Undercover Mistress

Chapter 16

The next time Celia looked up, Roy had gone.

Disappointment slammed into her, and for the first time she understood what it meant to feel “crushed.” She felt flat and deflated, like a beach ball run over by a truck, all the air and bounce and joy gone out of her.

As soon as she reasonably could, she excused herself and, carrying her champagne glass and remembering at the last moment to take her new and unfamiliar handbag with her, slipped out of the lounge and went to look for him. Music followed her as she went from deck to deck, all brightly lit and party-festive, and she raised her glass and smiled at the people she met, standing, strolling or sitting in pairs or small groups, murmuring and laughing together.

She’d never felt so isolated…so alienated. So lonely.

Roy, where are you? I miss you. I need you.

Unable to bear the thought of rejoining the noisy crowd in the lounge, she decided to go back to her stateroom. Then her stomach clenched, and she thought, No, not mine. Ours. And how, she wondered, are we going to share a room tonight? A bed?

Pain caught at her throat and shuddered through her chest. Pain and regret and longing. This could have been so different…so wonderful. It should be wonderful, shouldn’t it? Love? Why does it have to hurt so much?

She inserted her card key into its slot and opened the door-and checked, cold and tingling, as if she’d touched live electric wires. Roy was standing in front of the dressing table, struggling with his ascot. His eyes, blue and glaring, glanced off the mirror and collided with hers.

For a long moment, neither of them said a word. Then Celia was floating toward him, unaware of heartbeat or breath, the carpeted floor unfelt beneath her feet.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Here, let me help you with that,” she said. Her voice sounded sharp and bright in her ears, like the tinkle of wind chimes. She lifted her hands to the front of his shirt.

He made a sharp hissing sound, and his hands closed around her wrists. He stared down at her and his eyes seemed to smolder behind the blue contacts. “Don’t need your help.”

She stared back, unflinching. “Yes, you do.”

It was a standoff that could only end one way, given the circumstances. The moment and the tension stretched until they couldn’t anymore, until, with a harsh sound that was either anguish or anger-perhaps both-Roy lowered his mouth to hers.

There was violence and frustration, hunger and despair in the way he kissed her…in the way he crushed her to him…in the way she kissed him back-her hands clawed at his shoulders and clung to the back of his neck. Mouths opened…devoured. Teeth nipped and clashed…tongues dueled rather than mated. Breaths came in pants and whimpers, a primitive combat in which no words were spoken.

Undressing was a battle fought without regard for collateral damage, either to flesh or fabric. Fingers raked, buttons popped, seams ripped and in the end, the tattered remnants of the evening’s costumes lay strewn across the field of conflict like so many casualties of war. And even when they were both naked, the struggle continued. Hair was gathered and clutched in greedy handfuls. Teeth bruised and nails raked in ways that would leave marks for days to come but in those frantic moments went unnoticed.

He pushed her or she pulled him-impossible to tell-so that she tumbled backward onto the bed and he followed her down, and they wound up as one, already intertwined and straining to somehow get closer to each other yet, to crawl inside each other’s skin, if that were only possible. Panting, she made a place for him and her legs wrapped around him. She cried out as he plunged into her; her body arched and opened to him, urging him deeper…deeper. Clutching his shoulders with all her strength, she lifted herself to meet his mouth with a mindless, demanding hunger.

She had no awareness, no thought in her mind; she existed in a black void of need, of instinct that predated thought and overrode awareness. Wars could have raged all around her and she wouldn’t have cared; she cared only for the war within.

And war it was, although she couldn’t have defined the causes or combatants if her life had depended on it. She knew only that it was violent and devastating and terrible; when the explosions had ceased, she lay for a time, as survivors of wars do, in dazed stillness, before realization finally hit her and she covered her face with her hands and wept.

As she sobbed, she felt Roy’s arms folding warmly and gently around her, a hand stroking her hair, lips brushing wordless whispers across her forehead. She turned her face into the warm darkness below his ear and, shuddering, curled herself toward his hard, sinewy body, wishing she could somehow melt into it and simply…vanish. Never in her life had she felt so vulnerable…so utterly and completely exposed.

