Hell or High Water (Deep Six #1)(62)
Huh. He would have expected crying, not cursing. Pleading, not pluckiness. Clearly the woman was—
He stopped dead in his tracks when she lifted her chin to look at him. She was a mix between Miley Cyrus and Carey Mulligan, with one hundred percent Julia Roberts lips—the top being slightly plumper than the bottom. Most people would call her “cute as a button.” Bran would call her the yellow mist to his Green Lantern, the kryptonite to his Superman, the water to his Human Torch. Because one look at her and he was powerless, speechless, and…strangely, inexplicably…captivated.
Chapter Thirteen
2:55 p.m.…
In any other situation, one where she hadn’t been beaten, hog-tied, held hostage, and forced to watch a man get shot right in front of her, Maddy might have considered the tall, granite-shouldered man standing in the middle of the bridge house swoon-worthy. I mean, there’s all that tan skin, that wide chest, and that shock of wavy brown hair. As it was, she had been beaten, hog-tied, held hostage, and witnessed a violent death, so his mute, slack-jawed stare left her feeling decidedly…er…unsettled. Pissed even. Anger was her go-to emotion today, it seemed.
“Hello?” she huffed. “Mr. CIA Agent?”
That seemed to jog him out of whatever stupor he’d fallen into. He shook his head, sending water droplets raining onto the floor at his feet. His bare feet. Hmm. Nice toes. And that was a weird thought to have at a time like this, wasn’t it?
Shock. She was clearly in shock.
“Why did you just call me that?” he demanded as the two men who’d stormed into the room with him started forward. One looked like he belonged as an extra in the movie Dances with Wolves. And the other should be sporting a leotard and slamming chairs over other men’s backs. She’d swear on a stack of bibles his thighs were the size of the trunks on the camphor trees growing in her backyard. Or, as her daddy would say, he was big enough to hunt a bear with a switch.
“I—” she began, but stopped and gulped when the Dances with Wolves extra came at her with a knife. Thankfully, he only attacked the zip ties at her ankles and wrists before moving on to Harry—who had collapsed into the captain’s chair, his eyes glued to the body of the man whose brains were now outside his skull and all over the bridge’s window.
Don’t look, Maddy, she told herself as she pushed into a seated position, her fingers and toes coming alive in a rush of pins and needles. She didn’t keep her gaze averted because she thought Lead A-hole didn’t deserve what he’d gotten. She’d seen that…thing…move behind his eyes when the door burst open, and she’d known he was going to kill her if she didn’t do something quick; hence the head-butting. But she’d gone nearly thirty years without suffering night terrors that starred near-headless corpses, and she’d like to keep it that way, thank you very much.
Suddenly, Mr. Swoon-Worthy-on-Any-Other-Day was stalking toward her, the machine gun he’d used to bring down Lead A-hole now strapped to his back. And when she pictured CIA agents, they were smooth-talking, martini-drinking, 007 types. Definitely nothing like the three scruffy, tattooed men who surrounded her.
“Why do you think I’m CIA?” he demanded again, wrapping a hand around her upper arm and pulling her to her feet, not un-gently. Still, there was no mistaking the strength of his grip. She sucked in a breath and was pleased to discover he smelled like salt water and good, healthy American male. A welcome reprieve from Lead A-hole and the stank-ass of his odor-whelming cohorts.
“I say,” Captain Harry blustered, “unhand her.” He tried to push up from the chair, but Mr. Swoon-Worthy-on-Any-Other-Day’s friends each slapped a hand on his shoulder, keeping him firmly seated.
“I’m all right,” she assured the captain.
“Yeah,” the guy manhandling her said. “She’s fine. As long as she tells me why she thinks I’m CIA.”
He was like a dog with a bone. “Oh, for the love of— Because he thought y’all were CIA,” she said, waving in the general direction of Lead A-hole’s body. Was his hand twitching? No. No, it most certainly was not. That would be too awful and…gulp. “And then when he sank your ship with rocket launchers and I watched you come after his men in a dinghy with guns a-blazin’ Yosemite Sam-style, that pretty much sealed the deal for me.”
She addressed her answer to the hollow of his throat, where his strong, steady pulse beat heavily. But she was fairly sure his gaze was drilling a hole into the top of her head, so she chanced a glance into his eyes. Instantly, she forgot about the body and twitching hand. Because this guy’s eyes were…well…pretty. With very girly-looking lashes. Promptly she decided to shorten his name. Mr. Swoon-Worthy, it is.
“Why?” she demanded. “Are you not CIA?”
“Not by a long shot,” he told her just as the back door to the bridge banged open, admitting a wild-eyed woman holding yet another machine gun. Sweet blue blazes! Did I stumble into World War III? And if these folks weren’t with the Central Intelligence Agency, then just who the heckfire were they? DEA? NSA? Definitely not Coast Guard…
“Damnit, Olivia!” the big, golden god who shouldered his way into the bridge behind the woman bellowed. “I told you to let me go first!”
The lady, Olivia apparently, quickly took in the scene and lowered her weapon once she realized Mr. Swoon-Worthy had already neutralized the threat.