by Anne Stuart
"Goodbye, Libby," he said. And he turned and jumped off the boat, walking back up the wooden walkway to the house. A moment later he'd disappeared inside, without looking back even once.
"Well, I'd say he's a right fool," Roger said, untying the boat. The engine was already running, and it took him less than a moment to steer the craft into the water. "But then, I expect you know that, don't you, miss? Sun's pretty bright out here, ain't it? Don't blame you for squinting." He gave her a sympathetic smile. "Why don't you go below and get yourself a nice cuppa while I make some distance between us and that miserable old hermit. Nothing grieves me more than a man who doesn't appreciate what he's got."
She tried her absolute best to manage a breezy smile, but it fell far short, and Captain Roger knew the difference. "Go below, miss, and take a little nap. You'll feel better once we hit the mainland."
"How…long will it take?" It was only a slight hiccup, and he couldn't have known she was trying desperately not to cry. Or at least, he couldn't be certain.
"Three or four hours, depending on the tides," said Captain Roger. "No time at all, miss. You'll be there in time for a late lunch. A little food and a cold beer always makes things look better. As a matter of fact, there's a cold beer or two below if you're feeling the need."
She shook her head. "No, thanks. But I—" hiccup "—think I will lie down for a while."
"You do that, miss. I'll call you when we get near land."
She disappeared down the companionway, and Roger shook his head. Most people were damned fools, but he'd always figured John Hunter had more brains than most. Guess he was mistaken, and he had every intention of telling him so once he got back.
And maybe it wouldn't be too late for that sweet little thing sobbing her heart out down in the cabin.
John walked straight through the house and onto the porch that ran along the back of it. He didn't hesitate, diving into the forest that surrounded his place with a single-minded determination. He broke into a run, covering the ground swiftly, barely aware of his surroundings. It wasn't until he'd reached the top of the cliffs that he realized what he'd been doing. He'd been running away from Libby. Because if he'd stayed back at the house, stood on the porch and watched her leave, he wouldn't have let her go. And that would have been crazy for both of them.
He could see the little steamer moving down the coast, and there was Roger at the helm, probably singing some bawdy song like he always did, John thought. Or maybe not, out of deference to his passenger.
There was no sign of Libby, and he cursed beneath his breath. If he'd any idea that this hilltop had been his eventual destination he would have stopped and grabbed some binoculars.
She must be in the cabin taking a nap. It would be little wonder—she'd had a very energetic night with only a few catnaps.
Catnaps. She'd curled up against him, practically purring, and a wave of longing that was only half-sexual and entirely emotional washed over him. He wanted her back. He wanted her sleeping with him, whispering with him, loving with him.
And he was being a damned fool. He wasn't made for cohabiting, and she wasn't made for the wilderness. They were completely mismatched, and it was far better to end it after a great night of sex.
The best sex of her life, he'd promised her. But the damnable thing was, it had been the best sex of his life as well, and he'd had a lot more to compare it to.
He watched until the boat steamed out of sight, hoping irrationally for one last glimpse of her. But there was no one on the deck but Roger, and eventually it was no more than a tiny speck in the distance. And then it was gone.
He was half tempted to just keep walking, straight into the forest, but he controlled the need. Instead he headed back down to the cottage, at a much slower pace, in no hurry to go back.
It was just as he'd left it. The first thing he had to do was clean up. She was gone, and it wouldn't do any good to have reminders all over the place.
He started with the bedroom. The sheet was ripped and stained, and he supposed he ought to just toss it in the trash. Instead he put it in the hamper. He grabbed the mosquito netting and wrapped it into a ball, tossing it in the closet, trying not to remember what they'd been doing when she'd pulled it down around them.
This was going to be fine, he told himself. No problem. He wasn't even missing her, just a little leftover sexual angst, but that would pass, and he could settle in and get back to his research…
And that's when he saw the brownie pan on the floor, with her footprint as clear as day. He picked it up, staring down at it as if it were some miraculous prehistoric artifact. And for some damned fool reason he set it on the kitchen counter rather than tossing it.
