Or was he awake and she'd pushed this silent man too far?
Max shifted in his chair, eyes still half-open. "Only child. My old man was active duty—a Navy Captain. My mother and I followed him around the world."
Darcy thought of her own mother, a woman she didn't even remember except from pictures, since she'd died of an aneurysm twenty years ago. Would her mother have been able to put the kidnapping into a sharper focus? Darcy shrugged off the notion. She was doing fine on her own, damn it. "So you get your love for the water from your father."
A furrow creased his brow. "I guess so. Although he would probably choke on his commission to hear we have anything in common. I haven't been the ideal son."
With a few clipped sentences Max relayed much— a veritable sharefest for such a closemouthed man. A heady rush of success filled her. "Ah, come on. I'm sure he loves pineapples."
Max snorted.
She wanted to see his smile and bring back the rare chattiness she'd only just begun to enjoy with him. "I'll bet your clothes made for some interesting times around your house."
His eyes slid from the horizon. A surprise spark of laughter lit the edges of a smile. "And I've become conservative in my old age."
Their laughs twined. She wanted to twine a lot more with this guy.
The common bond in their upbringing only made him tougher to resist. Chitchat wasn't helping. She needed distance fast before she crawled across the deck and into his arms again.
Darcy knew just the question guaranteed to chill the heat humming through her. "So, Max, what's a marine biologist with a penchant for wild dive shorts doing packing a Glock 29 on my airplane?"
Tension ripped through Max. His every muscle tightened with a reminder to keep his guard up around this woman. He should have kept his yap shut. Instead, he'd thought it would be safe to spill a few truths about his past to relax her.
Darcy Renshaw was about as far from safe and relaxing as a man could get.
He'd screwed up and lost focus. Now he had to haul himself out of the mess and protect his cover. "My work takes me all around the world, some parts not as safe as others. I always carry a weapon."
Her eyes showered sparks his way. "You're supposed to declare that weapon before setting foot on any aircraft." She swung her legs over the side of the lounger and sat upright to pin him with an accusing glare. "I could have you thrown in jail."
Now there was an image to tempt a man—Darcy slapping cuffs on him while wearing her skimpy ribbed underwear. "I did declare it. To Daniel Baker." Max stabbed a finger toward her injured leg. "Now put your foot back up or I'll have Doc Clark lock you up in the infirmary." She didn't budge. "Why Crusty?"
"He's the senior pilot."
Max watched her mull that over until the will to argue seeped out of her set shoulders. A momentary retreat, no doubt, but welcome.
"Okay, then." She reclined back and swung her legs onto the lounger. "Next time, I'd advise telling all the aircrew or you could land yourself in trouble."
"I'll keep that in mind." How pissed would she be if she found out the rest of what had been kept from her? She made it clear she didn't appreciate back-seat roles, but life didn't always offer choices.
He had a job to do and a woman to protect. And he damned well didn't intend to let her wander off alone into the jungle to face her childhood ghosts and present day "critters.'' Whether she wanted it or not, this woman had his protection.
A woman mellowing into a sleepy haze. Her body lolled, relaxed, sagging into a seductive sprawl on the lounger that sent heat rushing south with throbbing intensity.
Max speared a hand through his hair, scanning the perimeter from his higher vantage point. What would it be like to make love to this uninhibited woman out in the open? She might be innocent, but he recognized a sensualist when he saw one. And Darcy was one hell of an enthusiastic sensualist. It would be a lucky man who tapped into that.
Hell. He did not need jealousy burning his gut. She wasn't his and never would be.
Waves lapped in the distance with a lulling regularity. Darcy's eyelids drifted closed, her breathing rhythmic.
Finally Max allowed himself the pleasure of looking at her—so damned pretty. Not gorgeous in some unapproachable-model kind of way, but pretty. Real. And alive, thank God.
In the quiet and solitude of the night, Max let himself say the words he'd bottled up for hours. "You scared the hell out of me with those gunshots. It knocked a year off my life seeing you on the floor with that snake."
A smile teased at the corner of her lips, her lashes still caressing her cheeks. "I told you. I never miss."
Sighing, she nestled on her side, cheek on her hand.
She didn't miss? Well, neither did he. And he knew it would be tougher than he'd thought keeping his hands off her while ensuring she didn't fall victim to any more "coincidences."