Excitement flaring, I clap my hands together in a double fist. “Brilliant. Fucking brilliant. Now we just have to make sure someone fishes the bastard out of the ocean before he drowns. Drowning is too good for him. He deserves to rot in prison for at least a decade. Two would be better.”
“Agreed,” Zan says, nodding toward the upper deck. “I’ll jump on the VHF radio while you get us to the airport. See if I can get in touch with Neville or someone who can reach our backup man. He seemed on top of things. A discreet search party could apprehend Stefano before he finds his way back to the resort.” She pauses, glancing down at Bea’s device. “Now we just need to find a safe place to store this. I’m too wet to be trusted with anything digital.”
Beatrice reaches out. “Here. Let me hold onto it for now. I’m used to keeping it with me all the time. Stefano was so insistent about it.” Zan hands the key chain over, and Bea sighs and tucks it into her pocket. “Which was also suspicious, but I just thought he was controlling.” She rolls her eyes. “Like all the other men that I know I shouldn’t fall for, but I do. I really need to learn that bossy is only good in the bedroom, not in real life.”
“Absolutely,” Zan agrees, sending my thoughts zooming into the gutter.
They stay there, musing as to how Zan might like to be bossed around in bed and how soon we can arrange for me to be the one doing the bossing.
As we make our way up the stairs to the bridge, I’m distracted. Not excessively, but more than I would allow myself to be if we were still in danger. But with Blaire tied up and Stefano swimming for shore, my guard is down.
In my head, I’m already on the jet, halfway to Gallantia with Zan tucked beside me on the couch, making whispered plans about sneaking away to a hotel in Baden-Bergen to be alone for a few days before returning to our nosy families.
But that’s wishful thinking.
A mission isn’t over until statements are typed up and the paperwork turned in, and even then, it’s a good idea to keep one eye out for trouble. A spy is never really off duty. And the longer you’re a spy, the more dangerous your private life becomes.
If Stefano alerted his network to the truth about Zan and me before we left the resort, we’re on the cartel’s hit list now, or soon will be, lasting into the foreseeable future. It’s going to take months, maybe even years, to get warrants on everyone connected to Stefano’s criminal organization and bring them to justice. And in the meantime, they’ll be spreading the news that Zan and I are spies.
Our covert mission days might very well be over for good.
As before, I’m not overly bothered by the thought. I’ve enjoyed my undercover work, but I don’t need it to live a satisfying and well-rounded life. And after watching Blaire fire on Zan, I’d like to wrap the youngest Rochat princess in bulletproof blankets and lock her away in a tower, where she’ll never be in that kind of danger again.
But Zan wouldn’t stand for that. She’s too independent, too fierce and fearless, two of the things I love most about her.
Love…
Could this be what it’s like?
I certainly feel things for Zan that I’ve never felt for a woman before.
As I push through the door into the small navigation room, I glance at her over my shoulder, wondering if she feels it, too…this connection forming between us that’s so much more than friendship or desire.
If I hadn’t turned, I wouldn’t have seen the bulky form against the wall behind the door.
So you could say that love saved the day.
I make a mental note to tell Zan the shamelessly romantic thought as I hit the floor, dropping into a squat seconds before Tony swings a wooden paddle at my head.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Alexandra
One second, I’m focused on the radio to Nick’s right, wondering if I’ll be able to fire up the ancient-looking system. The next, a familiar, pungent cloud of cologne tells me that we’re not alone.
Before I can warn Nick to watch out, he drops to the floor in front of the wheel, narrowly avoiding the paddle Tony swings like a baseball bat as he steps out from behind the door.
He winds up for another swing, but I don’t give him the chance to take it.
My self-defense training kicks in, and I take aim at his soft spots—the places no amount of strength training can muscle up or protect—and unleash my feet and fists. I introduce my foot to Tony’s groin with an upward kick, sharp and swift enough to make up for my bare feet. He buckles at the waist, groaning in agony.