For an hour, Blake didn’t look or talk to Kara. He couldn’t look at her. If he did, he’d want to touch her and if he touched her, he’d make promises he couldn’t keep. Okay, he still wanted to touch her, but at least he wasn’t spilling out things he’d regret later. He wasn’t promising her either of them would survive this night. He wasn’t sure they would. All he could promise was his willingness to die to protect her. But promise to be there for her tomorrow? He couldn’t do it. Not this night. But for the first time in years, he did want to survive. He wanted to survive with Kara.

Slumped down on the couch of the godforsaken deathtrap of a boat cabin, with the soft, sweet scent of her teasing his nostrils, his fear for her safety was shredding his insides. It didn’t help that he’d created at least one hundred ways the rest of this evening could go wrong, and he could come up with a counter-move for only about twenty-five of them.

Abruptly, the doors to the cabin opened, and Blake cut Kara a quick look, taking in her long brown hair, her pale skin, her delicate features. Fear punched him in the chest. Damn it, she couldn’t die. “Don’t move or speak unless you have to,” he ordered her.

“And you don’t get killed or kill anyone before it’s time.”

Blake opened his mouth to reply, but footsteps sounded, forcing Blake’s gaze to the door where Ignacio tromped down the stairs with about as much grace as an elephant on a stepladder. Ignacio stopped in the center of the cabin, glancing between Blake and Kara, a crude glint in his eyes. “Am I interrupting anything?”

“We managed to control ourselves,” Blake assured him dryly, stretching lazily as he sat up, maintaining a facade of boredom. “We know how delicate your sensibilities are and all. Are we done joyriding?”

“Yes, Mr. Wright, you are.”