Page 47 of Ship Outta Luck

“If that’s what you want, princess.”

I start to tell him to not call me that, but it’s better than babe, so I switch tracks at the last minute.

“Cursing is unprofessional.” I stand up taller, trying to command professionalism, as though I can manually override my now dirty off-the-shoulder dress, and beneath it, a very professional bikini doubling as underwear.

Multi-functional.

“I don’t know about that,” he grins at me. “I’ve heard some pretty creative ones in my line of work.”

He nods at the captain’s chair, and I toss the empty granola wrapper in a small bucket and sit down. “Where are the crab traps?”

“Where’s my gun? I noticed it was missing this morning.”

“Back under the seat. Why, you think you need it? Still don’t trust me, princess?”

There’s a witty retort on the tip of my tongue, but I really look at him, taking my time. His face is handsome enough to set off alarms, his body a weapon in its own right, a fact I know all too well after holding it close as we ran from…

My mind struggles, the previous day’s events crashing over me.

If he is telling the truth, my father was involved with the smugglers.

My heart hurts at the logical possibility that he might be right. That my father worked for the Russians.

I closed my eyes.

So the question remains, can I trust Dean?

Can I afford not to?

“We need to get the anchor up.” It wasn’t an answer, but it would have to be enough.

“Aye-aye, princess.” He winks, a slow grin spreading across his face. That treacherous dimple appears again.

Climbing up and over the bow, his broad back bunches as he wrenches the anchor free from the sea floor. Mud and muck drips off it, and he dips it in the water until it comes back clean, carefully stowing it back in the compartment.

Water droplets cling to his skin, and the whole show probably burns off the rest of my hangover.

Watching Dean Evans competently work around the boat is better than any espresso I’ve ever had, and I am fully awake now.

Yikes.

I am also in so much fudging trouble.

CHAPTER

TWELVE

DEAN

Clenching my jaw,I swirl the remnants of the blue Gatorade in my hand. Sweat rolling between my shoulders, as the latest crab trap buoy bobs on the surface.

Three down.

We found the first three traps handily, right on the coordinates June’s dad left her three weeks ago. Nothing in them but blue crab. Crab we now have in spades, crab we’ll have to toss back or find a half dozen other people to share with.

Luckily, I know just who to call.

Shaking my head, I put down the Gatorade, ready to haul up more crab. The late morning sun beats down on us, and it’s hotter than hell. Unzipping the bottom half of my pants, creating shorts, I wad the pieces up and toss them into the cabin. Then inspect the scrape on my chest. It’s healing nicely, already scabbed over.

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