That was one reminder I never needed. I'd had lovers before and after Kristof—never many, I was always too particular to share my body with just anyone—but Kris was the only man I'd ever lost control with, the only one I'd never been able to get enough of. And now, feeling him hard against me…

Oh, to hell with this.

I tilted my hips up. Kris pressed closer, letting me lift my legs and wrap them around him. I wrapped my hands in his hair and kissed him. Kris moaned and slid his hands into my breeches, and grabbed my rear, pulling me tighter against him.

Then he tensed, resisting. After a moment's hesitation, he tugged my arms down and stepped back.

"You aren't ready," he murmured.

"No?"

I took his hand. He let me slide his fingers under my waistband, then jerked his hand away and took another step back.

"I don't mean ready for a five-minute bang against a tree, Eve. That's not good enough. I want you back.

For now and forever. I mean that."

"Kris, I've told you—"

"You don't want that kind of relationship. Yes, you've said it. Over and over. We couldn't make it work the first time, so we shouldn't try again. A nice, pat excuse—"

"It's not—"

"Since when have you ever failed at something once and given up? It's an excuse, Eve—a simple excuse for avoiding the very complex problem that's you and me, and everything we did and didn't do once upon a time. You aren't ready yet. I know that. And I'll wait until you are." He gave a small smile. "It's not like I'm going to run out of time."

"I—"

"Speaking of time, though, you have a job to do, so I'd suggest we stop screwing around—or talking about why we aren't screwing around—and get back to work."

Our goal was, of course, to get passage to Roatan, preferably that night. So we started down to the wharf. The first three pirates we passed did double-takes at my outfit, but only murmured greetings and kept walking. When we drew within twenty yards of the harbor, we had to pass a grizzled old salt with an eye patch. He heaved to his feet and blocked our path, hand on his sword. Unlike the others we'd seen—who'd had the look and dental work of men who'd never seen the Jolly Roger outside a movie theater—this guy could have been the real deal, with blackened teeth, swarthy battle-scarred skin, and serious hygiene issues… which probably explained why he'd been consigned to harbor duty.

"Avast!" he growled, voice thick with a near-impenetrable accent. "Who ye be?"

"Visitors," I said. "We just arrived, and we wanted to see the ships—"

"Not dressed like that, ye ain't, missy."

"Our outfits may be somewhat anachronistic," Kristof said. "Yet certainly no worse than others we've seen so far." He glanced over the pirate's stained and ragged ensemble. "Excepting your own fine attention to period detail, of course."

The pirate's lip curled. "Don't give a damn about yer britches, lad. It's hers that's t'problem. No wimmin pirates allowed here. Only wenches."

"Wenches?" I said.

"That may be your usual policy," Kristof said. "It may also explain the notable lack of female companionship available in your fine town. Might I suggest you reconsider—"

"I'm not reconsidering anything, lad. Either she changes herself into a proper wench, or ye best be reconsidering staying in La Ceiba."

Kristof opened his mouth to argue, but I shushed him with a look. Flexibility is the key to progress. So I slipped behind the nearest hut, and made a few minor alterations to my costume. The shirt, boots, and earrings stayed. The breeches gave way to a peasant skirt. A few necklaces and I looked as darned wenchy as I was getting. As for the cutlass, well, as much as I hated to part with it, I reminded myself that I could conjure it up anytime I felt the need.

I stepped from behind the hut.

The old pirate ogled me with a gap-toothed grin. "Now, that's more like it, ma beauty." He elbowed Kristof in the ribs. "Got yerself a damned fine wench there, lad."

"Uh, thank you."

"So, sir," I said. "Perhaps, if you have a moment, you'd be kind enough to tell us how we could get to Roatan."

"Roatan?" His face scrunched up. "Why ye want to go to Roatan? All faction be here, on this side o' the bay."

"Perhaps," Kris said. "But we really must get to Roatan. Is there a ship we could charter?"

"This ain't t' Yacht club, lad. Ye don't charter a pirate ship. Ye wants passage, ye gots team it, by going on account."

"Going on account?"

The pirate slapped Kris on the back. "Joinin' a crew, lad. Joinin' a crew."

"I… see. Well, thank you very much for your time. Mind if we take a stroll along the harbor?"

"Stroll away. Ye wants to be joinin' a crew, now, ye lets me know, an' I'll set ye up." He slid a sly smile my way. "And I'll look after yer wench while yer at sea."

We thanked the old pirate and headed to the wharf. If we couldn't charter a ship, we'd need to steal one.

Unfortunately, it quickly became obvious that every ship was guarded by at least two men, and the galleons were packed in so tight that the moment we boarded one, we'd be beset by attackers from the others.

I turned to Kristof. "They might not encourage rentals, but I bet we can find someone willing to bargain."

"Up to the taverns, then?"

I nodded.

We picked the largest of the three taverns along the main road. A sign at the door warned against the use of weapons, magic, and supernatural powers of all kinds. Kristof vaporized his sword, then pulled open the door and ushered me inside.

Chapter 22

INSIDE, THE CLATTER OF STEEL MUGS COMPETED WITH the roar of voices raised in laughter and anger. The air was thick with cigar and wood smoke. Did pirates smoke cigars? Didn't look authentic, but obviously someone had decided it was, and that was good enough for them. A themed afterlife town should never be mistaken for a historical reconstruction. It's a theme-park version, like Disney's Pirates of the Caribbean ride… before they sanitized it for the age of political correctness.