Code Name: Blondie. Christina Skye

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СКАЧАТЬ check out the scene carefully. Cruz himself might be out there.

      On the other hand, he might run into twenty drunken tourists. The SEAL bit back a curse at the thought of the possible complications. Civilians would whine and make noise, asking questions and demanding to be taken back to Tahiti or Bora Bora.

      FUBAR.

      After a silent touch command to his dog, Max waded into the restless water, flipped on his mask and headed west into the night toward the coordinates where he had last seen the downed plane.

      CHAPTER THREE

      SURROUNDED BY SLASHING WAVES, Miki tried to stay calm just the way Dutch had ordered. She kicked her feet for a few minutes and then floated, stretching out her reserves as she was yanked up and down in the choppy water. At each crest she searched in vain for lights or landmarks, and every time panic threatened, she looked up at the sky, where specks of silver glinted between rushing clouds. Taking steady, deep breaths, she forced her mind away from Vance and the wounded pilot she’d left behind.

      In and out. Don’t panic.

      Stay calm and stay alive.

      As the sky darkened, her hands turned cold. Her body tightened, shuddering violently. Was this shock or some kind of delayed reaction to the cold? She had no inkling of how long she had been floating and kicking, watching the sky and trying to stay calm.

      She cast about wildly for a distraction to hold back her panic. Music fragments slid through her mind like broken time capsules.

      ABBA. Dancing Queen. Summer of ’92. Her first big romance. Her first devastating split one week later.

      Eric Clapton. Change the World. Christmas 1997. Mesquite smoke drifting in the clear Santa Fe air like incense. Adobe walls along Canyon Road glinting with luminarias and laughter spilling through the cold.

      Would she see Canyon Road again? Would she ever get back home to Santa Fe’s beauty?

      Cold water sprayed her face. She plunged back into fear and exhaustion. How far had she drifted from Dutch and the plane—and how would rescuers find her out here in the ocean, even if they managed to track the distress call?

      Something bumped Miki’s foot and she screamed in mind-jolting terror. Please God, no sharks, she repeated over and over.

      Reining in her nerves, she forced her mind to a place of safety. Battling panic, she began to sing hoarsely—ABBA, Radiohead, Eric Clapton. Sheryl Crow and Frou Frou. Over and over until her throat was raw and there was no more energy, no more strength left.

      Again something touched her leg. Water slapped and a weight settled over her shoulder, dragging her under. Miki screamed, fighting the dark thing in the water until the world blurred.

      THE DAMNED WOMAN WAS singing, if you could call that ridiculous noise singing. And she was surprisingly strong.

      Max ducked back underwater, away from the kicking legs and slapping arms. When she started singing, he’d made up his mind to risk contact. It could still be a clever trick by Cruz, but her terror was real and Max couldn’t leave a civilian to drown. He’d thought he was dealing with a man until he’d felt the kicking legs and heard the unsteady, exhausted voice singing an out-ofkey pop song he didn’t recognize.

      A woman.

      Hell.

      He stayed out of range until she stopped screaming and her body relaxed. He could have subdued her, but out here a mile from land with no raft, struggling would have been a risk he didn’t need. So he waited, knowing she was tired and disoriented. It wouldn’t be long before her strength gave out.

      He saw her head loll, bobbing as she was carried along a dark curl of water. The only sound was the slap of the sea and the shrill cry of the wind as he caught her arm. When she didn’t move or fight him again, Max checked the backlit compass on his watch, noting time and location for his next report.

      They were over a mile from the island now, but on the way back he’d have the current in his favor. Carrying her would be no problem as long as she didn’t wake up and start fighting him again. Then he’d have to knock her out for sure.

      Meanwhile his questions remained. Who in the hell was she? Most important, was she connected with Cruz?

      Spinning her over onto her side so she could breathe, he cut smoothly through the water, heading back through the darkness. He couldn’t see any details of her face. There was no way to tell her age or background or hair color, but her body was impossible to ignore with her hips brushing against him every few moments as he swam. She was tall for a woman—maybe five foot ten. Her arms were firm and toned. Her waist felt slim and her breasts—

      Max did an unconscious inventory as he swam. She was soft and full where their bodies met, but he couldn’t let himself think about that or anything else. If Cruz sent her, she would be ruthless and experienced, alert to any weakness. But Max would have the truth out of her in moments, whether she wanted it or not—because he was a veteran, too.

      When he touched her, skin to skin, she wouldn’t lie. Couldn’t lie. His special Foxfire skill would guarantee that.

      Beneath his scuba mask his lips curved. He cut through the water with smooth, practiced strokes. Her body would tell him everything he needed to know. For her sake, Max hoped that Cruz wouldn’t figure anywhere in those secrets.

      The Navy didn’t hand out medals for being nice.

      SHE WAS GOING TO THROW up any second. She was cold, suffocating, disoriented.

      A sharp movement jerked Miki awake, out of her dreams of nausea and into something far worse. Wind cut into her face out of an endless darkness as an arm locked around her shoulders. By instinct she screamed and terror made her fight with desperate strength, but the grip at her shoulders was implacable.

      Where was she?

      She tried to see, but there was water in her face, in her eyes. “Let me go,” she tried to gasp. “Dutch is back there. I have to go—” The words were only guttural sounds, blocked by a powerful body she couldn’t see. Then her stomach clenched hard and she broke into painful spasms.

      Hard hands flipped her over sharply and for a terrible moment Miki thought the man was pushing her under, set to drown her. Instead he lifted her, one hand across her mouth.

      His dark arm was barely visible against the night. The man was wearing a wet suit. Miki could hear the squeak of rubber as he carried her forward. Suddenly her bare feet hit sand. Glorious, wonderful sand.

      She tottered, falling to her knees, but he dragged her back to her feet, every motion made in silence. They were moving up a beach, she realized, the stormy surf behind them now.

      She shivered in the wind, waterlogged and exhausted. “Who are you?” she tried to ask, but his hand tightened, and something slid around her mouth.

      He’d gagged her. The damned man had gagged her.

      Grunting angrily, she fought free and toppled onto wet sand, her cropped angora sweater tearing off. The man didn’t say a word, efficiently cuffing her hands in front of her, then tossing a blanket around her shivering shoulders.

      She muttered СКАЧАТЬ