After a while, when her shaking and sobbing had quieted somewhat, she felt the chest beneath her cheek exhale a long, slow breath. “What a pair we are, eh?” Roy said in R. J. Cassidy’s hoarse whisper. She felt his chin bump her temple as he shook his head, then heard, in pure Georgian: “When it comes to you, I haven’t got a lick o’ willpower, and that’s the God’s honest truth.”

She lay quiet as understanding of what he’d just done came inside her like a warm and lovely fragrance. He’d known about her vulnerability. He’d known and had purposefully taken all responsibility for what had just happened onto himself. The sweetness of that was almost as devastating, in its way, as the violence that had come before, and new tears pooled warmly beneath her lashes as she said softly, “What am I gonna do with you?”

His lips touched her temple, along with a chuckle that was barely audible. Even so, she heard the pain in it and lifted her head to find his mouth with a soft kiss of acknowledgment and gratitude. Then he folded her once more into his arms and simply held her, stroking her…petting her, neither of them saying anything.

After a long while, though no words had passed between them, she turned her face up to his and he found her mouth and began to kiss her again, gently this time. Then, slowly, he deepened the kiss, and made love to her for a long, leisurely time, every touch unhurried and tender, sensual and erotic, until every cell in her body felt excited, exhilarated and alive, thankful that the darkness and devastation that had gone before had faded to an already half-forgotten memory.

Celia woke, disoriented, in semidarkness. The muscular chest that had been her pillow was heaving beneath her cheek, the once slow and steady heartbeat now quick and hard.

“What izzit?” she murmured sleepily as Roy eased her to one side and sat up.

“That’s what I’m tryin’ to figure out. Can’t you feel that? We’ve stopped.” He was on his feet, rummaging through the articles of clothing on the floor. He picked up something unidentifiable, stared at it, then tossed it aside and reached for the small overnighter that, still unpacked, held most of his clothes.

She watched him for a moment, propped on one elbow, then threw back the covers. Already half-dressed, he paused to throw her a look. “Where you going? Stay put. I’m just gonna go see what’s goin’ on.”

Celia rose to her feet, folded her arms on her chest and gave him a long, hard look. He looked back at her, opened his mouth, then closed it again. His shoulders sagged in surrender. “Okay, fine. Just…hurry it up.”

He dragged a hand through his hair and turned, preparing, Celia could tell, to pace with typical masculine impatience. She opened the closet-she’d unpacked her clothes-took out a dressing gown, slipped it on and was beside him, still belting it around her waist, before he’d completed a single circuit of the room. He said, “Huh,” and opened the door to allow her to precede him, which she did, regal as a duchess, after giving him a serene smile she hoped would hide the fact that she felt almost light-headed with excitement.

“It’s got to be on the other side,” Roy whispered as they hurried down the dimly lit passageway toward the main salon. From there, through the bank of windows that curved around the bow, they should be able to see most of the way along both sides of the yacht, though not, probably, all the way to the stern.

The salon was deserted, though, as elsewhere on the boat, lights had been left burning. Heart hammering, Celia paused to let Roy take the lead. She was close behind him as he stepped up to the windows, staying to one side behind the bank of open draperies.

“It’s a ship,” he whispered, shifting a little so she could look past him. “We’ve docked with it…they’re off-loading…something. Looks like we’re taking on cargo of some kind…”

Celia didn’t reply. Even with Roy’s warmth beside her she felt chilled as she watched the oceangoing ship’s huge dark shape rising and falling slowly only a few yards away, blotting out the stars…the flickering lights and shifting shadows going about their silent business.

“May I help you?”

The voice was quiet, courteous. Nevertheless, it sent a shock wave of adrenaline coursing through Celia’s body, and, she suspected, judging from the way the hand holding tightly to hers jerked at the sound, through Roy’s, too. Turning, she saw a man she recognized-one of Abby’s bodyguards-dressed now in casual slacks and a dark pullover. The salon’s warm, golden lamplight gleamed in his black hair.

