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“Comms are gonna cut soon. They’re rolling you onto the ship now.”
Normally Ilsa wouldn’t hear Benji speaking in Ethan’s ear, but she’s got her face pressed up against the side of his head. She feels the sudden lurch of the car as it begins moving, slowly rolling onto and over the docking ramp and into the interior of the ferry.
“Solid copy,” Ethan says. She feels his jawbone move against her cheek as he speaks. He adjusts the arm he has around her to bring up his watch, squinting at it over her shoulder. The pitch-black interior of the vehicle trunk lights up a faint digital green as the watch face turns on. She hears it beep as he sets it to go off in 63 minutes.
“Remember, you’ll be parked on the lower storage deck. The loading crew should all be gone by the time the ship departs, and then you can—” The comm fuzzes out.
“That was quick,” Ilsa whispers.
“It’s just chatter anyway.”
They’re both silent as they feel the rumble of the car driving through the vehicle deck. It’s so loud that it’s hard to hear much of anything in particular; the yelling of deckhands and stevedores, the hum of the car engine, the rumble of other vehicles being loaded onto the ferry, the frequent thunk and clang of the latching cables being attached to the cars as they’re locked onto the deck. And finally, beneath all of that, is Ethan’s breathing, a slow, rhythmic rush of breath in her ear.
They’d discussed the most optimal way to hide inside the trunk of this car together, which was not designed to fit a human body, let alone two. Wrapping around each other face-to-face eventually won out; curling up into balls next to each other or lying back-to-front had been the other, less practical alternatives. The former would require them to hold themselves in a stress position for over an hour, and the latter was impractical given the gear bags on their backs. And it was a bit too cuddly for Ilsa’s tastes, although she didn’t voice that in the briefing.
And, of course, boarding the ferry the conventional way had been a no-go; it was a private ship hosting an even more private auction. Personal invitation only. The other option—Benji’s suggestion—involved rushing the ship with a tugboat and conducting a hostile boarding action from the water. So car trunk it was.
Her stomach lurches as the vehicle descends down a ramp onto the lower deck of the ferry. She’s facing towards the front of the car, Ethan towards the trunk door. She sees the black velvet interior alight as Ethan checks his watch again.
“Fifty-nine,” he reports.
“You’re nervous,” she muses. Quietly, of course.
“We’re already forty minutes behind schedule,” he mutters. The trunk goes black again as he turns off the face, and his arm settles back around her waist. “We could be in here for hours.”
It’s a non-responsive answer to her question, but she decides to drop it for now. They’d have plenty of time to talk about it soon enough.
They don’t say anything further as their car pulls into its designated lot. The force of the vehicle locking into a parking track rocks them against each other, and then latch cables are attached to each of its wheels. She can hear the deckhands speaking amongst one another in Portuguese as they move around the car to secure the cables.
Flush with Ethan, his heart rate is part of the limited universe of information she has access to while stuck in the trunk of a car. It’s slow and steady, in contradiction to his earlier fretting. Maybe he isn’t nervous.
The other sensory information at her disposal isn’t much better. There’s the obvious smell of the sea and all its attendant unpleasantness, particularly when it’s seawater that surrounds a massive civilian dock. In sharp—though just as unpleasant—contrast, the inside of the trunk smells factory-new. She doesn’t know the name of the driver the car belongs to; the only reason they’d chosen to hide in it was because it was one of the few luxury vehicles they’d scouted with a trunk big enough to feasibly cram two people inside. Thankfully her thick infiltration suit prevents her skin from coming into contact with the itchy velvet lining the interior, but it’s unpleasant whenever she adjusts her arm and her fingers brush the floor.
And it’s hot; not just from her and Ethan’s combined body heat, but also the thick humidity of the air as they share oxygen. She hadn’t factored in how much she would be sweating while they hid in here, and hopes it won’t ruin the sundress she’d brought along.
The voices of the dockworkers recede as they move to latch other cars to the deck, though it’s still too risky to talk. But so far so good—they’re finally loaded in. Now all they have to do is wait.
Ethan is very still. Even small twitches of his hands or legs are suppressed as they lie in wait. It’s clear in the way he holds his body that he’s done this kind of infiltration before; relaxed but poised, alert and ready. The only movement he allows for is the flexing of his jaw, which she feels against the press of her cheek. If she didn’t know better she’d think he was grinding his teeth.
