“You keep forgetting this,” he said as she took it from him.

Lola opened her mouth to thank him but didn’t. She wouldn’t need a knife at all if it wasn’t for him. She cut off a slice of cheese and ate it along with two grapes. Max shoved a box of crackers toward her, and she took a stack of Rye Crisps into her hand. “Please don’t feed Baby any more fish. He’ll get sick.”

Max didn’t respond, but he polished off the rest of the salmon himself. He didn’t offer her any, which Lola thought was rude, but she really didn’t expect polite behavior from him. She peeled her banana and glanced out at the ocean, looking anywhere but at him. She hated to admit it, but he still made her nervous with his battered face and hard muscles. She took a bite of her banana and spotted her toothbrush sticking up out of a holder in the stern. “Why is my toothbrush in a fishing pole holder?”

“I used it.”

She did look at him then, straight at his bruised face and light blue eyes. She swallowed the banana. “For what?”

“To brush my teeth.”

“Tell me you’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“You stole my toothbrush?”

He shook his head. “Commandeered.”

“That’s disgusting!”

“I soaked it in rum first to kill your germs.”

“My germs?” Her mouth fell open as she stared at him, at the slight swelling beneath his left eye, at his black and purple cheekbone, and the white Steri-Strips on his forehead. She was tired, hot, and sweaty, and a man she didn’t know had used her toothbrush. “That’s just sick… and… and,” she sputtered as she rose, knife in one hand, banana in the other. The container of cheese fell to the deck and Baby pounced on it. Lola didn’t care; she had another sort of pouncing in mind. “And disgusting!”

His gaze lowered from her face to the knife in her hand. “It’s not like I brushed my ass with it.”

“Just about!”

“What are you so mad about?” he asked. He rose also and gestured with the beer bottle. “I put it in the fish holder so the sun would sterilize it.”

She couldn’t believe he was actually serious. “You kidnap me, get me stranded in the middle of the Atlantic, use my toothbrush, and wonder why I’m mad? What’s wrong with you? Did you eat paint chips as a child?”

He didn’t answer her last question, but instead pointed out, “Give it a rest. You weren’t kidnapped, and you got us stranded.”

Lola was in no mood to even consider taking the blame for anything. “What are you going to do next, steal my underwear?”

His gaze slid down the front of her dress, over her breasts, and down her abdomen. He took a slow drink of his beer as he contemplated the red cherries printed on the material over her crotch. “I don’t know,” he drawled, “are they still hanging up in the bathroom or would I have to wrestle them off you?”

“They’re no longer hanging in the bathroom,” she informed him through tight lips.

He looked back up into her face and smiled, with his nice, white, recently brushed teeth. “Go ahead and keep them. Pink really isn’t my color.”

With the realization that he’d probably touched her underwear, she discovered in that moment what she’d wondered the night before. No, she couldn’t stick a knife into a man’s throat, because if she was capable of it, she’d have killed good old Max. Gladly.

“I don’t know what has you tight as a tick,” he said right before he polished off his beer. “It’s not like I have anything you can catch.”

“What? Am I supposed to take your word on that?” She took a step back and looked him up and down. “I don’t even know who or what you are.”

“I told you last night who and what I am.”

Moisture trickled down her neck, and she wiped it away with her shoulder. She had a headache, her eyes felt scratchy, and she wanted a bath. She was so darn miserable, she couldn’t stand herself. All she really wanted was to slip between clean sheets and sleep until this nightmare was over. “I know what you said, but you can’t prove it.”

“True. You’re just going to have to take my word for it.”

“Right.” Lola carefully resheathed the knife and desperately tried to control her emotions before she did something mortifying like break into a fit of crying hysterics in front of him. “I’m supposed to take the word of a man who stole my private property and just threatened to eat my dog.”

He shrugged. “You don’t have a choice.”

“Oh, I always have a choice, and I choose not to believe a word that comes out of your mouth.”

“Suit yourself, but fighting with me over something so trivial as a toothbrush might not be in your best interest.”

“You don’t scare me.”

“I should. I’m bigger than you and meaner than you ever thought of being.”

“You don’t know how mean I’ve ever thought of being.” And at the moment, she was feeling mean. Real mean.

