Lola Carlyle Reveals All Read online

  Lola Carlyle Reveals All

  Rachel Gibson

  Ex-supermodel Lola Carlyle depends on publicity to boost her exclusive lingerie business – but the revealing photos her sleazy ex-boyfriend is selling on the Internet are not the sort of publicity she prefers. Seeking privacy to plan her strategy, she treats herself to a vacation at an exclusive resort in the Bahamas, with only her beloved little dog for company. Former Navy SEAL Max Zamora is working for an ultrasecret government organization. He believes in sticking to the shadows, and revealing as little about himself as humanly possible. Though Lola is easy on the eyes, it's little short of disaster for Max to accidentally abduct a public figure like her in the course of commandeering the private yacht he needs to get out of reach of an angry drug lord – and things only get worse from there. When Lola accidentally disables the yacht, leaving them adrift in the Bermuda Triangle, at least they've got all the privacy they could want – but they've also got no way to call for help when they're shipwrecked, shot at, and caught up in a sizzling sexual frenzy. Lola Carlyle Reveals All is fast-paced romantic adventure.

  Rachel Gibson

  Lola Carlyle Reveals All

  © 2002

  With much thanks and appreciation

  to the Thursday night girls:

  Laura Lee Guhrke, Jill Hill, and Cathie Wilson.

  You make me laugh

  and keep me relatively sane.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to express my thanks to the following people who helped during the writing of this book: Floyd and Gloria Skinner, for sharing their knowledge of yachting with me; Coast Guard Petty Officer Mike Brock, for taking my call and answering all my questions; and to the many authors of the many research books that I pored through in the writing of this book.

  Prologue

  Of all the humiliations Lola Carlyle had suffered in her life-and the list was quite long and juicy- seeing her naked pictures on the Internet was without a doubt the worst. Anyone with a modem and a credit card could view fifteen different photos of her in the buff. Each one a bit more embarrassing than the last. Knowing that they were out there was a constant disgrace, a weight on her shoulders, an anvil on her head pressing into her skull.

  The photographs had been taken of her several years ago by her ex-fiancé, Sam The Jerk. Sam, the guy who’d always professed his unending love, the guy who’d told her she could trust him with anything, had used her photographs to bail himself out of his financial problems. Four years after their breakup, he’d developed www.lolarevealed.com and had created the source of Lola’s biggest shame.

  In the past, Lola had posed for professional photographers-too many times to count. But Sam was an investment banker, and he’d shot the pictures with a disposable Kodak he’d picked up on a munchie run. In a moment she could only look back on and attribute to complete insanity, she’d allowed him to snap a series of butt-naked photos of her in his bed, riding his stationary bike, and sitting in the middle of his kitchen table chowing on candy bars and bags of Doritos.

  The absolute worst photograph had been taken of her kissing a king-sized Tootsie Roll. At the time, the pictures had been meant to be funny, a silly joke on her career, for which she never ate anything that wasn’t baked, broiled, or tossed in zero-calorie dressing. Never ate anything fattening that wasn’t routinely purged from her body.

  What the photographs hadn’t shown was the sickness that had begun right after she’d binged on all that junk food. The vicious cycle of guilt that always began after her total loss of control. The panic that she might have gained an ounce, which always sent her straight to the treadmill or the toilet.

  It was a compulsion she now controlled, but at one time it had almost taken her life. Even now, every time she looked at the old images of her five-foot-eleven, one-hundred-and-ten-pound body, it triggered the voice in her head that told her she should skip lunch, or it urged her to visit the Colonel and order a bucket of chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, and a diet Coke.

  Worse than the humiliation of those tacky pictures appearing on the Internet for the world to see was the knowledge that there wasn’t anything she could do about them. And she’d tried. She’d begged Sam to give her the photos and to removed them from the net. She’d offered him money, but even after all this time, he was still so bitter about their breakup, he’d refused. She’d hired an attorney and was told what she basically already knew. Sam owned the photographs and he could publish them wherever he liked. She’d taken him to court anyway, and she’d promptly lost.

