Since that’s a brilliant idea, I don’t argue. He takes the rolls and I grab some orange juice, plates, and cups, then follow him up.

He’s right. It is a gorgeous day, and I silently decree that today there will be no talk of murder or jail. There will be no worries about Ronnie. No fear that I will be raising that little girl alone.

There will be only work and the island and Jackson and me.

Today, I’m holding tight to normalcy, and these moments at sea are a damn fine start.

The sky is a crystalline blue, and there isn’t a cloud to be seen. The ocean ahead is smooth, the surface only rippled by a soft wind. We’re close enough to both Catalina Island and Santa Cortez for seagulls to be flying overhead, and I watch as a few dive-bomb the water for their breakfast. I toss out a piece of my cinnamon roll and watch the closest one rocket toward it.

“Hey,” Jackson says. “I slaved over those. Took them out of a box and everything.”

“You picked a good box. They’re great.”

We’re sitting on the main deck on a bench on the port side just over from the captain’s chair. It’s cushioned and the back of the bench is also the side of the boat. I’ve poured us both juice and we have the cups tucked into built-in holders. The pitcher is jammed into the center of a life preserver to keep it steady.

I’ve put the rolls between us, and Jackson makes a grab for his third. He takes a bite and grins at me, a tiny bit of white icing stuck to the corner of his mouth. I reach over and wipe it off with my thumb, then put my thumb in my mouth and suck it clean.

And all the while my eyes never leave his.

“Very naughty, Ms. Brooks.”

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Steele.”

He stands, then pulls me up as well. “I’m talking about the fact that your island is right over there.” He points to Santa Cortez, growing larger by the minute. “And the fact that I need to take the boat off autopilot.” He traces his fingertip over my lips, and I draw him in, then suck and tease his finger with my tongue.

He groans. “I’m talking,” he says as he tugs his finger free, “about the fact that we don’t have time for me to fuck you the way I want to fuck you right now. But soon,” he adds as he slides his hand down to cup my crotch through my shorts. He slides lower to my thigh, then back up the inside of the leg. And then his brow lifts as his fingers find me not only bare, but hot and slick and very, very wet.

I bite my lower lip in response to his low groan of masculine satisfaction.

“Good girl,” he says.

I look up, innocently meeting his eyes. “What were you saying about fucking me?”

He slips two fingers inside me, making me gasp. “Soon,” he promises. “Very soon.”

I sigh with disappointment when he steps away, leaving me longing and so sensitive that every brush of the canvas against my cunt is like a sensual torment.

For just a moment, his gaze lingers on me, hot and heavy, and then he turns and heads for the captain’s chair to guide the boat in. And I’m left to my fantasies of what’s still to come.

While he does his captain thing, I take our breakfast stuff back downstairs. I’m covering the leftover rolls with plastic wrap when Jackson calls me, his voice hard and sharp. “Syl. Get up here!”

I abandon what I’m doing and hurry back on deck. I’m asking, “What’s going on?” as I move, but as soon as I’m outside, I can see for myself.

And what I see is that my wonderful day has just gone straight to hell.

The moorings on one side of the dock have been smashed in, so that it tilts at an odd angle and isn’t even close to being safe.

“But how will we get on the island?” I say, and then realize that is the least of our problems. Because when I follow his finger, I see that this entire area has been vandalized. From this perspective, I should be able to see the fuel tanks. For that matter, there are portable toilets, and I can’t see the tops of them, and I really don’t want to think about what it means if those blue boxes have been toppled over.

“Binoculars,” I say. “Do you have some?”

“Dammit, yes.” He hurries to the bench on which we’d just had breakfast and pulls off the cushion, then grabs a pair from the hidden storage area. He puts the bench back together, then steps up before raising the lenses to his eyes. “It’s bad,” he says, then passes the binocs to me.

I look, too, and see that he’s right. Fuel tanks are spilled. The helipad is covered with debris. There are wires and cords everywhere, along with bits of broken machinery. About the only thing that hasn’t been knocked over is the pole upon which the security camera is mounted.