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  “Tell me what you want,” she said into his ear, before taking his earlobe between her teeth. “Do you want my hand?”

  In truth, Moj didn’t care. He just wanted to be close to her. He wanted her hand, her mouth, her body, everything including the ocean and the night sky. But she was asking him to choose.

  He didn’t want to. He wanted what she wanted.

  “You choose,” he said. And meant it.

  She dropped down in front of him in the shallow water.

  Moj closed his eyes and felt her mouth take him in.

  * * *

  Rania was no stranger to oral sex. With the right man, she liked the feeling of the velvet-covered iron in her mouth. She loved how she could give so much pleasure to someone. Even better was how taboo it felt, doing something many considered forbidden.

  However, it was just bodies, just flesh, and too many people had spent too much time fretting over what was acceptable and what wasn’t.

  She breathed in his musky scent and then took him into her mouth. She brushed her tongue over him. His hands gently found her hair, and he caressed it like he had before, lying with her on the sand.

  The water swirled around her as she gave him pleasure. He was always gentle, even as his body throbbed against her, straining for release.

  The ocean joined them in their love. No swells pushed them, only a slow ebb and flow as the waves licked the sand.

  She moved back. Starlight painted his body silver, every ridge, every muscle.

  He looked down on her with need in his eyes, but more than that, consideration. “You don’t have to finish. I mean, you don’t have to…”

  Instead of answering him, she sucked him back into her mouth. She could feel how close he was. Using both her hand and her mouth, she led him to the edge and beyond.

  She loved giving him such bliss, and she loved that he had thought of how she must’ve felt, below him, kneeling in the black water. When his fingers tightened on her head, she knew what was coming and drank him down.

  When his orgasm was over, she rose and kissed him. Their bodies pressed together, enclosed in the warm blanket of the ocean and the night.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Vikram, Bert, and Wally had followed the current for most of the day, but it took the Fukawe to open ocean. Not an island in sight. And no sign of the inflatable launch, either. Their prey had escaped.

  On the catamaran, on the deck in front of the helm, Vikram slammed the assault rifle into his own forehead.

  “Ow,” Bert said. “Don’t do that, Vik. It might not hurt you, but it hurts me looking at you.”

  Vikram shook with rage. “We lost them! We lost them over a hat!”

  “Love my hat,” Wally said moodily. “And I got shot, you know. Like, for real.” He pointed at the Band-Aid covering the surface wound on his scalp.

  Vikram jammed a thumb into the Band-Aid.

  “That’s not getting shot. That’s a scratch. And you could replace your goddamn hat for rupees. Not even rand, rupees. Motherfuck!”

  Wally swept his hat away and backed up.

  “Hurt me all you want, Vik. Don’t mess with my hat.”

  Vikram made a fist and feinted as if to punch Wally.

  Wally winced.

  “Easy there,” Bert said, stepping forward.

  Vikram whirled on the big, bearded man. “And you! Pointing a gun at my head? You would’ve killed me if I hadn’t turned us around.”

  Bert frowned. “Sorry. Me and Wally are mates. He’s more important to me than money. And you can’t underestimate a good hat. I had a Yankees baseball cap that fit me perfect. I lost it, and I’ve tried others, but they never fit as good.”

  Vikram stalked away to the helm, grabbed the throttle, and pushed it flat, powering the catamaran around in a dangerous turn. Wally and Bert grabbed railing.

  Vikram had one last plan. If the launch hadn’t been destroyed in the firefight, Moj and his security bimbo might have headed back to Malé to rendezvous with the Bonnie Blue.

  Islands appeared on their left and right, but Vikram kept them going. Later in the afternoon, the sun eased down the western sky.

  Wally had the radio headphones on.

  “Hey, I’m hearing some chatter about the Bonnie Blue. Hold on.” He listened closely, then moved to the table and checked the chart. “I got the coordinates. Someone’s calling in her position. Maybe someone named Chewy? Like Chewbacca? Star Wars. Cool.”

  “Show me!” Vikram thundered.

  Wally slammed a finger onto the chart.

  “Finally, you’ve done something useful.” Vikram changed course and headed toward the cove where the Bonnie Blue was anchored.

  “Vik,” Bert said. “Don’t be a dick. It was funner when we were just smuggling smokes.”

