After several minutes, the man came back with the teller and took up the spot on the other side of the counter. He had an even thicker accent than the woman.
“Miss Grant, I am the manager. I'm sorry to tell you that your account has been frozen, and I will be required to confiscate your card.”
“Confiscate my card? But--”
“I'm sorry, Miss Grant,” he said, commiserating with her. The only card he traded back to her was her I.D. “Perhaps you can straighten it out with your bank on one of our house phones?” He gestured to a row of them, all tucked into privacy cubes, against a far wall.
Evelyn didn't need to follow his gesture. She'd seen them on her way in. It dawned on her belatedly that it was probably the Templars. They'd accessed her information and had enough pull or connections to freeze her account, making it hard for her to maneuver around the country. They were tightening the noose in every way they could.
Her dependence on the two agents had just ratcheted up another notch.
“Thank you for your time.” About facing, she departed the bank without stopping by the service phones. Nothing would be gained by wasting time with representatives that wouldn't give her access anyway.
Squinting into the sunlight, she let her eyes readjust before stepping toward the waiting taxi. A hand on her elbow whirled her around and she gasped in surprise, drawing several stares from people passing by.
Rhett glared down at her, mouth a thin, white line. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”
Speechless for a moment, she regained her equilibrium and frowned. “I needed to get some money out of the bank--”
“So you just went wandering along the marina, leaving yourself wide open for them to grab you. Why didn't you just call them and set up a meeting place?” He ground the words out past clenched teeth and 'guided' her along the sidewalk, away from the bank.
“Mister Nichols. You have no right--”
“Don't I? Do you want our protection or not, Miss Grant? Because when you do things like this, you're not just putting yourself in danger. You put us in danger, too. Think about it.” After another glare, he helped her into a black car parked at the curb and got into the back seat with her.
Christian sat in the driver's seat looking quite unhappy. He said nothing though while he pulled them into traffic and turned back toward the docks.
“The last I knew, Mister Nichols, I wasn't your prisoner, either. I'm free to see to my business.” His brusque manner made her confrontational. If she was honest with herself, the strain of it all didn't help her mood any.
“All you had to do was ask one of us to come with you,” he said, leaning back against the seat. Knees sprawled, he rested a fist on the arch of his muscled thigh and appeared to struggle to contain his irritation. “And since you didn't, it means you're trying to hide something. What, Miss Grant, are you trying to hide?” The knife sharp edge of his gaze came her way.
Evelyn bristled under the insinuation—which was the truth, damn him—and under his glare. “You'll excuse me if I didn't realize I needed to obtain permission to get my own money out of the bank. You said we were safe enough here. I took you at your word.”
“Which still doesn't explain what you're trying to hide.”
“I'm not hiding anything.”
“Really? Then why didn't you ask me to go with you?”
“Because I don't need a babysitter. It was a trip to the bank. And as you can see, nothing happened.” Engaged in a heated stare down, she refused to look away first.
Leaning closer, he obliterated the space between them and said, “What just happened is that you probably tipped them off to your whereabouts by accessing your account. And you could have fooled me about needing a babysitter when I found you in their basement.”
The warmth of his mint-scented breath washed over her lips and chin. He was so close she could see the gold flecks in his turbulent green eyes. So close that she felt like she had to whisper an answer. “Actually, I'm sure I didn't tip anyone off because I couldn't access my account at all.”
His brows shot up and he leaned back. “Why not?”
“I don't know how, but someone put a hold on it. The money's in there, but I can't get to it. And the manager confiscated my card.” When she broke eye contact and looked forward, she met Christian's frowning gaze in the rear view mirror. Just a brief second of concern before he swerved the car into a slot not far from the Selena Marie.
“They've got more pull than I gave them credit for,” Rhett said. “Checking your use of the card is one thing. Putting a freeze on the account is another.” Swinging open the door, he got out without another word.