Now that they’re loaded and secure, she begins to feel the rhythmic sway of the ferry as it sits in the port. Combined with the hotbox of the trunk, it’s more than enough to make her nauseous. The current centre of gravity for the ferry is high and top-heavy, relying on the cargo being loaded to steadily weigh it down into the water. Luther had shown them the diagrams of the RO-RO class vessel during the briefing and explained all of this to them. With the cargo still being loaded, it makes the ship bob in the dock. They aren’t even out in the open water yet, and it’s already making her stomach sour.
Ethan must feel or hear her sigh, because his head twitches. “What?”
“This is poor timing on my part,” she whispers. “But I get seasick very easily.”
Ethan is quiet for a moment. “How bad?”
“If I have to vomit I’ll swallow it down,” she assures him. “I won’t puke on you.”
“You should have said something earlier.”
“What, and bring Benji along as your date instead?”
She can feel the smile in his voice. “He cleans up pretty well in a suit. Could’ve made it work.”
Ethan—or Benji or Luther—aren’t even supposed to be here at all; she’d planned all this out as a solo gig. Staked out the dock, memorised the boarding schedule, got a hold of the ship manifest and crew roster, and even found a car for her to hide in. And then two nights before the action, the three of them had rolled up unannounced to the same safehouse MI6 had borrowed from the CIA. Demanding to know what the hell they were doing here had only been met with some excuse about there being a mix-up with double-booking the space. She doesn’t really buy that, but Ethan’s here now, after the same thing, and she isn’t about to complain. She’ll figure out how to make sure she’s the one who walks away with the hard drive later.
They go silent again as they hear a line of cars drive past them, making the deck shudder and rattling her teeth. She knows the creaking of the hull is nothing to be concerned about, but it still makes her antsy. Luther had also briefed them on where the emergency rafts and life jackets were located on the ship. It’s one of the many contingencies they’d needed to plan for; the private ferry is set to travel across the Alboran Sea, and given their luck, capsizing is a non-zero possibility. And, according to Luther, this class of vessels is notorious for it. Asset denial is Plan B, and sinking the ship is one way to make sure the hard drive they’re both after is destroyed, although it’s hardly ideal. But then neither is capsizing, she supposes.
Ilsa adjusts herself as best as she can, trying to take pressure off her arm so it doesn’t go numb. There’s not much to occupy herself with other than thinking about how stiff her neck and back are getting. Thankfully it’s uncomfortable enough being trapped inside the trunk of a car that there’s no danger of falling asleep. In other circumstances she might find it cozy being wrapped around Ethan. He does feel nice; the rise and fall of his chest against hers is soothing. She’s also becoming well acquainted with the thick line of his leg wedged between her thighs, only partially obscured by his infil suit.
Ethan checks his watch again. “Forty-seven,” he whispers. She feels his words rumble against her breasts.
“Are you in a rush?”
“It’s hard to breathe,” he replies.
“We can readjust.”
“No, it’s—the air’s stuffy.”
Ilsa purses her lips. He’s not usually one to complain.
“We can go over the plan,” she offers. “Take your mind off it.”
It’s his turn to sigh. “No, it’s alright.”
“What? What is it?”
She can almost hear the gears turning in his head. “I don’t usually do marine jobs.”
“Are you afraid of the water?” She belatedly recalls his recent drowning stint, and a twinge of guilt goes through her. It’s a slightly more serious complication than her seasickness.
“No more than normal.”
God, he’s really making her pull teeth. “Then what the hell is your problem?”
The needling works; he laughs quietly. “Too many things could go wrong.”
“As opposed to normally?”
“We could get stranded,” he says. “Or this could become an emergency rescue operation, if—”
“Ethan, what is the matter?” She wants to pull back and look at him, but there isn’t enough room. It’s too dark to see him, anyway.
He shakes his head; the movement shifts along her cheek. “Sorry. I’m not used to having this much time to think. It’s hard to concentrate.”
She smiles. “Now that, I definitely buy.”
The commotion on the lower deck slowly fades as the last batch of cars are loaded and the second wave of cargo is ramped onto the upper storage deck. The only thing to listen for now is the inspection crew, making sure all the vehicles are secure and all cargo is accounted for. She can hear sailors calling to one another somewhere in the distance. It’s difficult to tell exactly where a lot of the noise is coming from unless it’s right next to them.
