“Why the Celtic knot?” she asked, her heritage kicking into gear. She absolutely would not look lower.

He smiled. “Faye thought it had protective properties and we all needed that.” His eyes darkened.

The mood changed, and her body flared alive. The steam and intimacy and naked hard body hit her all at once, and her knees wobbled. Yeah, the urgency of their situation and the inherent danger of being kept prisoner in a mob house also contributed to her heightened emotions.

Or maybe it was just the sensual man facing her in a steamy shower, his gaze still remaining on her face in a disciplined show of self-control that was just plain and simply sexy. “How close are we to death?” she whispered.

Amusement filtered across the hard planes of his face. “So long as Force gets the journal, we’ll be okay. Leverage is how you survive this type of situation.”

Oh. So there wasn’t a last-ditch chance to touch his body. She had to appreciate that he didn’t lie to her.

He lifted one smoothly muscled shoulder. The guy was built like a runner who could fight. “But we’re undercover with a mob boss who seems to enjoy the killing part of his job. He may take us out just for fun. Who knows.” Raider reached over and tapped her nose. “Wash your hair, warm up, and then we’ll try and make weapons from items in the room.” He ducked out of the shower, leaving her wet and alone and slightly turned on.

Okay. More than slightly.

* * *

Raider dried and dressed quickly, checking his clothes for bugs, when every impulse he had wanted to leap back into the shower and touch all of that smooth, pale skin. He’d been the gentleman Miss A had taught him to be, but he wanted to forget the gentle part and be all man. So he strode out of the bathroom and shut the door, surprised to see women’s clothing on the bed.

A flashy dress had been laid next to yoga pants and a T-shirt that had the word “Shopping” across it in red sequins. More importantly, unopened packs containing a G-string and thick socks were there, too. Brigid needed the socks. He would not give another thought to the G-string. He took the casual clothes, socks, and underwear and left them on a bench in the huge bathroom after conducting a cursory check for any bugs.

Then, he turned and surveyed the bedroom, heading for the first painting of sailboats. By the time Brigid emerged, dressed, her hair in wild and wet curls over her shoulders, he’d already torn apart two frames and twisted them into sharper objects. The wicker furniture was useless, and no tools surrounded the fireplace, so no poker or lighter; the glass from a lightbulb would cut his hands to bits before he could do anything good with it. He eyed the mattress.