Authors: Misty Evans
“I thought…,” Bianca stuttered, “…that boat windows were made of polycarbonate.”
Miss Google was back. Polycarbonate was strong, flexible, and bulletproof. “Windows made from polycarbonate are notorious for leaks and easily scratched by saltwater spray,” he told her. “These are good old-fashioned glass.”
Maggie whined from somewhere off to his right. Bianca lay ramrod stiff underneath him. His mind flashed back to their shared youth in the Midwest. The way she’d always been fearless about adapting to her environment, no matter how shitty it got, and to trying new things. The only thing she’d ever been scared of was people. “People can hurt you,” she’d told him, “in ways Mother Nature never dreamed of.”
He wiped blood from her cheek with the pad of his thumb. “I’ve got you, and I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
Her teeth chattered. “Do you…believe me…now?”
“Bullets typically get my attention.”
She started to say something, but he silenced her with a finger to her lips. Her tongue reached out to lick them at the same moment, and brushed against his finger. A shot of sexual energy shot right to his groin.
Like he needed a second shot.
He lifted an eyebrow and she cringed, realizing how suggestive the habit came across. “Sorry. I’m just…it’s just…if I hadn’t turned my head to look at your dog… Shouldn’t the glass at least be tempered or something?”
“In this old boat?” No telling how many times that window had been replaced. “The previous owner didn’t put money into repairs since the boat never left the dock.”
There were no more shots. Ignoring his raging hard-on, Cal lifted his head and caught sight of the dog huddled in the corner, panting. Her ears were back, eyes darting from the entrance to him and back. Except for the rain gently hitting the hull, he heard nothing.
Didn’t mean the fucker wasn’t close by. From the trajectory of the bullet, and the fact the window faced north, the shooter had to be…
Right next door.
Except there was no boat in the slip next to Cal’s. His boat sat at the southern-most end of the docks, alone and on its own. His closest neighbor was Gus Madington, five slips away.
Gus was in his fifties and had a long-standing friendship with alcohol. His hands shook so badly, he could barely hold a beer bottle, much less a gun. Cal was pretty sure the guy had never owned or fired a gun in his life.
If it wasn’t Gus, then who
?
No way
. Cal shook his head. Bianca had to be mistaken about her mysterious assassin. Why would anyone, especially the United States government, hire someone to kill her?
Defend
. A bullet was a bullet, and until he figured out who’d fired it, he wasn’t taking chances.
Cal made a stay motion, first at Maggie, then at Bianca. Keeping one eye on the door and the other on the broken window, he slid completely off Bianca and slithered to the bunk bed. Reaching up, he found the cool steel of his handgun. He checked the chamber and clip. One bullet.
Sloppy
. He needed to reload.
Slipping his hand under his mattress, he found a fresh clip.
Good to go
.
A glance at Bianca gave him pause. Like the dog, she had stayed put, but also like Maggie, her eyes were wide and her body shook with tremors. While Maggie was nervous and unsure, Bianca was frozen with fear.
Not good.
He needed her clearheaded and able to move when he told her to. “Bianca.” He said her name out loud—not too loud, but with enough force to break her trance.
Her eyes snapped out of their fear-induced haze. She shifted to look at him.
“Are you armed?” he said.
She shook her head.
Great. “You think some asshole’s trying to kill you but you left your weapon at home?”
“I don’t…own…a-a-a…” She bit her bottom lip, either out of frustration or to make her teeth stop chattering. “I don’t own a gun.”
“Why the hell not?”
“I’m an analyst…not a…field agent. I don’t n-n-n…need one.”
Oh, for the love of…
He had weapons stored in hiding places all over the boat. Not easy to get to at the moment without giving away his position. A sneak-and-peek outside was in order, but he wasn’t leaving Bianca unarmed.
“Take this.” He handed her the Glock. He’d taught her to handle one years ago, and while she might have been given “analyst” as a job description at the NSA, he knew she’d had weapons training. “Stay down. Belly on the floor.”