Since Ethan didn’t take her up on her offer, Ilsa runs over the plan silently in her head; once Ethan’s watch went off—assuming the ferry actually undocks and leaves by that time, which isn’t a guarantee—they would get out of the trunk and change into boating clothes to blend in with the passengers above-deck. It would be a long afternoon of flirting, buying people drinks, and gathering information about the origin of each bid item at the auction dinner at 21:00. They knew one of the items contained a hard drive hidden inside of it, to be sold to a specific buyer, but they’d run out of time before fully narrowing down which bid item or buyer. Now it would be a process of elimination. They’d let the auction go without interfering, and then tail whoever bought their prize item, assuming they discovered which item it was beforehand. The ferry would travel for five days until it reached the port in Valencia, at which point they’d—well, they hadn’t figured out exfiltration yet.
And, if all of that went to shit, breaking open every bid item and brute forcing it is Plan C, although at least two of the items are luxury sports cars, and security wouldn’t exactly let them hang around the protected area of the hold. A bridge to burn later down the road.
Their gear bags contain several changes of clothes, along with enough rations to get them through the week. She hopes the heat of the Iberian coast will provide enough cover for how sweaty the both of them will be, even after they change. She’d packed wet wipes, but there’s only so much freshening up one could do below-decks. She also isn’t looking forward to crawling back in here to sleep at night. That’s another thing her and Ethan still have to work out, complicated by the fact that this is now a two-person job.
Ilsa adjusts her arm around Ethan, resting her hand on his backpack. She can feel his heart rate picking up as the cargo hold begins to settle. It’s slowly becoming apparent to her why; although the infiltration suit is bulky enough to give him plausible deniability, she can feel him growing hard against the swell of her thigh.
His earlier fussiness makes more sense now. He’s not worried about capsizing; he’s inventing catastrophes in his head to take his mind off being shoved inside a trunk with her.
Ilsa says nothing. He’s certainly aware of it already, and she doesn’t want to embarrass him. It doesn’t even necessarily mean anything; the adrenaline, the stress, pure bodily proximity. If she wasn’t nauseous she’d probably join him. He’s nice to look at and even nicer to press up against.
“Time?” she asks, and feels him flinch at her breath in his ear.
The velvet of the trunk twinkles faintly from the green glow of his watch. “Thirty-four.”
“Already halfway there,” she says. She hears him swallow.
“Yeah.”
Ilsa bites her lip, smiling to herself. He sounds miserable.
“Where were you, the last time you were on a ship?” she asks. They aren’t really supposed to be talking, but they’re close enough together that she can whisper to him, and the chit-chat of deckhands is far off. On a more personal level, she wants to put his mind at ease; they have a very long day ahead of them.
“It was another ferry, actually, boarding from Florida. It wasn’t a RO-RO though.”
She frowns. “Were you working?”
“No. I was on leave. It was years ago.”
“Florida,” she muses. “How provincial. I didn’t realise you vacationed state-side.”
He laughs quietly. “I don’t, usually. It was for a date.”
She raises a brow, though he can’t see it. “Pretty expensive date.”
“It was a pretty important date,” he responds, smiling against her jaw.
Ilsa frowns. They’re getting into actual personal information now, and she can’t fathom why he wouldn’t just lie about it. Or maybe this is the lie, although it doesn’t sound like one. Maybe that’s the point.
“Didn’t know you had a girlfriend,” she says carefully.
“We’re not together anymore.” He shifts to murmur in her ear. “What about you? When were you last on a boat?”
The overly conversational tone sounds suspiciously like ass-covering. Interesting. She decides not to press him on it any further. They’re still working, after all. “Well, I was in the Aleutian Islands about ten years ago, on a longliner.”
Ethan’s head twitches in surprise. “What were you doing all the way up in the Bering Sea? On a fishing boat?”
“A comedy of errors,” she replies, and feels him smile. “It was a last-minute assignment; the agent who was supposed to do it died a few days before and I was picked instead. There wasn’t any time for briefing me, so a lot of it was improvised. The weather was awful and visibility was shit, and I boarded the wrong vessel by accident. I lost contact with my supervisor about an hour into realising where I was, and then I was trapped out there for a few days. Thankfully it wasn’t a long trip.”
