Page 28 of Player
Clarissa
There are nightmares and then there arenightmares. Antonio, bending over me with whiskers a half inch from my face, is as horrible as they come. It took me a few seconds to realize I was awake, and that somehow, someway, he was onboard the ship.
In my cabin.
In my bed.
He’s quiet as we sit at the small table. Shaking off a lingering sleep, I decide now is as good a time as any to get to the truth.
“What’s your real name?”
“Antonio.”
I roll my eyes in an exaggerated way.
“Name doesn’t matter. We’re not going to be mates.”
Ouch. I feel the sting, though his assumption is spot on. “No, we’re definitely not. Not friends, not anything resembling friendship. I don’t take kindly to liars.”
He opens his mouth like he wants to argue with me but then changes his mind. With a shake of his head, he looks away to do a slow survey of my cabin. I feel slightly nervous. It’s a subtle thing, the difference in the energy between us. He no longer seems like the man I knew in Mexico City. He’s different, a far cry from the bumbling barbarian. More capable. More intense.
And he’s a hot mess. Hair longer and sticking up at odd ends. Beard uglier and just as unkempt. His eye is four distinct colors, black and blue being the two primary ones.
He must be well-trained to defend himself. Why did he let the captain do that to him?
“I suppose you’re undercover,” I murmur.
His head swings my way. “Could say that.”
“Is that why you didn’t defend yourself? You want the captain to believe you’re weak?”
He gives me a hard look. “Best be careful with the accusations.”
Is he threatening me or offering a stern warning? Hard to say, he’s impossible to read. I pretend not to feel the chill in the air between us.
“It was a compliment. I’ve had the misfortune of touching you, remember? So, couldn’t you have handed the captain his ass if you’d chosen to do so?”
A familiar sparkle lights up his eyes. “His arse forward and back, all the way back to Acapulco.” He gives me his full attention. “Like I said, yer quick on the uptake. But are you loyal?”
“To you?” I gasp. “Mr. I’ll-have-the-daily—”
“To our country. The good ol’ US of A?”
So, he is American. I give myself a mental shake of the head for doubting it.I’ve visited Boston. Accents like his are a dime a dozen, though his word choice is often more descriptive—
“I need confirmation I can count on you.” Another hard look and icy vibes. “That you won’t expose me.”
I swallow hard, reacting to the subtle threat. He’s big and strong. Muscles everywhere. My eyes rake over him. In a black T-shirt, his chest and arms are well-defined. His biceps are beautifully formed, and he’s not even flexing. He looks less bulky, more lean mass. And moments ago, I asked him if he could defend himself.
“You finished?”
My eyes snap back to his face. Except there’s no humor reflected there, no quick comment about me eye-fucking him. Pure ice.
I shrug. “I like you better without the poncho.”
He snorts.
I relax. “And despite our lackluster history, your secrets are safe with me.”
