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Chapter One
Max Zamora was getting too old to play Superman. Adrenaline rushed through his veins and raised the hair on the backs of his arms, but did little to dull the fiery ache shooting up his side, stealing air from his lungs. At the age of thirty-six, he felt the pain of saving the world much more than he used to.
He took steady breaths to control the pain and the nausea threatening just below the surface. Above the pounding in his head, he listened to the sounds of tourists and taxicabs, of island music and waves hitting the docks. He heard nothing out of the ordinary filling the humid night air, but Max knew they were out there. Somewhere. Looking for him. If they caught him, they wouldn't hesitate before they killed him, and this time they would succeed.
Light from the Atlantis Casino illuminated blurry patches of the marina, and for a split second his vision cleared, then doubled again, playing havoc with his balance as he moved from the shadows. The soles of his tactical boots made not a sound as he boarded the yacht tied to the end of the dock. Blood trickled from the cut in his bottom lip and dripped down his chin to his black T-shirt. When his adrenaline ran dry, he knew he'd be in a heap of hurt, but he planned to be halfway to Florida before that happened. Halfway from the hell he'd visited on Paradise Island.
Max made his way to the dark galley and rifled through the drawers. His hand fell on a fishing knife, and he pulled it from its scabbard and tested the wicked five-inch blade against his thumb. Moonlight poured in through the yacht's Plexiglas windowsoverhead and lit up patches of the inky black interior.
He didn't bother to search the yacht further. He couldn't see much anyway, and he'd be damned if he'd turn on the lights and illuminate his position.
Flatware rattled in the drawer as Max slammed it shut. He figured if the owners were still on board, he'd made enough noise to roust them by now.
And if someone did suddenly appear from out of the darkness he'd have to switch to contingency plan B. Problem was, he had no plan B. An hour ago, he'd run through the last of his backup strategies, and now he was running on pure instinct and survival. If this last ditch effort failed, he was a dead man. Max didn't fear death; he just didn't want to give anyone the pleasure of killing him.
When no one appeared, he made his way back outside and quickly cut the docklines. He moved up the stairs to the flying bridge. Max's vision cleared for a few brief seconds, allowing him to see the bridge had a canvas top and plastic wraparound windows. He knelt beside the captain's chair within the variegated shadows, and his vison blurred and doubled again.
A wave of nausea rushed at him, and he breathed through it as best he could. Mostly by touch, he used the knife to pop a section off the top of the helm. Perspiration stung a cut on his forehead and ran into his brow as he pulled out a tangle of wires. His vision wasn't getting any better and it took him longer than he would have liked to locate the back of the ignition switch. When he did, he sliced through the wires, then touched them together. The twin inboard engines kicked over, sputtering and churning the water as Max placed one hand on his side, one on the helm, and rose.
He put the yacht in gear, slid the throttle forward, and eased the craft away from the end of the dock. If he tilted his head just right, his double vision wasn't as bad, and he could keep the yacht in the center of the waterway and away from hazards.
He motored the vessel out of the marina and into Nassau Harbor, beneath the bridge that connected Paradise Island to the capital and past the cruise ships docked at Prince George Wharf. Nothing that night had come this easy, and at any moment, he expected a spray of automatic fire, shredding the canvas top and chewing up the deck. The minute he'd landed on the island that afternoon, his luck had gone from bad to worse, and he didn't trust that his bad luck was through with him yet.
“Excuse me, but what are you doing?”
At the sound of a female voice, Max spun around and gripped the arm of the captain's chair to keep from falling. He stared at the double image of a woman outlined by the fading lights of the harbor. A lighthouse at the end of the island sent a bright beam sliding across the floor and lighting up two identical pairs of feet with twenty red toenails. It made a leisurely journey up two red and blue skirts and bare flat bellies. Two white shirts were tied between two pairs of big breasts. Then it slipped across the corners of two full mouths and drifted through a tangle of blond curls. Her face remained hidden as the fuzzy image of two small dogs yapped from her arms, the shrill barking enough to make Max's ears bleed.
“Shit, I didn't need this,” he said, wondering where the hell she'd come from. The poor excuse for a dog jumped from her arms and bolted across the floor, stopping by Max's feet and barking so hard his rear legs rose from the deck. The woman moved forward, and her double image trailed slightly behind as she rushed to scoop up the mutt.
“Who are you? Do you work for the Thatches?” she demanded. He didn't have time for dogs or questions or...
Lola Carlyle Reveals All. Copyright © by Rachel Gibson. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