He was sitting on the lanai, on his second beer and feeling about as cheerful as a martyr on the way to the stake, when he heard the sounds of the steamer on its return trip, and he felt a sudden stirring in the pit of his stomach. What if she'd flat-out refused to leave? What if she told Roger she was coming back, and he couldn't stop her?
Not that Roger would stop her. He thought John was a damned fool for letting her go, and he would have happily carted her all the way back. Roger was a sentimental old fool. He still believed in true love and all that garbage.
What would he do if she came back? He'd have to make certain things clear, of course. There'd have to be ground rules—he wasn't used to living with anyone else, and she wasn't the type to just fade into the woodwork. She was even more obtrusive when she was being silent.
But he could manage to put up with it, quite nicely, as a matter of fact. She hadn't said anything about wanting to stay, but he'd only had to take one look at her face from across the boat to know that she would. If he'd only asked.
Roger was right, he was a damned fool sometimes. But Roger didn't know Libby. She may have let him send her away, but sooner or later on that five-hour trip her temper was going to get the better of her, and he'd be willing to bet anything that she was coming back to him, right this minute, ready to give him a piece of her mind. He just had to talk her into giving him a piece of her heart.
She wasn't on the deck as Roger pulled up to the dock, but he didn't let that discourage him. She was probably still below, trying to figure out her best plan of attack.
Except that Roger didn't look particularly happy as he tied up the boat and hopped out. Not happy with life in general, and not happy with John in particular.
"You got another one of those beers, mate?" he called out. "I've had one hell of a day."
"I've been saving this one for you," he said, handing him one. Still no sign of life at the boat. How was she going to handle this?
"What the hell are you looking at?" Roger demanded irritably. "You think the Katie O. is going to sink?"
He turned to look at Roger. "Are you alone?"
"Of course I'm alone, you great stupid fool! You think she'd come back after you kicked her out and didn't even kiss her goodbye? She spent the whole damned trip down in the cabin crying her heart out. You're one right bastard, you know that."
John took a long drink of his beer, ignoring the chill, sick feeling that hit his stomach. "Yeah, I know," he said evenly.
"Lucky for you she found some old friends of hers. I wouldn't have wanted to leave her alone in town, but she met up with a couple of blokes and went off with them, arm in arm…"
"She did what?"
"No need to get your knickers in a twist!" Roger said. "You let her go, you know. Besides, they weren't anything more than friends. One big, ugly guy and a little weaselly fellow. Can't imagine where she knew them from, but they were as thick as thieves, rushing her out of there before I could even say goodbye."
"Hell and damnation," said John. "Give me ten minutes."
"Ten minutes for what, mate?"
"We're going after her." He was already heading for the front door.
"I'm not making a special trip all the way back to Johnson Harbour because you happened to screw up your love life. You'll just have
to wait—"
"I can't wait. Those weren't her friends, Roger. They'll kill her."
Roger stared at him blankly. "Well, what are you waiting for then? Let's get the hell back there."
"Now, ain't this convenient?" Alf said jovially as they hurried her along the narrow streets of Johnson Harbour. "Here we were, ready to hire a boat to go checking some of the outer islands for any trace of you, and you walk straight into our arms. Must be bloody fate, don't you think, Mick?"
"Must be," Mick mumbled.
"And don't think of making a noise, missy. I can break your neck so quickly no one will even notice, and we'll tell people you've got sunstroke. You're not ready to die yet, are you?"
"No," Libby mumbled.
"Then you'll do as I say. There's the car up ahead. You climb in the back seat, all nice and ladylike, and don't make a peep, or Mick will have to hurt you."
She turned to look at Mick. He had an utterly miserable expression on his face, but she didn't for one moment doubt that he'd do what Alf told him to do.
The car was an anonymous rental. Alf was taking no chances—he blocked the door as he helped her in, so she had no chance of escape. Mick had climbed in the other side, and she was well and truly trapped.
