mother, father, two teenage boys—arrived at the beach, their snorkeling equipment and bags of assorted beach stuff in hand. Her conversation with Cael was over … for now.

Except for the last word. The last word was hers. She said, “There are other people present. Maybe you should wrap your towel around your waist, big boy.”

T
HE TRICK TO SUCCESSFUL, LONG-TERM SURVEILLANCE
is blending in, becoming invisible. In a way, the cruise ship situation created the perfect cover. If you were living your everyday life and kept seeing the same handful of people near work, on the streets, close to your home, in various restaurants, you’d naturally get suspicious. When you were basically living together in a floating luxury hotel, you
expected
to see the same people day in and day out.

That didn’t mean they didn’t need to be careful, work in shifts, and maintain their cover.

Cael knew what he needed. He needed to concentrate on work and get the woman who was in the shower out of his head, and out from under his skin.

Like it or not, he and Jenner would be on deck tonight. A Roaring Twenties costume party was scheduled. He hated fucking costumes, even if they did come with a fedora. At some point during the evening there would be a bachelor auction, which he intended to steer clear of. The auction was one of the charity events, so Larkin would likely be there. Life of the party, that one was.

The knock on the door surprised Cael, but when he heard
Matt’s voice—“Room service, Ms. Redwine”—he relaxed and crossed the room to open the door. Something must be up; he hadn’t called room service. If Larkin was in his suite he now had a guard outside the door all the time, so he’d told Faith and Tiffany to stay away.

The increased security puzzled him. Why have it now,
after
the meet in Hilo,
after
Larkin had passed off the memory stick? Something else was definitely up, though as of now they still had no clue. On the other hand, it wasn’t impossible to imagine that Larkin had more than one buyer lined up.

Matt came into the room with a domed silver tray balanced on one hand. “Sanchez says there’s definitely something going on,” he said in a lowered voice, after the door had closed behind him.

“Dean Mills is in the middle of it, but there are several other security guards who’ve put their heads together a few times in what Sanchez says is a suspicious manner.”

“Larkin?”

“Not involved, that Sanchez has seen.”

That was surprising. If Dean Mills was involved, how could Larkin not be? He needed more eyes on the inside, but that wasn’t going to happen. If he’d had time he would have placed more of his people in security, but the background checks for those employees were even more stringent than they were for a deckhand and a steward. Given enough time he could have done it, but the security team had been set when this job had come along. He’d been lucky to find Sanchez. So far the man had been steady as a rock, and everything he said a hundred percent reliable.

Matt placed the tray on the dining table. “Compliments of your steward, sir.”

He removed the lid with a flourish.

The bed of the silver tray was covered in an assortment of individually wrapped condoms.

Cael stared down at the tray. “What the hell is this?”

Deadpan, Matt responded, “They’re called condoms, sir, a commonly used prophylactic for the prevention of …” He stopped
talking when Cael caught his eye, fidgeted, and finally said, “Bridget thought they might come in handy.”

“Bridget, huh.”

“Actually, she said if these weren’t necessary before the end of the cruise, she’d eat her steward uniform, which she really hates.”

Cael lifted a hand, which Matt correctly read to mean silence. Now.

He couldn’t have sex with Jenner, no matter how much he wanted to—and he did, damn it, he wanted it so much he could barely think of anything else. He’d kidnapped, threatened, and frequently handcuffed her, and basically used her to do what had to be done. Logically, he knew it would be all kinds of sick to screw her under these circumstances. His brain was in line; his dick had a mind of its own. The last thing he needed was members of his own group undermining his self-control. They weren’t the ones who had to deliberately say things that would drive a wedge between him and what he wanted most. They weren’t the ones who had to see the hurt and fury in her eyes.

The shower stopped, which meant Jenner could walk into the parlor in a matter of minutes. It wouldn’t do for her to find him standing over a shiny pile of assorted condoms. He glared at Matt. “What the hell am I supposed to do with these?”

“I understand they go on your …”

This time his look would have cut steel.

Matt shrugged his shoulders. “Hide them or tell me to take them away. Your call, boss.”

Cael’s brain knew getting the condoms out of the suite was the right thing to do. He fought another battle with himself, but this time his dick won.

J
ENNER HAD NEVER BEEN A HUGE FAN
of costumes—she avoided Halloween parties like the plague, because Halloween was creepy, and not in a good way—but this party was oddly fun. She’d never dressed up like this before. Her fringed red flapper
dress and close-fitting cloche hat were actually cute, and Cael dressed as a gangster was hot, so hot she couldn’t stop looking at him even though she wanted to completely ignore him. Some things were just not going to happen. The black suit, black shirt, and white tie looked good on him; she even liked the hat.

Judging the different costumes of those around them, as they milled about on deck, she decided she and Cael had lucked out. There were outrageous zoot suits in all colors, Gatsby Girl outfits that had a softer appeal than the flapper dresses, and a couple of World War I uniforms. A few of the flapper girl dresses were a virulent shade of yellow that really stood out in the crowd, and Jenner was glad to have a hat, instead of a headband and attached feather that danced in the breeze. There were even a couple of cigarette girls, complete with candy cigarettes in their trays; better them than her.

The music that had been playing all night wasn’t strictly from the twenties, but how many times could you listen to the “Charleston” and “Singin’ in the Rain”? It was all old, though, from the twenties, thirties, and forties. Now that the Charleston lessons were over, a handful of couples were on the dance floor, but she and Cael stood by the rail, where Larkin, dressed in a gangster suit much like Cael’s, though on him the look was more sleazy than dashing, was in Cael’s line of sight.

While Cael watched Larkin, she watched Cael. She was still mad at him, but watching him was still a visceral pleasure. She hadn’t told either Faith or Tiffany what had happened while they were snorkeling, but they weren’t dummies; they knew something had. Tiffany had caught her eye and shrugged. Now that her temper had cooled somewhat—not much, but some—and her humiliation level had dropped a few degrees, Jenner was able to maybe see the morning from a slightly different angle.

She was going to have to make the first move if she wanted this fake relationship to go anywhere real, right? Well, she had, and gotten a breathtaking orgasm as a result, but then Cael had pulled back when any normal man would have been all over her like slick
on butter. She didn’t know if she could take another rejection like that, no matter what his reason. If he was being honorable, then that sucked. She needed him to be honorable only if she needed someone else to take care of her, which she didn’t. She was an adult. She could make her own decisions, good or bad, and accept the consequences. On the other hand, while she was willing to step out on a limb, that didn’t mean she was going to set herself up for more rejection. If he didn’t want her …

His body said he did. More accurately, his body said he wanted sex. Maybe he disliked her so much—God, why should he?—that even though he was horny he didn’t want to have anything to do with her. Or maybe he was
married
, or seriously involved. Tiffany wouldn’t have given her that condom if he was, would she? Maybe. Tiffany had her own rules. But Faith would have had a different outlook, and she hadn’t been at all disapproving.

So, no marriage, no significant other. Either he was brushing her off to protect her from herself, in which case she might kill him because that was the last thing she wanted, or he seriously didn’t want her.

Damn it, how was she supposed to tell the difference?

She gave up trying to make sense of the situation and looked at the rest of the group. Tiffany was as flamboyant as ever, dressed in a black-and-white flapper dress, and didn’t seem to mind the dancing feather on her head. She wore a multitude of long necklaces, and often swung them about as she flirted outrageously with every man in her path. Faith’s Gatsby-style dress was a soft champagne color, as was the matching hat. Ryan, leaning on his cane, was dressed in a military uniform; the sight of him in that costume gave Jenner a moment’s pause. He had the look of a soldier; he might’ve just stepped out of World War I. He was so urbane she hadn’t noticed it before, but there was definitely something military in his posture, despite the cane.