Blue Moon by Linda Windsor

racing over last night’s conversation. “But he learned nothing aside from the name of the ship we’re after.”
    â€œKeep on believing that, sweet.”
    The sharp edge of Gabe’s patronizing tone rubbed against an already raw nerve. “How would you know?” she demanded. “You were cheek-to-cheek with Pamela the Red half the night . . . or all of it, for all I know.”
    Jeanne bit her lip, surprising herself as much as her companion by her outburst. It wasn’t like her to take potshots at other women, no matter how they flaunted their sexuality. She’d always thought herself above catty behavior, but if this kept up, Gabe would have to serve her a saucer of milk.
    A half smile—or was it a smirk?—pulled at Gabe’s mouth, neither confirming nor denying her bold suggestion. He closed the distance between them until the coarse brush of his leg rubbed against one of hers.
    â€œMy dear Jeanne”—with the crook of a finger, he raised her eyes to the dangerous blue waters of his own—“from Pablo’s scavenge and purchase of equipment and supplies, Arnauld knows what we are after, the depth of the water we hope to search, and the approximate square mileage of the site. From you and Primston he milked the ship’s name and the type of objects you hope to recover based on comparisons to some of the other excavations you discussed, which also told him the type of boat and approximate age: a Spanish galleon called the Luna Azul , located in a five-square-kilometer range in a depth of twenty-five to forty feet, within a short traveling distance from our base at Punta Azul. Anyone with good charts—and Arnauld has nothing but the best—will be able to narrow those areas down with little effort.”
    Jeanne recoiled inwardly from what Gabe told her, but the truth of it settled heavily on her shoulders. What had they done?
    â€œAnd as for your suspicions regarding Pamela . . .” he continued, as he leaned his face down to hers. “Had she spent the night, she would not have left my bed so impeccably put together.” The Ps of his words drove Gabe’s breath against her lips, a tidal surge before the storm gathering in his eyes. “But rather . . .”
    Without preamble, the tempest broke; his mouth covered hers with a sense-scattering fury until her body began to feel as though it were no longer hers, but his. It was his breath that she breathed— a bizarre blend of black coffee and mint toothpaste. His arms that held her together. His pulse drove hers as he pressed her toward the sofa back.
    Railing against this heady loss of control, Jeanne summoned her last bastion of resistance and shoved Gabe onto the floor with more strength than either of them anticipated.
    Nemo, eager to participate in the perceived roughhousing, leapt on top of Gabe with an an explosive “Woof !” and showered him with doggy kisses.
    Jeanne rose from the sofa as Gabe roared from the floor. “Nemo, get off. Bad boy!”
    Shocked, Nemo shrank from the furious captain and slunk over to stand by Jeanne’s feet, watching his master rise.
    â€œIt’s okay, Nemo,” Jeanne cooed, leaning down to pet the dog’s head and glowering at Gabe. “ Gabe’s the bad boy.”
    She gave the animal an extra show of affection to give her rubber legs a chance to firm up. She wanted to give him a piece of her mind—several pieces, actually—but they fought with each other on her tongue.
    â€œDon’t you ever—! What did you think—? I am not—!” She broke off as Gabe stood, forcing her to look up at him. Gone was the storm and in its place a chill Jeanne could almost feel.
    â€œOh yes, you are, sweet.” Impassive, he reached across Nemo, who had wedged between their knees, determined to share in the experience, and traced Jeanne’s lips. “Your lips are full with desire. Your eyes shimmer