“How confident are you in your source?” Doyle asked her.

“Completely. She’s with Interpol, and believe me, Malmon and the others on that list are very much on Interpol’s radar. They’re as interested in what he’s putting together as we are.”

“We could do without blipping on Interpol’s radar ourselves,” Bran pointed out.

“Then we’ll have to be careful. We’ve got a few days. I’m thinking why don’t we check out Malmon’s digs here on Capri? Say tonight, when everything’s nice and quiet.”

“A little B and E?” Sawyer forked a bite of French toast. “Sounds like a good time. You know, if I could get my hands on a few things, I could put a few bugs together.”

“How do you put bugs together?” Annika asked. “Why would you want to make bugs?”

“Listening devices,” he explained. “We call them bugs. We go in, case the place, plant a few where it seems most logical. It could give us a leg up.”

“It could. First? You can make bugs?”

He smiled at Riley. “I’m handy.”

“Okay, second. He’s bound to sweep for them.”

“I could help there.” Bran considered. “A spell to hide them from an electronic sweep. I could work that out.”

“More handy, and I’ll make three.” Riley poured more coffee. “Tell me what you need, Dead-Eye—and give me options. I’ll tug some lines. But it may take a day.”

“I’ll make you a list, we can break and enter tomorrow night. Three days,” Sawyer calculated. “Maybe we’ll get lucky, find the star before he gets here.”

“And if not?” Sasha looked around the table at the five people she’d come to trust above all others. “We do whatever we have to do to protect the star and each other.”

Sawyer made his list; Riley tugged her lines. It made for a later start than planned, but Sawyer figured if he could put together a few bugs, give them some insight into Malmon’s plans, it would be more than worth losing an hour in the water.

As he grabbed his gear, Annika stepped to the doorway of his room.

“I need to speak to you.”

“Sure.” But when she came in, closed the door behind her, he stopped what he was doing. “Serious?”

“Important. In Sasha’s painting, you’re wounded.”

“We’ve all been wounded in this little adventure, Anni. It looked like Doyle took a hit, too, so—”

“He can’t die.”

“And I won’t.” Reading the worry in her eyes, he went to her, took her hands. “I’ll get us out of there.”

“It’s hard for you to travel with so many. Please, don’t lie to soothe me. I won’t be soothed with lies.”

“Not hard so much. It’s tricky. But hey, I got us here, right?”

“It would be tricky—more tricky—when you’re wounded?”

“Annika, there’s no point worrying about that.” Now he ran his hands up her arms, held her by the shoulders. “I’ll get us out, and safe. You have to trust me.”

“I trust you. All that I am trusts what you are. But you’ll be hurt. You and Doyle—he can’t die but he feels pain. I’m not hurt in the painting, and I’m of the sea.”

“Okay.”

“I can get away from the men, from the sharks. I can—the word is distract—until you get away with the others, then—”

“Forget it.” A lick of temper had him tightening his grip on her.

“You must listen!” Temper slapped against temper. “If the tricky is too hard, you can trust me. I can get away without the traveling. You take the others, leave me to—”

“I’m not going to leave you. I’d never leave you. No.” He snapped it out before she could speak again. “If you think I would, if you think I’d even consider it, you don’t know me.”

“Do you understand, I could get to the boat, my way, almost before you could, yours?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m not leaving you behind, not today, tomorrow, whenever the hell that painting becomes reality. Not anywhere, not anytime.” Because he read something in her eyes—she’d suck at poker—he released her shoulders to take her face in the same firm grip. “And don’t think you can pull away far enough so I can’t connect. That’s not happening either, and you’d just make it harder for me.”

“I don’t want to make it hard. I want you safe.”

“I will be, and so will you.” He tipped her head back, just a little, laid his lips on hers. Quiet, soothing. At first.

Then she wrapped around him, surrounded him, and he lost himself in the warmth and wanting. He pressed her back against the wall, let himself take, let himself savor what she gave, let himself savor what she made him feel in his blood, in his bones.

The three rude bangs on the door barely registered.

“Sawyer! Get your hands off the girl,” Doyle ordered. “We’re moving.”

“We have to go.” Reluctantly, almost painfully, Sawyer took his hands off the girl.

“Why don’t you have sex with me?”

“What?” He took a step back, as if from a live grenade. “What?”

“Your sex part gets hard for sex, but you don’t ask for sex. I don’t know if I’m allowed to ask for sex. I don’t know the rules of this.”