“Tell me what you know.”
She paused. “Why should I? It will come out at your trial.”
“Then there’s no reason I shouldn’t kill you now.”
“Killing me won’t help you, it will only make things worse. Your men made a mistake by abducting me. Sloan knows I’m here.”
“A cop doesn’t worry me in the least, Miss Balough.”
“That’s another mistake. Sloan Morrisey isn’t an ordinary cop. He’s the best there is.”
“Then why did he let my men take you?”
“That’s another detail that will come out at your trial. Your time is running out.”
Wates pressed the muzzle of the gun upward into her ear hard enough to fold the lobe over on itself. “It’s your time that is limited unless you start talking.”
“If you hurt me—”
There was a rumbling clank. It seemed to come from deep within the hull of the ship. Erika felt it vibrate through the floor and into the soles of her boots. Someone shouted in alarm but the words were muffled by distance and by the fog.
Wates withdrew the gun from her ear. There was another gush of deodorant-scented sweat. He moved two steps away. “Leavish?”
“I’m on it, Mr. Wates.”
Erika stretched her neck and rolled her head from side to side. She didn’t know how long the respite would last, but she had to make use of every second. The mention of the military had hit a nerve. She could buy a few more minutes of life by expanding on that, try bluffing about the size of the investigation Sloan had supposedly brought her in on.
The irony of it was that Sloan never would have encouraged her to become involved with something this dangerous. It was the other way around. He had even wanted her to cut back on the cases she took because of the risk the jobs often entailed.
She understood why he’d been wired like that. He hadn’t been much more than a kid when his father had been shot. It had happened here at the waterfront, and the perp had never been caught. Sloan had coped with his loss by assuming the role of the man of his family. He’d grown up believing it was his responsibility to protect all the people in his care.
He was at his worst when he got worried. His mouth would go tight, the bones at the corners of his jaw would stand out and the blue of his eyes would turn icy. His voice would drop to the low, velvety rasp that had reminded her of the sharp edge of a Toblerone bar—it was sweet when it melted, yet it could hurt when it rubbed the wrong way.
Sure, at times Sloan could act like an overbearing, macho throwback to caveman days, but deep inside he was a pushover. She had seen tears trickle into the corners of his grin when his youngest sister had graduated college. Each time one of his other sisters produced a new niece or nephew, he was among the first to show up at the hospital, his arms filled with giant teddy bears and miniature football cleats.
Erika couldn’t pin down the moment when she’d first realized she loved him. It might have been the night she’d come home from a stakeout to find her kitchen floor strewn with newspaper and Sloan sitting cross-legged in the middle of it, with the scraggly puppy he’d just rescued from a crack house curled up asleep on his lap.
What else could she have done but let them both stay?
God, what she wouldn’t give for one more chance…
Running footsteps sounded in the corridor. Someone skidded to a halt at the door. “A cable on the main winch snapped.” It was Leavish’s voice, high-pitched and out of breath. “Two of the crates dropped into the hold.”
“We have to repair that winch.”
“Floyd sent some men for a spare cable.”
“Were the contents of the crates damaged?”
“There were some scratches. Nothing the buyer will notice.”
“How long before we can recommence the loading?”
Leavish hesitated. “Tanner said to tell you at least forty minutes.”
“Tanner? What was he doing there?”
“He was checking on the merchandise. I passed him on my way back.”
Erika soaked in as much of their conversation as she could hear. The pieces were beginning to move into place. If Wates was a former member of the military, he could have used his old connections to get whatever had been in those army trucks.
Her first guess would be weapons. She doubted whether crates of uniforms or freeze-dried rations would elicit this much interest from anyone. A crate of combat boots wouldn’t be heavy enough to require six men to lift it out of a truck, but a crate of machine guns likely would. Wates and his gang must be dealing with stolen army ordnance of some kind.
It was a lucky break for her that the loading had been delayed. Once the cargo was on board this ship, who knew where they would end up? Her chances for escape at sea would be dismal.
Actually, the snapped winch cable was the second lucky break. The first one had been when that thug Dick had fallen to his death.
