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I don’t reply.
She struggles to sit up then realizes she can’t, not with my thighs straddling her hips. “Are you out of your mind?”
“Mad as a magpie.”
She wiggles beneath me. “Get off me.”
“Make me.”
Her eyes go wide, and I almost smile ... until with her free hand, she sends a fist into me balls. I pivot, fighter instincts kicking in, quick enough that her second punch lands on my arse.
She hisses.
I grasp hold of her arm then immobilize her by tightening of my thighs.
“Not very charitable of you.”
“What are you doing here, Antonio?”
“The question is, why are you onboard, Clarissa?”
She stiffens beneath me. “You know my name.”
“Clarissa Steele. Twenty-six years old. Born in Rangeley, Maine. Majored in journalism at The University of Augusta. Worked as a rookie war correspondent with the Associated News and then more recently at ActionNews7.”
A deep V mars her otherwise smooth forehead. “You ran my name through the CIA database?”
I feel myself relax. She still believes that nonsense. “Something like that. Missing a bit of information, though. Like, what in shite’s sake you’re doing on this ship?”
She exhales sharply. “I’m here for the same reasons you’re onboard.”
“Feck’s sake but I was worried you’d say that.”
“If your organization had made the bust, we wouldn’t be in this situation,” she reminds me. Though of course we’re speaking different languages when it comes to which organizations.
“I’m asking you nicely what you know. As compensation, I’ll put you on the first plane out of Cork.”
I feel her stiffen beneath me. “No.”
I lift an eyebrow at that. “No?”
“Get off me and I’ll tell you what I know. But I won’t be going anywhere.”
“We negotiating?”
“Whatever you Irish call it.”
I move but not in the way she’s expecting. Instead I drop my hands to the sides of her arms and lower myself so my face is a breath away from hers. My intention is to intimidate. She needs to understand who is the boss. I’ve a job to do and she’s got to buy into this nonsense about the CIA if she’s going to be any help.
The plan is to feed her some bullshite in a whispered voice. The CIA doesn’t negotiate with naughty minxes. It’s her patriotic feckin’ duty to share information.
But as I draw in close, she gapes at me in surprised horror.
“Listen up. We’re going to do things my way—”
“Oh. My. God. Your eye.” She pauses, and being the clever thinker she is, puts two and two together. “It was you, wasn’t it? The crew member the captain assaulted?”
“Yours truly.”