His shoulders shake with silent laughter. “That sounds horrible.”
“It was one of my first assignments. I still have no clue why they picked me. We were supposed to be tailing a private security marine outfit operating in the Arctic. They had ties to—well, I can’t tell you that. But it almost ended my career. It’s also when I figured out I got seasick.”
Ethan huffs in sympathy. “In the Bering, no less. Damn.”
“I took rations with me, thankfully, but I vomited a lot. Still can’t stand the smell of tuna.”
“Where the hell did you sleep?” he asks, impressed.
“There are a lot of little void compartments on a ship that size. In the rafters above the crew quarters, usually. The metal was nice and warm there.”
He’s activated now, his body fidgeting like he wants to look at her. “The crew never found you?”
“I may have fucked up that entire assignment, but I am very good at hiding.” She lets pride bleed into her voice. It’s not an accomplishment she can brag about to most people.
“And now you’re hiding in a trunk on a luxury ferry. This must be small potatoes for you.”
“It’s definitely more comfortable,” she says, smiling. “And it doesn’t smell like tuna.”
Ethan goes quiet again. If the talking had helped distract him at all, it’s not apparent from her perspective; his heart rate hasn’t gone down, and he’s only grown harder against her leg as they talked. It’s gotten to the point now that it can’t be mistaken for a buckle or his comms receiver.
“Now it’s your turn,” she murmurs. His hair is damp with sweat, and she can smell it on him as she speaks. “Since we’re sharing embarrassing war stories.”
“I think you have me beat on water,” he says, and it annoys her how much she enjoys his impressed tone. “Although I’ve definitely had—”
There’s a sudden loud thunk against the outer hull of the ship. Ethan flinches; she doesn’t.
“Is that the anchor?” she asks.
“I don’t know.” He checks his watch. “No way they’re leaving early.”
They both go silent, listening for any further sounds that could indicate the ship is undocking. It could be anything, really. She’s intimately familiar with how many loud, concerning sounds boat hulls could make.
The inspection crew are nearly done checking the lower deck, judging by the relative infrequency of confirmation calls across the hold that the cargo had been readied. The body of their vehicle suddenly shudders as someone yanks on the latch cables. The sound of the deckhand’s boots as he moves around the car are drowned out by the clang of noises above them, and then he calls out that the car is secure. They needed to be more careful; she hadn’t heard anyone approach.
It’s another seven minutes by her count until the deck goes quiet again. In that time, Ethan had progressively become more tense, his breathing now rapid and shallow. His erection is also straining against her leg now, far past the point where either of them can continue ignoring it.
Ilsa clears her throat. “Is that going to be a problem for you once we’re above deck? Boat pants are pretty tight.”
He lets out an explosive sigh. “Ilsa, I am so, so sorry—”
“It’s fine,” she says, smiling. “Really.”
“No it isn’t. We’re working.”
“Would it be fine if we were off the clock?”
He goes completely silent. She bites her lip as she waits.
“It’s inappropriate,” he says eventually. His tone is grave.
“I have a pretty high tolerance for the inappropriate.”
“But you shouldn’t,” he insists. “You shouldn’t have to tolerate it.”
The force in his voice takes her aback. He’s not embarrassed; he’s outraged. It’s touching enough that she restrains herself from making a joke.
“It doesn’t bother me, really,” she says quietly. “I get it.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“I think my feelings on the subject are pretty relevant.”
“I didn’t mean—” He sighs again. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have to deal with this. And we still have—nineteen minutes left. Dammit.”
“It’ll go away by then, surely?”
“Probably,” he mutters. “Hopefully.”
“You can maintain an erection for that long without touching it?” she asks, trying not to sound impressed.
He exhales slowly through his nose. “I really, really don’t want to talk about this anymore. Please.”
She just barely bites back a laugh. “I mean,” she says slowly. “You’re the one who started this conversation.”
She can feel the slight tremor in his body, either from mortification or stress she couldn’t tell. The subject matter also appears to be working much better at distracting him than their earlier chit-chat; she feels him begin to flag against her thigh.
“I promise it won’t be an issue,” he whispers. “I’ll be completely professional.” While most of his body is tense, his arm around her is gentle, almost like he’s trying to comfort her. She doesn’t need it, but she’s not about to tell him to stop.
