Using the water from the pitcher Max had told her about, she’d brushed her teeth, then filled the sink in the bathroom and had washed as much of her body as possible. Then she’d taken off her pink panties and washed them as well. Once she’d finished, she’d hung them over the shower stall to dry. She figured if she kept her arms down, no one would notice that she wasn’t wearing panties. No one meaning Max.

Besides being a thief, the man might be a murderer, too. And why that didn’t frighten the heck out of her, she didn’t know. Maybe because, other than tying her up and bruising her wrists, he hadn’t really hurt her. And she figured after she’d threatened him with the flare gun and accidently shot the helm, he probably wasn’t going to kill her at this late date.

He did scare her, though. Even with his bruised face and battered body, he had overpowered her with ease. With the fish knife, she felt slightly safer around him.

More than her fear of him was the impotent anger building inside her. The more she thought of it, anger didn’t even begin to describe what she felt about him and the situation he’d forced on her, never mind that he probably hadn’t meant to drag her into his problems. He had anyway, and now she was stranded and there was a real possibility that she and Baby would die in the middle of the Atlantic. After the conversation she’d had with him that morning, she not only had to wonder if she’d die either of hunger or dehydration, but now she had the added worry that she might die at the hands of the drug lords who’d beaten Max to a pulp.

Now when she held the signaling mirror in her hand, she’d have to wonder if it would save her life or bring a fate worse than starving to death. Either way, she had to try. No doubt the Thatches had already reported the yacht stolen, and surely someone would have noticed her missing also. They had to be searching for her.

So she would take her chances, be it with a drug lord or Coast Guard. She would keep signaling for help until someone got her off the darn boat.

Lola searched the stateroom for sunscreen and found a tube of SPF15 in the bathroom. She rubbed it into her dry skin, giving her face and neck a double coating. Sometime last night, she’d lost her sandals, and she looked around the room for another pair. She found nothing but an old pair of canvas sneakers and decided to pass.

She tilted her head to one side and studied herself in the mirrored closet doors. Besides being god-awful ugly, the dress obviously belonged to Dora Thatch, a woman who was five inches shorter than Lola and thirty pounds heavier. It fit loose about her hips and tight across her chest. The buttons closing the front gaped, and even when Lola lowered her arms, the dress hit her about midthigh. But the most disturbing part was the bunch of cherries strategically placed like a big fig leaf over her crotch.

From outside, Baby let loose with a barrage of wild barking and her heart about leaped from her chest. She grabbed the binoculars and mirror and headed out through the galley.

It wasn’t until she stood on the aft deck, staring at nothing but endless blue ocean and sky, that she realized she’d expected to see the Coast Guard speeding toward them. Hope shriveled in her chest and sank to the pit of her stomach.

Baby stood at the open door at the stern of the boat, staring down at the swimming platform. He barked so hard his back legs rose off the deck. Lola moved to the wraparound seat, glanced over the stern, and got an eyeful of good old Max’s naked butt. Obviously, he didn’t suffer from modesty and had no problem bathing in front of her.

He lowered a bucket tied to the end of a rope into the ocean, then raised it and dumped it over his head. Water ran through his black hair and splashed on his wide shoulders. It ran down the defined muscles of his back and the indent of his spine. Droplets slid down the cheeks of his behind, the backs of his thighs, and puddled at his feet. He shook his head and beads of water flew in all directions.

Lola turned away, feeling a bit guilty for staring. God only knew what he really did for a living and what sins he’d committed doing it, but he had the kind of body reserved for the pages of a men’s fitness magazine or a stripper calendar.

Even with his bruised face and obvious criminal bent, he was the kind of guy who made weak and silly women stick out their chests and purposely ignore obvious warning signs, like hairy knuckles and prison tattoos.

Lola was neither weak nor silly, nor was she attracted to men who tied her up against her will and threatened her dog. She took a quick peek over her shoulder as he lathered up his armpits with a bar of soap. He didn’t have tattoos, but she had to admit that he did have a great butt. For a criminal.