  “You shut up and get your guns ready.” Vikram was determined not to leave empty-handed.

  “Do I need bullets?” Bert asked.

  Vikram sighed. “No, not this time.”

  * * *

  Vikram buzzed the Fukawe past the opening of the cove to gauge the Bonnie Blue’s position and to see if her passengers were visible on deck. Wally had the binoculars and said he had seen no sign of Moj. The music producer and his bikini bodyguard were probably in the Seychelles by now, swept away by the currents.

  But Vikram had set his sights on new prey. Two men and two women played volleyball on the beach. Picnic baskets, blankets, and folding chairs were placed along the sand.

  He and his crew anchored the Fukawe on the other side of the slim island and motored their inflatable raft to the beach. A trail led them through the jungle to the cove. They were armed with AK-47s. Only Vikram’s gun had bullets, since Wally had lost his nerve as well.

  Under a palm tree, they all tied bandannas over their faces. Wally didn’t take off his hat.

  Vikram spoke in whispers. “Follow my lead. I will do the talking. All you have to do is look mean.”

  Bert crinkled his nose. “Why are we doing this? Moj is gone. This whole thing is over. Let’s just get back to our normal cigarette smuggling.”

  Wally had used his knife to cut a hole in the bandanna and stuck a cigarette through the slit. He flipped open his Zippo for a light.

  Vikram struck it away. “We don’t want them to smell the smoke, idiot.” Then he addressed Bert’s concern. “There are other celebrities aboard the Bonnie Blue.”

  “Like who?” Bert asked.

  “Madonna?” Wally asked, his eyes bright above the bandanna. He’d rescued his Zippo, and the cigarette still dangled from the hole in his bandanna.

  “No, man, Madonna is old school. Maybe Katy Perry?” Bert’s face grew just as bright. “She opened for the Moj Majestic International Music Festival back in Goa.”

  Wally protested. “Madonna is a classic, and still so hot.”

  “Enough!” Vikram glowered them both into silence. “Let’s go.”

  They burst out of the jungle, and Vikram unloaded his AK-47 into the air.

  Four people were on the beach, three Vikram recognized from his research. The tall man in swim trunks was the celebrity chef, Alton Maura, while the blonde woman in captain’s whites could only be Captain Lindsay Fisher. Near her stood Cloude, a slender young woman in a bikini that would be outlawed in many nations. Those three Vikram knew, but not the old guy in a ponytail and a Hawaiian shirt.

  Coals glowed in a hibachi next to a cooler and a canvas bag. Beach chairs sat next to a volleyball net. The wet ball, covered in sand, lay next to a Frisbee.

  Wally lit his dangling cigarette and shouted, “Hands in the air.” Not a second later, he lifted the bandanna to breathe out the smoke, coughing.

  Bert made a face at his friend.

  “Dude, we weren’t supposed to do the talking.”

  “But lighting the cigarette and then saying all that was so cool.” Wally flicked his cigarette away.

  “It was cool, mate, but I guess you can’t kidnap and smoke at the same time.” Bert pointed his
empty assault rifle at the beach party. “Yeah, hands in the air!”

  Captain Fisher stepped forward, moving her palms above her shoulders. “We don’t want any trouble.”

  Vikram ejected his used clip and slammed in a fresh one. “You have trouble, Captain. However, if you cooperate, no one will have to die.”

  The old guy broke and ran for either the cooler or the canvas bag.

  Vikram triggered his rifle and sent a barrage of bullets into the sand, stopping the would-be hero in his tracks. Sweat dripped down Tommy’s face as he turned and raised his hands.

  “No hero business,” Vikram said. “Captain, go stand by Mr. Ponytail.”

  Captain Fisher complied, moving close to the old guy.

  “I thought you said there was someone famous here,” Bert said. “I’m not seeing it. Unless the girl is Emma Roberts, but I don’t think so. Emma Roberts is hotter.”

  “Hey!” Cloude protested. “That is not nice.”

  “Sorry,” Bert said. “You’re hot, just not Emma Roberts hot.”

  “Scream Queens or American Horror Story?” Cloude asked, thin arms in the air.

  Wally yelped. “Really? Emma Roberts was in AHS? I had no idea. Was she in the witch one?”

