Chapter One

"Turn around, lady. I can't see what the hell you're saying!"

From the deck of the Nemesis, Michael Wright attempted to lip-read the conversation onboard the Serendipity four hundred yards away while his boat pitched and yawed with the swell of the waves.

Tally Cruise and Arnaud Bouchard.

The daughter and the right-hand man of his archenemy, Trevor Church.

Now here was an unholy alliance.

The high-powered binocs brought the woman up close and personal. Plain little thing. Stubborn chin. Dark hair. Blue eyes. Surprisingly sensual mouth.

Her timing sucked. Hell, Church wasn't even around. Yet.

Michael had three days before Church's return. Three days to bait and set the trap. Three days, after eleven months of meticulous planning.

Anticipation had kept him motivated. But he wasn't alive. Lieutenant Michael Wright had died on Paradise Island last October. Now the living ghost of the man occupying his shell was ready to write the last chapter and close the book on Church once and for all.

It was as personal as it was unofficial.

Even off the books, this would be his last mission for Uncle Sam. He needed no accolades, no medals, and no acknowledgment. He and his partner had started this a year ago.

And failed.

Now he was back. Alone.

Failure was not an option.

He was ready. Focused. Intent. A heat-seeking missile targeted on Church's destruction. The long months of preparation had come down to mere days. The hours ticking away like a metronome in his brain.

Bouchard grabbed Tally about the waist and tried to kiss her. Ms. Cruise pushed out of the guy's arms, then hauled off and slapped him. Hard.

"Ow." Michael winced. "That's gotta hurt."

Apparently it did. She shook her hand, her slender shoulders stiff as she turned away. Gait unsteady because of the rough seas, she continued gesturing as she paced.

Talking. Animated. Pissed.

He readjusted the binoculars for a better view. "Better" being the operative word. He almost didn't notice the absence of his left eye.

Almost.

The increasing swells three miles out from Paradise Island sent the two yachts bobbing like opposite ends of a teeter-totter. The cork action didn't help Michael's lousy depth perception. And according to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, things were about to get worse.

Considerably worse, if NOAA's prediction of category three monsoon winds slamming into the French Polynesian Marquesas Islands by late afternoon was accurate.

As soon as he'd learned of the approaching typhoon, Michael had integrated it into his plans. What he hadn't incorporated was the presence of the young woman on the other boat.

"Damn. Turn around again, honey, so I can see what you're saying," Michael complained. "Not that you don't have a sweet ass." The view from the back, in fact, was prime. Her slender hands punctuated her words. She stormed all the way to the rail near the bathing platform at the stern, then made an about-face with military precision and started the circuit all over again.

Her curly black hair bounced around her head in the gathering wind. Navy slacks hid the shape of her long legs, but did great things for a truly spectacular ass. The wind pressed her neatly tucked white shirt against small, high breasts and a flat stomach.

Copyright © 2002 by Cherry Adair.