Or had it been luck?
Maybe there had been some other force at work. Maybe her bluff wasn’t totally a bluff. What if Sloan had found some way to come back and watch over her?
It was the anniversary of his death. It was a dark and stormy night. They were on the water. What more opportune time for a drowned man…
She curled her fingers, squeezing hard enough to drive her nails into her palms. Stop it right there, she told herself. There were no such things as ghosts.
She couldn’t crack up now. God, talk about the worst possible timing. Her wits were her only weapon—if she lost them, she’d be left with nothing. She was done with the ghost thing. She wanted to live.
Erika, hang on!
The voice in her mind was so vivid, she lifted her head toward the sound. It was Sloan. She could feel him. All those other times hadn’t come close to this. Like the sun just before it rose over the horizon, like the thunder that inevitably followed a flash of lightning, he was coming. He was almost here. She could sense his presence.
No. Stop it. This was crazy.
Footsteps approached in the corridor. This set seemed different from the others she’d heard. They weren’t light—the metal floor rang beneath solid boot heels. Those steps didn’t belong to a phantom, they were being made by a large man. He walked with a controlled stride, unhurried yet deliberate, confident.
Sloan used to walk like that, his strides long and sure, a cross between a strut and a prowl. It had something to do with his lanky frame and his daily workouts at the gym. He’d had a distinctive way of moving, one Erika had always been able to recognize, whether he was jogging through the park or strolling along a subway platform.
Or walking past a kitchen appliance warehouse in the rain?
She ground her teeth hard enough to send pain shooting through the roots of her molars. For God’s sake, not now!
The footsteps stopped. The conversation in the doorway halted. “Mr. Tanner,” Leavish said.
“It’s about time, Max,” Wates muttered.
“Did she tell you anything yet, John?”
At the deep, velvety rasp, Erika’s heart stopped. Simply froze between one beat and the next. Her lungs emptied. Light streaked across her vision.
Logic be damned, that was Sloan!
Chapter 3
Erika rocked forward, using the momentum of her upper body to lever herself upright. The chair toppled to its back behind her, the legs tangling with her feet. She lurched sideways, trying to regain her balance and her hip struck the edge of the table.
“Get her, Leavish!” Wates ordered.
“Sloan!” she screamed. She was grabbed by the arm before she had gone two steps. She threw her weight to the side and wriggled free of Leavish’s hold. “Sloan!”
Firm footsteps crossed the floor. There was a whiff of fresh air and damp fabric, then Erika was caught from behind. One arm fastened around her waist and a palm flattened over her mouth.
She had fainted only once in her life. It had been during that endless search last November. She had been banned fr
om the command center by the third day because she’d taken a swing at the captain of a Coast Guard cutter when he had suggested it was time to scale down their efforts. She hadn’t wanted to go back to her apartment, so she’d joined Sloan’s mother in their church. Mrs. Morrissey had gone home after a few hours to have dinner with her family, but Erika had remained on her knees and had prayed through the night until she’d fainted from exhaustion.
So she knew the warning signs. The lightheadedness, the cold that spread from her fingertips and worked its way into her body, the loss of sensation in her legs, the peculiar echoing quality to the sounds around her, as if she were being pulled backward into a bell.
It was happening again now. The light that had streaked her vision moments ago contracted to pinpricks. Her senses were folding in on themselves, a defensive reaction to a reality that was too much for her mind to accept.
Sloan. He was here. And he was touching her!
He flexed the arm he held around her waist, pulling her back against his body. “Take it easy, sweet cheeks.” His breath stirred the hair over her ear. “Don’t make me bruise those freckles.”
She sucked in deep breaths through her nose, charging her blood with oxygen, determined to stay conscious. The scent of damp fabric intensified. Along with it was a hint of male skin and the clove-and-ginger tang of Old Spice. Sloan’s favorite aftershave.
She started to tremble. This was Sloan’s smell. And Sloan’s body. She recognized the fit. She could feel the solid breadth of his chest behind her, the strength in the arm he held around her waist, the warmth of his palm against her lips. She could see the blur of his knuckles.
