“Okay, that’s now. What about things she did as a kid?”
“Well, she used to sail, and I think she had horses once.”
Casey’s eyebrows rose. “You never said she sailed. That has possibilities.” Brad was relieved he’d said something useful. “Jensen find any diamond big enough to substitute?”
Brad shook his head. “There’s a new one from India about the right size. But it’s still in the rough. The cutters in Amsterdam are studying it before they take a chisel to it.”
“I’ll tell them to get on with it.”
“It isn’t that easy. They have to eliminate the flaws by using them to split the stone. By the time they get it cut down, it may not be big enough.”
Casey rose suddenly and drained the last of his coffee. “I’m going to get some sleep.” All eyes in the room followed him as he strode from the cafeteria. He looked like danger incarnate. Rumor had it that the last job he’d been on, a guy who’d reported Casey’s tactics to his superiors had gone missing. Well, all except a couple of fingers. Brad wondered if he should just go back to the lab and stay as far away as possible from Casey.
But if anyone could find the fugitives Casey could. Brad wanted to be there when he did.
Chapter 11
Friday
Lucy dragged herself out of bed. She’d slept badly. Maybe it was the pepper spray under her pillow. He might have promised he wouldn’t try to kiss her, but you could rape someone without kissing. Whoa. Cynical. Did she really think he structured his promise so he could keep it and still rape her? The kind of guy that rapes a woman doesn’t care if he breaks a stupid promise. The problem was that deep inside she believed Galen was an honorable man. She might be losing it, but . . . but there was something about the look in his eyes . . . Maybe that was naïve. Too cynical or too naïve? The endless tape of uncertainty had played over and over in her mind last night. So, she took the pepper spray to bed. Cold comfort that.
Speaking of comfort, she couldn’t find any. And definitely not anything cold. Her thoughts, waking, and her dreams, asleep, all had a temperature north of a hundred, involving one raping, pillaging, and very attractive Viking. Not comfortable at all. Even now she was wet between her thighs, left over from the dream she’d had just before being wakened by thunder and the pelting rain of a fresh shower.
Maybe pepper spray wouldn’t protect her from what she really feared: that she was the one who would end up running her hands over his body, inviting a lot more than kissing.
He was wounded for God’s sake. That sure didn’t seem to stop him last night.
And he wasn’t her type. Viking? Hellooooo.
Well. She wouldn’t think about any of this anymore. The best thing to do now was take a shower, for a lot of reasons. She got up, hugging her arms around her fake-satin sleep shirt. It was emerald green, her favorite color. The boat was cold. The ports were fogged opaque, the rivulets of rain on the outside only faintly visible. She pulled out her jeans and some fresh underwear and T-shirts from the drawers under the bed. Best dress before the Viking was awake and rev up the electric heater. She’d forgotten all about dying her hair yesterday in her panic to do damage control with the guy at the Quik Stop. Now the guy at the Quik Stop and the kid and the brown, hard sailor on the other boats had all seen her red hair. If she dyed it now, wouldn’t that just scream that she and Galen were hiding?
She slipped out the door to her cabin on the way to the head. She was too late to avoid Galen. There he was, in all his half-naked glory, limping out of his own cabin.
His eyes dropped to her bare legs, slowly. She was acutely aware that she was not wearing a bra and her too-ample breasts were free underneath the sleep shirt. He tore his eyes upward to her face. “Lucy, what day is today?” She hadn’t taught him “today.” It must be like so many other words—the same in both Old and modern English.
She had to think. What had they told her at the hospital? It was a quiet night because it was Tuesday. That meant today was . . . “Friday.”
“Friday.” His brow creased. “Danir take bath on Thorsday. I am one day late.”
“In there.” She nodded to the head. A shower would make him feel better. “No bath. Shower.” He didn’t know what that meant in these times, even if he understood the word. “I’ll show you. First take off the bandage. We have to see if your wound is ready for a shower.”
He sat on the sofa and peeled at the tape. He was doing it wrong. He’d only pull too hard and tug at the stitches. She cleared her throat.
“Let me.” At least the bandage wasn’t wet with seepage. She peeled away the tape and gently pulled back the gauze, touching him as little as possible. It wasn’t little enough, of course.
The wound looked much improved. The edges had lost puffiness. He healed quickly. Still, no way would the stitches be ready to come out Sunday no matter what the book said. “The wound is good.”
He peered down at his shoulder. “Ja. I tell you this befran. I am mighty.” It was a mixture of what she had taught him and his own words, but it worked.
“Okay. You can have a shower.”
She turned away to get him a towel from the drawers set into the cabinet next to the head. When she turned back, he had the plastic tubing at the base of his wound between two fingers. “No,” she started . . . but under her shocked gaze he pulled it out with a grunt.
He looked up at her. “It is time.”
She sighed. Well, at least she didn’t have to pull it out. She took it from him. It was maybe three inches long. Was his wound that deep? She peered at the stitches. A little blood and the drain left a bit of a gap, but it was probably okay. She tossed the tubing into the trash compactor and handed him the towel, pushing past him toward the head.
Opening the narrow shower door, she turned one of the faucets. “Hot. Understand?”
He nodded.
“Cold.” She turned on the other one. “Soap.” She held it up. “Soap for hair.” She pushed open the top of the shampoo bottle and squeezed so he could see how it worked. If he couldn’t soap his hair with one hand, she’d have to do it in the little sink. “Be quick. The water tank is small.” He looked blank. “Water?” He nodded. “Tank?” Not getting that. What was sort of a primitive tank? “Barrel?” Yep. That did it. She could see it in his eyes. “Small? Little?”
“Ja. Lyttle waeter byrla. I be swift. Am swift,” he corrected.
She squeezed past him. Much too close. He seemed to fill the tight doorway. He stepped inside and stripped off his boxers without bothering to close the door.
“Do you like to be seen naked?” Without waiting for an answer, she pulled the door shut.
But she heard him say, “Ja, Lucy. I like naked.” Great, “naked” was the same word in both times. She might have guessed. He obviously had much less concern about his body than she did. Why would he? He must have about 2 percent body fat. Not that he was stringy. A better description would be “packed with muscle.” Lovely, round butt, heavy shoulders, a broad back that rippled with every movement, an eight-pack, not six-, and thighs . . .
She turned on an electric heater in the salon. She might not need it long. She was definitely feeling warmer. She sliced bread and put it in the oven to toast and slapped some bacon into a frying pan, got out some eggs. Water beat against the fiberglass shower stall. She wouldn’t think about him soaping his . . . No. Definitely wouldn’t think about that.
The shower went silent. Jeez, he’d probably rip open his stitches drying himself with the towel. She gritted her teeth and opened the head door. “Come here.” He stepped, dripping, out into the passageway. His hair was wet, too, the blond color darkened. He smelled clean, but there was still something masculine about his scent. It made her want to bury her face in his chest. She grabbed his towel and glanced up at him. Speculation flickered in his eyes.