Free Tsunami Blue by Gayle Ann Williams Page A

he stuck his head out, offering a hand. “Come on, I know you’re hungry. You’re freezing. You’re”—he lowered his voice—“you’re scared.” I glared at him. “And for that,” he continued, “I’m sorry.”
    I thought about my tiny home, my little boat, about Max and the Runners. I thought about the voice of Tsunami Blue, now silenced, maybe forever. I rose, not feeling I had any choice in the matter. What good would it do to freeze and starve? I needed my strength. I needed time for my plan. I reached for his hand. “Not sorry enough, tough guy.”
    I stepped down into a teak wonderland.
    Gabriel’s boat may not have been the biggest on the water, but it had to be the cleanest, the coziest. The lanterns cast a warm hue over the highly polished wood, and the small stove radiated blessed heat. I smelled cinnamon and herbs and a pleasant musk that was pure Gabriel Black.
    I looked around, astounded by the order and neatness. Who knew a Runner lived any other way than like a barbarian? Where were the gnawed chicken bones, the tobacco butts, the severed arms and legs?
    Instead, there were shelves of books, lots of books, and carefully labeled jars of herbs and maps and—
    “You need to get out of those wet clothes, Blue. You’ve been in them for hours.” I didn’t move. He looked at me and shook his head. “Stubborn to the core, that’s what you are.”
    “Well, forgive me if I take offense, but I haven’t been down here for more than, what, two minutes? And already you’re talking me out of my clothes.” I wrapped the blanket tighter.
    “Look—”
    “Don’t ‘look’ me, Gabriel. Damn you. Take off my clothes, huh? Whatever happened to dinner and a movie?”
    He laughed. It was warm, rich, unassuming, and I swear, it must have been contagious, because I laughed too, in spite of myself. We both knew there hadn’t been movies for well over a decade, and dinner? Pretty much grilled salmon, barbecued salmon, smoked salmon, salmon jerky, and on it went. Reservations and candlelight? No way. Chance of us “dating”? Double no way.
    He took two strides and approached, reaching for me. I flinched and backed away from his touch. Old habits again. He withdrew his hand and I bit my lower lip, trying to stop the trembling. He was too close. I felt crowded, scared, confused. And I hated it.
    “What do you want with me?” I whispered. “I have a right to know.”
    “In time,” he replied softly. “I mean you no harm—”
    “No harm?” My temper flared, and I let the blanket drop to the wooden floor.
    I shoved my bruised and battered wrist in his face to show him where the cuff had made its mark. “No harm?” I pulled the neck of my thermal top down and showed him the fingerprints he left on my neck. “No harm?” I didn’t stop there. In blind anger I pulled the shirt up, revealing my pink bra and the ugly purple-and-blue patch over my ribs, where they had taken a beating bouncing over his shoulder. The bruise looked neon against my pale skin. “No harm?”
    He looked at my midriff and closed the space between us, catching my wrist with one hand and circling my waist, pulling me into him with the other. My hand flattened against his chest, and he was so close I couldn’t breathe.
     In the warm cabin light, with shadows that fell on his beautiful features, I thought again of dark angels and flesh pressed against flesh. Our flesh. Anger melted, and that strange sensation I’d felt the night I slept next to him returned low in my belly, and I felt my pulse race and my breath become shallow.
    He pressed my wrist to his lips, and with soft a kiss, he dropped my hand and gently touched my exposed skin with both his hands. I gasped as he ran his fingertips over the damaged area, skimming the bottom of my breasts with his thumbs as he pushed up under my bra.
    “Blue”—he looked into my eyes with that dark gaze of his—“please believe me when I tell you how sorry I am.” I read raw hunger