Swept Away Read Online Free Page B

brunette rained scintillating little kisses on his neck just as the blonde slid her slender hand down his stomach beneath the water, going lower, lower. She cupped him through his trunks, and he pulled in his breath. He peered down at her, eyelids heavy with arousal as his brain turned to a glob of mush and sex.
    Don’t get too caught up in this. And yet, how did he not? Sex was sex, and if he was gonna do it, he had to be into it. And if he didn’t do it, he’d look pretty damn suspicious.
    As the brunette rubbed her breasts against his arm, the blonde said, “Want more, baby?” and squeezed him lightly.
    He was just about to tell her exactly what he wanted, when Francisco called over to him easily. “Hey, Brock.”
    He looked up from the sensual haze. “Yeah?”
    And realized that trying to go with the ßow had just distracted him—fatally. Shit. “Who’s Brock?” Carlos asked from somewhere to his right.
    “He is,” Francisco said, pinning Brock in place with eyes so sinister they could have belonged to the devil himself. “Brock Denton, FBI agent.” The evil brother looked toward the less evil one. “See, bro, the guy who just e-mailed me knew the asshole fed’s name. And the asshole fed just answered to it. And it’s going to be the last fucking time he answers to anything.”
    Brock pushed to his feet beneath the hot sun, tensing for a fight—a fight for his life. But as lots of Spanish began ßying back and forth between Carlos and Francisco, he slowly gathered that instead of shooting him, Francisco wanted to deliver him to Omega Man. “Let this scum see what they do to feds who try to screw us over.”
    Damn, he’d known when Carlos had insisted on swim trunks and the hot tub earlier that it had been a bad idea—because it meant his gun had stayed downstairs with his clothes—but there’d been no way to argue it without looking suspicious. Now, he stood helpless before them as Francisco snatched up a Colt .45 automatic, complete with silver grips, leveling it at Brock, then told Carlos where he could find some rope to tie up “your good friend, Jimmy.”
    Brock tried not to see the wounded look in Carlos’s eyes as he went to find the rope. Not that it mattered. This was his job, bringing down bad guys. And Carlos was a bad guy, so of course Brock had lied and pretended and gotten inside his world, same as always. He just never particularly enjoyed the part where the guys who trusted him found out the truth—at least when it was a guy like Carlos, whose biggest crime was going along with his bully of a brother.
    Brock soon lay trussed like a pig belowdecks, alone in a small, tidy bedroom, listening to the boat’s motor chug through the water—it was all he could hear, coming through the wall behind him. He lay on the ßoor, on rough carpet, his hands tied behind his back—in a sturdy knot from what he could tell. But he happened to be pretty skilled at getting loose from sturdy knots. Carlos never should have left him unguarded.

    Twenty minutes and a lot of sweat later, he’d freed his hands and started working at the rope that bound his ankles. He should have been scared shitless—if they found him getting loose, they’d probably just shoot him to end the nuisance—but something about concentrating on that gentle chug of the engine calmed his breathing and helped him focus on the task at hand.
    When he got to his feet, he looked around the room for anything he could use as a weapon. Nothing, of course—after bringing him down here, Francisco had ordered Carlos to take all the guns to the upper deck. So he was loose, but now what? He was on a goddamn boat in the middle of the ocean.
    Well, no weapons, maybe, but there was still a missing key somewhere on this boat, which Francisco had likely shed with his clothes when he’d changed into swimwear. Not that Brock had time to waste—but he figured there was a pretty good chance that key might open a lock that guarded the Mayan