Water Bound by Christine Feehan

square, no matter how difficult he was to handle. She’d been the one to pull him out of the sea—and that made him hers.
    “Do whatever you feel comfortable doing, but truthfully, I’ll need you to get me out of here. I don’t have a clue where I am or which direction I would go to get back to the harbor.”
    She studied his face. He wasn’t exactly lying, but he wasn’t telling the truth. He had no doubt that he would find his way to shore—and neither did she. He was a resourceful man.
    “Drink some more water. This won’t take long,” she said, making up her mind. She was going to take him at his word. If the boat started up, she might be able to “dance” the water right over the top of him and spill him right back into the sea.
    Lev watched as she poured hot engine water inside her wet suit top and then stripped off her sweatshirt and pulled on her vest with a diver’s immodesty. He couldn’t help but think she didn’t notice him as a man, more like a catch she’d pulled from the sea. A part of him was a little disgruntled over that, while another part wanted to smile. She was very focused once she decided on a course of action. She reached for her gear, hurriedly shrugging into her bailout tank.
    He watched her get ready to dive through narrow, brooding eyes. He wanted to move, to put his hand in the water and feel the response to her when she went in, but he couldn’t summon the energy. Instead, he watched her go in. Watched the water reach for her. Welcome her, as if it enveloped her and held her.
    He held his breath as she disappeared beneath the shimmering surface. She looked peaceful, like part of the sea itself, not awkward like some divers he’d observed over the years. And the water poured over and around her, caressing her body . . .
    He pulled himself up short. What the hell was he thinking? He was losing it. The continual rocking of the boat made him feel slightly nauseated, which he would have found mildly alarming if his brain wasn’t quite so fuzzy. As it was, his queasiness was just another discomfort among so many. Mostly the cold bothered him. Even his insides were cold. Pain he could manage. He’d lived with pain as a child every damn day. He could walk on glass and keep going. But the cold . . .
    He couldn’t stop shivering. With her off the boat, he could relax, just for a few minutes—try to get oriented. Try to remember what the hell had happened to him and who wanted him dead this time. Survival mattered. He had a strong sense of self-preservation, and this unique woman with her solitary lifestyle could be his best chance. He needed to have a plan.
    The sound of the water lapping at the boat was soothing. The Honda ran lightly in the background as it fed her air. Occasionally there was the cry of a gull overhead. He didn’t look up. It was too much effort. This woman went from rage to calm in seconds. She was controlled. Had good instincts. She could see lies better than most. She had incredible eyes. His body jerked. Where the hell had that come from? Women were tools. That was what this one was. A tool. To be used. Like anything else handy.
    He leaned his head back until he could rest a little more comfortably. Just this once, he wanted to disappear. Be someone else. Anyone. He wanted to be like all those people running around living their lives. What the hell was normal? He didn’t even know. He solved problems. He killed people. He moved in and out of the shadows and never emerged into sunlight. That was his life and he’d always lived it without question. And why could he remember that when he didn’t know which of the names or faces in his mind were really his? What the hell difference did it make that she had incredible eyes? And a very generous mouth.
    He wiped his face and looked down at the amount of blood on his hand. Head wounds tended to bleed pretty badly. He should stitch it up, but he was too tired. His arms felt like lead. It was easier resting beneath