Secret Assignment (10 page)

The light moved out of his eyes and he saw he was on a pier, surrounded by yachts in their slips and a handful of bystanders watching with curiosity as a Terrebonne Harbor Patrol officer shined a flashlight at him. Hazy memories trickled back. He was at Bay Pointe Marina, looking for the intruders. And he’d found them. Or, to be precise, they’d found him.

In the empty slip nearby, the Azimut was gone. He turned to look out in the harbor, but there were several yachts motoring their way into the bay.
Ahab’s Folly
could be almost any of them.

“Are you okay?” The man’s voice registered this time. Simon Haley. Gideon and the Harbor Patrol officer had gone fishing together a few times before the general’s death had led Gideon to stick closer to Nightshade Island.

Pressing his hand against the back of his head, where the worst of the pain seemed to have settled, Gideon slowly sat up. He felt pretty clearheaded, he decided, and the pain didn’t get any worse when he pushed to his feet. “I’m okay, I think,” he told Simon.

“What happened?”

He remembered climbing off the boat and coming face-to-face with—

Someone familiar, he thought. He couldn’t bring the face to mind, but he had a strong sense that he’d recognized the first man who’d accosted him outside the yacht. He’d never seen the person who’d delivered the knockout blow. “I don’t remember much—just a knock on the head.” No need to tell Simon about sneaking on the Azimut. Fishing buddy or not, Simon couldn’t just turn a blind eye to trespassing.

“How long do you think you’ve been out?” The question came from someone new—a paramedic, Gideon saw with some dismay. The paramedic came at him with a penlight and once again, needles of light drove into his skull, although not as painful this time.

Gideon looked at his watch. Almost eight-thirty. “No more than five minutes.” He’d checked his watch as he was leaving the yacht because he knew Mrs. Ross and Shannon had to be getting worried.

“Pupils look good. Let me look at your head.”

“I’m fine,” Gideon protested, ducking away from the paramedic’s probing hands.
Ahab’s Folly
had a head start, and now they knew Gideon was definitely not on Nightshade Island. “I got mugged. I saw nothing. No harm done.”

“You could have a concussion,” the paramedic protested.

“I’ve had a concussion before. Believe me, this isn’t one.” Gideon started walking toward the marina exit, the sense of time slipping away weighing heavily on him, harder to bear than the persistent ache in his head. There were new pains, too, that he was just starting to feel. A hard ache in his ribcage, and another in the soft tissue of his lower back. Apparently whoever had knocked him out had gotten in a few hard kicks before they left in the Azimut. But none of his injuries was life-threatening.

The same couldn’t be said of the yacht moving out in the Gulf, no doubt heading for Nightshade Island.

Simon caught up with Gideon before he’d reached the central pier. “What’s going on, man? Is this connected to what happened last night?”

“Probably.” He didn’t stop walking, forcing Simon to move faster to keep up. “You in a boat or on foot?”

“In a car, actually,” Simon said. “You need a lift?”

“Get me to the
Lorelei.
And call in a warning to Harbor Patrol—look for an Azimut motor yacht named
Ahab’s Folly.
Don’t let it get anywhere near Nightshade Island.”

* * *

T
HE CALL FROM
Gideon came around nine. He was on the
Lorelei,
on his way back. No need to wait up.

Lydia seemed greatly relieved to hear from him, despite her attempts all evening to pretend she wasn’t worried. “He knows I like to get to bed early,” she told Shannon, “so he’ll probably go straight to the caretaker’s house.” She paused at the bottom of the stairs to the top floor. “We can relax now, yes?”

Shannon smiled at her. “Yes.” Though she wasn’t sure she’d really relax until she heard the
Lorelei
’s engine puttering into the boathouse. Too many things could go wrong out on the open water. She’d learned that lesson her very first day on Nightshade Island.

She’d showered earlier and already dressed for bed, mostly as a way to pass the time while she worried about why they hadn’t yet heard from Gideon. There was no reason not to tuck herself under the covers of the soft bed and read one of the books she’d loaded onto her e-reader before the trip. Or pull out the coded diary again and give it another shot.

