She was still alive when it could have so easily gone the other way. In fact, not much about this kidnapping had turned out like her fears.

Because of Michael.

She stared into the small mirror above the sink, wincing at the woman who looked back. Her eyes were red and puffy, as were her cheeks. She looked as if she’d been through hell. She had looked like this when he’d kissed her, and now it felt quite suspicious. Had he just been trying to keep her distracted? Calm her down? Probably. Shouldn’t she mind a lot more?

Of course, she’d clearly gone quite mad when the truth had penetrated that she’d really been kidnapped. How insane does a person have to be to worry that her new potential boyfriend might not like her skin tone when on the brink of death? If they lived through this, she would definitely need a new therapist.

Well, she couldn’t stay in the head all night. It just seemed so odd that he was out there. That they would be sharing a bed.

That sucked her breath right out of her lungs.

They were sharing a bed. It might be her last night on Earth. The math wasn’t difficult. She thought of the kisses and how it had felt to finally have a real man want her. Even if it was all an act, she didn’t care. As far as last wishes went, this was a good one.

A shudder shook her body as once again reality and delusion smacked into each other. This was so different than anything she’d imagined-and she’d imagined so much. In her nightmares there was no rest, no relief from the terror. There was certainly no kissing and no trust that somehow she’d survive.

A tap on the door sent her heart into overdrive.

“Tate? You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

He needed to brush his teeth, to get himself ready for bed. Although she’d like to, she couldn’t stay here for the rest of the night.

She took one last glance in the mirror-which was not terribly smart, considering-then went into the small bedroom.

Michael stood by the door, an easy smile on his lips. Part of her ease with him was a conditioned response. Michael only took off his sunglasses when they were having their wonderful conversations. The more she connected with his gaze, the calmer she felt.

“You need something?” he asked. “There are some clothes in the drawers. Maybe you could find yourself something more comfortable to wear.”

She couldn’t. The idea of wearing someone else’s things…

“I’ll be out in a minute. The door’s locked. You’ll know if someone’s trying to come in.”

She looked at the door, then back at Michael. Selfishly she wished he didn’t have to go, even for a few minutes. “I’ll be fine.”

“I know,” he said. A moment later he was in the head and she was alone. Only it didn’t feel quite so bleak.

She went to the dresser and opened the top drawer. Bikinis. Many of them. All so tiny they made her blush. Second drawer down had cover-ups, but they were mostly transparent. God, what must go on in this boat.

She shook her head at her prudishness. She’d been around a lot of sex in her life, even though she hadn’t been the one having it. In her fancy prep school she’d spent many a night wearing headphones so she wouldn’t have to hear the grunting coming from the other bed.

In college things had gotten more personal. Graydon had taken her to parties where the drugs and alcohol had flowed like water. Inhibitions were nonexistent, and she’d become inured to the sight of her fellow students going at it like bunnies.

But then she’d retreated to her world of fear, and so much of the outside world had taken on sinister tones. At the very least it had become unfamiliar. More real by far was her fantasy life. It was in bed she truly lived. That’s where all her plans were, her dreams. And that’s where sleeping with Michael made sense.

She breathed deeply, closed her eyes. Pictured herself as a warrior, complete with combat boots and semiautomatic weapon. A minute of positive self-talk and she got into bed.

If she’d known she was going to be kidnapped, she would have dressed differently. Certainly she wouldn’t have worn the linen pants. But this was what she had and she’d cope. By tomorrow…No, she wasn’t going to think about tomorrow. Her only decision at the moment was about her shoes.

They were pumps, two-inch heels. Great for shopping at Prada, lousy for self-defense-but better than her bare feet. The idea of sleeping in them was disconcerting.

Nothing to be done about it. She lifted the pillows and pulled back the comforter. The blanket Jazz had brought wasn’t terribly warm, and as long as they could be comfortable, she supposed they should be.

Fully dressed, she climbed into the bed and pulled up the covers. She plumped the strange, too-firm pillow beneath her head and closed her eyes.

This was going to be one long uncomfortable night.

She sighed at the absurd thought. What, was she expecting a designer kidnapping?

Well, that made her laugh because, yes, that’s exactly what she’d expected. Designed to her exact specifications with three gourmet meals a day and furry handcuffs and a stop to it all at her first whim.

God, she was some piece of work.

“Tate?”

She looked up to find Michael standing by the bed. He was clearly concerned at her outburst, but he’d also caught her contagious laughter, so he was grinning, too.

Which made everything funnier. By a lot.

“Tate,” he said, trying hard to keep his cool. “What’s going on?”

“I’m a first-class twit,” she said, although she doubted he understood her because she really couldn’t stop laughing.

“You’re a what?”

The way he looked at her, so shocked his eyes had widened and he was actually blushing, let her know he’d misunderstood. She struggled once more to get some decent breaths. “What did you think I said?”

“Nothing that you would ever say.”

Then she got it. “I said twit.”

“Aah. Much better.”

That was it. She was crying now. Laughing so hard her stomach ached.

He sat down, grinning and shaking his head.

It was just the kind of scene she’d dreamed of, in her bed, alone, in the dark. Everything about him was perfect. The situation wonderful, like something out of a Nora Ephron romantic comedy. Except for the danger that hovered a whisper away.

Before she could catch her breath, he was next to her under the covers and she was in his arms.

SHE TREMBLED IN HIS arms, and all he could think about was going into the saloon and killing everyone on the boat. Maybe that’s what he should do-end this thing right now. Of course, he had no idea what kind of weapons were stashed up there. He could take Jazz out, but it was more than a fair bet that Ed had a gun on him, and he wouldn’t hesitate to kill everyone in front of him. Martini didn’t get to be in his position without a lot of buried bodies.

Despite Michael’s fury at his brother, he didn’t want Charlie to die. And Charlie would go down first, there wasn’t much doubt about that. As terrible as it sounded, he’d be willing to risk it if it meant getting Tate off the boat and to safety.

That was the wild card. In the old days he’d never consider pulling off a job with so many unknowns. That was how people got killed. Before he’d take out a position, be it a hostage takeover of a plane, a bunker or a terrorist cell, he and his men would know everything there was to know about the targets. There were always risks, but his job was to minimize them, not subject this terrified woman to living her last moments in her worst-case scenario.

“It’s okay, Tate,” he whispered. “I’m here. I won’t leave you. I won’t let them hurt you.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice muffled against his chest.

“No need to apologize.”

She sniffled, then moved her head so her mouth wasn’t pressing against him. “I keep thinking I’m fine, that I’ve got it under control.”