In Too Deep (T-FLAC: Wright Family, Band 3) - Softcover

Adair, Cherry

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0804120013 ISBN 13: 9780804120012

Verlag: Ivy Books, 2002

Inhaltsangabe

Beauty can be deceiving. . . .

Tally Cruise has come to Paradise Island for a long-awaited reunion with the father she never knew. But when she arrives, he is nowhere to be found. Still, she is so thrilled by the seductive beauty of the island that she doesn’t see the danger that is boiling right below the surface—until a mysterious explosion nearly kills her. She is rescued by an enigmatic man whose intensity is as undeniable as his sex appeal . . . a mysterious stranger who is not what he seems.

Michael Wright is on Paradise to settle an old score with Tally’s father, the man responsible for the accident that ended his Navy SEAL career . . . and killed his best friend. But even though he hopes to use Tally to reach his target, Michael cannot deny the deep feelings she inspires within him, or the fact that her life is in serious danger. Paradise Island is a place full of hidden intrigue and peril, as deadly as it is beautiful, and Michael will need every skill he learned as a SEAL to ensure that he and Tally escape alive. . . .

IN TOO DEEP

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

USA Today-bestselling author Cherry Adair is a multiple RITA finalist and has won numerous awards, including the Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice Award for Best Contemporary Romance. Her most recent book, Hide and Seek, was voted one of Romance Writers of America’s Top Ten Favorite Books for 2001.

Cherry and her husband share their Western Washington home with a fireproof cat and the world’s cutest dog. When she isn’t busy writing or redecorating, she spends her time dreaming up ways to torture her characters while helping them find their happy endings.

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"Turn around, lady. I can't see what the hell you're saying!"

From the deck of the Nemesis, Michael Wright attempted to lip-read the conversation onboard the Serendipity four hundred yards away while his boat pitched and yawed with the swell of the waves.

Tally Cruise and Arnaud Bouchard.

The daughter and the right-hand man of his archenemy, Trevor Church.

Now here was an unholy alliance.

The high-powered binocs brought the woman up close and personal. Plain little thing. Stubborn chin. Dark hair. Blue eyes. Surprisingly sensual mouth.

Her timing sucked. Hell, Church wasn't even around. Yet.

Michael had three days before Church's return. Three days to bait and set the trap. Three days, after eleven months of meticulous planning.

Anticipation had kept him motivated. But he wasn't alive. Lieutenant Michael Wright had died on Paradise Island last October. Now the living ghost of the man occupying his shell was ready to write the last chapter and close the book on Church once and for all.

It was as personal as it was unofficial.

Even off the books, this would be his last mission for Uncle Sam. He needed no accolades, no medals, and no acknowledgment. He and his partner had started this a year ago.

And failed.

Now he was back. Alone.

Failure was not an option.

He was ready. Focused. Intent. A heat-seeking missile targeted on Church's destruction. The long months of preparation had come down to mere days. The hours ticking away like a metronome in his brain.

Bouchard grabbed Tally about the waist and tried to kiss her. Ms. Cruise pushed out of the guy's arms, then hauled off and slapped him. Hard.

"Ow." Michael winced. "That's gotta hurt."

Apparently it did. She shook her hand, her slender shoulders stiff as she turned away. Gait unsteady because of the rough seas, she continued gesturing as she paced.

Talking. Animated. Pissed.

He readjusted the binoculars for a better view. "Better" being the operative word. He almost didn't notice the absence of his left eye.

Almost.

The increasing swells three miles out from Paradise Island sent the two yachts bobbing like opposite ends of a teeter-totter. The cork action didn't help Michael's lousy depth perception. And according to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, things were about to get worse.

Considerably worse, if NOAA's prediction of category three monsoon winds slamming into the French Polynesian Marquesas Islands by late afternoon was accurate.

As soon as he'd learned of the approaching typhoon, Michael had integrated it into his plans. What he hadn't incorporated was the presence of the young woman on the other boat.

"Damn. Turn around again, honey, so I can see what you're saying," Michael complained. "Not that you don't have a sweet ass." The view from the back, in fact, was prime. Her slender hands punctuated her words. She stormed all the way to the rail near the bathing platform at the stern, then made an about-face with military precision and started the circuit all over again.

