Emerald Fire (21 page)

He snatched her up against his body, his lips possessing hers and his arms pinning her tightly against him. For a second she stiffened, but then gave into the deliciousness. It was exactly where she wanted to be.

She moved ever so slightly to fit herself more intimately to him, and he instantly responded by kissing her deeper, his tongue tangling with hers. When she gave an involuntary moan, his hands moved down her back, grasped her backside, and kneaded. When he abandoned her lips to nuzzle her neck, her head rolled back to offer him better access.

Before she realized what was happening, he’d moved them inside, slid the door shut, and was headed toward the bedroom. She wasn’t about to protest. If he wanted an over-the-top effort to seal their agreement, this would surely qualify. But truth be told, she wanted him, badly, so she turned in his arms and led the way. He used the time to strip off his shirt and push the bedroom door closed.

She stopped by the bed and waited. He slowly advanced on her, holding her gaze as he kicked off his shoes and unbuckled his belt. By the time he reached for her, heat had saturated her skin, turned her muscles to jelly. He pulled her up to his bare chest, one hand moving to her hair and tugging it free of her ponytail.

“No talking this time.” His voice was husky, firm, and sent tiny shivers of delight through her. “No confessions.” He lightly kissed her. “No questions.” He brushed his cheek across hers and whispered in her ear. “You can moan, scream, and cry out in pleasure, but not one word.”

Her knees quaked. “But what if I—”

He placed a finger on her lips. “Shhh,” he said softly. Then he nibbled where his finger had rested, tasting her, teasing her. His hands caressed her throat, shoulders, then drifted down to her blouse and began unbuttoning.

Warmth expanded inside her. Her blouse hit the floor. Her bra fell next, and then she was standing there in broad daylight wearing only shorts and a bulky bandage around her arm. The curtains were drawn and the room dim, but before reality could induce self-consciousness, he’d pushed her onto the bed and followed her down. There was hardly a moment to breathe before his work-roughened hands were touching her in leisurely exploration, sensitizing her skin with every stroke of his fingers. He cupped her breasts, his tongue lightly tasting her, sliding across her nipples and spiking a wave of pleasure so intense she cried out.

She reached for him, but he blocked her, grabbed her wrists, and lifted her arms above her head. Only to trail puffs of warm breath down her sensitive inner arms, nipping, kissing, all the way back down to her breasts where he nuzzled and licked. His free hand slid across her stomach and undid the buttons on her shorts, slow and deliberate. She moaned.

He covered her with the heel of his palm, rubbing against her in just the right place, and she arched off the bed, her body taut with need.

“Damn,” he whispered.

He let her go and rolled away long enough to kick off his pants, then worked her shorts down and off before sliding his weight on top of her.

She could feel the hard length of him pressing for entrance, and she welcomed it. Wanted it. Her hands roamed his chest, feeling the contours of muscle and flesh before sliding around to his back and tugging him closer, inviting him inside.

“Chloe,” he gasped.

“Now,” she demanded.

He gave her what she wanted, plunging inside and filling her with overwhelming sensation. As he pumped, she met every stroke. It felt impossibly good, and she closed her eyes as pressure mounted. Finn held her tightly and, with each thrust, the light mat of hair on his chest rubbed against her nipples, sending shock waves of pleasure through her.

She was building with exquisite agony, striving for release, then suddenly imploded with waves of pleasure so intense she screamed out his name. He held her tight against him, slowly moving in and out through her climax. She loved the feel of him inside her and squeezed around him. He sucked in air. She did it again and again as his rhythm grew faster, his hold tighter until he shuddered with his release. Even then she continued to move beneath him, coaxing every last shivering sensation.

He collapsed on top of her, and she reveled in the hot, sweaty aftermath. He remained inside her and she squeezed, making him moan and quiver with aftershocks.

“I, Chloe Larson, vow that nothing is ever going to be the same again,” she whispered against his ear.

Port Lucaya Marketplace was full of early morning shoppers as Chloe and Finn made their way along a seemingly endless stream of vendor stalls in search of something decent to wear on the flight home. She’d been in the same abused outfit for the last three days and desperately wanted something, anything, else to wear.

