Hell or High Water (Deep Six #1)(63)
“And I told you I’m not one of your men to go following your orders,” she replied with a huff. “I’m an asset. Which you’d know if you pulled your head out of your ass and stopped with the high-and-mighty this-is-men’s-work-so-why-don’t-you-go-paint-your-fingernails-darlin’ bullshit.”
Golden God rolled in his lips as if fighting a smile. And even though Maddy hadn’t a clue what was going on, and even though her heart was still racing a million miles a minute, she found herself feeling an instant kinship with this Olivia woman. She considered any chick who wasn’t afraid to stand up to men twice her size to be a sister from another mister.
“Gentlemen”—Olivia turned away from the dripping-wet Golden God to address the others on the bridge—“I take it the yacht has been secured?”
“We haven’t checked belowdecks yet,” Mr. Swoon-Worthy said. “But one of the two dudes trussed up on the main deck said he counted—”
“You spoke to Nigel and Bruce?” Maddy interrupted, her galloping heart tripping over itself. Lord, she’d been worried sick about them. “Are they all right?”
Swoon-Worthy glanced down at her. Once again, she was struck by those eyes. Brown. So heavily lashed it looked like he was wearing eyeliner and mascara. Warm. The light in them certainly didn’t say coldhearted killer, but there was a body on the floor to prove that wrong. A body she continued to studiously ignore because that wasn’t liquid and solid matter she heard dripping off the window and onto the floor. Nope. Nah. It surely wasn’t.
“If you call being sunburned and dehydrated all right,” he said, “then, roger that, they’re fine. Although, come to think of it, I can’t really vouch for the one with the foul mouth. He strikes me as a guy suffering from *-itis.”
Foul mouth? He had to be talking about Bruce. Maddy had noticed the engineer used “bloody” every other word. But if he was strong enough to curse, that meant he was okay. She blew out a relieved breath. No one had died or been seriously injured by her decision to approach that dinghy full of strangers—well…except for the strangers themselves—and for that she sent up a silent prayer of thanks.
“As I was saying,” Swoon-Worthy continued, “Nigel said he counted seven tangos. Given the six in the dinghy we took out, and this one here, we may’ve got them all, and—”
“Tangos?” Maddy interrupted again. “That’s what the military calls terrorists, isn’t it?” So she’d been right all along. She really had been hijacked by a group of radicals. Good God almighty! It was one thing to suspect, another thing entirely to know. Her knees threatened to give out on her. Good thing Swoon-Worthy still held her in a firm grip. She could feel the heat of his wide palm all the way through the terrycloth of her robe.
“What do you know about what the military calls things?” He scowled heavily. A lesser woman might have shrunk away from that look. But growing up in a house filled with males meant she was immune to testosterone-laden facial threats.
“I watched Captain Phillips. The Navy SEALs in the movie called the bad guys ‘tangos’ and…” It suddenly hit her. These rough-and-tumble men looked a lot like the ones portrayed in the film. “Are y’all SEALs?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder at Dances with Wolves and Sir Lifts-Weights-a-Lot. Both of their eyes rounded, and she turned back to tilt her chin back, way back—being five feet tall had its disadvantages—to search Swoon-Worthy’s face.
“We’re not—” he began, then shook his head. Once again little drops of water showered from the thick strands of his hair. A few landed on her face. For some odd reason, she didn’t brush them away. They grounded her. Gave her something to concentrate on besides her somersaulting insides and spinning head, not to mention they distracted her from that hand that wasn’t twitching and those sounds that weren’t biological matter splatting onto the floor.
“It’s not—” She lifted a brow when he stopped again. “We’re the ones asking the questions here!”
“Well, there’s no need to get your boxers in a twist about it,” she scolded him.
He blinked down at her, his expression one she’d seen plenty of times on the faces of the men in her life. It was a mixture of exasperation and bewilderment. “Can you believe the balls on this one?” He posed the question to the people in the room while pointing a finger at her.
“Maddy,” Captain Harry said, “perhaps it’s best if you—”
“First things first,” the woman cut off the captain. She walked in Maddy’s direction, water sluicing down her bare legs and leaving wet footprints on the floor. Maddy noticed she didn’t spare the body sprawled in front of the console a single glance. Maddy couldn’t blame her. No one wanted to see that. She considered asking someone to run downstairs and grab a sheet to cover it, but the raven-haired gal preempted her with, “We need to make sure the boat is secure. Are there any more tangos on board?”
“No,” Maddy assured her. “There were just the seven.”
“Good.” Olivia nodded, smiling. Maddy was surprised to discover the woman was much younger than she initially assumed. The way she handled the weapon and the confident fashion with which she carried herself—not to mention she sort of seemed to be in charge here—spoke of years of experience. But her unlined skin and bright, twinkling eyes said she was either really well-preserved or not a lot older than Maddy herself. Late twenties, maybe early thirties.