“Aside from right now, you mean.”
She feels him cringe. “When we’re done this, I’ll—find some way to make it up to you,” Ethan says, with all the gravity of promising to form a blood pact with her.
“What, like buy me dinner?”
“Do you want dinner?”
She thinks about it for a moment. “I’m too nauseous right now, I can’t tell.”
“I wish I was nauseous,” he mutters.
“I can throw up on you if you want.”
That finally gets a smile; she feels it on her face. “God, I’m sorry.”
“Ethan, it’s fine, really,” she says. A pause, and then Ilsa smiles. “And you’re not the only affected party, you know.” She flexes her legs around his thigh. “You’re very fun to wrap around. I still think about Vienna.”
“Please don’t tell me that,” he groans. Ethan shifts again, pressing his face into the velvet floor of the trunk. “It’s not helpful.”
“I wasn’t trying to be helpful.”
He just shakes his head. Despite her confession, his erection had further receded, dogged by shame. She wonders if he knows just how compromising that fact is; that their earlier conversation about her being stuck on a tuna boat in the arctic had been the thing to really get him hard. It’s sweet in a way that makes her ache. He likes talking to her. Maybe a little too much.
The silence is much more uncomfortable now. She knows plenty of ways to break the tension, although the last time she’d tried it, he’d started straining through his tactical suit. On the other hand, it’s incredibly fun teasing him, especially with nothing better to do.
“We could just have sex,” she offers, and feels his entire body go rigid again. “That’s one way to make it go away. We’ve got what, about fifteen minutes left?”
“Twelve,” he says miserably.
“I’ve worked on shorter deadlines.”
“Ilsa….”
“The seasickness would be a complicating factor. And the trunk. There’s not a lot of space in here.”
“I’d like to just move on,” he says, a hair away from begging.
She rolls her hips. “Doesn’t feel like it to me.”
Ethan lets out a hiss of breath. His hand clamps down on her hip, stopping her from moving again. “Ilsa. Please, stop.”
He really sounds uncomfortable now. She reins herself in. “Sorry. I crossed the line.”
She feels his hand go slack on her waist. “Well, I crossed it first,” he responds. Thankfully, he sounds relieved, and more than a little self-effacing.
“I’m sure I’ll do something wildly inappropriate later,” she assures him. “Then it’ll be my turn to ask for your forgiveness.”
Ethan finally relaxes, letting out a soft laugh. “I look forward to it.”
They’re quiet for the last ten minutes. Ethan’s problem never entirely goes away, although she’d successfully mortified him enough that his erection doesn’t return to full force. She really is grateful for her nausea; it’s impossible not to conjure images of what he looks like naked, especially with his leg still wedged between her thighs, but her stomach is too sour for any of it to gain much purchase. It’s not like it’s the first time she’s pictured him naked, anyway.
When his watch finally goes off, they have to wait an extra sixteen minutes before the ship finally begins to undock. Ethan braces his hand against the inside of the trunk, clearly eager to leave.
“Ready?”
“Yeah.”
He shifts around so he can feel for the inside handle of the trunk. Forcing it to unlatch, he retracts his arms so she can climb out ass-first.
The cargo hold is dark, lit only by infrequent yellow tube lights mounted high along the hull. They were all supposed to be turned off, but she can’t see any deckhands, and they’re protected by a good deal of cover from the dark and the vehicles surrounding them anyway.
Ilsa swallows a sigh of relief as she stretches out her back and rolls her neck. All told, they’d been crammed in there for over two hours, and despite what she’d told Ethan, being wrapped around him for that long had not been kind to her joints.
She watches Ethan unfold himself from the trunk, similarly relieved to straighten out his spine. His eyes go to the lights, frowning.
“Those are supposed to be off by now,” he says, mostly to himself, and glances around the hold. From the vantage of the back of the car, their sight lines are limited to a few metres; vehicles are packed in orderly rows all around them, triple-parked.
No time to waste. They immediately begin undressing, shedding their infiltration suits and digging out a change of clothes from their backpacks. Their next objective is finding a crew ladder, the only inconspicuous way up to the passenger deck. Luther had marked the locations of them on the vessel layout—the closest to them is supposed to be along the starboard quarter, assuming their car had been loaded into the correct spot. It’s hard to tell which way the bow of the ship is from here, though.
