Free UndercoverSurrender by Angela Claire Page A

play is that I want you for myself and you’re bonding with me or
something. Go ahead and think of that Stockholm Syndrome thing if it helps
you.”
    “Yes. Yes, I will. I understand.”
    “Good.” His hands went to the waistband of his still-damp
jeans. “Now don’t let this freak you out, but I’m going to have to get out of
these if I’m going to get any sleep.” He reached for the duffle bag, rummaging
through it and extracting a pair of shorts. Christ, it was hot as hell. “I’m
going to go in the bathroom and shower and change and you’re going to sit in
here and calm down.”
    She nodded.
    “And when I come back in here, we’re going to lie down to
sleep in that nice comfortable bed and get some rest.”
    “ What? ”
    It was so loud he practically jumped himself.
    “Shush,” he warned, wondering why the hell he hadn’t used a
good old-fashioned “shut your mouth”. “Keep your voice down whenever we talk in
here, for obvious reasons.”
    “I thought I’d sleep on the couch,” she whispered back. The
cabin was so goddamn big, he just noticed, that there was a bed and a vanity
and a couch in what was its own separate sitting room. This was by far the
biggest yacht they’d ever hijacked. “Or you can sleep on the couch.”
    He said quietly, “Neither of us is sleeping on the couch.
Appearance is reality.” Not to mention he wanted to keep her close while they
slept, just in case somebody got crazy and burst in here. But she didn’t need
to be thinking about that possibility. He didn’t want another crying jag.
    He went back to the door of the cabin and checked the lock.
It was solid. If he put a chair in front of it, it’d just freak her out.
    He headed for the bathroom. “If you want to continue this
conversation, you can do it while I’m in the shower.”
    She declined to of course and he closed the bathroom door on
her. He needed to think for a minute without babysitting her. He stripped off
the clammy jeans and stepped into the glass block shower.
    The hot spray of the state-of-the-art showerhead was heaven
to his sore muscles. The knife fight had affected him more than he’d let on.
His body always tensed up after something like that for hours and he had a hard
time ridding himself of the tension. Even his brief nap hadn’t helped. The
pulsing jets of water were exactly what he needed.
    Well, not exactly .
    He thought of the girl back out there in the cabin, ashamed
of himself for being turned on by her given the circumstances, but there it
was. His cock stiffened as he pictured her in the wet tee shirt on the deck.
God, it would be nice to take one of those firm, high tits in his palm and just
feel her up, for real, not for show as he had in front of Gunderson. His hand
settled for feeling up his own cock, and he tugged on it sharply.
    The sooner he got off, the easier it would be to go back
into that cabin and sleep next to her all night, protecting her—from them and
him.
     
    Samantha never cried. It was one of the things she prided
herself on. Like never obeying one of her overbearing brother Michael’s direct
orders or never going to sleep without flossing or never failing to leave a
generous tip, no matter how bad the service. It was just who she was.
    She may have been a motherless girl since she was seven
years old, but not a crybaby.
    So she was disgusted at herself for resorting to tears, even
under the circumstances. It was just that the sight of that man’s handsome satisfied
features as he murmured his approval at her enjoying his kiss just drove her to
it. He was a thug, a killer, no matter how he pretended to be nice to her, and
yet he was all she had. The others were even worse.
    For once in her life, she had absolutely no idea what to do
and absolutely no one she could summon to help her. The concept of getting out
of this all on her own—or only with the help of one confusing thug who also
happened to have saved her from a worse thug and who claimed to be not