  “Seasons three and four,” Cloude affirmed.

  “Me and my mate lost interest after the insane asylum one,” Bert said. “Never got back to it. We will now.”

  Vikram shot another round into the air, ending the inane conversation.

  “Cloude, Alton, you are coming with us. If you try anything, we will kill you. Yes, we will kill.”

  “Two prisoners?” Wally said. “I don’t think we can do two. One, though, one should be fine.”

  “Take me,” Alton said, his face pale.

  “No way!” Cloude insisted. “I am so much more famous than you are.”

  “Christ, Cloude!” Mr. Ponytail erupted. “What are you doing?”

  No one said anything for a long time. Then Cloude spoke, walking slowly forward. “You should totally take me. I’m Cloude.”

  Vikram was losing control of the situation; he wasn’t sure what to do. Already, his partners had blown the whole operation.

  Vikram kept his gun trained on Alton. He didn’t trust the man’s size, and he saw something in his eye. Captain Fisher and Mr. Ponytail were too far away to do much. No, the real danger was Alton.

  Bert and Wally glanced at each other.

  “Cloude?” Bert asked.

  “Who?” Wally asked.

  “Cloude!” the girl said emphasizing the single syllable of her name. “Cloude, from Wild Willamina. Moj produces me. You know the song ‘Love Isn’t Love,’ right?”

  Bert snapped his fingers. “Yeah, Wild Willamina. It was on the Family Laugh Channel. Sorry, not a tween. Wasn’t into it.”

  “But you know the song, right?”

  Alton exhaled loudly. “Come on, Cloude. Don’t—”

  “Here, let me a sing a little bit of it.” She belted out a few bars.

  Wally smiled. “No, that’s not you. That’s Halsey.”

  “No, mate, Lorde, totally,” Bert said.

  “Not even!” Cloude’s mouth frowned into an indignant curl. “Nothing against Lorde, ‘Royals’ from 2013’s Pure Heroine was brilliant, but I am nothing like Lorde and Halsey.”

  Vikram wasted another bullet. He’d only brought two clips, and he was using all his ammo trying to pull his own stupid partners in line.

  “I really like Halsey, though,” Bert said. “Like a lot, I have to say.”

  Another bullet and another gun blast. “Enough!” Vikram pointed the barrel at Alton’s chest, making sure to stay out of the big man’s reach. “So we don’t take Cloude. We take Alton Maura, the Kitchen God himself.”

  “Who in the fuck is he?” Wally asked. “You ever heard of him, B?”

  No one said anything. For a long time. A bird squawked in the jungle, waves crashed, a few insects buzzed around in the air.

  Vikram kicked Bert.

  “He means you. We’re not using our real names. You’re B.”

  “Oooooohhhhh,” Bert said. “Right. I’m B. You’re V. And then there’s W. Okay, gotcha. No, Wally, I ain’t never heard of Alton Maura.”

  Vikram yelled, “Maura, you’re coming with us.”

  “Dude, you said my name,” Wally said. “You shouldn’t have said it.”

  Bert shrugged. “Sorry. V, I messed up. We should let these people get back to their picnic. It’s kind of over. I don’t wanna kidnap the girl, and I have no idea who this guy is.”

  Alton sighed. “Well, Cloude, I know how you feel, now. But I am famous.” He looked kind of hurt. “I mean, I was. You guys don’t watch the cooking channel?”

  “What is the bloody point of watching people cook food?” Bert asked, squinting. “If I’m hungry, I want to eat, not watch people make stuff I can’t eat. So you’re a cook?”

  “Chef, actually,” Alton said.

  Wally chuckled. “How famous can you be, cooking? I can cook, and I’m not famous.”

  “What I can do in the kitchen is way beyond cooking. Seriously, I was a big deal.” Alton trailed off then and shut up.

  Captain Fisher lost her cool.

  “Alton! Knock it off! You were only ever semi-famous.”

  Alton nodded. “Yeah, she’s right. No one is going to pay a ransom for me. My mom might, but she lives in Iowa and is on a pension. She was a teacher.”

  “My mom was a teacher,” Bert said, “before she met my dad.”

  Cloude interrupted the male bonding. “I could totally pull in a ransom. You could get millions for me.”