But the sound of a boat engine, distant but growing closer, drew her to the balcony outside her room instead. From where she stood at the railing, she saw the lights of the Hatteras moving slowly toward the boathouse. Relief fluttering in her chest, she watched the boat slide into its slip, disappearing from sight. A few minutes later, Gideon Stone’s tall, broad-shouldered figure appeared on the walkway, heading toward Stafford House.

He was moving slowly, she noticed. Limping a little. He stepped into a shaft of moonlight and she could see he was holding his arm against his body, as if favoring his ribs.

He moved out of sight, and she found herself following, moving down the balcony where it wrapped around the house. She turned the corner and caught sight of him again, moving even more slowly now, definitely favoring one side of his body as he limped up the uneven path from the garden to the caretaker’s house.

At the door to his house, he paused, pressing his forehead against the door. Alarm clanged in her head as he opened the door and staggered inside.

She stripped off her robe, trading her silk boxer shorts for a pair of jeans. She threw a T-shirt on over her sleeping tank and shoved her feet in a pair of tennis shoes.

Trying to be quiet, she made her way downstairs, not wanting to wake Lydia if she’d already fallen asleep. Slipping out the French doors at the back of the house, she hurried through the garden and up the crooked path to Gideon’s house.

* * *

G
IDEON FELT LIKE
hell. Everything hurt, which made him wonder just how many times they’d kicked him around while he was out before they and their co-conspirators made their escape on the Azimut.

At least his vision was clear and his memory seemed mostly intact. There was a minute right after the first blow that was fuzzy. He had a strong sense of having seen someone he recognized, but when he tried to call the man’s face to mind, it was a featureless blur.

A sharp rap on the door made him sit up straight, hissing with pain as his sore ribs protested. It could be only Lydia Ross or Shannon Cooper, and he wasn’t ready to see either of them tonight.

A second knock came, harder and more insistent than before. Growling with frustration, he pushed to his feet and limped over to the door, swinging it open with more violence than he’d intended.

Shannon took a faltering step back, gazing up at him with wide, worried eyes. A flood of remorse poured through him at her reaction, making him feel like a brute.

He carefully softened his voice. “I thought you’d gone to bed,” he said.

Her eyes snapped at him, showing not a whit of her earlier alarm. “Don’t know how you’d know, because you didn’t even drop by to check on us.”

Not in any condition to deal with her at the moment, he stopped trying to appear unthreatening and filled the doorway with his body, blocking her entry. Nor did he tell her he’d spent most of the trip back to Nightshade Island on the horn with fishermen in the area; reassuring himself that a blue-and-white Azimut had come nowhere near the island. “Do you need something?”

She looked him over, as if trying to see past his unwelcoming facade. “What happened in Terrebonne? Did you find out more about the yacht?”

Part of him wanted to shut the door in her face and go lick his wounds in private, but she’d done nothing to deserve that kind of treatment. He backed away, letting her inside. “It’s a floating war room,” he said, waving at the sofa for her to sit. He took the armchair across from her, trying not to wince in pain.

“Floating war room?” she asked when he didn’t immediately continue. “How do you know?”

He gave her a pointed look.

Her eyes widened. “You went aboard?”

“The main part of the yacht is pretty normal. Your typical pleasure boat. Nice decor—a little plain, more for men than women, but nothing to spark any suspicion. But belowdecks—”

He described the crew’s quarters situation room he’d found. “They had charts of Nightshade Island and the waters around it.”

“What are they looking for? Did you get any clue about that?”

He shook his head, then went stock-still, regretting the movement. “If that information was there, it wasn’t in plain sight.” Grimacing, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and put it on the low coffee table that sat between them. “I took some pictures. Maybe there’s something in there.”

Shannon didn’t reach for the phone. “You’re hurt.”

He didn’t look at her. The soft sympathy in her voice touched an aching place in the center of his chest, making him feel weak and vulnerable. “I’m fine.”

“Rib cage, head—anywhere else?”

He sighed. So much for trying to hide his injuries. Leave it to the nosy little girl detective to see right through him. “There’s a place just below my kidneys that feels like it was stomped by a horse,” he admitted.

“Someone caught you in the yacht?”