  Her only option now was to hire a hit man. A choice she might actually consider if she knew beforehand that she wouldn’t get caught, humiliating herself and her family further. Because in a family filled with fairly prolific sinners, Lola had always been the biggest black sheep. Which was quite an accomplishment when one considered Uncle Jed’s recent troubles. None of them had spent time in the penitentiary, though county jail, yes. Pen, no. And seeing her in prison orange just might finally do her poor mother in.

  Lola reached for the tabloid she’d tucked in her suitcase and glanced at her face on the cover of the National Enquirer. Beneath her picture the headline read, HEAVYWEIGHT FORMER MODEL, LOLA CARLYLE, GOES INTO HIDING.

  She tossed the magazine aside, and with her Miniature Pinscher, Baby Doll, tucked beneath one arm, she walked out of the tiny bungalow. It seemed her name was never mentioned anymore without comment on the twenty-five pounds she’d gained since she’d turned her back on the modeling business. Heavyweight was one of the nicer descriptions used these days. Her least favorite was Large Lola. She tried not to let the names hurt or bother her. Deep down inside, they did.

  She wasn’t fat, and she wasn’t in hiding, either. She was on a much-needed mental health vacation. On a private island in the Bahamas, resting. But after two days of rest, she was bored to tears and likely to go crazy as a bullbat. She had a life to live and a business to run. And now, thanks to the warm sun and fresh air, she had a nice tan, a clear head, and a new plan.

  She figured all she needed to force Sam to pull the plug on his site was a good private investigator and some fresh dirt. Sam hadn’t always been up front in his business dealing, and she knew there had to be plenty she could use to blackmail him. It was so simple, she didn’t know why she hadn’t thought of it before.

  As soon as she got home, Sam The Jerk was going down.

  Chapter 1

  Max Zamora was getting too old to play Superman. Adrenaline rushed through his veins and raised the hair on the backs of his arms, but did little to dull the fiery ache shooting up his side, stealing air from his lungs. At the age of thirty-six, he felt the pain of saving the world much more than he used to.

  He took steady breaths to control the pain and the nausea threatening just below the surface. Above the pounding in his head, he listened to the sounds of tourists and taxicabs, of island music and waves hitting the docks. He heard nothing out of the ordinary filling the humid night air, but Max knew they were out there. Somewhere. Looking for him. If they caught him, they wouldn’t hesitate before they killed him, and this time they would succeed.

  Light from the Atlantis Casino illuminated blurry patches of the marina, and for a split second his vision cleared, then doubled again, playing havoc with his balance as he moved from the shadows. The soles of his tactical boots made not a sound as he boarded the yacht tied to the end of the dock. Blood trickled from the cut in his bottom lip and dripped down his chin to his black T-shirt. When his adrenaline ran dry, he knew he’d be in a heap of hurt, but he planned to be halfway to Florida before that happened. Halfway from the hell he’d visited on Paradise Island.

  Max made his way to the dark galley and rifled throu
gh the drawers. His hand fell on a fishing knife, and he pulled it from its scabbard and tested the wicked five-inch blade against his thumb. Moonlight poured in through the yacht’s Plexiglas windows overhead and lit up patches of the inky black interior.

  He didn’t bother to search the yacht further. He couldn’t see much anyway, and he’d be damned if he’d turn on the lights and illuminate his position.

  Flatware rattled in the drawer as Max slammed it shut. He figured if the owners were still on board, he’d made enough noise to roust them by now.

  And if someone did suddenly appear from out of the darkness he’d have to switch to contingency plan B. Problem was, he had no plan B. An hour ago, he’d run through the last of his backup strategies, and now he was running on pure instinct and survival. If this last ditch effort failed, he was a dead man. Max didn’t fear death; he just didn’t want to give anyone the pleasure of killing him.

  When no one appeared, he made his way back outside and quickly cut the docklines. He moved up the stairs to the flying bridge. Max’s vision cleared for a few brief seconds, allowing him to see the bridge had a canvas top and plastic wraparound windows. He knelt beside the captain’s chair within the variegated shadows, and his vi-son blurred and doubled again.

  A wave of nausea rushed at him, and he breathed through it as best he could. Mostly by touch, he used the knife to pop a section off the top of the helm. Perspiration stung a cut on his forehead and ran into his brow as he pulled out a tangle of wires. His vision wasn’t getting any better and it took him longer than he would have liked to locate the back of the ignition switch. When he did, he sliced through the wires, then touched them together. The twin inboard engines kicked over, sputtering and churning the water as Max placed one hand on his side, one on the helm, and rose.

  He put the yacht in gear, slid the throttle forward, and eased the craft away from the end of the dock. If he tilted his head just right, his double vision wasn’t as bad, and he could keep the yacht in the center of the waterway and away from hazards.

  He motored the vessel out of the marina and into Nassau Harbor, beneath the bridge that connected Paradise Island to the capital and past the cruise ships docked at Prince George Wharf. Nothing that night had come this easy, and at any moment, he expected a spray of automatic fire, shredding the canvas top and chewing up the deck. The minute he’d landed on the island that afternoon, his luck had gone from bad to worse, and he didn’t trust that his bad luck was through with him yet.

  “Excuse me, but what are you doing?”

  At the sound of a female voice, Max spun around and gripped the arm of the captain’s chair to keep from falling. He stared at the double image of a woman outlined by the fading lights of the harbor. A lighthouse at the end of the island sent a bright beam sliding across the floor and lighting up two identical pairs of feet with twenty red toenails. It made a leisurely journey up two red and blue skirts and bare flat bellies. Two white shirts were tied between two pairs of big breasts. Then it slipped across the corners of two full mouths and drifted through a tangle of blond curls. Her face remained hidden as the fuzzy image of two small dogs yapped from her arms, the shrill barking enough to make Max’s ears bleed.

  “Shit, I didn’t need this,” he said, wondering where the hell she’d come from. The poor excuse for a dog jumped from her arms and bolted across the floor, stopping by Max’s feet and barking so hard his rear legs rose from the deck. The woman moved forward, and her double image trailed slightly behind as she rushed to scoop up the mutt.

  “Who are you? Do you work for the Thatches?” she demanded. He didn’t have time for dogs or questions or bullshit in general. She had to go. The last thing he needed tonight was a barking mutt and a yapping woman. She and her dog were going to have to jump. The tip of Paradise Island was less than a hundred feet behind them now. They’d probably make it. If they didn’t, it wasn’t his problem.

  “Shut that dog up or I’ll drop-kick it overboard,” he said instead of forcing her and her mutt into the sea. Damn, he was getting soft in his old age.

  “Where are you taking this yacht?”

  He ignored her and glanced one last time at the fading lights of Nassau, at the fuzzy green buoy markers and flashing lighthouse, then he turned his attention to the controls. He had a few questions of his own, but he would have to wait to get the answers. At the moment, he had more important concerns, like survival.

  His hands shook from pain and adrenaline. Through the sheer force of his will and years of experience, he steadied them. He hadn’t detected another vessel following him, but that didn’t mean much.

  “You can’t just take this boat. You have to return to the marina.”

  If his head hadn’t ached like a bitch and his body hadn’t been used for a punching bag, he might have found her damn funny. Turn back, after the hell he’d lived through? Take the yacht back, after he’d gone through the trouble of stealing it? Not freaking likely. It took a rare talent to hot-wire when a person couldn’t even see straight. He’d been aboard just about every Navy vessel imaginable. Everything from an inflatable to an attack sub. He knew how to read a Global Positioning System, and in a pinch he could read chart maps and use a compass. Problem was, with his vision, the best he was capable of at the moment was to head west and haul balls to the walls.