“Uh, yeah, you could-” Roy began in a rasping voice, but Celia squeezed his hand hard, and her own voice, breathless and a little frightened, washed over his.

“Oh-yes! Please tell us-what’s going on? We-I couldn’t sleep, and I felt that we weren’t moving, and I thought…what’s happened? Is something wrong?”

The man’s teeth gleamed in the light. “Oh, no…nothing is wrong, I assure you. Far from it. We are simply taking on a few additional supplies. Nothing for you to be concerned about.”

“Supplies? What kind of supplies?” This, thankfully, was from a newcomer, as some of the other passengers had begun to wander into the salon, looking sleepy, disgruntled and curious, and not nearly as glamorous as they had the night before.

The spokesman glanced around at them, then gave a little bow and a shrug of resignation. “Ah. Prince Abdul will be disappointed. He had hoped to make this a big surprise. But…I suppose I must explain-perhaps you would keep it a secret from the other guests?”

“Oh, of course,” Celia breathed. Beside her, Roy’s body seemed to hum with tension.

The spokesman looked around, leaned forward and lowered his quiet but strangely staccato voice still further. “We have just taken on a very large selection of fireworks.”

“Fireworks!” someone exclaimed.

“Yes, yes-fireworks. For the New Year’s celebration. As I am sure you are aware, such fireworks are illegal in California. Which is why we are at the moment in the waters of Mexico.” The man’s teeth gleamed as he smiled.

“Ooh, how exciting-I can’t wait for tonight,” Celia gushed, giving a theatrical shiver. She threw a glance in Roy’s direction. “We won’t tell a soul-will we, darling?” She put out her hand and lightly touched the spokesman’s sleeve-and felt Roy give a violent jerk behind her. Breathless, her heart hammering, she ploughed on. “Thank you so much-I think I’ll be able to sleep now, don’t you, R.J.? ’Night, everyone…” Towing Roy behind her, she waltzed out of the salon.

Once in the passageway, she had to fight the urge to break into a run. The shakes hit her about the time they reached their stateroom door, and she handed the key card over to Roy and let him fit it into the slot.

“Fireworks!” she exploded softly as the door closed behind them. She turned to him, out of breath. “Do you believe him?”

He didn’t answer immediately, bending over instead to snatch up the jacket he’d been wearing the night before and toss it onto a chair. When he rounded on her, his smile was painful to see. “Right now, ’bout the only thing I know for sure is that’s the guy who shot me, and every time I get that close to him I get a powerful urge to kill him with my bare hands.” He dragged a hand over his hair and the awful smile disappeared.

He began to pace, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. “Fireworks? Could be… Most likely is, in fact. Question is whether that’s all that’s in those crates. And that is something I’m gonna have to find out.” He threw her a distracted glance. “Where’s your pocketbook? I’m gonna need those sensors. I’m figuring, once people start getting up, maybe while they’re serving breakfast…There’s enough confusion, comin’ and goin’, I should be able to slip down- What?” He halted, having just noticed she was shaking her head.

“No,” Celia said, folding her arms on her chest as she faced him, bracing for the objections she knew were coming. “Not you-it’ll be a lot less suspicious if I do it. I’m a woman-you know how we women are about getting lost.” She paused to roll her eyes. As if. “Besides-I’m an actress. I can play the ditzy blonde in my sleep. I know how to take readings with those sensors-Max showed us both, remember? I’m the logical one to go. If they find me wandering around down in the hold, they’ll more than likely pat me on the head and send me on my way. You-all I can say is, remember what happened to you the last time you were caught doing that? I don’t even want-”

“You’re right.”

“-to think what they might…what did you say?”

He took a deep breath. “I said, you’re right. God…I can’t believe I’m saying this, but…like you said, you’ve got the best chance to do it without raising suspicions. So…you’re the one who should go.”

