Dangerous Passions Read online

“Would you?”

  “Probably not,” Shannon admitted. “I might have little faith in their future together, but I can’t deny that she seems happy with Ray. At least for now.”

  He ignored the last part of her comment and asked, “What do you know about husband number five?”

  “Not a lot, except that he’s a successful—and apparently very wealthy—businessman. She met him while she was waiting tables at some country club.”

  Outside, the pounding of the rain slowed.

  “Do you think she’s marrying him for his money?” he asked.

  “No. My mother is a lot of things, but she’s not a gold digger. Her commitment to my father was proof of that fact.” She shook her head. “Undoubtedly she’s marrying Ray because she believes she loves him.”

  “Maybe she does. And maybe he loves her.”

  She shook her head again, obviously unconvinced. “Now you sound like my sister.”

  “You said it’s an illusion. Happily ever after,” he prompted. “Is it personal experience that has made you so cynical, or your mother’s previous four marriages?”

  “I’m not cynical,” she denied. “I’m realistic. Not many marriages succeed in this day and age.”

  “My parents have been married for thirty-seven years.”

  Shannon pulled the blanket tighter. “Is that single example supposed to make me believe in fairy tales?”

  He smiled wryly. “Hell, no. My parents are miserable together—they’re just too stubborn to admit it.”

  “Why would anyone want to live like that?”

  It was the same question he’d wondered about for years. The question he’d learned the answer to only when he’d almost fallen into the same trap himself. “Because there’s comfort in the routine, in being with someone rather than being alone.”

  “Only until you realize that you can be lonely even when you’re not alone,” Shannon said.

  He nodded, surprised that her statement so closely mirrored his own thoughts.

  “I like being alone sometimes,” she admitted. “But I’m glad I’m not now. I don’t know what I would do if I was here on my own.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that,” he promised her.

  He didn’t need to remind her that their greatest worry wasn’t being alone or stranded—it was the imminent return of Peart’s men.

  Chapter 7

  The funeral of Zane Conroy was well attended. The private chapel overflowed with associates who had come to pay their respects, and curiosity seekers who came to gawk at the dead man they hadn’t dared glance toward when he was alive. Only one came to mourn.

  There were several cops discreetly sprinkled among the guests, to take careful note of who was there and hopefully pick up on snippets of conversation.

  As if it wasn’t obvious to everyone in Conroy’s organization who they were and the reason for their presence.

  Except that it wasn’t Conroy’s organization anymore.

  Her brother was dead.

  Alysia blinked back the tears that burned, and dabbed the corner of her eye with a lace hanky.

  There had been a meeting last night, hosted by her husband, Andrew, with the expectation of being handed the reins of power. She knew he was disappointed it hadn’t turned out that way.

  She knew he’d married her because she was a direct link to Zane. Now that Zane was gone, he’d expected that connection to be recognized and his years of service rewarded.

  He’d certainly been with the organization longer than A.J.

  But A.J. had known, better than anyone else, how to manipulate Zane. In recent years, A.J. had been an invaluable part of the organization, coming through for Zane in critical situations where others had already failed. And Zane had made sure everyone knew the role A.J. had played in things.

  Alysia was surprised by the ease with which A.J. had taken control, but not displeased. As much as she loved her husband, she didn’t want him taking over where her brother had left off.

  It was a dangerous job. Zane had always tried to shield her from the darker aspects of his business, but she knew only too well exactly what it entailed. And she’d worried about him. He’d disregarded her concerns, insisting that without risk there was no reward.

  Well, he’d taken one too many risks—and now he was dead.

  She didn’t want to see the same thing happen to Andrew.

  She knew he was disappointed and resentful that he wasn’t sitting in the top spot, but he’d managed to get past his personal feelings to be here for her. He slipped an arm across her shoulders now, and she let her head fall back against his shoulder.

  She heard the almost imperceptible click of a shutter, knew the picture would show up in tomorrow’s paper. Just as she knew there would be other photos taken, other names noted by both the cops and the reporters. But the buzz was all about A.J. She could feel the anticipation, hear the murmurs in the crowd.

  “Is he here?”

  “How long has he worked with Conroy?”

  “What does this mean for the structure of the organization?”

  She hated it. All of it. Her brother wasn’t even in the ground and he was forgotten. She wanted to scream, to force their attention back to the man being buried, to demand justice for the way his life was taken away.

  But she wasn’t the type of woman to act on impulse or indulge in emotional displays. Her brother had raised her to be steady and strong, and he needed her to be that now.

  She bit her lip. Hard.

  They were all opportunists and gossipmongers, hypocrites and small-town cops. She refused to let any of them see her cry.

  Shannon had been joking—

  She tried to think back to their conversation. Was it only earlier that day? So much had happened in the space of the past twenty-four hours she wasn’t even sure what day it was anymore.

  But when Michael had suggested building shelter, she’d been joking when she’d challenged him to build a hut out of palm fronds. It turned out that was exactly what he had in mind.

