Just a Kiss Away by Jill Barnett Page B

birds to bread crumbs stood a group of armed rebels. They soon parted to give Sam a glimpse of Colonel Luna standing over his precious pink cargo—the Lollipop. She sat on a narrow bench on the foredeck next to a mooring winch. From her frantic gestures and Luna’s impatient tapping of his bolo knife against his boot, Sam gathered they were having some kind of argument.
    He glanced past the dock to a large clearing, where five more armed guards stood watching the river. From their perch high above the riverbank, they could watch the whole inlet, assuring Luna and the boat of protection and ruining Sam’s chance of making his way downstream.
    The movements on the dock told Sam that the boat was about to cast off. The engine geared into a constant chugging, and the dockmen bent over the cleats, uncoiling the lines that held the trawler. Sam had to think fast.
    There was no time to find a log or driftwood branch to hide him from the armed patrol. The boat backed up slowly, building up steam. Sam inhaled long, slow breaths that filled his lungs with oxygen and put a purgatory of pressure on his battered ribs. One last breath and he dove deep, hoping to make it to the boat before it could reverse engines and head downstream.
    He swam underwater, pulling with all his strength, thankful that some anonymous male ancestor had given him the gift of a big frame and a strong upper body. At this moment, he called on every bit of power and strength in that torso. His lungs burned from holding an eternal breath. The vibrations of the engine drew him in the right direction, closer and closer until he could feel the water around him ripple.
    As fast as a rifle shot the sound died. Then metal scraped metal and the engine clunked. There was nothing but silence. His lungs burned, his ribs ached, his numb legs kicked on and one arm pulled, then the other, dragging the drawing weight of his clothed body through the water with a stubborn determination earned in the Chicago slums.
    Come on . . . come on, swim, you bruised bastard, swim.
    A clank echoed through the water less than two feet from him. Water suddenly rushed around him with a push of current. Then with a loud, squealing scrape of metal the engine kicked in.
    Sam surfaced just in time to grip a portside tow handle by the trawler’s rudder, a good five feet from the propeller blade. His hands ached, but he held fast, fighting the wake as the boat headed downstream.
    She’d like to died, but hung her head over the right side of the boat and vomited instead. From somewhere on her left, the colonel swore in Spanish. She stared at the blurred river water and concentrated on breathing. Then it dawned on her that swearwords sounded exactly alike in any language. It was the disgusted male tone that gave them away.
    She’d tried to tell the man that she couldn’t take the boat ride well. He didn’t believe her. She gagged some more. Bet he does now, she thought, remembering how they’d cut the ropes from her bound hands so she could hold onto the rail while she hung her head over the side. The boat floated along, rocking slightly from side to side, side to side . . .
    Her head swain, chills raced up her back and over her arms, and her stomach lurched in counterpoint to the boat. She finally sat up, raising one limp hand to her damp forehead. The men stared at her in horror.
    “Could I have a wet rag, please?” She lolled back against the rail. Her whole body felt like peach jelly.
    The colonel ordered a soldier to find something, then turned his back on her. She wiped away the tears that streamed down her hot cheeks. Her eyes always teared when she threw up. The boat moved as they met a swifter current, and she swallowed air and leaned back over the side, ready to get sick again.
    Concentration came to her rescue and she managed to control her weak stomach. Soon she could feel someone’s stare. She pushed up from the rail, opened her eyes, and turned ever so slowly. The soldier