The torrential rain beat down on them with a vengeance. Sitting on the deck beside Jack, Lorraine held a vinyl slicker over their heads until the muscles in her upper arms cramped in protest. The slicker offered little protection, but at least it kept the rain off Jack’s face.

The storm had raged on and off for two days. Every time the downpour slackened, she thought it was over—and then it would start again. Lorraine had never experienced such misery. She didn’t know which was worse, the weather or their predicament. Without land in sight, she had no idea where they were or how to find out. If Jack died, Lorraine didn’t know what her own fate would be.

She wanted Jack to live—and for a whole lot more than his navigational skills. She owed him so much, more than it was possible to repay. Every time she thought about his being shot, saving her from Carlos, her chest tightened with emotion.

She was afraid he’d die.

She was afraid she’d killed Carlos. And afraid she hadn’t.

She was afraid she’d gotten them so lost even Jack would never find the way back and they’d die at sea. If someone did manage to rescue her, she feared no one would believe in her innocence and she’d spend years rotting in a Mexican prison.

Throughout the storm, Lorraine was constantly at Jack’s side, refusing to leave him as they drifted aimlessly out to sea.

For a few hours she entertained herself by trying to remember the plots of her favorite classic movies, scene by scene. Brief Encounter. It Happened One Night. The Bishop’s Wife. Sabrina. And of course The African Queen. Movies she and her mother had loved.

She thought about her mother, too, and tried to hate her, then discovered she couldn’t. She went over what she knew of her parents’ marriage again and again until it made a crazy kind of sense. Her parents had loved each other, but unchangeable circumstances had led to their separation. From what her father had told her, he’d been in touch through the years, yet after a while Virginia had stopped responding. Stopped visiting. Lorraine remembered her mother taking what she said were business trips. Lorraine had stayed with Aunt Elaine for as long as a week. These trips seemed to make her mother sad, she recalled. She herself had been so young.

At some point in her childhood, her mother must have made a conscious decision not to move to Mexico. Since she was a devout Catholic, divorce was not an option for her. She must have made peace with herself and her past, and for whatever reason eased herself out of Thomas’s life.

None of this explained why she’d never told Lorraine the truth. And now Lorraine would never know, could only speculate.

Thoughts of her mother were complicated enough, but what she felt toward her father was completely confusing. All those years her mother had remained faithful. But Thomas hadn’t. For all Lorraine knew, he could have fathered dozens of children. She didn’t want to think about him, didn’t want to dwell on his infidelities. Didn’t want…

Lorraine wasn’t sure when she fell asleep. Next thing she knew, it was morning and the sun shone down like a blessing from heaven. She opened her eyes and blinked at the brightness—and noticed that Jack’s eyes were open, too. For a long time they simply looked at each other, as if taking in the fact that they were both alive. The urge to touch his face the way she had earlier was almost overpowering. She longed to put her arms around him, hold him close. She wanted to tell him how desperately afraid she’d been that he’d die and how she couldn’t have borne the guilt of it. She wanted to tell him that beneath his disreputable exterior, he was a good man. What higher praise was there than that? A man who was honorable and good. A man she was beginning to love. But she told him none of these things.

Instead, she whispered, “Good morning,” in an unsteady voice as she struggled to conceal her relief and the accompanying rush of emotion. “How do you feel?”

“About what you’d expect.”

“That bad?”

His grin was brief. “That bad. What about you?”

“I’m okay.” She ached in places she hadn’t known it was possible to ache. But then, she wasn’t accustomed to sleeping in an upright position.

“The gunshot,” he said hoarsely. “How bad is it?”

“Bad enough.” She wouldn’t lie to him. “But not nearly as critical as it could have been. The bullet’s still there. Removing it would’ve done too much damage. You’d lost a lot of blood as it was.”

“The bullet’s still there?” He arched his brows. “Does this mean I’m going to set off airport metal detectors?” He gave her an infectious grin.

“I guess you’ll have to find out.”

His eyes held hers. Then he reached up and pressed his hand to her cheek. “Thank you,” he whispered. The gesture was one of tenderness and unspeakable warmth. Her hand joined his and she blinked back tears, wishing she knew how to tell him that she admired his courage and his honor. That she was grateful he’d taken it upon himself to help her when it would have been just as easy to refuse. She closed her eyes, wanting to savor this moment, hold on to it forever. Her pulse steadied. Reality returned.

During the worst of his fever, he’d called for another woman, someone he obviously loved and cared for deeply. A woman who was—or had been—an important part of his life.

She considered asking about Marcie. And she considered correcting the impression that she was a married woman. But for his sake, as well as her own, it was better to let him believe she had a husband back in Louisville.