Even in the dim light of the hold, Ilsa can see that the sundress she’d packed is heavily wrinkled. Her considerable body heat would help smooth it out, but it’s still not ideal. Glancing at Ethan, she can see his shirt is similarly creased where it’s stretched across his back. It really is a nice back.
Ilsa tucks her boots and suit into her backpack, swapping them out for flats and a small purse she could sling over her shoulder. They wouldn’t be able to come back down here until late tonight, and she wanted to plan for the possibility that they couldn’t come back at all. She packs essentials: her L131A1 pistol, an extra clip, sunglasses, emergency rations, a water bottle, makeup, a comb, sunscreen, wet wipes, and a knife. The sundress doesn’t allow for her to tuck anything anywhere, but that’s on purpose. She wants to look especially ditzy and unassuming for this afternoon, and if she needs to feel anyone up, she doesn’t want any unfortunate surprises.
She’s applying sunscreen while Ethan dresses, slower than her. He’s got his back turned, and she watches with amusement as he fusses with the front of his shorts.
“The old tucked into the waistband trick,” she muses. Her voice is barely above a whisper, but the answering glare he throws over his shoulder confirms that he heard her just fine.
“Just trying to lighten the mood,” she says with a grin, and sees his sidelong look relax into a smile.
“I guess I deserve that.” Ethan turns around to look at her. He’s dressed in a similarly ridiculous outfit; baby blue chino shorts and a coral pink button-up, complete with deck shoes. He’s even got a pair of sunglasses tucked in his chest pocket.
She bites her lip. “You look good.”
“So do you.” He runs a hand through his hair, letting out a sigh. “No more… complications now, I promise. Sorry again.”
It’s very difficult not to tease him. “Is that what we’re calling it? Complications?”
“Professional misconduct,” he amends. Though his tone is serious, she can see the amused crinkles around his eyes.
“Apology accepted,” she replies warmly, passing him the sunscreen.
She uncoils her hair from the tight bun she’d wrapped it in. Teasing it out with her fingers, she tries to figure out where they are in relation to the bow, craning her neck to look around the roofs of the cars. She thinks she can feel the forward momentum of the ship now, which would mean she’s currently facing the… stern? It’s hard to tell. They need to avoid stepping out onto the main driveway of the cargo hold if possible, and instead walk along the much more concealed hull until they find a ladder. It has to be the starboard quarter one in order to follow the route they’d planned, but they might need to improvise.
“You have everything?” Ethan whispers, wiping the excess sunscreen on his hands around his neck. She tucks the bottle back into her purse.
“I think so.”
Ethan tosses both of their gear bags in the trunk, shutting it closed as quietly as possible. Still, it echoes loudly in the expansive length of the hold, making them both wince.
“Okay,” he mutters, looking around. “Where are we?”
“That’s the bow, I think,” she says, pointing in front of them. “Although I don’t know if—”
Footsteps. Ilsa lunges forward, shoving Ethan up against the trunk of the car and capturing his face in a rough kiss. She feels his immediate resistance in the rigid lines of his body and the tight, closed press of his mouth. His hands are clamped around her biceps in alarm, though he doesn’t shove her away.
“Someone’s coming,” she whispers, kissing him again. “Act like we came down here to have sex.”
He relaxes just as immediately, limbs suddenly loose and warm against her body. She feels him break out into a smile as she continues kissing him, now breathy and buoyant. “How many?” he murmurs.
“Just one, I think.”
He kisses her back a little too enthusiastically, an arm wrapping around her waist. She doesn’t have the space to enjoy it; the sound of footsteps—single pair, boots—rapidly grows louder as a deckhand marches down the central driveway to investigate the noise. The beam of a flashlight lands on them a moment later.
“What are you doing down here?” the deckhand demands in Portuguese.
Ethan breaks away from her, grinning like a moron at the guy. His Portuguese is convincingly awful. “Come on, man, we were just—”
“You’re not supposed to be down here.”
“Can you give us five more minutes?” Ilsa asks with a similar grin, leaning into Ethan, who’s still pressed up against the trunk of the car. Stripped of his bulky suit now, she can feel the hard, sweaty warmth of his body through the thin material of his shirt. However he’d adjusted himself in his shorts, she can’t feel his erection now. If he still had one. “Maybe… ten? Please?”