  “Who are you?”

  He squinted at the golden blur of the controls in front of him and reached for the radio. He missed and tried again until he felt the knobs beneath his fingertips. Static filled the air around him, drowning out the woman’s questions. He adjusted the squelch knob, cutting out the background noise, then he turned it slightly. The radio picked up the marine operator’s transmission with a passenger ship, then he switched to a noncommercial channel. He heard nothing out of the ordinary and continued to switch. Each channel sounded normal. Again, nothing out of the ordinary, but he wasn’t listening for normal or ordinary traffic.

  “You have to take me back. I promise I won’t tell anyone about you.”

  Sure you won’t, honey, he thought as he glanced over his shoulder, but he could see nothing out of his left eye and turned his attention back to the controls. If she’d shut the hell up, he could almost forget she was there.

  He’d been out of communications with the Pentagon for twelve hours. In his last transmission, he’d informed them that there would be no need for a rescue, no need for further negotiations. The two DEA agents he’d been seeking were dead, and had been for a while. Obviously unused to torture, they’d succumbed at the hands of their captors.

  “People will notice I’m gone, you know. If fact, I bet someone has missed me by now.”

  Bullshit.

  “I’m sure someone has already contacted the police.”

  The Bahamian police were the least of his problems. He’d been forced to kill Andre Cosella’s oldest son, Jose, and he’d barely managed to escape with his own life. When Andre found out, he was going to be one extremely pissed-off drug lord.

  “Sit down and be quiet.” Through his double vision, he made out the lights of a sailboat heading toward them on his port side. He didn’t think the Cosellas had found the body yet and doubted the sailboat was filled with drug smugglers, but he knew better than to rule anything out, and the last thing he needed was for the woman beside him to start screaming her head off.

  He felt rather than saw her move, and before she could take a step, he reached out and grabbed her arm. “Don’t even think about doing anything stupid.”

  She screamed and tried to pull out of his grasp. The dog yapped, jumped to the deck, and locked his jaws on the leg of Max’s pants.

  “Get your hands off me,” she yelled, and swung at him, almost connecting with his already aching skull.

  “Damn it!” Max swore as he spun her around and slammed her back into his chest. He set his jaws against the pain shooting along his ribs and grappled for her wrists. She fought to escape, but she was soft and very feminine and no match for Max. He easi
ly forced her forearms to cross her breasts, pinning her to him and controlling her jabbing elbows. Her hair piled on the top of her head tickled his cheek as he clued her in on their untenable situation. “Be a good girl, and who knows, you just might live to see the sunrise.”

  She stilled instantly. “Don’t hurt me.”

  She’d misunderstood him, but he didn’t bother correcting her. It wasn’t him she had to worry about. He wasn’t going to hurt her, unless she took another swing at him. Then all bets were off.

  The sailboat sliced through the calm waters, a blur to Max, and all too clearly reminding him of his weakened position. He couldn’t see straight. At the moment, his vision was better in the dark than the light, which had just about as many advantages as disadvantages. He didn’t need a doctor to tell him his ribs were cracked, and he was sure he’d be pissing blood for at least a week. Worse, Cosella’s men had taken all of his toys- his weapons and his communications. They’d even taken his watch. He had nothing to fight back with, and if they found him, he was a sitting duck. Worse than a sitting duck. His bad luck had cursed him with a soft civilian woman and her irritating mutt. He shook his leg and the little yap-per slid across the wooden floor.

  “Let me go and I’ll sit down like you said.”

  He didn’t believe her. He didn’t believe she wouldn’t try something, and in his present state, he wouldn’t even see it coming. He’d lived through too much already tonight to let her finish the job. He narrowed his gaze and his double vision slid into one image. The stern light of the sailboat slid past without incident, and to his vast relief his double vision did not return.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “I’m one of the good guys.”