Shock, love and happiness rushed through her like a gale-force wind, literally taking her breath away. Her voice was faint and airless as she asked, “You mean it?” He nodded, eyes steady and grave. She gazed at him for a long time, wondering whether anything in her life had ever meant as much to her as the fact that he trusted her to do this thing…this thing her life and his and millions more might depend on. Then she stood on her tiptoes and pressed her soft mouth against his grim one.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Roy was fairly certain nothing he’d ever done in his life-not counting surviving being shot and thrown into a dark ocean, of course-had been as hard as the hour he spent later that morning pacing in the confines of his stateroom, waiting for Celia to return from her mission.

He’d never been much of a worrier before. He’d been accused of being happy-go-lucky, but that didn’t seem quite the right way to describe his outlook on life, given the nature of his job and the inherent dangers and life-and-death choices involved. He’d just never wasted much time calculating odds and worrying about outcomes, put it that way. So maybe que sera, sera would have summed it up better. What happened, happened. When his number came up, he figured there wasn’t much he could do about it, no sense worrying about it ahead of time, right? Until it did, he intended to keep on making the best decisions he could, given the information available to him at the time, which was all anybody could do.

But now, here he was, all of a sudden pacing up and down in a box-size room, imagining every possible complication and every bad outcome in the book, and feeling helpless and frustrated because none of it was under his control. Worrying.

It was what came of working with a partner, he supposed. Worse, a partner he cared about-a lot. He wasn’t used to it. He’d always worked solo before. Kind of a lone wolf. Responsible to and for nobody but himself-and the mission, of course. That was the way he liked it.

He wished he could have made himself believe it was Celia’s civilian status, the fact that she was inexperienced and mostly untrained that had him so edgy. But he wasn’t in the habit of telling himself lies. He’d seen her in action enough these past few weeks that he’d come to have a healthy respect for her abilities. The truth was he knew he’d have worried about her even if she’d had the complete course of training all federal agents went through at Quantico.

And where in the hell had that notion come from?

He wasn’t going to have a chance to ponder the answer to that question, though, because right about then he heard the scrape of a key card in the lock. His heart jumped into his throat as Celia came through the door, looking calm and cool and absolutely normal, except for a little bit of pink in her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes. As if she were having fun, he thought. The time of her life, dammit.

“Well?” he growled, making an impatient “give it here” gesture toward the pocketbook she had looped over her shoulder.

“It went just like I told you it would,” she said as she slipped it off and handed it over, a triumphant smile creeping across her face. “They patted me on my head and sent me on my way. But I got close enough to the storage compartments, I think.” She bit down on her lower lip to contain the smile. “I told them I wanted to see the kitchen. Because I’m such an enthusiastic cook, you see.” Laughter spurted from her and she stifled it with her hand, as if she were ashamed of it.

The specially prepared suitcase lay on the bed. Working quickly and in silence, Roy opened the secret compartment and powered up the instruments hidden inside. He opened the handbag and carefully removed the sensitive monitoring devices from their hiding place. Silent, now, too, Celia watched over his shoulder as he bent over the suitcase, working his way through procedures practiced a hundred times. Nothing moved except his hands and the pulsing of his heart sending blood through his veins. He didn’t breathe…didn’t think Celia did, either. Sweat beaded his forehead and trickled down his ribs. Tension sang in his ears, a high-pitched, nerve-wracking whine, like mosquitoes.

A few minutes later, he straightened and rubbed at his eyes with the fingers and thumb of one hand…maybe trying to erase the images that had been recorded there. He felt cold…cold all over. And sick. And scared.

He uttered a single syllable, blunt and sibilant and crude.

He flicked a glance at Celia and saw she’d gone deathly pale. He wondered if he looked the same.

“Radiation?” she whispered.

He nodded. Cleared his throat. Forced words through the block of ice in his chest. “Could be just radioactive materials, I guess, but given all the other factors-the chatter…the timing-I’m thinking it’s a dirty bomb. They brought it in with the fireworks, and they mean to set it off the same way. At midnight tonight. Happy New Year.”

“Dear God.”

