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Now, eight years later and nearly two hours after the memory had seared his mind, he walked behind her, back to the houseboat, the still-full picnic basket in his hand and Crista’s stiff shoulders in front of him.
She had clammed up the minute he had made his declaration.
“We need to talk,” she had stated as she rose from beside him and began looking for her clothes.
“So talk. ” Dawg had sat up, draped his arm over his upraised knee, and watched her struggle into her clothes.
She had shaken her head angrily. “Not here. I can’t do this here. ”
And now, he was more than interested in whatever the hell had her so damned mad.
He had fucked up eight years ago; he admitted it. But not to the extent she thought he had.
Half-formed thoughts had slipped past his lips, unfinished. The possessiveness he had felt rising inside him then had shocked him, left him reeling and off balance.
Now, eight years later, he was reasonably more mature, but he still felt like he was in over his head with Crista Ann Jansen.
As they stepped onto the deck of the Nauti Dawg, Dawg unlocked the door and ushered her in as he lifted his brow at her continued silence.
She had barely spoken in the truck. The closer they had come to the marina, the quieter she had become.
“Here we are. ” He placed the basket on the table and turned to face her, crossing his arms over his chest and tilting his head.
Her gaze flickered around the room before coming to rest on him. Her lips parted, and at the same second, a hard knock sounded on the glass door behind her.
Crista jumped as though a gunshot had sounded rather than the sound of knuckles against glass.
“Who is it?” he barked out.
“Dawg, I have Cranston with me. Open the damned door. ” Natches’s voice was anything but happy.
Pressing his lips together, Dawg stalked to the door and whipped the panels to the blinds back to see Cranston’s stocky form standing behind Natches.
Grimacing, he opened the door again, watching from the corner of his eye as Crista turned to the visitors with an edge of curiosity.
Timothy Cranston stepped into the room, his briefcase clenched in his hand, his gaze going straight to Crista. Dawg closed the door, watching as the special agent watched her with an intensity that had a frown pulling at his brow and Crista’s.
“What’s going on, Natches?” Dawg didn’t bother to soften the suspicious tone of his voice.
“You’re not going to believe this, Dawg. ” Natches’s smile was cynical, cold. “I’ve had a few hours to digest it, and I still don’t believe it. ”
“Cranston?”
The special agent was still watching Crista, his gaze narrowed on her as she stared right back at him, a challenge glittering in her brown eyes.
“She’s about the right height. Right eye color, right hair. But I’ll be damned if you’re not right about the differences. ”
Dawg felt his body tense as Cranston walked slowly around Crista then.
“Did you turn your boat into a auction block, Dawg?” Crista snapped irritably as the agent tracked every curve and hollow in her body.
“There’s a difference in the curves. You were right there, too,” he muttered.
“Natches,” Dawg bit out warningly. “What the hell is going on?”
Dawg could feel the warning tingle in his gut, the itching at the back of his neck. The way Cranston was watching Crista was getting his hackles up and pissing him off. And it wasn’t doing much for her, either. She flashed him a hard look, a warning to do something about the bulldoggish little man who kept watching her like a strange little puzzle he was trying to figure out.
“You’re not going to believe it. ” Natches shook his head. “I’m still not certain I believe it. ”
