The Mercenary. Allison Leigh

damp and definitely uncomfortable. The items they’d taken from the plane were jumbled together beside her at the front of the boat. “Where’s my suitcase?”

      His eyebrows lifted. “Suitcase heaven?”

      Her jaw dropped and she forgot all about the feel of his hands. “You managed to get all this.” She shoved at the pile and something encased in a slick nylon bag slid off the top and landed by his boot. “But not my suitcase?”

      “You’ll live.”

      She wanted to hit him. So deep was the impulse, in fact, that she had to tuck her hands under her thighs to keep from doing so.

      “Don’t look so stricken,” he drawled. “You’re supposed to be a poor Mezcayan native. That doesn’t extend to makeup and suits from Saks.”

      T-shirts and jeans for her sister and toys for the children. Books for her father and entertainment magazines for her mother. So many things that she’d collected to take into Mezcaya where she could talk Franco into delivering them for her to their family. She didn’t like thinking of the items as a peace offering, though that may have been part of it. Mostly she had simply thought how much they might enjoy the items that they didn’t ordinarily have. Things they couldn’t obtain, or couldn’t afford.

      And now they were all gone. If they weren’t destroyed by the water flooding the plane, they surely had been finished off by the charge that Tyler had set.

      She hated the tears that burned behind her eyes and resolutely turned so that she didn’t have to look at him. “Mezcayans don’t arrive at la Fortuna wearing ruined linen suits, either,” she said. His cammies wouldn’t necessarily be out of place, but she’d stick out like a sore thumb.

      “It’s a long way from here to la Fortuna. We’ll get clothes.”

      But she couldn’t hope to replace the things that had been lost in her suitcase. Not now, not when she’d used the remainder of her meager savings on them. She sighed and furtively dashed away the tears.

      She could find another reason for Franco to stop his madness, and she, herself, would begin again. Once she had her career back.

      It was that reason she needed to remember. That reason she needed to focus upon. Tyler wasn’t letting anything as minor as a plane crash get in the way of his plans. Neither would she.

      “Here.” He tossed a white bundle toward her and it landed on her lap. It was a T-shirt.

      “I don’t want to wear your shirt. I want to wear my own shirt.”

      “And people in hell want ice water. Your clothes are gone, princess.”

      “I am not likely to forget.” The soft fabric crumpled in her fist. “Your clothes are wet, too.”

      “So?”

      So, naturally, Mr. Macho could stand the discomfort, whereas she, Miss Princess, couldn’t. “Turn around.”

      His lips twisted. “On a boat the size of a minute? Come on, M. After all—” his voice dropped hatefully “—we are supposed to be married.”

      As he watched her expression go from unbearably sad to angry, Tyler wondered if he’d hit a new low. All he knew was he was glad when Marisa’s eyes went from liquid sadness to hot fury. If she was spitting mad, it was a lot easier to remember that he couldn’t afford to trust her for a second.

      If her expression was any indication, it was probably safer for him not to turn his back on her right now. Or he might find himself with a leather-shod foot being planted square in the center of it.

      Her lips tightened and she lifted one slender hand to the top gold button on her suit. She flicked it free. And the next. The limp fabric sagged, displaying a narrow wedge of gold-toned curves and a glimpse of shining ivory fabric.

      She wore a delicate gold chain. The cross at the base of it was minuscule. Her fingers touched the third button. Her eyes snapped with anger. He almost expected her to do it. To unfasten that third button.

      Then she huffed. “Pig.”

      He didn’t disagree with her.

      She pivoted on her knees, facing away from him. She yanked off the jacket of her suit and swiftly tugged his T-shirt over her head. It caught on what remained of the knot at the back of her head, preventing her from sticking her head through. She muttered under her breath and pulled the shirt off once again to tear the pins out of her hair.

      It slowly uncoiled, helped along by the breeze created by the boat as it skimmed the water, and sprang free into a riot of waves. She yanked the shirt over her head and flipped her hair loose.

      Then she turned around to face him, her finely shaped features set into defiant lines. “I hope you’re satisfied.” Her accent was more pronounced.

      “I’m not even close to being satisfied, M. But when I am, you won’t have any doubts about it.”