“Yeah. Depending on how big it is, it’s almost a certainty they’d wipe out this boat and everybody on it, and probably a good bit of Catalina along with it. That by itself would make a helluva splash, but that’s not what they’re after. It’s the radiation cloud. With the onshore breeze…”

“I can’t believe Abby would do this,” Celia said, hugging herself, her voice tight and furious. “He loves-L.A.-Hollywood-the whole lifestyle. These people are his friends.”

“He might not know about it,” Roy said grimly. “Maybe he’s just the sacrificial lamb. From what I hear, he’s not exactly a role model in the radical fundamentalist world. Maybe they mean to take him out-punish him for his decadent lifestyle-at the same time they make their big statement. Who knows?”

While he talked, he took a laptop computer out of the suitcase and carried it to the small writing desk that was part of the room’s amenities. He’d recovered his equilibrium, a little. The shock was fading. His brain was beginning to function again. “Whatever they mean to do,” he went on as he connected the computer to the yacht’s power and fired it up, “our job is to keep ’em from doing it. Now we’ve got the evidence we need…just have to get this to…” He broke off, stared at the computer screen, tapped some keys, waited a moment, then uttered the same succinct and violent syllable.

“What?” Celia was beside him in an instant, breathless with dread.

He stared at her, paralyzing horror and helplessness creeping around his heart. “They’ve pulled the plug.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We’re in the middle of the flamin’ ocean. Our only means of communication is through the yacht’s satellite hookup…right? Guess they’re not taking any chances on lettin’ word of their little party get out, because they’ve cut it off. Shut it down. We’re dark,” he said grimly, beginning to pace again. “Incommunicado. Short of puttin’ a message in a bottle and pitchin’ it overboard, we’ve got no way to call in the cavalry.”

“A message in a bottle?” Celia was gazing past him, tapping her lips with a rose-tinted fingernail. “That could work.”

He stared at her openmouthed for several seconds, then snapped, “Come on, this is no joke.”

“No, wait-” She clutched his arm. “I’m serious. We’ve got the GPS thingies, right? I bet they’re small enough to fit into a champagne bottle. All we’d have to do is put in a note, cork it, and-”

“And these guys, who are paranoid enough they’ve shut down their own satellite communications, are just gonna stand there and let us throw it overboard?”

“They will if we stage it right,” Celia said, teeth pressing on her lower lip to subdue her smile. “Leave that to me. I told you, didn’t I, I’ve always wanted to write scripts?”

Powerful emotions filled his chest as he gazed at her, scowling-as if that would hide them. “I don’t know whether you’re a lunatic or a genius, you know that?” he said huskily.

“Neither one, actually,” she said, pink and breathless with something that looked impossibly like happiness. “It’s just…I told you-I have this imagination…”

An hour or so later, Celia and Roy joined the sunbathers drinking champagne and lounging around the spa on the stern deck. She carried a corked champagne bottle in one hand and a half-filled glass in the other; while in no way sloppy or obnoxious about it, as she greeted friends and acquaintances among the gathering it was obvious she’d already had quite a bit to drink.

When she reached the farthest aft part of the deck, she turned and propped her elbows on the railing, leaned back and shook her head so that the wind caught her hair. She lifted the glass and drained it, then held it out to R. J. Cassidy, who was, as always, patient and attentive at her side.

“Darlin’,” she cried gaily, waggling the champagne bottle at him, “I seem to be empty. Pour me some more, will you please?”

In a raspy voice that nevertheless carried to the nearest interested parties, R.J. responded, “I…think you’ve had about enough, don’t you? Here-why don’t you let me have that…”

As he held out his hand to take the bottle from her, Celia opened her mouth in outrage and gasped, “I have not. No-don’t you dare-” She snatched the bottle away from him and leaned backward over the railing, holding it high over her head, as if trying to keep it out of his reach.

Many interested eyes watched as his fingers closed around her wrist. Several people, including Celia, gasped as the bottle slipped from her hand and fell into the foaming wake. She whirled and stared at the bottle, now retreating rapidly behind them, then drew herself up like a duchess and said icily, “Well. I hope you’re satisfied.”

No one but R. J. Cassidy would have seen the glint of excitement and triumph in her eyes.