The feelings between them were too intense. And the situation was far too difficult. This relationship had no hope of any future, and rather than allow it to follow a path that would only bring them pain, she regretfully removed her hand from Jack’s. He seemed to realize what was happening and lowered his arm to his side.

“I shot Carlos,” she told him, thinking that would cheer him up.

“Did you kill him?”

“No, but not from lack of trying. I got off six shots,” she added proudly.

He grinned at that.

“Best I can figure, though, I only grazed his upper arm.”

“I hope he’s in more pain than I am.”

“Me, too.”

“How’d you get us away from Pucuro?”

She turned away. “You don’t want to know.”

“Ah, but I do.”

“It’s a story for another day,” she said firmly. Suddenly tears blurred her eyes again, no matter how hard she tried to blink them away. “Let me see about making you more comfortable.”

“Raine.”

“Don’t call me that.” She sniffled and wiped her cheeks with one hand.

“You’re crying,” he said, ignoring her protest.

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Then these are tears of…of joy.”

“Joy?” His question was accompanied by a frown.

“You’re going to live, Jack. You’re going to be okay.”

Carlos Caracol cursed and gritted his teeth as Camelia cleaned the blood from his upper arm. “Stop,” he commanded. He jerked with the pain. He’d gone three days without medical care, and infection had set in. The throbbing in his arm was bad enough to bring him to Camelia, a woman he knew he could trust.

“I said stop,” he growled.

“Do you want to lose that arm?”

“No.”

“Then let me finish,” she said with perfect calm.

This was what he liked most about Camelia—he didn’t intimidate her. He’d known the first time he met her that this was a woman worthy of his attention, and he’d been right. It was of little concern to him that she was married—and it didn’t seem to bother her, either. Her youngest son, a three-year-old, looked a lot like him. Carlos didn’t want any family responsibilities, but it pleased him to know he’d fathered a child with her.

Squirming on the chair in her kitchen, he submitted his arm to her again. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the tantalizing scent of meat and spices simmering on the stove. It’d been the better part of a week since he’d enjoyed a decent meal. Longer since he’d enjoyed the pleasure a woman could give.

He grimaced as Camelia dabbed some sort of stinging liquid on his arm. The throbbing was worse than ever. But the pain Carlos felt was more than just physical sensation. That American bitch had done it to him again. Whenever he found her, her male friend wasn’t far behind. Those two were becoming a nuisance, but what they didn’t realize was that no one made a fool of Carlos Caracol and lived to tell about it.

“Be still,” Camelia said, her voice sharp.

His eyes flew open.

“You’re tense. Relax.”

“Give me something to take away the pain.” He eased his free hand under her blouse and reached for her breast.

“Not now,” she said, and slapped his wrist.

Carlos frowned. To hear her talk anyone would think she was married to him. “Do you have a headache?” he scoffed.

Her saucy grin was enough to assure him that wasn’t the case. “With you? Never.”

His mood lifted. “Good.”

“Later, after your arm is clean.”

“And I’ve eaten.”

She continued to dab at the wound. He swore she used straight whiskey. Every place she touched him, his skin burned.

“Are you going to tell me who did this?”

“No.”

“Man or woman?”

Carlos hesitated before answering. “Woman.”

Camelia’s reaction told him he should have lied. She broke into a hearty laugh and shook her head. “I always thought a woman would be the end of you, except I thought it would be me. Did you want her?”

“No,” he growled, deciding to lie. He did want the bitch, but only to show her what it was like to be with a real man. And to punish her.

“You lie.”

The problem with Camelia was that she knew him too well. He grabbed a thick swatch of her hair, twisted it around his fist and yanked hard.

“Ouch.” Her eyes widened.

“That American is going to regret the day she ever laid eyes on me.” Each word was distinctly pronounced.

He was gratified to see that Camelia got his message. “I pity her,” she whispered.

He grinned, his ego bolstered by her words. “I’ll make sure that when she dies, she’s grateful for it.”

Eleven

“What’s this?” Jack demanded as Lorraine spoon-fed him broth.

“Soup.” Jack wasn’t a good patient, but she’d expected that. He was impatient with the time it took to regain his strength. His complaints were constant. He hated being incapacitated. Hated relying on her help. Hated being weak.

“Pretty sorry excuse for soup if you ask me,” he muttered, opening his mouth for another spoonful.

“You appear to be eating it.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Nope.” She grinned, and to her surprise he did, too. Their eyes met, and neither seemed willing to look away. It had been like this from the moment he’d regained consciousness. This awareness, this appreciation. Countless hours she’d remained at his side, nursing him, lending him her will, her strength…her heart. He didn’t need her determination to survive; his own was strong enough. But her heart—that he kept, and although they never mentioned the growing awareness between them, they both knew it was there.