Her curly black hair bounced around her head in the gathering wind. Navy slacks hid the shape of her long legs, but did great things for a truly spectacular ass. The wind pressed her neatly tucked white shirt against small, high breasts and a flat stomach.

His libido had flat-lined way back. But it wasn't dead after all. Not if he could still appreciate a great ass. The shrinks had talked to him about depression before the navy cut him loose. Hell, he wasn't depressed. For months nothing had held his interest for long. If he'd had the energy to be anything, it would've been pissed.

At least now he was doing something about it. He lacked the official backing of Uncle Sam, but he had other players on his dance card if he needed them. None of whom had to play by the rules.

Michael's fingers tightened on the binocs as he readjusted the focus on Bouchard's reaction to the boss's daughter's harangue. Bouchard laid a conciliatory hand on her shoulder. She swatted it away. "Honest to God, Tal, I do--" his hand went up to sweep hair off his face--"believe me?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Yeah," Michael bitched, wedging the fishing pole between his feet to keep it from sliding to the deck. "Whatever you're selling, she's not buying, pal. Kiss her ass and call it a day."

Michael had taken time early that morning to batten down the hatches and trim the sails in preparation for the building storm. He anticipated nine- to twelve-foot storm surges and hundred-mile-an-hour-plus winds. The sooner he got out of the direct path, the better.

He'd made a huge pot of coffee, stored it safely in a large Thermos, and had built a pile of man-size sandwiches and sealed them in a waterproof Baggie.

The Nemesis consisted of forty-five feet of high-tech beauty. Built of fiberglass, with an Airex foam core, she was lightweight and strong. While he prepared for this trip, Michael and his inventor-of-cool-gadgets-brother-in-law, Jake Dolan, had outfitted the Nemesis with some exceptional toys. Consequently, Michael was ready for anything.

He'd meticulously scripted the next couple of days: limp into port, drag out repairs, reconnoiter the small island, find his target, and wait like a fat, hairy spider to ensnare Church in the web he'd meticulously woven.

Running into the daughter and the second in command, like ducks in a shooting gallery out here, might prove to be a bonus. Especially if they'd cooperate and say something interesting.

"Come on. Come on. Come on. Give me a frigging clue what you two are up to, would you?" Ten minutes. If they didn't reveal anything useful, he'd call it a wash and head into the shelter of the harbor, and go from there.

He wasn't prepared to risk the Nemesis. Church had already taken way too much from him as it was. If those two wanted to sink in the coming storm, they could have at it. Two less people for him to keep tabs on later.

Michael had intentionally positioned the Nemesis to be as inconspicuous as possible as a silhouette against the horizon. And although it was only early afternoon, the low, dark sky gave every appearance of dusk. He slapped the binocs up to his eye.

"Say something worth listening to, damn it. I don't give a crap if you drown. But it's my frigging worst nightmare. So turn the hell around and talk to me."

He attributed his accelerated heartbeat and sweaty palms to the relentless approach of the typhoon. The wind felt cool on his wet skin. Hell. Even a rational man would give pause when faced with a monsoon.

Thanks to Church it was fucking more than that for Michael. He kept his gaze locked on the other boat and not on the broody, malevolent, almost black water that stretched into infinity. The sea wasn't a woman to him. It was a man-eating, man-mutilating monster.

Merciless. Amoral.

Greedy. Unforgiving.

Christ, he'd lived with night sweats and day demons for months, and in the process developed a phobia bigger than the Titanic.

Michael snorted. A Navy SEAL afraid of the sea. . . .

Ex.

Ex-Navy SEAL.

Well, screw that for a joke.

"Danger, danger Will Robinson," Michael muttered, getting a firm grip on the seat of his chair as the Nemesis went up one side of a wave, and down into a deep trough before bobbing back to the crest. The fishing pole clattered to the deck as a frothy wave washed over the side, dousing his legs with water.

An icy sweat formed on his skin. He ignored it.

Que sera sera.

If this trip didn't cure his irrational fears, nothing would. He'd purposely surrounded himself with what he feared the most:...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Ivy Books
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2002
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0804120013
• ISBN 13: 9780804120012
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 320
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar