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before vanished with each hushed swoosh.
    “He"s gone, Martine. Let"s set you to rights.” Curving one arm across the top of her thighs and the other midback, he lumbered to his feet and then slid her down the length of his body. Fingers curled around the sides of her waist, he pulled back and murmured, “You look much like I feel. Dazed and lust-drunk. It"s a good thing Austen interrupted us. Things were getting a mite out of hand.”
    By the time they had reached the entrance to the yacht"s second level, Martine"s lungs no longer burned, and the roaring in her ears had subsided. But the aching and burning making her nipples spark when they scratched the silk top wouldn"t abate.
    If I’d only known … She shook her head. Concentrate. I must concentrate. He cannot see my back. I must keep my bodice on. But his hand felt so good.
    She pressed her lips together, fighting the small smile tugging at the corners, and sneaked a peak at Harry"s profile, the stubborn angle of his square chin, and elated relief won. She ducked her head to hide her sudden grin. I am whoring for money, but I think I may enjoy fornicating with you, Harrison Indiana Ford.
    Martine had never been on a boat like the Glory , and though she tried to stay focused, her eyes darted back and forth as they ventured down a narrow corridor alighting on a burnished wooden frame decorated with glass-encased swords and 36
    Jianne Carlo

    daggers and another displaying two side-by-side nautical maps of the Mediterranean.
    The hallway opened into a wide space, and she glimpsed chairs and a sofa and a bar before Harry towed her to a door where he halted.
    “These are my quarters,” he said. “Now yours as well.” He indicated a keypad to the right of the door. “The pass code is 071069.” He punched the numbers as he spoke, an LED circle glowed green, and he turned the knob.
    “I believe this is customary,” he quipped, bent his knees slightly, and swept Martine off her feet. He carried her across the threshold, kicking the door shut behind them.
    Harry set her down, and Martine curled her fingers around his forearm to steady herself. He shifted behind her and pulled her back against his chest, firming his hands around her waist. Resting his chin lightly on the top of her head, tipping her head back and left with his forefinger, he looked into her eyes, and his mouth crooked up at one corner. “Let"s grab some grub.”
    She was hungry, but then she was always starving. Too many years of never knowing when or where she"d find her next meal left her with a mental hunger that never left her belly.
    Martine surveyed Harry"s quarters. A small sitting area held an alcove with a microwave, minifridge, and a coffeepot with a couple of white porcelain mugs. A flat-panel TV hung on a wall opposite a wide sofa tucked against a wall.
    Through an arch to the left of the couch, she glimpsed a large bed nestled into the curve of a half circle of windows with a built-in low row of shelves acting as the headboard. On the right of the arch, a table fronted a bench nestled into a cozy corner. The table held a cornucopia of mouthwatering antipasti.
    “Let"s see what we have here.” He cupped her shoulder as they both surveyed the dishes displayed on the table. “Stuffed miniature peppers, prosciutto with goat cheese and basil, sausages, mushroom tarts. Want to stick with the sangria? Or would you prefer champagne or wine?”
    “The sangria, please,” Martine replied. The champagne had tickled her nose and made the room spin. Her stomach growled silently, and saliva coated her tongue as the smell of tomato and roasted garlic hit her nose. Will I ever feel full?
    “Dig in.” Harry gently pushed her onto the bench and sat, his hips brushing hers. “Try this one. Open.”
    Martine opened her lips to tell him she could feed herself, and he popped a prosciutto cylinder into her mouth. The burst of intense flavor disarmed her indignation. She chewed, and each bite revealed