“Thank you,” she whispered.

Roy was fairly certain nothing he’d ever done in his life-not counting surviving being shot and thrown into a dark ocean, of course-had been as hard as the hour he spent later that morning pacing in the confines of his stateroom, waiting for Celia to return from her mission.

He’d never been much of a worrier before. He’d been accused of being happy-go-lucky, but that didn’t seem quite the right way to describe his outlook on life, given the nature of his job and the inherent dangers and life-and-death choices involved. He’d just never wasted much time calculating odds and worrying about outcomes, put it that way. So maybe que sera, sera would have summed it up better. What happened, happened. When his number came up, he figured there wasn’t much he could do about it, no sense worrying about it ahead of time, right? Until it did, he intended to keep on making the best decisions he could, given the information available to him at the time, which was all anybody could do.

But now, here he was, all of a sudden pacing up and down in a box-size room, imagining every possible complication and every bad outcome in the book, and feeling helpless and frustrated because none of it was under his control. Worrying.

It was what came of working with a partner, he supposed. Worse, a partner he cared about-a lot. He wasn’t used to it. He’d always worked solo before. Kind of a lone wolf. Responsible to and for nobody but himself-and the mission, of course. That was the way he liked it.

He wished he could have made himself believe it was Celia’s civilian status, the fact that she was inexperienced and mostly untrained that had him so edgy. But he wasn’t in the habit of telling himself lies. He’d seen her in action enough these past few weeks that he’d come to have a healthy respect for her abilities. The truth was he knew he’d have worried about her even if she’d had the complete course of training all federal agents went through at Quantico.

And where in the hell had that notion come from?

He wasn’t going to have a chance to ponder the answer to that question, though, because right about then he heard the scrape of a key card in the lock. His heart jumped into his throat as Celia came through the door, looking calm and cool and absolutely normal, except for a little bit of pink in her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes. As if she were having fun, he thought. The time of her life, dammit.

“Well?” he growled, making an impatient “give it here” gesture toward the pocketbook she had looped over her shoulder.

“It went just like I told you it would,” she said as she slipped it off and handed it over, a triumphant smile creeping across her face. “They patted me on my head and sent me on my way. But I got close enough to the storage compartments, I think.” She bit down on her lower lip to contain the smile. “I told them I wanted to see the kitchen. Because I’m such an enthusiastic cook, you see.” Laughter spurted from her and she stifled it with her hand, as if she were ashamed of it.

The specially prepared suitcase lay on the bed. Working quickly and in silence, Roy opened the secret compartment and powered up the instruments hidden inside. He opened the handbag and carefully removed the sensitive monitoring devices from their hiding place. Silent, now, too, Celia watched over his shoulder as he bent over the suitcase, working his way through procedures practiced a hundred times. Nothing moved except his hands and the pulsing of his heart sending blood through his veins. He didn’t breathe…didn’t think Celia did, either. Sweat beaded his forehead and trickled down his ribs. Tension sang in his ears, a high-pitched, nerve-wracking whine, like mosquitoes.

A few minutes later, he straightened and rubbed at his eyes with the fingers and thumb of one hand…maybe trying to erase the images that had been recorded there. He felt cold…cold all over. And sick. And scared.

He uttered a single syllable, blunt and sibilant and crude.

He flicked a glance at Celia and saw she’d gone deathly pale. He wondered if he looked the same.

“Radiation?” she whispered.

He nodded. Cleared his throat. Forced words through the block of ice in his chest. “Could be just radioactive materials, I guess, but given all the other factors-the chatter…the timing-I’m thinking it’s a dirty bomb. They brought it in with the fireworks, and they mean to set it off the same way. At midnight tonight. Happy New Year.”

“Dear God.”

“Yeah. Depending on how big it is, it’s almost a certainty they’d wipe out this boat and everybody on it, and probably a good bit of Catalina along with it. That by itself would make a helluva splash, but that’s not what they’re after. It’s the radiation cloud. With the onshore breeze…”

“I can’t believe Abby would do this,” Celia said, hugging herself, her voice tight and furious. “He loves-L.A.-Hollywood-the whole lifestyle. These people are his friends.”

“He might not know about it,” Roy said grimly. “Maybe he’s just the sacrificial lamb. From what I hear, he’s not exactly a role model in the radical fundamentalist world. Maybe they mean to take him out-punish him for his decadent lifestyle-at the same time they make their big statement. Who knows?”

While he talked, he took a laptop computer out of the suitcase and carried it to the small writing desk that was part of the room’s amenities. He’d recovered his equilibrium, a little. The shock was fading. His brain was beginning to function again. “Whatever they mean to do,” he went on as he connected the computer to the yacht’s power and fired it up, “our job is to keep ’em from doing it. Now we’ve got the evidence we need…just have to get this to…” He broke off, stared at the computer screen, tapped some keys, waited a moment, then uttered the same succinct and violent syllable.

“What?” Celia was beside him in an instant, breathless with dread.

He stared at her, paralyzing horror and helplessness creeping around his heart. “They’ve pulled the plug.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We’re in the middle of the flamin’ ocean. Our only means of communication is through the yacht’s satellite hookup…right? Guess they’re not taking any chances on lettin’ word of their little party get out, because they’ve cut it off. Shut it down. We’re dark,” he said grimly, beginning to pace again. “Incommunicado. Short of puttin’ a message in a bottle and pitchin’ it overboard, we’ve got no way to call in the cavalry.”

“A message in a bottle?” Celia was gazing past him, tapping her lips with a rose-tinted fingernail. “That could work.”