She sank down on the bench seat and turned her attention to the burned-out bridge. When she’d spoken to him earlier, she couldn’t help but notice the hard definition of his chest and arms. Beneath the purple bruises and short black hair covering his chest, the corrugated muscles of his six-pack were hard to miss. For years Lola had worked with beautiful male models, and she knew from experience that kind of body took a lot of work and dedication.

After barking himself hoarse, Baby gave it up and jumped into Lola’s lap. She adjusted his spiked collar, then ran her hand over his fur to his tail. He’d been such a good boy through this whole trying ordeal. Once they were rescued, she’d take him to his favorite retreat, Spas and Paws, where he’d be pampered and made to feel like a Great Dane. Once they were home, she’d pamper herself, too. Get an herbal body wrap and deep muscle massage.

She gathered her binoculars and mirror in one hand, and with her dog in the other, she walked up the stairs to the bridge and looked around for her sandals. She found one in the corner and half the other one beside the helm, the heel scorched and the toe completely burned off. She left them where they lay and raised the binoculars to her eyes.

Nothing but blue sky and blue water filled her vision. She stared so long through the binoculars, Baby abandoned her. Perspiration rolled down her temples and neck, and she wiped at it with her hand. Lola hated to sweat, and she suspected that she smelled bad. Neither of these things improved her mood as she looked for a hint of land or the speck of a boat or ship. She saw nothing, and after a while she couldn’t tell where the sky stopped and ocean began.

A woman of action, she was unused to sitting around staring at the horizon, waiting for something to happen. Yet she had no other choice. She felt restless and fidgety, but with nothing else to do, she stayed up on the bridge with her binoculars and mirror.

She’d been missing less than twenty-four hours. She had to have patience and faith that she would be rescued. The problem was, she’d never had much patience, and she didn’t have faith in anything but her own abilities. Although there had been a few times in her life when a strong shoulder to lean on would have been nice. When it would have been wonderful to dump her problems in the lap of some capable man and let him take care of things. Lola had never found that man, and she doubted she’d let him take care of her anyway.

Lola didn’t know how long she stayed up on the bridge, but only after her head began to ache and her stomach grumble did she abandon her post.

She found Max on the aft deck, his behind in a folding chair, a fishing pole stuck in the chair’s arm, a Dos Equis beer in his hand. He looked like a man at ease, as if he had nothing more pressing than polishing off a few. His wet T-shirt and jeans hung over the back of the boat to dry, as well as a pair of boxer briefs, ribbed cotton, charcoal gray, with a kangaroo fly. She was afraid to see what he was or wasn’t wearing, afraid she’d see more than a fishing rod. She looked anyway.

A pair of navy nylon shorts with an elastic waist fit him snug just below his navel. He’d wrapped the bandage around his middle again, thin strips of white around his big chest. A tin of smoked salmon rested on his thigh, and he shoveled a chunk on a cracker, then popped it into his mouth. He dipped his fingers into the tin and flipped a small piece of fish to the dog sitting at his left foot.

Baby opened his jaws and swallowed without chewing. If Max thought the way to Baby’s heart was through his stomach, he was right, but only to a point. Baby was a slave to his appetite for forbidden treats, but he was an absolute prisoner to his Napoleon complex. He would not be swayed from his mission to conquer bigger dogs by a few bites of smoked salmon.

“I thought you hated my dog,” she said.

He raised the beer to his lips and took a long swallow. “I do,” he answered without looking at her. “Just trying to fatten him up in case I need to eat him later.”

She wasn’t certain he was kidding. “Come on, Baby.” She motioned for the dog to follow as she walked inside the boat, but Baby refused to obey, choosing instead to stay by the man feeding him.

Feeling a bit betrayed, Lola checked on her underwear in the bathroom, found them only slightly damp along the elastic, and slipped them on. In the galley she scrounged around for lunch, although since she didn’t have a watch, she supposed it could be time for dinner. In a sealed container in the refrigerator, she found a wheel of Brie. She grabbed it along with a bunch of grapes and a banana. Since Baby had opted to stay outside, Lola was forced to join him to make sure he didn’t eat too much greasy salmon and get sick.

She found a place to sit between Max’s wet pants and T-shirt, then opened the container of cheese. She needed something to cut the Brie, and as if Max had read her mind, he handed her the fish knife sheathed in its scabbard.