She had two seconds to plead while Alf walked around to the driver's seat. "Mick, you don't want to do this," she said urgently. "You don't want to hurt me, you know you don't."
"No, miss," he said miserably. "And I promise you, I won't. I'll make sure Alf does it neat and tidy. No pain at all. Trust me."
It didn't warm the cockles of her heart. Alf got in the driver's seat and the car sagged. He glanced at Libby in the rearview mirror, and she glared at him, resisting the childish impulse to stick her tongue out at him. For some reason the idea of sticking her tongue out at her future murderer seemed a bit…ludicrous.
"Looks like our little lady's been having herself some fun while she's been gone," Alf observed. "Doesn't she have the look of someone who's been royally shagged? Where is he, Doc?"
"Go to hell," she said sweetly.
"I tried to be reasonable," Alf said with a sigh. "You can tell Old Ed that, if he asks. Give her the shot, Mick. We want her nice and peaceful while we bring her back to Ghost Island."
"No!" Libby cried, but Mick had already jabbed her arm with a syringe. She recognized those syringes—they were the ones she'd emptied and filled with water, dumping out the potent tranquilizers. It was a perfect chance. All she had to do was fake it and they'd stop watching her, and she'd be able to escape, and…
She could feel her hands and feet growing numb, and she realized with horror that, by sheer luck, they'd gotten one of the syringes she hadn't sabotaged.
"Hell and damnation," she muttered thickly as the darkness closed in around her.
Chapter Fifteen
« ^ »
There was one good thing to be said for being kidnapped and drugged, Libby thought some uncounted hours later. If the drugs were strong enough, she didn't have to suffer through that god-awful plane ride in a conscious state. By the time things started coming back into focus she was already back on Ghost Island, traveling along in the back seat of the same luxurious limo that had brought her there a lifetime ago.
She let out a small, involuntary moan. "Awake, are you?" Alf said with demonic cheer. "We timed that just about right, didn't we? Softhearted Mick here was afraid it might have been too big a dose, given that it was calibrated for your ape-man friend, but I figured even though you were small you had a lot of fight in you. And here you are, wide awake, right on cue."
She glared at him, leaning back against the elegant leather seats, this time having no illusions about the luxury. It might as well be an executioner's cart.
How long had it been since she arrived here? A lifetime ago, when she'd been an entirely different woman. If she'd known what was going to happen, would she have changed her mind? If she had the chance, would she go back to being the edgy, nervous creature that she had been?
If she got out of this alive she was going to have that chance. She'd go back to her old life, her old city, and maybe she'd turn back into the old Libby. She devoutly hoped not.
But it was more than likely she wasn't going anywhere at all. Alf didn't have a speck of conscience, and Mick, though regretful, did his bidding. As for Hunnicutt, he gave the orders and then washed his hands of the matter.
The one thing she wasn't going to do was tell them a damned thing about John. About who he was, or where to find him. It wouldn't make any difference in what they did to her, and the least she could do was try to protect him.
Not that he deserved protecting after letting her walk out like that this morning, but it seemed a waste of time to hold a grudge when she was staring death in the face. Might as well die being noble.
Alf pulled up in front of the long, low building, and Libby reached for the door, planning one last attempt at escaping. It didn't open.
"Now, you didn't think it was going to be that easy, did you?" Alf chided her. "Even the most luxurious cars come with child safety locks. You just stay right there and Mick will come around and escort you into the house. There are dangerous creatures in the jungle out there. We wouldn't want you to run into any wild animals, now, would we?"
If she'd thought Mick was having second thoughts, his grip on her arm disabused her of the notion. There would be no escaping his grip, even if she could manage to distract him for a moment. She let them lead her up the front steps, feeling tired, grubby and still slightly looped. She had to admit that as far as knockout drugs went, this was far more enjoyable than the tranquilizer dart.