“Just outside,” he answered. “It’s kind of a blur. I was checking my watch when something hit me on the back of my neck. I turned around and then got coldcocked from behind.”

She looked at him with alarm. “You were knocked out?”

“Just for a few minutes.”

“You could have a concussion!” She circled the coffee table and crouched in front of him, reaching up to check his eyes.

“I don’t have a concussion.” He caught her hand, holding it firmly in his large fist. Her skin was soft, her bones delicate beneath his fingers. For all her bravado, she could so easily break.

Her brown eyes lifted slowly to meet his, questions shining there, unspoken. The desire to protect her nearly overwhelmed him. But from what? The sharks circling the island, hidden from view?

Or himself?

He quickly let go of her hand, a shiver of panic running through him. “I’m okay, really.”

“Let me at least take a look at the damage,” she said.

He gazed at her through narrowed eyes, wondering if he dared. “Computer nerd
and
a nurse?”

She smiled. “High-level first aid training is also part of the Cooper Security employee core curriculum.”

He gave in. Hell, it was what he wanted anyway, wasn’t it? “Most of the damage seems to be upper body. Ribs, soft tissue. I think I have a decent-size bump on the back of my head.”

She stood and stepped back, giving him room to strip off his T-shirt. When he looked at her again, she was assessing his body thoroughly. He followed her gaze, taking in his stomach and chest, and saw no sign of bruising.

She looked up at him quickly, a faint pink blush reddening her cheeks. “Nothing obvious on the front side. Let me check your back.”

He turned around and heard her suck in a quick breath. “That bad?”

Her footsteps moved closer, until he felt the heat of her body behind him. Her fingertips slid lightly over his back, shooting shivers up his spine. She pressed on a spot a few inches below his shoulder blade and pain galloped across his rib cage, making him gasp.

“Sorry.” She ran her hand gently over the ribs beneath the bruise as if to soothe him.

Her touch hurt, but he didn’t want her to stop. Even that clinical touch was more than he’d felt from a woman in a long time. Way too long.

“I don’t feel an obvious break,” she pronounced finally, “but you may have some cracked ribs.”

She moved her hand lightly down his back, dipping toward the end of his spine. He sucked in a harsh breath, even though her fingers weren’t anywhere near a bruise. His heart thudded loudly in his ears.

“How about here?” she asked, gently probing another bruised area on his lower back.

“It’s sore but not terrible.” His voice dropped to a growly bass, despite his effort to keep his cool. Her touch was like fire, in a good way.

A very good way.

“You don’t remember getting kicked?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I guess they did it after I was down.”

“Cowards,” she spat through clenched teeth, as if outraged by the thought. He couldn’t stop a smile of appreciation from curving his lips, despite his earlier grim mood.

“Am I going to live?” he asked.

He felt her hand move through his hair, her fingers probing the sore spot. She pulled her hand away, leaving him feeling oddly empty. “You’re bleeding back here.”

He turned to look at her, dropping his gaze to her bloody fingers. Not much there, he saw with relief. “Must not be much more than a scratch.”

She crossed into the kitchen and washed the blood off her hands. “Do you have a first aid kit? I can bandage you up.”

He trailed after her like a big, stupid, increasingly aroused puppy. “It’s in that cabinet.”

She turned, her eyes widening at finding him so close. “Wh-which cabinet?”

So he wasn’t the only one who felt the delicious tension wrapping its tentacles around them.

Even though he knew he shouldn’t, knew he was being provocative, he reached past her to the cabinet next to the sink, his body brushing hers as he leaned forward. He felt a little shudder ripple through her where they touched and bit back a smile of raw male satisfaction.

Her breath was hot and quick against his chest. He closed his eyes, enjoying a brief moment of pleasure, before stepping back, bringing a soft-bodied first aid kit with him. But he didn’t move far. As wrong as he knew it was, as dangerous as it felt, he relished seeing the effect his nearness had on Shannon. Drank deeply of the passionate arousal blazing in her dark eyes.

Her lips parted on a shaky breath, but she didn’t lower her gaze. He felt himself drowning in her eyes, slipping under her spell with shocking speed. No longer in control, he heard the telltale sound of his doom—the rapid-fire thunder of his pulse in his ears.