Seething and annoyed, Evelyn climbed out as well. She cracked the door closed and marched toward the tethered yacht a few feet behind Christian. Rhett fell in behind her. The tension, a palpable weight between them, made Evelyn uneasy. She knew she was defensive and wary because trust in other people, no matter how much she wanted it, didn't come easy. Rhett's efficiency and normally amiable demeanor tempted her like no one had tempted her in a long time to confide things she knew she couldn't. He just had that I-can-fix-anything-if-you-let-me aura about him.
They boarded the yacht and within twenty minutes, Aristo had maneuvered them out of the harbor and the port and back into the broad, blue waters of the Mediterranean.
Chapter Five
The dark surface of the ocean hypnotized Evelyn while she watched out the window in her stateroom. Little whitecaps peaked and receded like the spikes on a heart monitor machine, and, if one watched long enough, it was easy to sync with the rhythm and be lulled by its eternal consistency. There was something soothing about the perpetual flux of the tide.
Earlier, after arriving back on the boat, she and Rhett had gone their separate ways. She suspected he gave in and went to get some sleep while Christian stood watch. Rhett was only human, after all, and needed to refuel like the rest of them. Christian announced there were deli sandwiches for dinner—although he hadn't made her a plate like Rhett—but she'd politely refused and sought the refuge of her room instead.
Propped on a chair with her legs tucked beneath her, she'd been sitting here for hours, thinking over the tension between her and Rhett, the status of her sisters and what repercussions the freeze on her bank would have down the line. No clear answers presented themselves to any of it. Disconcerted by her reaction to Rhett, Evelyn tried to reason it out. It was more than that he'd saved her from the Knights. More than his persistence in keeping her safe.
There was an inexorable pull, an undeniable something that she couldn't recall feeling around any other man. It went beyond simple attraction. She knew he felt it too, although she wouldn't have been able to say exactly why or how. Even the friction between them didn't offset the draw. Maybe it had to do with his saving her, or that she detected a capacity for caring underneath his tough exterior.
Unable to grieve properly for Galiana, she had the compelling urge to confess to Rhett her pain and agony and let him bear some of the weight.
In the distance, the wink of a light drew her out of her contemplative reverie. The swell of the water played hide and seek with an ocean liner's lights. It came again a moment later, a bright but small flicker, almost like a star on the horizon. She couldn't gauge the distance whatsoever, nor the direction. Many vessels made the voyage from Crete to Cairo or other ports close by. This was just one more ferrying tourists to exotic destinations.
Twisting a length of wavy, auburn hair between her fingers, she wondered if the occupants were having a better time of their trip than she was. Contemplation kept her mind off her sister, off the melancholy that wanted to pull her under like a riptide.
The door to her room swung open without warning, startling her. Rhett, dressed in dark colors with his shoulder holster in place, swooped in on her with a gun outstretched in his hand. He made and held strict eye contact, looming like a frightening ghost, as intent as he'd been the night he'd woken her from a d
ead sleep.
“Take this and lock yourself in here. Don't come out no matter what you hear or what happens. Shoot to kill if they get past us and get in,” he said, just as the yacht lurched and the speed increased.
Evelyn sat up straighter in the chair and closed her hand over the gun even though she recoiled at the thought of actually coming face to face with the Templars and being forced to shoot them. But she would, if she had to. She would.
“How did they find us?”
“I don't have time right now to talk about it. Later.” He squeezed her fingers around the gun and left the room, closing the door after a final gesture for her to come over and lock it.
Shocked that the wide open ocean wasn't a safe as she'd led herself to believe, she scrambled out of the chair and threw the locks the door. There were two; one in the knob and another deadbolt that made a satisfying click when she turned it. Setting the gun on the bed, she yanked socks over her bare feet and then jammed them into her tennis shoes. It was the only concession to comfort she'd made earlier when she'd retired to rest. All the rest of her clothes were as she'd worn them earlier, and she wondered again if she'd ever feel safe enough to dress in pajamas to sleep.
