it seriously. We’ve all got a job to do, and I need you to go with the women and kids, make sure they have what they need and keep me looped in if there’s an issue.”
“That’s—creative,” I smirked. “It’s like telling the kid who doesn’t want to participate that you’re secretly putting her in charge. But I’m not a kid. I’ve pitched in during natural disasters before, and I’m not going to go drink wine and play Candyland while there’s real work to be done.”
“I know you’re ready to help out. This is the best way for you to help.”
“By staying out of the way?” I challenged.
“No. By letting me do my job. I can’t do what I need to do unless I know you’re safe, Morgan,” he said. He blurted it out. I knew from his face he didn’t mean to say it. Those words cracked something inside of me, to know that I was so important to him. It didn’t change my mind, because I wasn’t his porcelain doll to keep in a box safe and sound. But it moved me, touched my emotions more than I wanted to admit.
“Then you need to let me do my job. Part of that is reporting on disaster preparedness and local provisions for tourists in an emergency. People deserve to know what measures are in place to protect them in a natural disaster if they decide to travel somewhere. This is an out of season storm like you said. It’s unexpected. The very best thing I can do for my readers is to be on the ground, recording what’s being done and what level of preparedness St. Martin has to offer its tourists. Are there shortages? How is accurate information being delivered? What shuts down and for how long? What happens to your activity reservations and dinner reservations and if you’re relocated, where will all your luggage and souvenirs be left or kept? What kind of security presence is there?”
“I understand,” he sighed. “And since I’m part of the response team, I can give you the specifics on all our emergency protocols and exactly what tourists can expect in a storm situation. Later. I’ll answer your questions. All of them.”
“Are you going inland with the women?” I asked, hands on my hips.
“No. Connor and Brendan are going to get them settled before they do the generators and supplies and stuff. Like I said, Mick and Tommy and I have things to take care of here, crisis preparedness steps ahead of the storm.”
“Then I’m staying too. As much fun as it would be to make you fill out a survey about St. Martin emergency response, I’d rather do what reporters do and talk to eyewitnesses and organizers and get the real story on the ground.”
“You are the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met,” he burst out, raking a frustrated hand through his hair.
“That’s what you love about me,” I said archly, teasing him. But his face—there was something in his expression when I said it that made me want to clarify that I was kidding, that he could calm down. But I wasn’t going to apologize for my sarcasm, and I wasn’t going to waste time in a crisis coddling anyone over the age of five. So I shrugged it off and started to walk away.
“Please,” he said, his voice so low and intimate, so frankly sexy that I turned around. His hand was on my face, his fingers in my hair. “Come with me outside, just for a minute. Please. Not here, not with eyes on us.”
Something hot stirred in my chest, and the heat in his piercing eyes matched it. I went with him, his hand in mine, leading me to some side exit. He pulled me toward his Jeep and we got in.
“Are you going to kidnap me and take me to the safe house?” I asked dubiously. He took the keys out of his pocket and handed them to me, never breaking eye contact with me.
Suddenly his mouth was on mine, hot and searching. The clash of wills, our argument, just fueled the desire, the fiery need that sparked in us both. I parted my lips just a little and his tongue swept in to claim me. Jittery and restless, my hands roamed his face and hair, his neck and shoulders before gripping the front of his shirt.
“This morning isn’t going to be the last time I ever have you. I mean to make sure of it, Morgan.