  She stared at the pile of leaves and branches she’d helped him gather and hoped he knew what he was doing. She stifled her doubts and questions—of course he knew what he was doing, he had ranger training and condoms in his survival kit—and watched as he demonstrated the proper technique for weaving the leaves together. When she’d shown she was capable of continuing with the assigned task, he moved on to making the framework for the roof and walls, using vines to tie branches together. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing and how to do it, while her efforts seemed clumsy and protracted.

  “If we were trapped in a research facility, I wouldn’t need your step-by-step instructions to complete the most basic tasks,” she noted.

  “If we were trapped in a research facility, we wouldn’t be worried about crawling insects and rain.”

  “I just want you to know that I’m not a complete idiot,” she continued. “I just don’t have experience with this sort of thing.”

  “Not many people do.” He’d already completed one section of frame and was starting another, but he paused to glance up at her. “Not many people have honors degrees in chemistry, either.”

  His comment made her feel marginally better—until she remembered that she hadn’t told him about her education.

  “How did you know about my degree?” She shook her head, already guessing the answer to her question. “You did a background check on me.”

  “It’s standard procedure,” he said unapologetically.

  She fell silent.

  “Why did you choose to study science?” he asked.

  “Because it’s fascinating and because elements and formulas are consistent and dependable.”

  He knotted the vine around the corner, then made a loop at the other end. “Has everything else in your life been so undependable?”

  “Of course not,” she denied, refocusing her attention on her own work.

  “Then why do you feel the constant need to assert
your independence?”

  “Maybe I don’t like to depend on other people, but that doesn’t mean I can’t.” She flexed her fingers as she reached for another branch. “Like now, for example.”

  Obviously finished with his own task, he started to help her with the weaving.

  She decided she was grateful for, rather than resentful of, his obvious expertise. “I was wondering about something.”

  He lifted a brow. “What’s that?”

  “You said the communications system on your boat had been tampered with.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why would they disable the radio and not the engines? Why would Peart let you follow him?”

  “That’s a question only Peart can answer for certain,” he said.

  “But you have a theory.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know where exactly Peart fits into Conroy’s organization. But I know—knew—Conroy. He was more than the leader of a crime syndicate—he was a gambler and a hunter. There was nothing he enjoyed more than pitting himself against others—to test their fortitude and worthiness.

  “My guess would be that Peart planned this as a last tribute to his former boss. He wanted me to come after you so that he could play his own game of cat and mouse. Maybe even to prove his worth as a leader in the organization.”

  He’d suspected he was being set up, and he’d come after her, anyway. The realization staggered her. What kind of man risked his life for a stranger? Because, despite what had happened between them last night, they were strangers. Even though he’d been hired to watch out for her, he couldn’t be expected to sacrifice his own life to save hers. Especially considering that she’d fought his efforts at almost every turn.

  “Thank you.” She said it softly, finally saying the words she should have spoken hours before. Many times before. When he’d found her exhausted and shivering in the water, when he’d forced her to jump off the boat, when he’d put himself between her and Jazz’s gun. The realization of everything he’d done—everything he was still doing—was overwhelming.

  He shook his head. “I don’t want your gratitude, only your cooperation. When I tell you to do something, I need to know you’ll do it—no questions asked.”

  It wasn’t an unreasonable request, but she couldn’t promise him anything except to say, “I’ll try.”

  “I need you to do more than try.”

  “I know I owe you a lot. I owe you everything,” she amended. “But unconditional trust isn’t something that comes easily to me.”

  “Why?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Under the circumstances, yeah, it does. If we’re going to get off this island alive, I need your trust and you need to get over whatever is preventing you from giving it to me.”

  “Okay. I’ll get over it.”

  “Tell me about it,” he said gently.

  “Why?”

  “Because talking can be therapeutic.”

  She laughed. “Yeah. I can picture you stretched out on a psychiatrist’s sofa, spilling the intimate details of your life.”

  He winced at the unlikely scenario. “I just meant that it might help to share your feelings with a friend.”

  “And that ‘friend’ would be you?”

  “Why not?”

  A valid question considering there was no one else around to talk to. But that fact didn’t make her any more eager to spill the messy details of her life. “Let’s just say someone I trusted implicitly used that trust to take advantage of me.”

  “Your ex-husband,” he guessed.

  Obviously her short-term marriage nine years earlier was something else that had come up in her background check.

  Shannon nodded, confirming his suspicion. “We worked at the same cosmetics company. I was in product development, Doug was in marketing.”

  She paused, still reluctant to admit the extent of her husband’s betrayal—and the depth of her own naiveté.

  Michael remained silent, threading the woven panels through the crosspieces of the frame, waiting for her to continue but not pressuring her to do so.

  She was grateful for his restraint. After all these years, the lies and deceptions still hurt. But maybe he was right. Maybe she needed to talk about what had happened in order to let go of it.