He stared at her openmouthed for several seconds, then snapped, “Come on, this is no joke.”

“No, wait-” She clutched his arm. “I’m serious. We’ve got the GPS thingies, right? I bet they’re small enough to fit into a champagne bottle. All we’d have to do is put in a note, cork it, and-”

“And these guys, who are paranoid enough they’ve shut down their own satellite communications, are just gonna stand there and let us throw it overboard?”

“They will if we stage it right,” Celia said, teeth pressing on her lower lip to subdue her smile. “Leave that to me. I told you, didn’t I, I’ve always wanted to write scripts?”

Powerful emotions filled his chest as he gazed at her, scowling-as if that would hide them. “I don’t know whether you’re a lunatic or a genius, you know that?” he said huskily.

“Neither one, actually,” she said, pink and breathless with something that looked impossibly like happiness. “It’s just…I told you-I have this imagination…”

An hour or so later, Celia and Roy joined the sunbathers drinking champagne and lounging around the spa on the stern deck. She carried a corked champagne bottle in one hand and a half-filled glass in the other; while in no way sloppy or obnoxious about it, as she greeted friends and acquaintances among the gathering it was obvious she’d already had quite a bit to drink.

When she reached the farthest aft part of the deck, she turned and propped her elbows on the railing, leaned back and shook her head so that the wind caught her hair. She lifted the glass and drained it, then held it out to R. J. Cassidy, who was, as always, patient and attentive at her side.

“Darlin’,” she cried gaily, waggling the champagne bottle at him, “I seem to be empty. Pour me some more, will you please?”

In a raspy voice that nevertheless carried to the nearest interested parties, R.J. responded, “I…think you’ve had about enough, don’t you? Here-why don’t you let me have that…”

As he held out his hand to take the bottle from her, Celia opened her mouth in outrage and gasped, “I have not. No-don’t you dare-” She snatched the bottle away from him and leaned backward over the railing, holding it high over her head, as if trying to keep it out of his reach.

Many interested eyes watched as his fingers closed around her wrist. Several people, including Celia, gasped as the bottle slipped from her hand and fell into the foaming wake. She whirled and stared at the bottle, now retreating rapidly behind them, then drew herself up like a duchess and said icily, “Well. I hope you’re satisfied.”

No one but R. J. Cassidy would have seen the glint of excitement and triumph in her eyes.

“We don’t even know if they got the damn message,” Roy growled later that evening, as Celia tugged and fussed with the collar and lapels of his white dinner jacket. His shirt collar was open. He’d told her if this was to be his last night on earth, he was damned if he was going out wearing a bow tie.

“We don’t know they didn’t… There-that’s better.” She stood back and regarded him with her head tilted to one side. “You look nice,” she said softly, her chest too full of emotion for breath.

“Thanks. So do you.”

She knew she did, of course, in the ruby-red gown she’d had copied from an old Rita Hayworth film and with her hair loose on her shoulders and diamonds and garnets at her ears and throat. But his eyes, glittering blue in the contact lenses, weren’t looking at her. Instead, they scanned the horizon, where the lights of Avalon Harbor twinkled festively in the distance. Looking, she thought, for some sign of the Special Forces teams…the cavalry that even she knew might never come.

They were on one of the portside decks, a private spot they’d managed to find since neither of them felt much like joining the party that was in full swing in the lounge. And staying in their stateroom had felt too much like being trapped…

Roy flicked a restless glance at her. “I can think of a million things that could have gone wrong.”

“Sounds like I’m not the only one with an imagination,” Celia said lightly, and pain reminded her to take a breath.

“Celia-listen to me.” He caught her wrists and pulled them against his chest, demanding her attention. As if his voice wouldn’t have been enough…it sounded like tearing cloth. “If they don’t show up soon, I’m going in.” She was already shaking her head violently, whispering wordless rejections, but he held her still and overrode them. “Yes…I have to. You know I do. I can’t let this happen.”

“There’re so many of them.” Her voice broke. “You’re only one man. How can you possibly-”

“I’ll find a way. They’ll have the fireworks on the stern deck. Stands to reason the bomb’ll be there, too. All I have to do is figure out which one it is-shouldn’t be too hard-get to it and heave it overboard. Piece o’cake.”

“It’s not. It’s suicide. Roy-” She hadn’t meant to cry. He’d be upset if she cried. And he was-she could feel him quivering with held-in emotions when he pulled her against him, murmuring soothing things in a broken voice.

She pushed him away and dashed a hand across her cheeks. “Roy, you can’t die now. You can’t. I love you. And I know what you’re thinking, but this is not my imagination. I love you, dammit. I think I was meant to love you. I think…” She paused, touched her nose, swallowed and continued, speaking rapidly so he couldn’t interrupt her and she could get it all said before it was too late.

“Remember when I told you I always wondered why, when the accident happened, I was allowed to live? I thought there must be some reason…some purpose. I thought first it was because I was supposed to find you and save your life. Then I thought it was because of this mission-because only I could get you on Abby’s boat. But…I think it’s bigger than that. And way more simple.” She was crying in earnest, now, harder than she’d ever cried in her life before, all the anguish and pain of a lifetime saved up for this. “I think,” she sobbed, “I was simply meant to live. To live the best life I can. To find someone to love, and to be happy. Well, I found that someone, dammit. I found you. Literally. I found you. I love you. If you die, it will all have been for nothing-the accident, her dying. Because how am I supposed to live my life and be happy if you’re not here?”