“We don’t even know if they got the damn message,” Roy growled later that evening, as Celia tugged and fussed with the collar and lapels of his white dinner jacket. His shirt collar was open. He’d told her if this was to be his last night on earth, he was damned if he was going out wearing a bow tie.

“We don’t know they didn’t… There-that’s better.” She stood back and regarded him with her head tilted to one side. “You look nice,” she said softly, her chest too full of emotion for breath.

“Thanks. So do you.”

She knew she did, of course, in the ruby-red gown she’d had copied from an old Rita Hayworth film and with her hair loose on her shoulders and diamonds and garnets at her ears and throat. But his eyes, glittering blue in the contact lenses, weren’t looking at her. Instead, they scanned the horizon, where the lights of Avalon Harbor twinkled festively in the distance. Looking, she thought, for some sign of the Special Forces teams…the cavalry that even she knew might never come.

They were on one of the portside decks, a private spot they’d managed to find since neither of them felt much like joining the party that was in full swing in the lounge. And staying in their stateroom had felt too much like being trapped…

Roy flicked a restless glance at her. “I can think of a million things that could have gone wrong.”

“Sounds like I’m not the only one with an imagination,” Celia said lightly, and pain reminded her to take a breath.

“Celia-listen to me.” He caught her wrists and pulled them against his chest, demanding her attention. As if his voice wouldn’t have been enough…it sounded like tearing cloth. “If they don’t show up soon, I’m going in.” She was already shaking her head violently, whispering wordless rejections, but he held her still and overrode them. “Yes…I have to. You know I do. I can’t let this happen.”

“There’re so many of them.” Her voice broke. “You’re only one man. How can you possibly-”

“I’ll find a way. They’ll have the fireworks on the stern deck. Stands to reason the bomb’ll be there, too. All I have to do is figure out which one it is-shouldn’t be too hard-get to it and heave it overboard. Piece o’cake.”

“It’s not. It’s suicide. Roy-” She hadn’t meant to cry. He’d be upset if she cried. And he was-she could feel him quivering with held-in emotions when he pulled her against him, murmuring soothing things in a broken voice.

She pushed him away and dashed a hand across her cheeks. “Roy, you can’t die now. You can’t. I love you. And I know what you’re thinking, but this is not my imagination. I love you, dammit. I think I was meant to love you. I think…” She paused, touched her nose, swallowed and continued, speaking rapidly so he couldn’t interrupt her and she could get it all said before it was too late.

“Remember when I told you I always wondered why, when the accident happened, I was allowed to live? I thought there must be some reason…some purpose. I thought first it was because I was supposed to find you and save your life. Then I thought it was because of this mission-because only I could get you on Abby’s boat. But…I think it’s bigger than that. And way more simple.” She was crying in earnest, now, harder than she’d ever cried in her life before, all the anguish and pain of a lifetime saved up for this. “I think,” she sobbed, “I was simply meant to live. To live the best life I can. To find someone to love, and to be happy. Well, I found that someone, dammit. I found you. Literally. I found you. I love you. If you die, it will all have been for nothing-the accident, her dying. Because how am I supposed to live my life and be happy if you’re not here?”

“Ah, God. Celia.” He kissed her tear-drenched mouth, then clasped her tightly to him. “Love…my love…it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t. I have no choice. You know that.”

Suddenly, there in the warm protective circle of his arms, she felt a great stillness come over her. A kind of peace. And she nodded and whispered brokenly, “I know.”

They were standing like that, holding each other, when it occurred to both of them at about the same moment that the thumping sound they were hearing wasn’t heartbeats. Drawing apart and lifting their eyes heavenward, they watched the Apache helicopters swoop in out of the darkness. Only when the dark shapes began dropping into the water and swarming up over the sides of the yacht Bibi Lilith did Roy finally pull Celia to the deck and cover her body with his.

Early in the evening of the first day of the new year, Celia went for a walk on the beach. She was alone; Roy had stayed behind with Max, the first of what would undoubtedly be many briefings. She’d turned back toward home, because the sun had slipped behind an angry-looking bank of clouds and a wind had sprung up, carrying the promise of storms. And she looked ahead and there he was, coming toward her along the water’s edge.