  So she took a deep breath and continued. “He had some innovative marketing ideas, including marketing inside information about the products I was developing to other companies.”

  “Ouch.”

  She didn’t know if it was the distance of nine years that finally allowed her to view the painful interlude with more objectivity or his unquestioning sympathy, but she somehow managed to smile. “Yeah, it hurt. I nearly lost my job because of Doug. I definitely lost my naiveté.”

  “I can see why you have trust issues.”

  “Among other issues, apparently.”

  He glanced up, lifted a brow in silent question.

  She shook her head, stifling a yawn. “I think that’s enough baring of my soul for now.”

  “I’m here,” he said, “if you want to bare anything else.”

  This time she laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Mike secured the shelter to the ground with pegs he’d carved out of wood and stood back to survey the finished product, pleased to note that it blended almost invisibly into its surroundings.

  Satisfied with the completion of one important task, he sat down with his knife and another stick to begin another.

  Beside him Shannon yawned again.

  He wasn’t surprised that she was obviously exhausted. His energy was flagging, too, but his body was trained to go for days with nothing more than brief snatches of sleep. Hers wasn’t.

  “What else should I be doing?” she asked.

  “There’s nothing else to do.”

  “Then why are you sharpening that stick?”

  Her body might be fatigued, but her mind was still sharp. “Would you believe that whittling is a hobby of mine?”

  “No,” she responded immediately.

  He chuckled. “I’m making a spear to catch a fish for dinner.”

  “I could help,” she said.

  “It’s not a two-person task.”

  She looked as if she might protest further, but whatever she intended to say was stifled by another yawn.

  “Why don’t you take a nap?” he suggested. “Someone needs to test out our shelter.”

  She managed a smile. “Is that supposed to make me feel useful?”

  “You’ll be more useful if you’re rested.”

  “All right,” she relented, obviously too tired to do anything else.

  Mike waited until she’d crawled into the shelter, then made his escape quickly, before he did something incredibly stupid like succumb to the urge to lie down beside her and cradle her in his arms. She needed to sleep, and he needed to concentrate on getting them dinner.

  As far as priorities went, seducing Shannon Vaughn wasn’t even in the top ten—at least not until they made it back to Florida.

  It took Mike longer than he’d expected to catch a decent-size fish for their dinner. Working with only the stick he’d fashioned into a spear and trying to evade the sharp teeth of the many barracuda while he aimed for one was an onerous task. But at last he nabbed one that would be big enough for their dinner. After it was caught, he cleaned and skewered it, ready to cook it in the pit he’d set up on the beach.

  He peeked into their new shelter and confirmed that Shannon was still sleeping. He was tempted to leave her until morning. It would certainly be easier for him if he could avoid more personal interaction with her.

  The attraction between them was too powerful to be denied, and he knew it was inevitable that they would become lovers. It wasn’t a matter of if, only when. He also knew that the when couldn’t be now—not when he needed to keep his wits about him to ensure they both made it off this island alive.

  When Dylan had first approached him about this assignment, Mike
had been reluctant, assuming it would turn out to be nothing more than glorified babysitting detail. But it wasn’t the most mundane task he’d ever been asked to perform, and as he’d had nothing else going on at the time, he’d accepted.

  Then he’d seen Shannon’s picture, and he’d been hooked. Not just because she was beautiful, but because he was intrigued by the contrast of strength and vulnerability in the depths of her stunning green eyes. Still, the tug he’d felt in looking at her picture hadn’t begun to compare to the full-blown assault on his senses the first time he’d seen her in living color. It was a purely physical attraction, no doubt about it.

  But as he’d continued to watch her from a distance, something had changed. During the days, she played with her nephew, splashing in the water, building sand castles on the beach, eating ice cream under the shade of a striped umbrella. Her nights, after Jack had gone to bed, were spent sitting alone on the balcony of her hotel room with the inexplicable glint of tears in her eyes. And the primal lust in his blood shifted to something else, something softer and stronger but equally compelling.

  Then all hell had broken loose in Fairweather. In the altercation that had killed Zane Conroy, Shannon’s sister had been wounded. Dylan had come to Florida to take Jack back to his mother, and Shannon had been alone.

  The next day she’d taken a stroll on the beach. There had been no way Mike could follow her without being seen, so he’d approached her—one vacationer striking up a conversation with another. He hadn’t anticipated that the sparks would be flying from both directions. He’d certainly never intended to kiss her.

  Now there was no going back. No way to turn off the feelings she stirred inside him. But he could—and would—set them aside to do what needed to be done.

  It was his job to take care of Shannon. And as much as she needed to rest, she also needed to eat.

  He ducked into the shelter. She was sleeping with the blanket tucked around her, the ends clutched tightly in her fists. Her hair was a spill of auburn silk against the lush green of the palm fronds that covered the ground. The soft cotton of her sleeveless top clung enticingly to her breasts, and the side of her skirt had fallen open again, exposing a tantalizing glimpse of creamy thigh.