Rattled, she picked the gun up and checked the safety. Her experience with the weapon was rusty. She wasn't sure her aim would be as great as it once was, not after all these years of avoiding the practice range. The irony of the situation was not lost on her.
From the bed, she went to the window. Broad, with a three inch sill, it gave her a decent view to the east. The small light that wasn't so small any longer. It was closer, bigger, winking in and out like the gleam of a freshly cut diamond. The Selena Marie approached the fastest speed she'd seen so far, cutting through the lapping tide with an uptick in the drone of the engine. Over that, she heard the sound of a distant bang that she struggled to decipher.
With a sudden dousing, all the running lights on the yacht went out. From her second level viewpoint, she'd been able to see part of the lower deck along the side. Now there was only the hazy, phosphor glow from a half hidden moon to make out a dark head running below.
Christian. It had to be Christian. The other boat wasn't nearly in range to transfer people from one vessel to another.
Still, it made her stomach ache with nausea and set her nerves on edge. While the other, smaller boat drew closer, she steeled herself against the unlikely event that she would have to shoot her way free of the Knights. In these minutes before possible confrontation, she reminded herself that it was kill or be killed—or tortured.
Like anyone with a serious phobia, Evelyn's private pep talks only went so far. The mere thought of that kind of violence brought bile up the back of her throat that she kept having to swallow down.
Think of them as still targets. Like at the range. Nothing more than a wood silhouette, without souls, without hearts.
She breathed in and breathed out.
Gunfire erupted, sounding like firecrackers on the fourth of July. Instinct kicked in and she ducked down with only her eyes and forehead above the line of the window sill. It was hard to see and harder to tell who was doing the shooting.
She thought she heard shouting, too, somewhere in the din. Recognizing the voices was impossible. Had someone on the Selena Marie been hit? Dread coursed through her when she thought about Rhett taking another bullet in her stead. Or Christian. Or Aristo.
Drawing in a breath, she worked the latch on the window and slid it open. There was no screen to get in the way when she aimed the gun out over the water, angling the muzzle toward the faint silhouette of the smaller boat that was closer now, veering wildly when the captain tried to avoid incoming rounds.
Whatever light she had seen from a distance had been distinguished, leaving only the moon glinting off the hull to guide her.
Evelyn didn't like violent confrontations, but shooting at the boat—albeit it moving—was better than shooting at people. Steadying her hand and her faith, she braced her arm and cupped the weapon with both hands.
Aiming low, thinking to hit the tanks or something else critical to the running of the boat, she pulled the trigger. And she pulled it again. The weapon bucked in her hands, sending sharp jolts up her arms.
What she didn't expect was a return volley; two bullets punched through the frame a foot above her head. Retreating all at once, she sank below the sill and crab-crawled over the floor to the opposite side of the bed. As long as she'd been alive, no one had ever fired bullets at her. She found it terrifying.
So much for trying to help out.
Two more bullets slammed into the wall on the other side of the room, leaving holes in the window. With every crack and splinter of wood, she flinched. She half expected the smaller boat to ram the Selena Marie.
Steadying herself, she listened to the barrage of gunfire coming from both sides of the confrontation. The burst from a machine gun riddled the night, sounding like chattering, mad laughter. She couldn't tell who was doing the shooting. Breathing shallow like she'd just run a marathon, she pressed her back against the bed for support, making a small package of herself to avoid being hit. It took her three tries to thumb the safety of her weapon on. Until someone tried to come in the door—and please God, don't let that happen—she decided to wait it out.
Suddenly, the battle went silent beyond the windows.
What did that mean? Where were Rhett and Christian? Aristo? In a car, she would have been able to tell if the driver had been shot. In a boat, it was much harder to detect if they were veering off course because the man at the helm was no longer in control.
Her mind ran wild with suppositions. Any second she expected to hear running feet on the deck. Time slowed down and her focus became pinpointed on the door.
