Chapter 3 - The Harbor Escape
"I am not going out there!" Penny shouted, trying to pull her hand back. It was like trying to pull a paperclip away from an industrial magnet. "My car is in the south lot! I have a Honda Civic with a dented bumper!"
"Your Civic is currently full of bullet holes, sweetheart," Liam muttered, stepping past them with his weapon raised, checking the dark descent of the service stairwell. "Clear. Move."
Matthew tugged her forward. Penny had no choice but to sprint beside him, her non-slip server shoes squeaking on the wet concrete.
They tore down two flights of steep metal stairs, the sound of heavy boots and yelling echoing from the corridor above. The attackers were through the service door.
"They're following the blood!" one of the shooters yelled from above.
"Let them," Matthew murmured.
At the bottom of the stairs, Matthew pushed through a heavy wooden door that opened not into an alley, but directly into the subterranean docks beneath the old warehouse. The smell of salt air, oily harbor water, and rotting pilings hit Penny's face like a cold wet towel.
Tied to a private slip beneath the low brick arches was a massive, matte-black cigarette boat. Its twin engines hummed with a low, deep rumble that vibrated through the floorboards. A driver in a dark tactical jacket sat behind the wheel, watching the doorway.
"In," Matthew commanded, guiding her toward the narrow gunwale.
Penny stared at the dark, churning water four feet below. "No. Absolutely not. I get seasick on ferries! I took a harbor cruise in tenth grade and threw up in a trash can near George’s Island!"
Matthew didn't bother arguing. He grabbed her by the waist, lifted her effortlessly over the railing, and set her down on the plush leather seating in the stern.
"Hey!" she yelled, her curves bouncing against the leather as he stepped over the side behind her.
Liam unhooked the thick mooring lines in two swift movements, tossed them onto the deck, and leaped into the passenger seat just as the service door at the top of the dock blew open.
Three men in dark tactical vests burst onto the concrete ledge, raising carbines.
"Down!" Matthew barked, grabbing Penny by the back of her neck and forcing her head into his lap as he crouched over her.
The driver slammed the throttles forward.
The boat's twin engines screamed into life with a roar that shook Penny’s teeth. The craft surged forward, its bow rising sharply as it sliced through the black water of the harbor. Bullets pinged harmlessly off the reinforced, bulletproof transom behind them, ricocheting into the night.
Penny’s face was buried directly against the heavy, broad thigh of Matthew Cole. She could feel the solid muscle beneath his trousers, the heat radiating off him, and the lingering scent of the Scotch she had spilled on him less than ten minutes ago.
The boat shot out from under the warehouse archways into the open dark of Boston Harbor, cold sea spray hitting her back.
Matthew’s hand remained on the nape of her neck, his fingers long, heavy, and surprisingly warm. He didn't release her until they were a quarter-mile out, skimming across the black water toward the skyline of the city, the lights of Logan Airport flashing in the distance.
Slowly, Matthew let go. Penny sat up, her curls wild from the wind, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
She wiped a mixture of saltwater and mascara from her cheek, glared at the skyline, and then turned her gaze to the man sitting beside her.
Matthew was leaning back against the leather seat, checking the magazine of his pistol with cold, methodical precision. He clicked it back into place, slid the gun into his holster, and looked at her.
"Happy birthday," he said, his voice completely flat.
Penny stared at him. She looked at her ruined apron, her stained uniform, her torn tights, and then back at his handsome, impossibly calm face.
"You are an absolute nightmare," she snapped, her voice trembling with a mixture of shock and lingering tequila.
Liam turned around from the front seat, a faint, disbelieving smirk on his scarred face. "Boss, did she just call you a nightmare?"
"Shut up, Liam," Matthew said softly, never taking his eyes off Penny. "Are you cold?"
"I am wet, I am terrified, my mother is going to wonder why I'm not answering my phone tomorrow, and I lost my favourite lip gloss in the breakroom!" Penny yelled over the roar of the engines. "So yes! I'm cold!"
Matthew quietly unbuttoned his heavy suit jacket—the one ruined by whiskey—slid his arms out of it, and draped it over her shoulders.
The jacket was heavy, lined with rich silk, and radiated his body heat instantly. It swallowed her frame, smelling of woodsmoke, expensive whiskey, and pure power.
May you like
Penny pulled the lapels tight around her chest, hating how comforting it felt. "This doesn't mean I forgive you."
"I haven't asked for forgiveness yet," Matthew said, leaning closer, his shoulder brushing hers as the boat cut through the waves. "We'll see how the rest of the night goes."
