Deep Blue. Suzanne Mcminn

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      He cut his gaze back to the woman beneath him, let go of one of her arms and wrapped his hand over her mouth. Before she could try anything else, with his other arm, he forcibly rolled her over him, down the bank, his body thunking against the ground, against her, once, twice, till they were up against the foot of the bridge.

      Voices sounded above them, the words carried away by the wind. Then a gunshot exploded, and seconds later a body flew darkly past them, over the bridge and into the water.

      Whoever the hell was up on that bridge, it wasn’t the police. Whoever it was had just executed the man from the van and dumped his body right in front of them.

      Close against his chest, the woman’s gaze spun, locked with his. She was so close, he could feel every panicked beat of her heart.

      Then, more voices, shouts, and they were coming closer, down off the bridge.

      They were coming to see if there was anyone left alive down here. He could see the understanding streak across the woman’s shocked eyes. He could see the battle as she decided who was more dangerous—them or him.

      “I’m going to take my hand off your mouth,” he said quietly, quickly. “And you’re going to get back in the water.”

      “I can’t.” Her voice was thin, begging. She wasn’t fighting him now. She wasn’t moving, period. He yanked her to her feet.

      “You can.” He slipped to the bank, pulled her with him. They had no more than seconds before they’d be seen. “Or they’ll kill you.”

      “And you won’t?”

      Vengeance twisted, sharp in his gut. Kill her? God, he’d like to. “No.”

      “I can’t swim!” she shrieked, and in the same second he shoved her in, he realized he had no idea who the hell she was.

      Because she wasn’t lying. She couldn’t swim. She wasn’t Tabitha Donovan.

      Chapter 3

      The water was dark, swirling with shadows and one big, fearsomely powerful man. Sienna felt light and heavy, panic and shock so familiar now. A nightmare that would never end, that’s what she was living.

      Crazy strangers with guns above.

      Crazy stranger holding her captive below.

      Below water.

      She was going to die. She was going to drown. He was drowning her. And she was going to have a full-blown panic attack. No way could she think straight. She felt sick, afraid of dying, out of control. She burst to the surface, clawing wildly at the water.

      Her feet couldn’t touch bottom. She flung her arms desperately, fighting hysteria. Then something pulled her back down, under the surface, and her mind screamed even as she held onto the gulp of air she’d gotten in that second above the water, and for a sickening moment, she didn’t know what had gotten hold of her.

      All she knew was that she was going to drown because whatever had her, it was pulling her down, deeper, and she couldn’t stop it.

      Something hit her feet, and she realized with a shock that it was sand. It was the bottom of the lagoon. She contorted her body, fighting frantically, and something pulled her tighter, held down her flailing arms. She was slammed against a hard wall.

      No, a chest. A very powerful chest. Him. The man who’d called her Tabitha then shoved her into the water even as he claimed he was saving her life. And there was no way she was going to break free of his grip.

      She lifted her head, stopped fighting, knew she was going to die now because she couldn’t hold her breath one more second, and her eyes locked with a fierce liquid gaze that stunned her, it was so near, and then it was even nearer. Something touched her lips—

      His lips.

      And in complete, unthinkable shock, she opened her mouth—that was it, she was going to drown—and his mouth closed over hers and suddenly…she was breathing.

      She was breathing.

      She forgot the water that had been suffocating her a second before. Forgot the deadly men on the bridge, the attacker at the apartment. Forgot that she’d almost been killed more than once in the past twenty minutes.

      How could she be breathing?

      Then she realized his strong arms had slid around her back and he was stroking her, comforting her, calming her down with efficient control. The sudden gentleness of his hold struck her, and the shocking intimacy of his mouth breathing life into her mouth had her gasp against him, and her tongue touched something warm and sweet. His tongue swept inside her mouth even as he continued to stroke her back, her arms, her shoulders, and she clung, desperate for his air, his amazing, mysterious safety.

      Safety that made no sense. She’d been running from him moments before! And yet—he was everything she knew in this dark, wet world, everything keeping her alive. All the pain and fear and panic receded into a surreal vortex as he sweetly and tenderly claimed the last shred of her sanity.

      Maybe she was delirious. It was all she could think of. In reality, she was drowning. This couldn’t be happening. Her arms were clinging to him, absorbing his unbelievable warmth, her body pressed up against him. She was—oh, God—she was kissing him back and it was like nothing else existed except this hard, wet man holding her at the bottom of the lagoon.

      And that realization shocked her so, she jerked back, and the look in his eyes through the dark water made her realize that he was as shocked as she by what had just happened. She held the last breath he’d given her, her heart clanging furiously in her chest, fear returning full force.

      He reached up, touched his warm finger to her mouth, and cocked his head, as if listening. Listening to what? All she could hear was the blood pounding in her ears.

      Then he placed his mouth on hers again, gently pushing her to open her lips. Oh, God. She did. And her stomach left her body for one more tingling mindless beat. He breathed another breath into her and let go.

      A strange energy hummed from him, or maybe it was her. She didn’t know anymore.

      How could this be happening?

      When he pulled away this time, he gave her a long look, nodded as if assuring her of something, grabbed her arm and together they shot upward through the water. Then she was on the surface, and he was pulling her up, onto a bank crowded with weeds and sand. She coughed and fell limp on the dark shore near the bridge.

      She lay there, gasping in the air, heavy rain pummeling her—as if she could get any wetter. Then she turned her head and saw him standing over her. Sharply aware of him, she stared up, watching the droplets slide down his cheeks and cascade off his soaked hair and shoulders, the sky darkly wild above him.

      His lips were hard, unsmiling, his jaw uncompromising. She felt odd inside, loose and hollow, and he looked utterly, fearsomely, in control. He looked like a tough, dangerous action movie star who was as deadly as his weapons. And yet she wasn’t afraid of him now.

      Or, at least, not as afraid.

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