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process would go faster.
    She considered covering her
hands and then decided against it. That might draw more attention
to the issue than if she just went on as normal. She couldn't do
anything about her face and hoped the speed of her recovery would
be overlooked. By the morning, her bruises should be less stark and
the split in her lip would be a sliver of a scab instead of a fat
one.
    After a half hour of
tossing restlessly, she got up and wandered into the corridor.
There were four other bedrooms on the yacht; two of them were on
the same deck as her own. When she passed an open doorway, she saw
Rhett's duffel bag sitting on the end of the bed. A small
lamp—really nothing more luminous than a nightlight—had been left
on in apparent anticipation of his return.
    An intense curiosity about
the man who'd risked his life twice to save her drew her into the
room toward the duffel bag. She knew she shouldn't look. Shouldn't
invade his privacy. The corridor had been empty though and she
didn't think Rhett or Christian would be down here any time
soon.
    No one would be the wiser
for her snooping.
    The zipper slithered along
the teeth with a quiet hiss. Peeling the edges of the bag apart,
her first sensation was the scent of him. It lingered on the folded
layers of jeans, t-shirts and boxers she sifted through. Under
those was another, smaller leather bag, a laptop and two more guns.
Several clips of ammunition lined the bottom. Between two thin,
ribbed sweaters, she found a handful of passports. She picked up
the top one and opened it.
    Rhett Nichols. Thirty-four
years old. Hometown: Twenty-nine Palms, California. She remembered seeing the name of the city on a
map once upon a time.
    “ Find what you're looking
for?” Rhett asked from the doorway.
    Startled, she yelped and
dropped his passport so she could cover her thundering heart with
her hand. When they locked gazes, she expected to see him scowling
or frowning. Instead, he wore an unreadable expression that she
found almost more disconcerting than if he'd just been annoyed or
angry with her.
    “ I'm sorry. I was
just--”
    “ Snooping,” he concluded
for her. “What did you expect to find?”
    Shuffling in place, she
lifted a shoulder. “I don't really know. I was just curious about
you, I guess. I didn't mean any harm by it.”
    “ Maybe you should ask me
what you want to know.”
    Sheepish, she bent to pick
up his passport off the floor and dropped it back into the bag.
Patting the clothes down, she zipped the duffel closed. Evelyn
could hardly believe she'd just been caught going through his
personal things red handed.
    “ It was just general
curiosity. I mean, you've risked your life for me
twice.”
    “ That's what government
agents do, Miss Grant. I think I said something to that effect
earlier.”
    An awkward moment
stretched into two. She wasn't sure what passed between them just
then, but the low curve of a smile that crept over his mouth
reassured her that she hadn't offended him too badly.
    “ Try and get some rest
while you can,” he said, and turned to stalk away down the
corridor.
    Evelyn clapped a hand over
her forehead. What the hell had she been thinking? In all the years
she'd dated men, she'd never been caught going through their
things. Then again, come to think of it, she'd never had a reason
or the urge to do so before.
    Back in her own stateroom,
she sat on the edge of the bed and contemplated taking off her
shoes. Four or five hours rest would do her good. She couldn't
quite shake the hunted feeling though and in the end, she flopped
back, one arm over her forehead, shoes still on her feet.
Cautiousness had served her well at the safe house that hadn't been
so safe at all.
    Evelyn wondered how the
Templars had found her. Found them. Myriad scenarios ran through her mind while she
stared at the ceiling. None of them were especially pleasing. Phone
taps, a tail on the car. A satellite bead? She couldn't be sure
just how much paranoia was