"Yes, he's dead. We're going to wait here until Emil's men leave. There's nothing else we can do."
"Who is it?" He felt the words against his chest more than he heard them.
"The guy who set fire to the pier."And moved the safecracker's body just an hour ago.Emil's men must have been watching him. Or the estate. Or both. They needed to be careful.
The ocean swallowed the body in less than a minute.
"There's nothing to see anymore," he whispered, his lips accidentally touching her ear. "But let's stay put for a couple of minutes to make sure Emil's guards are gone. The waves are so loud that I don't think we're going to hear them driving off."
She nodded against his chest but didn't move out of his embrace.
It wasn't what anyone would call a romantic moment. Standing in a chilly, wet cave, with a dead body retreating into the surf. Waiting for murderers to leave.
But in his arms, in that dismal, dripping cave, Lena's defenses crumbled. She sagged against him. Her hands gripped his shirt. She shifted her weight and let the tears fall. Leaning on him. Physically. Emotionally.
He rested his chin on her head and kept his arms wrapped around her, knowing their relationship had shifted earlier, on the beach in the shadow of The Mandeville. Now . . . now he didn't know what was happening. But something about it felt real.
His pessimistic side insisted that the only thing between them was a shallow attraction—born from a desire to hide from the dangers surrounding them. An act of survival.
But a different part of him—a part long-dormant in the cold recesses of his heart—contended that whatever was growing between him and Lena Ashworth was substantive. Real. And worth exploring.
Though, probably not in the immediate vicinity of a dead body.
Trembling, Lena trudged back to the SUV with Nash, his arm around her waist. Maybe it was an affectionate gesture. Maybe he was holding her up to keep her from falling. She wasn't sure she was shuffling along on her own power. She wasn't sure of much of anything.
Except that she appreciated Nash's quiet, powerful self-assurance. He was a rock. Which was especially impressive in the last few minutes.
She wanted to thank him. However, even though she almost couldn't keep from screaming in the cave, now she couldn't force her voice to work.
He opened the car door for her and steadied her as she climbed in. She appreciated the help, but again, her voice wouldn't cooperate.
Nash started the car and adjusted the air vents—apparently he was hot. She was too freaked out to feel hot or cold.
He slid his hand into hers, his eyes roving her face. "Lena, are you all right?"
"That was a stupid question." She squeezed his hand. "Sorry. I—"
"Don't apologize. You're right. Stupid question." He dragged his thumb across her knuckles. She didn't know why the small motion was so soothing. But it absolutely was.
His gaze grew more serious. "I need to say something."
"What?"
He stopped stroking her knuckles with his thumb. He held her hand a little tighter. "In a few seconds or a few minutes, your brain is going to process everything that just happened, and you're going to want to go after Cassidy." With his free hand, he reached over and clasped her other hand.
His gentle, warm grip coaxed her out of her terror-induced stupor.
And his words locked in.
Cold panic tingled down her spine. "Cassidy's going right back to Emil. To those men. To—"
He laced his fingers through hers. "I know. Listen to me, Lena. They're not on to her yet. If we go charging onto Emil's yacht, we put her in more danger."
"How do you know? Maybe they know she wants to get the jewels. Maybe—"
"My team is listening to the bugs I planted on the yacht. No one suspects Cassidy of anything."
"Maybe that changed. You don't—"
