Eyes closed but not the least bit sleepy, Penny pretended to enjoy a lazy morning at the pool. Jungle life surrounded her with the cackles of mischievous monkeys and chirping birds, but it wasn’t a symphony fit for the masters. Each sharp trill drilled through her temple like an ice pick and reminded her that she wasn’t here on vacation. She had a job to do, and this morning it was to keep the eyes of Fuentes’s guards on her so Rafe could sabotage the compound’s power.
Her plan had seemed like a good idea at the time. A cup of ice and a bathing suit didn’t really leave room for errors. But that was before she remembered the suit Maria packed was less suit and more like brightly colored dental floss.
Penny picked up another ice cube and forced her mind away from the watching gazes. Neck. Collarbone. Arm. Occasionally, she threw in the slope of her leg or alternated the order. But every time she ran a piece of ice over the bruises circling each bicep like a black-and-blue version of a tribal tattoo, she was reminded how close she came to screwing up every inch of progress they’d made.
Rafe had been sweet telling her it wasn’t as big a deal as she thought, but they both knew that had been a fib. Well, she knew it.
Mistakes and failure hadn’t been tolerated in the Kline house—at least when she’d lived there. Her father’s pep talks went something like: Fell off a bike? Get back on it. Got pummeled by a bully at school? Hit them back harder. When she’d fallen off the school monkey bars and dislocated her shoulder, her father’s reply to the nurse’s phone call? Slip it back in and send her back to class.
At seven years old.
Rafe and her father were sculpted from the same kind of clay. He did his job without apology, put his life on the line for what was right. Fearless may as well be his middle name. Yet last night, he’d held her close, offered reassurances instead of anecdotes, soft caresses instead of shrug-it-off pats on the ass—and all the while he pretended not to notice the subtle shake of her shoulders.
Each day, Rafe showed her that he wasn’t the typical red-blooded male. It was a good thing, but it wasn’t enough for a storybook ending. One look at Carlotta, back in her drug-induced stupor this morning, confirmed it. Happily ever afters weren’t possible as long as sick men like Fuentes roamed free, and as long as they did, men like Rafe would feel inclined to put a stop to them.
Penny had just grabbed another ice cube when the man himself strutted onto the patio. Behind her sunglasses, she let her eyes feast. He was too sexy for both his own good and hers. His shirt, half unbuttoned and hanging loose, showcased muscles that had been chiseled from years of hard work and extreme circumstances. And the dark strip of hair that bisected his tanned chest and sculpted abs trailed provocatively beneath the waist of his pants. Picturing its ending destination would’ve made her stumble in her six-inch platform sandals if she hadn’t been lying down.
Rafe’s mouth twitched with a smirk. “Undressing me with your eyes, Roja?”
“Are you here to stop me?”
“Absolutely not. You look to be enjoying yourself.”
“I’d be enjoying myself a lot more if you were here with me, baby.” Rafe’s eyes darkened, telling Penny that her words had their desired effect. “Are you sure you have time to spend with me? I wouldn’t want to take you away from your work.”
“Right now all I want to work on is you, Roja.”
It was the phrase they’d come up with to signal that things were on track, but it still spread a liquid warmth straight to her nonexistent bikini bottoms. All they needed now was to wait for sundown, and Rafe would be able to go all dark-wing commando without being seen by the many layers of Fuentes’s security.
Rafe grabbed the tube of sun block from her bag and with a gentle tap on her hip, he ordered her to flip. The butterflies in her stomach turned prehistoric in size, but she turned, pretending that waiting for his touch wasn’t the excitement equivalent of national All-You-Can-Eat Ice Cream Day.
Oh, who the hell was she kidding? It surpassed it—by miles.
Rafe worked the warm lotion into his palms, then turned his strong hands onto the knots in her shoulders. Down her spine and around her torso, with every inch he touched, goose bumps that had nothing to do with wind-induced chills peppered her skin. There was a whole lot of something to be said for a man with callus-roughened hands.
When his hands slid back up beneath the string holding her top in place, her breath quickened. Her breasts, crushed beneath her weight, grew sensitive and heavy. “Rafe,” she croaked, his name sounding more like a moan.
“Go on and turn over, Roja.”
She obeyed without question. Even if she’d been able to form a cohesive thought, the sight of his erection straining against his linen pants would’ve cleared it from her mind. Fuentes’s men watched their every move, but when Rafe sat on the edge of her lounge and took her leg in his hand, there was no way she was going to tell him to stop.
Hot tingles followed the path of his hands, from the delicate arch of her foot to the sensitive spot behind her knee.
“When it’s just the two of us, you’re going to give me a private showing,” Rafe murmured. His eyes followed the path of hands.