He tipped his head back and dismissed her with a deep laugh filled with amusement, which pushed her beyond her fear of him. She took a step closer and stuck her finger in his chest. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“What are you going to do about it? Poke holes in my chest with your fingernail?”

“Maybe I’ll smack your good eye and give you a matching shiner.” The thought of it almost brought a smile to her face. Almost, but she was too mad at the moment.

He wrapped his hand around hers and removed her finger from him. “I probably wouldn’t let you take a jab at me.” She tugged, but he tightened his grasp, imprisoning her within his strong warm palm. “Now that I can see it coming.”

“I could wait until you’re asleep.”

“You could, but I wouldn’t advise you to come anywhere near me when I’m in bed.” Again she pulled, and instead of letting go, he took a step closer, closing the slight gap between them.

“Or what? You’ll tie me up again or something?”

His gaze dropped to their hands, his still wrapped around hers and the only thing separating her breasts from the dark hair on his chest. “Or something,” he said just above a whisper, then raised his gaze as far as her mouth. “Oh, I’d definitely come up with something. Something a little more fun than a poke in the eye.”

Lola recognized the suddenly rough texture in his voice. The flash of desire in his blue eyes. She’d heard and seen it a lot in her life. While she felt no answering spark, no reciprocating interest, neither did she feel a flicker of revulsion. Which really didn’t surprise her, given her all-consuming anger.

“Well, don’t tax your brain,” she told him, and finally pulled her hand free. The force of the motion carried her a few steps back. “I will never be a willing participant in any of your warped fantasies.”

The light inside the galley poured over Max’s head as he studied the map he’d spread out on the table. He’d started one of the generators as the sun had dipped below the horizon, and he had changed into his dry clothes, the material still stiff from the salt water. He’d plugged a Jimmy Buffet tape into the stereo, and “Cheeseburger in Paradise” competed with the hum of the refrigerator. With the lights on, the Dora Mae would be a little easier to spot by passing vessels, but Max wasn’t overly concerned. It wouldn’t be that easy to spot and, since they weren’t sending out any sort of distress signal, wouldn’t attract much attention.

He circled his estimated position on the map, which he had determined by using the position of the stars in the sky and a compass he’d found in the stateroom. He was certain they were between Andros and the Bimini Islands. How close to either one was the question. They were still drifting on a warm northwest current, but a southeasterly wind had picked up a little. He doubted they were traveling much more than two knots in any direction.

The click-click of toenails drew Max’s attention to the doorway. Through the darkness, Baby Doll Carlyle entered the galley and jumped up onto the seat. He hopped onto the table, put his ears back, and stared at Max.

“Oh, Christ, not again,” Max groaned, and rose from behind the table. He grabbed his second beer of the day from the refrigerator and held it up in silent salute. Not only had the Thatches furnished him with a yacht, but they’d provided him with good beer, too. The galley was stocked with enough party food and booze to last a month.

Luckily, he’d also found more substantial staples in the pantry. Mostly it was filled with tomato juice, jars of green olives, and vermouth. He figured if he were a big drinker, there was enough alcohol aboard to keep himself good and drunk for weeks on end. But on a bottom shelf he’d also discovered white rice and cans of pears.

He thought of Lola, of seeing his hand wrapped around hers and her breasts threatening to pop the buttons on the front of that ugly dress. He pried off the top of the beer, and for about half a second the thought of getting shit-house drunk, to escape into a bottle for a few days, held a certain appeal. But Max knew the reality of that sort of existence. He’d watched it take his father, and he’d made up his mind long ago that it would never take him. He was stronger than that. Stronger than booze and stronger than his old man. He would never let anything control him the way rum had controlled Fidel Zamora.

The little dog on the table let out a yap, and Max slid him a glance. “Where’s your owner?” he asked, although he had a pretty good idea. The last he’d seen of her, she’d grabbed a chaise lounge from a storage compartment and dragged it to the bridge.

Max took a drink of the Dos Equis and headed outside. Lola hadn’t said a word to him after their toothbrush confrontation. Maybe he should have asked her permission first, but he’d figured she’d say no, and he would have used it anyway. So he hadn’t seen any point in asking and still didn’t. And like he’d told her, it wasn’t as if he had anything she could catch. God knows part of his annual physical consisted of every test known to the medical community, but if it made her feel better, he’d boil the damn thing.