  “Oh, sweets,” Wally said, “that’s just sad. Don’t be like that. You’re good, you’re pretty, and your voice is okay. Maybe someday. You ready to go, B?”

  Again, Bert didn’t respond. He’d forgotten his code name.

  Vikram turned and stomped away into the jungle. He couldn’t care less if his dim cronies followed.

  * * *

  The lights of Malé’s harbor sparkled like jewels against the dark sky and the even darker sea. Alton paced the deck of the Bonnie Blue. She was back at her slip, but Lindsay had gone in to talk to the local authorities about the attack and the missing passengers, Moj and Rania.

  It was going to be an all-night affair. In the Maldives, island time meant an emergency might be handled in a few days, maybe. Different culture completely, and they didn’t have much information to go on.

  Wally, B, and V had covered their faces with bandannas, but Alton couldn’t really hate them. They’d been good guys, two of them, at least. The third one, V, had been the brains and the only one to actually use his rifle. And most likely the only one with a loaded gun.

  Still, being not famous enough to kidnap was kind of a blow.

  Cloude sat on the bow, drinking wine and sighing.

  Alton went over to her.

  “Come on, Cloude, would you really want to be at the mercy of those guys?”

  “No, she mumbled. “I guess not. I feel like singing. Do you want Irene Cara’s ‘Fame’ from the 1980s feature film, Fame? Or the classic ‘Fame’ by David Bowie from 1975?”

  “Bowie,” Alton said. “Totally Bowie.”

  “But the other song won an Academy Award.”

  “I don’t want to live forever,” Alton said. “And flying is overrated.” Alton sat next to her. “Are you hungry?”

  Cloude shook her head.

  “Darn, I would literally make you anything. I like it when sad people eat and feel better.”

  “Sounds like someone has mommy issues.” Cloude put a hand on his. “Sorry, that was mean. I’m a little bummed I’m not ransom material, but I’m more concerned about Moj. Do you think those guys kidnapped him instead of us?”

  Alton chuckled. “That would make sense. Mom would pull in at least five million, if not ten. He’d be a great target.”

  “Sour grapes, much?” Cloude threw up her hands then calmed herself. Anoth
er sigh. “I know, right? Terrible for you to say it, but that’s what has me worried.”

  “I don’t see those guys kidnapping anyone,” Alton said. “You saw how they were.”

  “Very up on pop culture,” Cloude conceded. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “I hope I am. Yet it doesn’t look good. If things were going well, Rania and Moj would’ve called us. Or we would’ve heard from Larry, Curly, and Mo demanding money. We haven’t, so that’s good news.”

  “Larry and who?” Cloude asked.

  “Oh, snap,” Alton dropped his chin to his chest. “So I’m not famous enough to kidnap, and now I’m old, so old. You don’t know the Three Stooges?”

  “You mean that movie from 2012 with Will Sasso and Jane Lynch? The movie was all right, but the soundtrack was only so-so. I like Foster the People, but their song ‘Waste’? Not their best.”

  Alton stood up. “Yeah, um, I’m going to go eat cookies and try to forget this day ever happened. It’s all so embarrassing.”

  “If anything happens to Moj, I don’t know what I’ll do,” Cloude said. “And I don’t mean professionally. I mean personally. I love Moj like a dad.”

  “I’ll say this,” Alton said. “Moj is with one of the toughest, smartest women I’ve ever met. If anyone can keep Moj safe, it’s Rania.”

  “I disagree!” A voice broke from the darkness, making Alton jump.

  A figure in a full-body dry suit flipped over the railing. In his palms were suction cups he’d used to climb up the side of the hull. The man flung the cups away, unzipped the suit, and stepped out, dressed in a white tuxedo.

  As if on cue, the moon rose over the horizon, flooding the deck with light. Devin Manning straightened his bow tie and checked his cufflinks.

  Clouds blinked. “What the hell?”

  Alton laughed, closing his eyes. “Cloude, meet Manning, Devin Manning. Super spy.”

  “I prefer the term espionage enthusiast.” Manning frowned. “If anyone can keep Moj safe, it will be me, not Rania Elsaeid, however capable that woman might be.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The moon cracked the eastern horizon, giving Rania and Moj light as they walked from the water onto the beach near their shelter.