A Jacuzzi. A big-ass, pool-size Jacuzzi by the ocean.

Jesus.

Never even been in a Jacuzzi before. As Storm fiddles with the faucet, letting water gush into the tub and lights come on at the bottom, I wander over to the balcony.

A palm tree grows past the rail, and a climber has taken over the wall, covering it in green filigree. It’s warm out here. The sky is leaden. The ocean rumbles a few yards away, crashing on the sand.

A shuffling noise behind me makes me turn. I observe him as he gets up from the floor slowly, his shoulders slightly hunched, his back muscles taut. As he walks to one corner of the room to grab two fluffy white towels from a low table, he limps slightly. The old fracture in his leg has to hurt with the approach of rain. Looks like he could use a warm bath, too.

That urge to ease any pain he might be in, to soothe him, returns. It fills me every time I’m around him, I realize. I want to protect him just as much as he seems determined to protect me. As much as my body wants him, as much as my mind needs him to overpower me and take me, fill me up and mark me, this desire to hold and comfort him is stronger.

The desire to make him happy.

I go back inside. He hisses in surprise when I hug him from behind.

“Give a guy a heart attack,” he mutters, his laughter a soft exhale.

“A penny for your thoughts.”

“Only a penny?”

“Since I don’t even have that to my name, I could give you a kiss for your thoughts. You seem preoccupied.”

He twists around and draws me close. “A kiss sounds good.”

“You have a one-track mind, you know that, right?”

“Only when it comes to you.”

Warmth spreads through me. I kiss his lips, a quick press. “There.”

“Hey, that doesn’t even count as a kiss.”

“Full payment only after you tell me what’s on your mind.”

His mouth quirks. God, I love his smile. “You’re a tough businesswoman. I thought you said you never got involved in your dad’s deals.”

I actually never said that, but I implied it, didn’t I? They’re after me for money, and I don’t have it, that’s for sure. I don’t have it, and I can’t let them have me.

Should be enough.

Drawing back, I grab my blouse and pull it over my head. When I throw it down, his eyes zero in on my breasts as if he’s never seen them before, going almost black with arousal, the topic forgotten.

I should feel ashamed for distracting him on purpose.

Maybe I do.

I turn and step down, into the sunken tub where jets propel warm water against my legs. Five seats are built in, low in the tub, and I slide down into one, looking up at him.

He’s still standing there, fists clenched by his side, a big tent in the front of his shorts. After a moment he moves, pushing his shorts down, and it’s my turn to be distracted when his hard-on springs free, long and heavy. He gives it a stroke or two, absentmindedly, his eyes locked on me, and steps down, into the water.

I reach for him, and he sits down next to me with a soft groan. I stroke a hand down his handsome face, down his neck and chest. His mouth goes slack when I brush over the head of his cock, but I continue south, to his thigh.

I press down, feel the bunched-up muscles, and he grunts. There’s a thin scar there, I realize. Surgery to set the broken bone. I keep pressing, kneading the muscle.

“God, that feels awesome.” His head falls back, on the rim of the tub. He groans when I hit a particularly hard spot, my fingers digging into the muscle. “How the hell are you doing this?”

We escaped from every town after a con job pretty much unscathed, but not always. My dad was beaten up once and his leg was broken. My brother got his ribs busted quite often, and his arm twice. They got all sorts of injuries. I know quite a bit of first aid, and a thing or two about post-injury management.

“Turn around,” I say, and he just stares at me, eyes wide.

I shouldn’t like catching him by surprise so much, but part of me wants to laugh out loud at his stunned expression.

He does turn, though, and just like that he’s turned the tables on me, because my chest goes tight. I run my hands over his muscular back, over the ink that explodes from the base of his spine up to his ribs, hugging his sides. The tangle of briar and snakes on his lower back is stunning, and from it blackbirds emerge.

Only one breaks free, flying up to his shoulder blade, dripping blood. Is that him? The one who survived his family? How old is this tattoo?

It’s a work of art—not only the ink but the perfection of his body, the smooth skin wrapped over sleek muscle and long bone, flaring into those broad shoulders and the vulnerable curve of his neck where his dark hair is so soft it curls a little.

Lifting up on my knees in the swirling water, I kiss the spot between his shoulder blades, and a tremor goes through him. Then I put my hands on his shoulders and knead the hard muscles there. God, they’re like steel, coiled tightly from his spine up to the base of his skull.

He tries to look relaxed and at ease all the time, but his body tells a different story. Always trust the body to tell you what’s going on in a person’s mind. My mom said that.

Obviously she never spent much time studying my dad’s body.

Squashing the thought, I work his upper back with all my strength, searching for the knots and massaging them until they unravel, making my way up his spine to his shoulders and neck. He’s quiet, one hand clutching the rim of the tub. When I bury my fingers in his wet hair, he makes a sound that might have been my name.

When I’m done, I draw him toward me, and he leans back into me, letting me wrap my arms around his torso, to rest on his flat stomach. The warm water pulses out of the jets, soothing, and we lie in the silence together.

I don’t want to break it. Don’t want to ask what he isn’t telling me.

But then he says, “I’ll go make some coffee. We need to talk.”

And the bubble breaks.

With a gunshot.

STORM

Fuck. I launch myself out of the water, my bad leg almost going out under me. My muscles don’t want to cooperate. Where I felt light like I could float a moment ago, the ache in my thigh and back gone, now my body feels heavy and awkward.

Perfect timing, goddammit. I stumble as I get out, barely manage to catch myself before I fall on my face, and grab my shorts to pull them on.

“Storm.” She’s right behind me, reaching for her clothes. “Gun?”

“Not here. Bedroom and bathroom. I’ll get them.”

But she’s already running, pulling on her blouse. “Got it.”

Shit. Move it, Storm.

Shorts still unbuttoned, bare feet slipping on the wet floor, I take off after her. Wondering if they’re here for her or for me.

Wondering how the hell anyone found us out.

The rooms flash by until I reach the bathroom. As I expected, she remembered best where the bedroom was. My SIG winks at me from under the sink. I rip off the tape keeping it glued underneath and check the magazine.

Full. I always have them ready. My uncle taught me that. He taught me a lot of things I didn’t want to learn.

Always be ready for the worst. Never trust anyone. Know you’re always on your own. Fight for your life.

But as I run through the house searching for her, waiting for more shots to ring, my one thought is to make sure she’s safe, that she’s okay. Because she has turned my world upside down, upset my rules, and there’s no going back.

“Ray, where the fuck are you?” Bedroom’s empty, and so are the other rooms on the floor. I grab my cell phone from the closet and keep looking. “Ray!”

A boom rattles the windows, glass shatters.

Downstairs.

Hell. I curse my uncooperative leg as I almost tumble down the stairs in my rush to get down and make sure she’s okay. I shouldn’t have told her where the gun was. No idea what I was thinking. I hope she doesn’t shoot herself in the foot by the time I reach her.