She can’t see the man’s face with the flashlight shining directly into their eyes, but his tone is annoyed rather than suspicious. “Come with me. Now,” he adds when they don’t immediately begin moving.
“Alright, alright.” Ethan stands up, tugging Ilsa with him. He keeps his arm threaded around her waist, pressing them close together, and guides them drunkenly between the stowed vehicles. Although it’s just to keep up appearances, she’s grateful for the support; it’s difficult to see much of anything, especially with the flashlight still pointed at them, and she has to watch her footing to make sure they don’t trip over any of the latching cables secured to the deck.
Once they extricate themselves from the line of cars, the deckhand barks at them to follow him. Ethan leans into her so he can whisper in her ear.
“That was slick.”
She shivers at the warmth of his breath. Ilsa ducks towards him to respond, and she almost ends up kissing him by accident. “It’s called being a professional,” she whispers, and feels his answering grin pressed against her cheek.
The deckhand guides them to one of the crew ladders. It’s brighter here, with lights running behind the rungs of the ladder. “Up,” he orders, stony-faced. “All the way to the passenger deck.”
Ethan pulls away from her, ducking towards the worker. “You won’t report this, right?” he says, low and conspiratorial, grinning smooth as silk. “I mean, come on, look at her.” He gestures back at Ilsa.
She watches the deckhand give her a lecherous once over. He ducks to Ethan to whisper something to him, and Ethan responds by laughing and clapping him on the shoulder.
“Glad to hear it.” He turns back to Ilsa, an apology clear on his face. “Ladies first,” he says, gesturing to the ladder.
She puts on an oblivious smile and begins climbing. The deckhand immediately follows up the ladder behind her, and Ethan brings up the rear. She lets him look up her skirt, wondering what the hell she’d do if Ethan wasn’t here.
The climb is long, but she relishes the exercise after being immobile for two hours. Her stomach is still roiling, and it would probably get worse now that they’re moving through the water. She’s pretty sure she’d packed anti-nausea tablets in her purse, but she’d forgotten to check beforehand.
The sunlight is overwhelming when they eventually make it to the top deck, and Ilsa is temporarily blinded as she climbs the last few rungs of the ladder. She dusts her hands off as she gets her feet planted on the deck, squinting at the unpleasant grey dirt covering her palms.
Still a little disoriented from the sunlight, Ilsa shields her eyes as she gets her bearings. This isn’t the ladder they’d planned on climbing; they’re closer to the bow than they should be. The part of the deck they’re on is close to the edge of the ship, enough that if she looked to her right she could easily see the open water. She keeps her eyes on the deck.
“That’s a lovely woman you’ve got there,” the deckhand tells Ethan, both of them emerging from the crew ladder. He even reaches down to give Ethan a hand up, Christ.
“You have no idea,” Ethan says in low, grinning confidence, shaking the guy’s hand.
“But don’t do that again,” the deckhand says, pointing at both of them in warning. With one last piercing look at Ilsa, he heads towards the stern.
Ethan sidles up next to her, watching the guy walk away. “I owe you two dinners now,” he whispers, deeply apologetic.
She arches her brow. “I’m just glad to see you’re making friends.”
He shakes his head, wrinkling his nose. “I don’t know what the hell I’d do if you weren’t here,” he mutters.
Ilsa smiles, unable to help herself. There’s a high flush on his cheekbones, and probably not from talking to the deckhand. He’s got some excess sunscreen smudged along his ear, too, and she resists the urge to rub it into his skin. Her hands are too dirty for it, anyway.
Ethan blows out a breath, glancing around the deck. The noise of the nearby crowd of people is loud and boisterous, mostly gathered around the bar; the party’s already started. “We can split up now, if you like.”
She pulls out two wipes from her purse, handing one to Ethan to clean his hands. “Let’s mingle first. I want to get a feel for the crowd.”
He takes the wipe gratefully. “I’m Rob Langford, hedge fund manager,” he says, and then glances at her.
“Beatrice Geoffries,” she replies. “Your lovely piece of ass.”
The flush on his face deepens. “Sorry once again,” he mutters, and shoves the used wipe into his pocket. “Okay. Let’s go.”
“Gentlemen first,” she says with a smile, threading her arm through his.