Once inside the cool, dark hallway the door closed behind them, and subtle lighting illuminated their way. She started toward the living room, where she'd first met Hunnicutt, when Alf caught her arm in his meaty grip. "Not that way, girlie. He's waiting for us in the library."
He propelled her down to the other end of the hallway, into a wide, spacious, brightly lit room. The walls were covered with bookshelves, and the books were color-coordinated, arranged by size, and had obviously never been read. In the middle was a huge wooden desk, with Edward J. Hunnicutt sitting there waiting for her.
"Hi, Ed," she said with cheerful defiance. "Long time no see."
Hunnicutt raised his eyebrows in surprise, throwing a questioning look at Alf. "You sound surprisingly cheerful, Dr. Holden, given the circumstances."
"Oh, I'm a firm believer in the saying that if life gives you lemons, make lemonade. Mind if I sit down?"
"Please." He gestured toward one of the leather chairs. "I must say you look very different from when I first saw you five days ago. I'm very disappointed in your behavior. Most unprofessional."
"Five days ago?" Libby echoed, fastening on what interested her. She realized with some amusement that she was, for want of a better word, slightly stoned from the drug they'd fed her. Just cheerfully feeling no pain, even as she stared death in the face. "My, my, how time flies when you're having fun."
"Do you have any explanation for your behavior, Dr. Holden?" Hunnicutt said severely. He reminded her of her high school principal, the one who'd fought long and hard against a fourteen-year-old graduating. She'd won, and he'd hated it.
This time she wasn't winning, but Old Ed wasn't happy about it, either. "Explanation?" she said vaguely. "Well, let's see. Compassion? Decency? Honor? Justice? This is a big library—I'm sure you could look those words up since you obviously don't know the meaning of them."
He was an ugly little man, despite his perfect hair and skin, his spotless suit, his bland features. Ugly in his soul, and it showed in his furious, colorless eyes.
"Where is the wild man, Dr. Holden?"
"Wild man? I don't know what you're talking about," she said, leaning back and crossing her long, bare legs.
"What other kind of drugs do you have downstairs in that laboratory, Mr. Droggan?" Hunnicutt asked, his calm voice belying his fury. "Dr. McDonough liked to play with pha
rmaceuticals—did he happen to leave some sodium pentathol or something of that ilk?"
"I don't think so, Mr. Hunnicutt. Just the tranquilizers, and most of those are broken. We've got a few syringes left for emergencies."
"We're not going to need them unless you can manage to find our subject and recapture him," Hunnicutt said. "And we'll have an easier time doing that if Dr. Holden would just be reasonable and tell us where he is."
Libby shrugged. "I haven't the faintest idea."
"Oh, we know that's not true. And I imagine Alf won't have too difficult a time getting information from you. Drugs are much more civilized, but if I know Mr. Droggan he probably prefers the old-fashioned way."
"You promised you weren't going to hurt her," Mick piped up.
"If she'd cooperate there'd be no need to hurt her, Mr. Brown," said Hunnicutt, the soul of reason. "Maybe you should explain the situation to her."
"Maybe you should all go to hell," Libby said.
Hunnicutt shrugged. "You see? She leaves us no choice. I'm sure Alf will be moderately restrained, but you can never…" A sudden sharp beeping noise filled the room, and his colorless face turned even paler.
"I'll go see who it is," Alf said.
"How could someone have gotten on the island without anyone knowing?" Hunnicutt demanded in a peevish voice. "The security system here is unimpeachable."
"Probably the same way they got off the island," Alf said. "Don't worry, I'll get rid of whoever it is."
"Don't arouse their suspicions. You're not the most politic of people, Mr. Droggan. Be polite."
"What about her?" Alf jerked his head in Libby's direction.
"Give her another shot and hide her someplace. We can deal with her later."
"No!" Libby shrieked, but it was already too late. Mick had plunged another syringe into her arm with bloodthirsty enthusiasm, and she closed her eyes, waiting for the curtain of numbness to wash over her, trying to fight it, knowing it was a lost cause, knowing…