The Espionage Effect(35)
Alec hadn’t merely awakened me sexually. He’d opened my eyes to an entire realm of possibilities I hadn’t considered before.
In the past few years, I’d grown restless and unfulfilled, blindly led down a road I hadn’t wanted, had never asked for. Yet now, I saw my path clearly, as if an undeniable shining beacon on the far horizon drew me in.
The air shifted, and the fine hairs on my body stood on end, sensing his presence. Without a sound, he brushed his arm against mine as he settled beside me, mirroring my stance against the railing. He cradled a small espresso cup in each hand and lifted one, offering it to me.
I took the cup, absorbing its warmth through the earthenware sides. “I’m going with you tomorrow night.”
He let out a soft snort. “No, you’re not.”
“I have skills. I did stab you, after all.” Not even a twinge of guilt about it. Hadn’t realized then that it would become a negotiating point.
“Meager, at best. Nothing happens as anyone expects in an operation. You plan for a dozen contingencies, and the one you didn’t think of has you scrambling for an escape route. We have a training facility, undergo months of intensive exercises, are subjected to every torture method known to man to harden us, prepare us. What do you have?”
Black belts in aikido and jiu-jitsu? Even that sounded weak to me compared to all he’d said.
“Determination.” Which made all the difference in the world.
“Just enough to get you killed.”
“Hmmph.” I wasn’t convinced. Or maybe I didn’t care. The risk of getting killed didn’t sound as bad as not living. And what he’d done to me, what he’d accomplished? Was like a lungful of fresh air. And I was done suffocating. Through with drowning.
Stewing about his bullheaded obstinance, but understanding the reasoning behind it, I stared out over the ocean. An interesting shape of lights floated far out, at the horizon line.
“Is that a cruise ship?” As I watched, the shape drifted infinitesimally northward.
He nodded. “Yeah. They follow the inland channel between here and Cozumel on their way to Miami.”
Another illuminated ship edged into view as it cleared the darkened peninsula to the south. A few minutes later, another appeared. Only four inches apart from our perspective, if I held up my fingers to measure, a line of ships silently glided from right to left.
“The average cruising speed of a typical ship is about twenty-two knots. How fast do you think they’re going?” Idle recitation of facts and collecting more data calmed me further.
“Hmm…’bout that.” He lifted his espresso cup, taking a swallow.
We watched for a while. Another four ships appeared, each roughly the same distance apart, all in a single-file line, as if pulled along by the same massive string. “Why do they sail at night?”
“It’s the most profitable. They sail after passengers have returned from expensive land excursions, while everyone sleeps. Then dock at the next port of call to have them disembark and spend more money on tours and duty-free designer merchandise.”
My mind rifled through the possibilities. I huffed out a laugh. “What a tourist racket. Smart businesses would have shops at the most popular ports.”
He nudged my shoulder, then nodded toward our left where the land curved toward the sea. Lights glittered from structures built along it. “Like Cancun.”
“Cancun,” I repeated, holding it in my sights. A commercialized tourist destination. Over 700,000 in population, almost 100,000 tourists every week staying at the resorts that had sprung up like tall weeds on every vacant inch of beach overnight. In comparison, Maroma Beach was a lazy stretch of undiscovered sand.
“Just beyond the peninsula jutting out at the end of the bay. Those lights are homes located in luxury beachside communities between here and there.”
Over the next half hour, we discussed various topics about Maroma Beach and her surrounding areas while we watched the long line of cruise ships disappear as they sailed northward, sipping espressos inadvisably late if we wanted any sleep, which was the last thing on my mind. No caffeine required to fuel the jacked-up excitement that pulsed through my veins.
And even though he’d taken sex off the table, with every minute that ticked by, I grew more certain that our bodies had misplaced that memo. Seemingly unaware of his actions, the back of his hand occasionally rubbed the back of mine. When I shifted my weight to the leg nearest him and my bare thigh brushed the canvas of his pants, he sucked in a breath, as if startled that my heat had seared right through the fabric.
To experiment, I leaned toward him, brushing my cheek along his biceps. The muscle flexed, and he blew out a slow breath, then swallowed hard.
Yep. He still wanted me. Even if he wouldn’t admit it.
Good thing. Because my body was a riot of sparking nerves, attuned to his as if each one longed to be touched by him again. My nipples drew tight as I inhaled his masculine scent. An ache began to throb between my legs in time with my heartbeat, dull but steady, as if keeping me primed for the next round. A round that would never come.
I exhaled slowly, fully aware that I struggled right along with him.
Smug about having an undeniable effect on him, regardless of what he did to me, I shifted, testing my theory by rubbing an aching nipple against his arm.
“Where is your house?” I assumed he had one, since he’d admitted he wasn’t a hotel guest.