Her fingers shook as she accepted the weapon but her face firmed with determination. “Where are you going?”
He pointed up. “Need to get eyes on the shooter and grab another gun.”
As he stayed low and crab-walked across her body, her free hand locked on his arm. “It’s too risky.”
Blood continued to pour from her cheek wound. He wanted to grab the nearby towel and press it to the cut but time was of the essence and while there was a lot of blood, she wouldn’t die from a graze. “I’m a trained SEAL, B. I know what I’m doing.”
She closed her eyes for a split-second as if gathering courage. “It’s Tephra.”
The name stopped him.
Tephra
? As in Rory Tephra?
Cal reared back. He hadn’t heard that name in ages.
Rory Tephra didn’t exist except as a ghost whispered about in BUDs training. Tephra, the ultimate SEAL who had disappeared on a secret mission in Sarajevo ten years ago. No body had ever been found, but the rumors about him being alive were as abundant as Elvis reports. He’d become an urban legend, a myth that had grown bigger than life. Every SEAL wanted to become Tephra.
Cal almost had.
“Bianca, that’s crazy. You’re in shock.”
“The hell I am.” She squeezed his arm. Hard. He got the message. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d heard her swear. “Rory Tephra is a soldier of fortune…a killer. And he’s after me.”
Cal’s brain rejected the idea, but his body and his instincts clearly shouted that Bianca was telling the truth. The unadulterated, although no less dramatic, truth. “Then he’s about to meet his maker because anyone who shoots at my wife is going to get his ass handed to him.”
Chapter Five
He found me. Tephra found me. How
?
Her heart felt like she’d swallowed it and it now lodged in her throat. Bianca forced herself to breathe in through her nose and out through her lips. No hyperventilating. No going into shock. She’d handled plenty of tough situations before—albeit none involving a hitman—and she would
not
freak out like some wimpy girl regardless of the fact she’d almost taken a bullet in the head a few seconds ago.
Cal, on hands and knees, started to move off her. God, she’d brought Tephra right to his doorstep. She knew it had been a strong possibility, but now…
“I’m sorry,” she said to Cal. “I shouldn’t have come here.”
He paused. “Do what I say and sit tight. Give me fifteen minutes. If I don’t return, call 911 and everyone else you can think of, got it?”
Like the police could help her. If Cal died, she was dead—either from Tephra’s bullets or from guilt. “You damn well better return or I’ll haunt you in the afterlife.”
Cal smirked. “I’ll be back.”
God, she loved that smirk. Loved his cockiness, even though it drove her crazy. “Swear it.”
He cocked an eyebrow. When they were young, she’d made him pinky swear to things, like not telling her mother where she’d hid the rent money so her mom couldn’t blow it on meth or Shopping Network deals. “We’re not kids, anymore, Bianca.”
“Swear. It.”
His gaze dropped to her lips. Ever so slowly, his face lowered so he was barely a breath away. The tip of his nose brushed hers and his warm breath fell gently on her lips. “I swear on
The
Art of War
, I’ll be back for you.”
A warm rush of love spread through her body. Her nerves tingled. Without thinking, she tilted up her chin and skimmed his lips with hers. A kiss, but not a kiss. “Fifteen minutes, not a second more.”
He nodded and crawled off, keeping low as he headed for the steps and the door to the upper deck.
As Bianca rolled onto her stomach, she cursed the fact she’d lost her glasses, but she could still make out his blurry frame as he appeared to open a panel under the stairs and disappear into the bowels of the boat.
The dog, also watching, whined and walked over to the place where he’d vanished, sniffing at the paneling. Bianca rose to her hands and knees, careful of the loaded gun—a Glock with no active safety—and the broken glass littering the floor.
Where are my glasses?
