CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Palma, Mallorca
December 3
December was the off-season on Mallorca with good reason. Despite the unseasonably warm 72 degrees, the air was thick, and low clouds moved across the sky, intent on blocking the sun. A few hardy souls were out to read in peace or jog or play with their children; there would be no sunbathing today.
Cam wandered along the path above the water. Cliffside terraces were dotted with chaise longues and closed orange beach umbrellas. Charming stucco buildings sat cradled in lush foliage. Waves lapped the shore in a hypnotic rhythm. This island was idyllic. It was also torture.
He worked his way down a series of wide stone stairs and found himself alone on the small swath of nut-colored beach. His trainers left deep divots in the damp sand, and a clammy breeze ruffled his dark hair.
He sank onto an abandoned beach chair and stared out at the calm water. The cloud cover had darkened the small waves to an eerie green. Forty yards out, a swimmer wearing a black wetsuit and a pink bathing cap with a snorkel and diving mask attached stroked across the bay. He dropped his gaze to his sneaker-clad feet, hands dangling between his legs, and contemplated his next moves.
Cam drew a circle in the sand between his feet and stifled a laugh. If thirty-six hours ago, someone had told him he’d be transported to an island paradise and forced to resist the advances of a supermodel…Cam scolded himself. His cover identity, Miguel Ramirez, would already be wearing a condom; he would look at this opportunity—every aspect—as a windfall.
Gemini March was undeniably beautiful. He had pulled out all the stops to seduce her when they had met a year earlier. He had been in a nightclub on the neighboring island of Ibiza, hot on the trail of a weapons trafficker who was planning to sell a handheld Javelin to an East African insurgent leader. Dressed in all black, in a suit with no tie, Miguel Ramirez looked exactly like what he was, an ominous underworld figure.
Gemini had entered the club, and every head had turned. Her blonde ponytail was restrained in a thick jeweled cuff. Dressed in a blood-red slip of silk, shimmering spike-heeled gladiator sandals that wound up to her knees, and a stark ruby choker, she looked like a slave girl fantasy come to life. Miguel Ramirez sat in the back corner of the VIP section, nursed a rum and coke, and watched the coterie of men try, and fail, to make headway. God, she was spectacular: red lips, red nails, that red jeweled band around her neck. Yet Miguel had simply spun his glass, watched, waited. Finally, she rose to her full height—Cam estimated 6’2” in the stilettos—and pranced over to him.
“Who are you waiting for?” she demanded.
“You,” he replied.
“You’re right about that.” She shot him a sultry smile.
“Good.” He stared up at her.
“Well?” She placed a hand on her hip, the action hiking her red dress to indecent heights.
“Take off your shoes.” Miguel met her blue gaze and didn’t miss the quick breath she had drawn at spying his golden eyes.
“What?”
“You heard me,” he said.
After a moment's hesitation in this little battle of wills, Gemini placed a jeweled toe on the chair between his legs and began unbuckling the shoes. Then she switched feet and repeated the action, finally standing barefoot and dangling the sandals from her fingers before tossing them into the corner. Miguel then stood, took her hand, and led her to the floor for the first dance of the evening.
The erotic memory produced nothing but frustration in his tired body, and Cam shook his head in annoyance. He had gone to the mat, rather the mattress, for his job in the past, but now… He wasn’t fully immersed in this world. He was in a dangerous limbo between Cam Canto and Miguel Ramirez, and it was a gray area that could get him killed.
He scanned the horizon, searching for what? A sign? An explanation? Nothing to see but the intrepid swimmer.
Her shriek pulled him from his thoughts, and he saw she was thrashing and bobbing in the bay. Without thought or hesitation, Cam stripped down to his boxer briefs and raced into the water. As he swam effortlessly toward the woman in distress, he saw the issue. A fever of stingrays was circling the woman as she held onto one leg and tried to swim away.
He switched to breaststroke to create less disturbance in the water and skirted the magnificent beasts, popping up in front of the woman and eliciting another scream. She jerked out with her good leg, nailing him in the upper thigh with her heel. She had missed his most vulnerable region but still managed to deliver a painful blow. Cam shook off the cramping pain and focused on getting her away from the stingrays before she agitated them further.
“Hold onto my back,” he ordered.
She complied without protest, and Cam quickly stroked them back to shore.
Stingrays rarely stung humans, but it happened, and the toxin could be deadly if not treated immediately. With two graceful dolphin kicks, Cam propelled them into the surf, spun the woman around in his arms like a bride, and rose from the foam.
“You’re a seal,” she murmured, her head resting against his chest.
“What did you say?” Cam nearly stumbled at the comment.
“You swim like a seal.” She hissed at the pain.
Ah, a seal, not a SEAL.