“What are you doing?” Lizzie asked.

“I don’t want to leave yet.” He parked the bike behind the structure, where it couldn’t be seen from the house, and climbed off. “We’ll stay in here for a while and see what she does. If she leaves the property, we might walk through her house to see what gives.”

“What are you looking for?” Lizzie asked.

“I don’t know. She gave me a bad feeling.”

“No kidding. Who let her out of the bitch factory?”

He smiled, pushing the door open with one hand, peeking in before entering. The grind of gears and wheels echoed over the stone.

“This is a different kind of windmill,” he observed, peering up at the mechanism in the middle and then at the stone stairwell that lined the wall.

The door popped open with a crack and he whipped around, blocking Lizzie.

“Get the hell off my property.” This time, the bitch was armed. She raised a revolver, cocked and ready, and pointed it at him, earning a gasp from Lizzie.

“We’re just looking at the windmill,” he said, holding up his hands, considering what it would take to get her gun.

“You are trespassing, and I will shoot you both if you don’t leave this minute.”

He couldn’t take a risk with this madwoman. “All right.”

Still protecting Lizzie with his whole body, he led them out, never taking his eyes off her or the gun, ready to dive in front of a bullet if he had to.

“Get in the front,” he said softly, nudging Lizzie there when she gave him a questioning look. “If she shoots, it’s going in my back.”

She hesitated, then climbed on, and he got behind her, reaching forward to turn the ignition on.

Mrs. Bettencourt never lowered the gun.

Lizzie twisted the handle, her body bracing as though she expected the gun to go off any second, then she drove down the dirt path and onto the road to the village.

As soon as they were in the clear, she put a hand on his leg and squeezed. “Con, you’re officially off my shit list.”

“It’s about time.” But his mind was on that woman. She was scared of something, and it wasn’t a couple looking for a missing tourist. So what was it?

He wasn’t leaving this island until he found out.

She really, really wanted to hate him. It should be so easy.

Lizzie kneeled on the twin bed in the attic room on the third floor of Sousa’s restaurant, her elbows propped on the windowsill with a direct view of the rooftops to the sunset over the Atlantic Ocean.

Sitting on the floor, Con was making another phone call. On the last one, to New York, he’d ordered background information on Solange Bettencourt. Now he was talking to the pilot of their plane.

She turned to look at him, elbows propped on bent knees, sitting against the wall, his eyes closed as he spoke softly. His whiskers had grown in enough to give his angular jaw a menacing shadow. Long, strong fingers held the phone, and she couldn’t help studying those hands for a moment, remembering how he touched her, entered her, made her whole body-

“Do you want to, Lizzie?”

She pulled herself from sexual la-la land and blinked at him.

“Do you want to fly to Flores now? It’s bigger than Corvo, so we could fan out and check the hotels and inns there. Or we could stay here to get some rest and see if she comes back on the morning ferry, or even fly over at daybreak.” He closed the phone. “You look like you could use some rest.”

“I’d really like to talk to Gabby, too. Senhor Sousa said she comes back every night, even if she’s left for the day. She might know exactly where Bree is, saving us a ton of time and effort.”

He gave a quick nod and spoke into the phone. “We’re going to stay put for now, Captain. I’ll keep you posted.” He ended the call, then stood to stretch, his gaze on her. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Why?”

“You’re looking at me funny.”

“Am I? I was just trying to hate you.”

He laughed softly, dropping down on the bed next to her. “Anything I can do to help that along, just let me know.”

“That’s just the problem,” she said, scooting to lean against the headboard. “You do everything to help.”

“I didn’t come along to be a hindrance, Lizzie.” He reached over, closed his hand around her ankle, pulling one bare foot and then the other to straighten her legs. “Although you probably hate me because the room only has one little bed.”

He applied pressure with his thumbs on the balls of her feet, making her toes curl with the wonderfulness of the simple, strong massage.

“And a floor,” she said.

“You’ll do fine on the floor,” he teased.

“Right. You’d never make me sleep on the floor while you’re on the bed.”

“Who said I’d be on the bed?” He grinned. “And I might make you sleep down there, but I’ll give you the comforter.”

“No, you wouldn’t-and that’s just the problem.”

His fingers stilled as he frowned. “Not following, Lizzie. Why exactly is that a problem?”

She wiggled her toes and he got the message, rubbing again. “It’s really hard to hate someone who is so…” Thoughtful. Competent. Protective. Gorgeous. Smart. The list was laughably long, so she went for the obvious. “Good.”

He shook his head. “Just think about Judd and you’ll hate me fast enough.”

“I tried. Then you go and do something like sit on the back of the bike so you can take a bullet for me. How am I supposed to hate that guy?”

He chuckled. “I see your dilemma.”

“Anyway, I thought the job for Paxton was done.” Lord, was she that pathetically attracted to him that she could forgive him already? He worked his way up to her ankles, his fingers melting her feet with each touch. Yes-she was that pathetically attracted to him.

“The job on the ship is done,” he said. “We’re here and the job is to help you track down your sister, and get the information you need and want regarding your great-times-many-grandfather.”

And she had to admit, he was going after that mission with determination and direction. She could never have done this alone. Not this quickly and efficiently.

“And deep down, to the bone, Paxton out of the picture… you really are one of the good guys.”

Something darkened his eyes. Pain? Regret? Longing? “No, I’m really not, honey.” But he looked like he wanted to be. “And let’s be honest; Paxton could never be out of the picture.”

“If he were…” When she let the words trail, he looked up from her feet to catch her gaze, his own suddenly smoky.

“If he were,” he finished for her. “We’d share this bed.”

Somehow, nothing could have been as flat-out sexy as that simple, straightforward statement.

The power of it shot right through her and rattled her nerves. She tried to swallow, but her mouth went dry, her heartbeat steadily increasing with each roll of his thumbs under her foot.

“But he is in the picture,” he said roughly. “I won’t lie to you about that again.”

Taking a slow breath, she held his gaze. How could she say this and save her pride? Could she say this and save her pride? Did she even give a damn about her pride anymore?

“What if we…” The words lodged in her throat and his fingers moved slowly, intently, as though he could coax the words out of her. “What if I were willing to forget about him? To put the whole Paxton thing aside. Temporarily.”

He released her feet and placed his hands flat on either side of her calves. Slowly, deliberately, he got onto all fours, then started moving forward, his eyes locked on hers like she was prey and he was a starving animal.

She couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away. His body was right above hers now, his face dark and set in an expression of control and intent. Breath caught in her chest, she lifted her head to hold his gaze, not certain what to expect, but knowing that whatever it was, she’d let him do it.