Don't forget to take the safety off.
It's you or them. Kill or be killed.
Remember Galiana.
Were they speeding up? Slowing down? Frustrated that she couldn't tell, she considered going back to the window. The not knowing whether they'd been boarded was making her ill.
The lock rattled when someone tried to open the door. Evelyn pointed the gun right at it, fingers shaking so bad that the muzzle swayed and pitched. At the last second she remembered to take off the safety.
“Evelyn, it's Rhett. Open the door.”
She sagged with relief. Re-engaging the safety, she set the gun on the bed and lurched to her feet. She barely had the lock snapped over when Rhett opened the door, forcing her back a few steps when he bulled his way in. His shoulders and jaw were tight with tension. Glittering, his eyes seemed feverish, raking over her with ruthless scrutiny.
“Are you all right?” he asked in a tight voice.
“I'm fine, I'm fine. What happened? Is everyone else okay?” Evelyn forgot to be irritated with him. She looked him over for wounds just like he did her, relieved when she didn't see any gushing founts of blood.
“Everyone's all right.” His mouth thinned when he saw the bullet holes in the wall and above the window. Walking over, he glanced out at the darkness and then at her. “We disabled their boat. Unless they have another one on the water—and radar hasn't detected anything close by—then I think we'll make it to Cairo without another incident.”
“How did they find us? I mean, even if they did track me from the bank, they couldn't have known I left Crete or which direction I was going.”
“Have you checked yourself for anything strange? Black dots on your skin? Looked at your back in the mirror? If they'd put the trace on your old clothing, they wouldn't have known we were here. But they would if they'd attached it to your body.” Leaving the window, he came to stand right in front of her, weapons all tucked into his shoulder holster.
“Wait, what? You think they've put a trace on me? But I took a shower earlier, shouldn't that have disabled it?” The thought hadn't crossed her mind. It explained how they'd found them, though.
“No. Why don't you take off your shirt and I'll check your back.” H
e made a curt gesture with his hand toward the small bathroom.
The irony of the situation didn't escape her. Just yesterday, she'd demanded the same thing of him. Take off your shirt, she'd insisted.
It wasn't such a monumental task, or even something she was shy about doing. The bra she wore wasn't her own, but it fit well and covered more than most bikinis would have.
Her hesitation came only in the realization that she was exposing herself to him. She didn't want it to matter what he thought. Whether he liked what he saw. Impatient with her own thoughts, she stepped back into the bathroom and switched on the light. Longer than it was wide, decorated as clean and neat as the bedrooms, the bathroom sported burnished gold accents and a rectangular mirror. The soft illumination picked out the auburn highlights in her hair and made what remained of her bruises seem less harsh. They were just vague, yellowish patches that were hard to see unless you were really looking.
Rhett loomed out of the gloom of the bedroom and stood directly behind her. The contrast of his masculinity and her femininity couldn't be more noticeable. He was broad and muscular and she looked almost dainty in comparison. The make up she'd applied made her hazel eyes more dramatic; his peered out from under the ridge of his brow like a predator, sharp and assessing. She couldn't remember the last time a man had affected her like this and silently chided herself for her distractions. Snatching handfuls of the shirt, she drug it over her head, leaving it caught around her wrists in a way that would make it easier to put back on when he was done.
The wisp of his hand against her hair, moving it out of the way, made her shiver. Watching him in the mirror, she saw his gaze dart to a specific spot on her back.
“Shit.” Peeling something off the inside her shoulder blade, he presented it on the tip of his finger around the side of her arm. “We should have known.” Rhett sounded disgusted they hadn't done this sooner.
Evelyn glanced at the tiny black dot, no bigger than the eraser on a pencil, sitting on the end of his finger. It had a small, raised center but overall, she thought it looked harmless. Innocuous. Certainly not able to withstand a dousing in water. She met his eyes.
Sin and Sacrifice (The Daughters of Eve Series #1) Page 7