Just for a moment, she forgot about the horror of the last few days and enjoyed being in the Caribbean. She was staying at a gorgeous beach resort, had enjoyed dinner at a five-star restaurant, and spent the night having wild monkey sex with an incredibly hot bounty hunter. This morning it was espresso and an omelet bar, then shopping at an open-air market drenched in tropical sunshine.

She could breathe, relax, and even felt the beginnings of recuperation. Their injuries, the loss of the
Emerald Fire
, and the future prosecution of Lisa Banks, all got shoved to a back burner as she allowed herself to just feel normal. They still had planning to do, but for now she focused on the island experience of haggling with shopkeepers and picked out a couple brightly colored sundresses, a pair of sandals, and made a total impulse buy of a finely detailed starfish carved out of banyan wood.

A booth of colorful scarves caught her eye next, and she spent several enjoyable minutes running her fingertips over a variety of fabrics, lingering over the cool silks and admiring the stitching of hand-embroidered linens. But it was a delicate sheer scarf of pale peach that she pulled out of the bunch and draped across her arm, trying to judge the color against her skin.

“Pretty,” Finn said as he came up beside her.

She gave him a sideways smile as he deposited several bags at her feet. “You’ve been busy.”

“I came across a good source for vintage marine hardware.” He was all business and wouldn’t look at her, just rubbed the fabric of a frilly scarf at the edge of the table. “It can be hard to find.”

“Did you wipe out their supply?” she asked, eyeing the bags.

His brows drew together. “Just a few pieces. They’ll ship for free if the order is large enough.”

He looked uncomfortable, and she didn’t understand why. He was completely fine less than half an hour ago. What happened? Why was he acting so weird?

She got her answer when he reached into one of his bags and pulled out a narrow, elongated box. Without a word, he handed it to her.

“What is this?”

One shoulder lifted in a shrug. “I saw it and thought of you.”

“You bought me a present?” Happiness bubbled up inside her, and she smiled softly. Other than Uncle Jon and Aunt Sarah, no one had bought her a gift since she was fifteen. She blinked her eyes against their sudden blurring and stared down at the little white box.

Finn sighed and reached over to remove the lid.

She gave a small gasp. A stunning necklace stretched the length of the box, a single teardrop pearl centered on a silver chain while tiny seashells danced along either side. It was beautiful, delicate, and perfect. Using the tip of one finger, she lightly brushed over the pearl, making it wobble in place.

She tried to speak, but words wouldn’t come. He’d saved her life, made love to her until the sun came up, and now this. Thank you didn’t seem right, or near enough.

She felt the weight of his stare and glanced up, straight into deep blue eyes. “It’s beautiful, Finn, and you are amazing. But I don’t deserve so precious a gift.”

He shook his head. “It’s not about deserving,” he said gruffly. “It’s not about anything other than it reminded me of you.”

Tears clouded her vision, and she looked away in embarrassment. He didn’t say anything, just removed the necklace from the box and stepped closer. When his hands reached behind her neck to fasten the clasp, the intimate contact of his fingers against her skin made her shiver in the Caribbean heat.

He lingered briefly, as though reluctant to step away, but he moved back and angled his head slightly to one side as he regarded her. “Perfect.”

She grinned. “It appears you have a flair for accessorizing.”

His eyes crinkled in the corners as he smiled. She quite liked this side of him. She hadn’t seen it much, but as crazy as it seemed, humor suited him.

“Get that peach scarf,” he said matter-of-factly. “It’s your color.”

A full-on laugh burst from her. Finnegan Kane had been a surprise from the moment she met him. Aggravating, commanding, and much too serious for his own good, but nothing about him was normal. She found herself looking forward to going to Mystic, meeting his father, and seeing NorthStar.

“I’ll be a few stalls down that way,” Finn pointed. “There’s a vendor with nautical antiques I’d like to have a look at.”

She nodded and watched intently as the man from NorthStar walked away. Her fingers traced the silver chain around her neck, her mind still reeling in shock at his gesture.

“Dat is a man in love.” Chloe turned to face the shopkeeper, a grandmotherly woman who wore a knowing smile and big gold hoop earrings.

“No, no,” Chloe said, shaking her head. “We haven’t known each other long enough. He’s just being…” Being what? She didn’t know the answer.