She checked, her heart lifting frighteningly under her ribs. As she went to meet him she felt it thumping madly in her chest and her belly quivering with nervous anticipation, like the worst case of stagefright she’d ever known. She’d said so much, there on the boat when she’d thought she would lose him forever. And he’d said so little. There’d been no time, before all hell had broken loose, or since then, either.

Wordlessly now, he took her hand, turned, and they walked on together.

“Did Max leave?” she asked, her voice showing no signs of the turmoil inside.

He nodded. “Lotta loose ends to tie up, but he wanted us out of the way when it all hits the media. They’ll find us anyway, I’m sure. You, anyway. You don’t mind, do you?”

She shook her head. Watching her bare feet in the sand, she said, “What about Abby?”

“He’s claiming he didn’t know anything. His crew’s been…detained-they’ll be sent to Gitmo for interrogation. The yacht’s been impounded-CSI’s going over it with a fine-tooth comb as we speak. The public’s not being told what the nature of the threat was. Which is probably for the best.”

“So,” Celia said after drawing a careful breath and lifting her face to the wind, “I guess we done good, huh?”

She heard his exhalation…a soft chuckle. “Yeah, we did.”

“We made a pretty good team, didn’t we?” She felt him look over at her. Oh please, she thought. Please don’t make me beg for this. But he didn’t say anything, so she went on. “Our cover didn’t even get blown.” She paused, but he still didn’t say anything. “Just think what we could accomplish if we-”

That did it. “Don’t even think about it,” he growled. “I mean it. There’s no way in hell I’m doing this again.”

Fear and hope were warring furiously inside her, but somehow she managed to keep her voice light. “But why? When we work so well together.”

“I can’t, that’s all. It’s just too damn hard, workin’ with someone I-”

“Someone you…” she paused and turned, forcing him to stop, too, as she squeezed his hand, gathered all her courage and said it for him: “Love?”

He gripped hers tightly while he glared at her. Then he shifted that fierce gaze to the horizon, drew a ragged breath and on its exhalation said, “Yeah. That.”

She went light-headed with happiness; her knees all but buckled. “Well,” Celia said, after a long, sweet moment, “I already talked to Max about it. He thinks it’s a great idea. He’s going to run it by the director.”

“You what?” His voice soared upward an octave. “Are you nuts? There’s no way you’re doing this. No way. Out of the question.”

Up ahead on his deck, she could see Doc standing, watching them. She lifted her arm and gave him a smile and a wave as she said sweetly, “Well…it’s a good thing it’s not up to you, isn’t it? It’s up to me-and Max, of course. And the director. Naturally. I’d have to go to Quantico for training. And it doesn’t look like I’ll be playing Nurse Suzanne any longer.

“You know…” she paused to give him a radiant smile, her heart quivering with delight and overwhelming love at the look on his face “…there really isn’t that much difference between acting and undercover work. That scene on the deck, when we dropped the bottle overboard-you were quite good, you know. I think maybe you’re a natural.”

Dazed, Roy could only stare at her. It never occurred to him in that moment that the woman smiling up at him was Celia Cross, TV star, Hollywood princess and one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen, or even that she’d saved his life once. The face he saw before him now and would forever after was the one imprinted on the part of him referred to, poetically if erroneously, as the heart. That part of him-his heart-didn’t register homely or beautiful, young or old. His heart knew only one thing: This was the face of the woman he loved more than life itself.

And if that’s true, the reasoning part of him asked, how can I even consider a life that doesn’t include her in it?

How that might work he didn’t quite know, but he couldn’t see the white picket fence working for either one of them.

“Did you know,” he said in a wondering tone, “that you’re an amazing woman?”

“Really?” She lifted her face to his. “I thought I was exasperatin’.”

“That, too,” he murmured as he kissed her.

Whatever a future with Celia might hold, he knew for sure it wasn’t ever going to be dull.