She hated being blind. Grabbing one of the towels, she brushed glass out of the way, then folded the towel and put it under her knees. Her cheek dripped blood on her hands, the gun, and the floor. She shimmied toward the table, stopping every few inches to feel around for her glasses. Her fingers touched leather.
Briefcase
.
She stretched, reaching under the table. Everything was a blur. Her fingers threaded over more glass bits and what felt like old dog kibble. “Eww.”
She smelled Maggie before she saw her. A heavy head knocked into Bianca’s hip and something clattered to the floor next to her. Bianca reached back and felt the cool plastic of her Dior frames.
Thank God.
Or Maggie, in this case.
Bianca rubbed her bleeding cheek against her shoulder and finagled the glasses onto her nose. The world, small as it was under the table in
The Love Boat
, came into focus.
“Good dog,” she whispered, giving Maggie a pat on the head. A pink tongue emerged from Maggie’s mouth and the dog panted in Bianca’s face.
Behind her, the bathroom beckoned. No windows and only one entrance. Good cover where she could point and shoot. “Come on, girl,” she said. “Time to hide.”
Bianca used the towel to clear a path and crawled to the bathroom, hoping Maggie would follow and not cut her paws. Once inside the door, Bianca turned to see Maggie still standing next to the table, head cocked.
“Maggie, come!”
The Lab obeyed, then stood at the threshold and looked back toward the steps. Bianca snapped her fingers and the dog shifted her sad eyes to Bianca’s face. “He’s coming back.”
I hope.
“Get in here.”
The room was so small, Bianca could barely turn around without bumping into something. The dog stepped into the tiny bathroom and laid down on the floor next to the shower, half on top of Bianca. She sniffed the air in the direction of Bianca’s face.
Blood. The metallic smell mixed with the scent of salt air blowing in through the broken window. The side of Bianca’s face was wet with it. Her hair sticky.
What idiot used non-tempered glass on a boat window?
And how did the shooter know it wasn’t?
Keeping an eye on the cabin, and Cal’s gun at the ready, Bianca grabbed a washcloth with her free hand and soaked it in the sink. For a brief second, she glanced at her reflection in the mirror and nearly gagged.
This was why she wasn’t a nurse, doctor, or EMT. The sight of blood made her queasy. Add that to the fact the rocking boat had already done a number on her stomach and an assassin had taken a shot at her, she was in no position to do anything but…
Yep, there it was. Her stomach clenched, a shot of heat filling her jaws. In the next instant, everything in her system revolted and she hung her head over the toilet.
Great. If Tephra comes after me now, I’m easy pickings.
Tephra wouldn’t get to her. Not with Cal standing between them.
She’d been betting on his protective instinct and it had paid off. He stilled cared enough about her to want to keep her safe. Playing on that instinct was low and manipulative. Exactly what Cal hated. But she’d learned at an early age that manipulating others was the way to get her needs met. Being direct got her a slap or a beating. Although she’d worked for years to overcome that awful failsafe of manipulating people, old habits died hard when you were staring death in the face.
Besides, the direct route
had
failed. Cal hadn’t believed her until someone took a shot at her. Now he was all Mr. Protective. Exactly what she needed in order to survive.
Guilt nonetheless ate at her. Clawed through her stomach and up into her heart. It was one thing that she’d nearly gotten him killed in action when she’d sent him after Grimes. This was worse. She’d purposely put him in harm’s way in order to shield herself.
He deserves better than me.
One of the reasons she had to follow through on the divorce.
Even after all these years, all the therapy and telling herself she was no longer a victim, here she was, struggling to survive. And just like when she was a kid, she couldn’t do it on her own. She prided herself on being independent, smart, and a bulldog when it came to thriving in the face of abuse and neglect, but underneath it all, she was still that scared, helpless little girl inside. A girl nobody but Cal had ever wanted.
At the thought, her stomach finished emptying its contents. Weak and suddenly exhausted, Bianca removed her glasses and washed her face as best she could with one hand, keeping the other with the gun at the ready.