The woman chuckled and handed Chloe a mirror. “Look at dat necklace. It’s a gift from a man’s heart. Trust me in dis ting. He is a man lost.”

The center pearl gleamed in warm ivory against her skin, and she stared at the reflection, at the beautiful simplicity of the gift. It clearly meant friendship, a generosity of spirit, but it didn’t mean he was a man in love. It was much too soon for something like that.

She handed back the mirror. “I think it’s the island. Palm trees, blue skies, and warm sunshine spark romantic gestures.”

The lady gave her a tolerant smile, as though she was indulging a naïve daughter or niece who couldn’t see past her own narrow world. Chloe didn’t argue, just paid for the peach scarf and moved on.

She’d passed several brightly colored booths without seeing a thing, her thoughts stuck on the lady’s words. It was impossible, highly unlikely, and ridiculous to even contemplate. There was no chance that Finnegan Kane was in love. In lust, maybe. Last night was absolutely one of the more spectacular nights of her life. Was it one-sided? Or did he feel it, too?

Chloe was moving slowly as she stepped around the corner and started down the next aisle. A solid brass diver helmet caught her eye. She stopped long enough to take a closer look, to admire the polished metal and copper plating.

Until a sudden tingle at the base of her neck made her frown. She turned around, surveying her surroundings. She didn’t see anything out of the ordinary at first, but then her gaze landed on a man who stood several stalls down, staring right at her.

He looked familiar, but that was impossible. She knew no one here. Tall, lanky, and dressed in ill-fitting khaki shorts and a faded red shirt, he looked like one of the Boca Chica pirates. No. That was impossible. There was no way they could know the
Seagrove
rescued them and dropped them here.

He started slowly walking her way, his eyes never leaving her face. Her heart rate jumped, and for a couple of stunned seconds, Chloe didn’t move. Then self-preservation kicked in and she turned to run.

But all she did was smack into the chest of a bigger pirate, and his beefy arms circled her, squeezing the breath from her lungs. He started to drag her away, toward an alleyway between vendor stalls. She went into fight mode, kicked his shins and tried to scream, but he pressed her face against the rough cotton of his shirt. The stale scent of unwashed body filled her lungs, making her want to gag. She struggled harder, trying to trip him up, fighting to scratch any bare skin available. Her assailant only laughed as he dragged her through the alley and into a courtyard of sorts.

He twisted her around, tossing her effortlessly to bring her back up against him. Before she could pull a deep breath of air, a calloused hand clamped over her mouth.

“Stop squirmin’, missy,” he said in a guttural voice. “Don’t wanna hurt you before Hosea can ask you a question.”

They were surrounded by claptrap structures, the backside of temporary stores that had been in place so long they had become quasi-permanent and shored up with rough two-by-four lumber and pieces of tin. A tarp stretched overhead to block the sun, and a tiny table and two chairs completed the uninviting scene. Hosea settled a bag on that table, shoving an ashtray full of butts to the ground before turning to face her.

“We have a problem,” Hosea said.

She stared at him, unable to answer even if she’d been interested enough to know what that problem was. Instead, her gaze swept the enclosed space, searching for any escape route, any sign of help. There was none.

Hosea stepped in front of her, capturing her attention. “You sank my boat.”

She glared her defiance and managed to shrug a shoulder.

“I liked that boat. It was going to make me very rich.”

Did he expect her to show remorse or sympathy? He stole it first. In fact, he was paid to steal it and sink it. She just helped him do his job.

“My client is not happy.”

His client? He’s a stinking pirate, not an entrepreneur.

“She isn’t paying me the promised money. This is a very big problem.”

Good for her, Chloe thought. Then she was hit with a dawning realization of who that client was, and a sinking feeling opened up inside her. Lisa Banks knew they’d retrieved the
Fire
. And she knew they had sunk it.

“You will pay me this money,” Hosea said.

She’d laugh if there wasn’t a foul-smelling hand covering half her face.

Hosea stepped over to the table, opened his bag, and pulled out a knife. One of those serrated commando-style knives that made anyone who looked at it quake in fear, including her. He stepped back in front of her, brandishing the weapon like it was a toy. He brushed a fingertip over the pointed end.