“Do you want more duct tape, Mr. Tanner?” Leavish asked.
Tanner? Erika thought wildly. No, this was Sloan. She twisted, trying to dislodge his palm from her mouth as she called his name.
He curled his little finger under her jaw and hung on, muffling her cry. “If you keep that up, we’ll have to gag you again.” He slid his arm above the tape that wrapped around her jacket and boldly cupped his other hand over her breast. “Or do you like it rough, baby?”
The touch was cheap and crude, but with her arms taped to her sides, she had no way to avoid it. She blinked furiously to stem the tears.
Which was worse, to realize she was losing her mind, or to wish that she already had? It would be so much easier if she could believe the illusion…
But she had to trust her brain, not her senses.
He wasn’t Sloan. He couldn’t be. It was because of the walk, that was all. She’d been picturing the way Sloan had walked and her heart had projected the rest.
So think, she ordered herself. Use your head and not your heart.
This man was one of Wates’ henchmen, possibly a partner, judging by his use of Wates’s first name. This was the Tanner person Wates had been asking about. Max Tanner. The Old Spice aftershave was just a coincidence. So was his build—there must be zillions of men in the world who were six-foot-two and moved like an athlete. His voice might be similar to Sloan’s, but it wasn’t the same. The cadence was different. This man’s words had the trace of a Western drawl.
And Sloan would never have called her “sweet cheeks” or “baby,” nor would he have touched her that demeaning way in plain view of two other men.
And Sloan was dead.
Erika stopped struggling.
“Too bad,” Max murmured. He returned his hand to her waist. “Playing rough can be fun, and I’ve always liked redheads.”
“We’re wasting time, Max,” Wates said. “She still hasn’t told us anything.”
“Who was she shouting for?” Max asked.
“Her boyfriend. Some cop by the name of Sloan Morrissey.”
His grip tightened. “A cop?”
“She claims she’s working with him,” Wates said. “But I don’t believe her.”
“We have an extra forty minutes before we can move, John. It won’t cost us anything to check out her story.”
“I already sent Abrams to look for her car. He’ll get rid of it.”
“That won’t be enough. There’s too much riding on this to take chances. What if she is telling the truth?”
Wates swore.
“Exactly,” Max said. “Come on, Red. We’re going to have a little chat.”
Max swung her against his hip, lifted her off the floor and carried her back toward the table. He waited while Leavish righted the chair she’d knocked over, then took his hand from her mouth, set her on her feet and guided her to sit. Leavish returned to his post beside the door while Wates resumed his seat across the table.
Erika caught a swirl of black on the bottom edge of her vision as Max moved away.
It was the hem of a long, black raincoat.
“So, tell me about this cop friend of yours, baby,” Max said.
Erika tipped back her head and focused on what she could see of him. Beneath the raincoat, faded blue jeans topped a pair of scuffed cowboy boots. Wood creaked, as if he had leaned against a corner of the table.
She fought to get her thoughts back on track. That was easier now that Max was no longer touching her, but her senses were still on overload. “Sloan is my fiancé,” she said.
“Oh, yeah?”
“He gave me this ring.”
Max crossed one ankle over the other, resting the toe of one boot against the floor. Patches of dampness mottled the tan leather. “Uh-huh. How did he afford a rock like that on a cop’s salary? He’s probably working both sides.”
“You’re wrong. Sloan is as straight as they come. And the longer you keep me here, the worse it’s going to be for you.”
“You trying to scare me, Red?”
“I’m simply giving you a warning.”
“You and your big spender Prince Charming must be into some kinky stuff if he brings you down to the docks for a date.”
“We’re working together.”
“Isn’t he any good as a cop?”
“He’s the best there is.”
“Then why would he need your help?”
“He doesn’t need my help.” She thought fast. “Sloan is letting me in on this investigation so I can collect the reward. A girl’s got to make a living.”
“What reward?”
“The Department of Homeland Security has a standing reward for any information that leads to the arrest of people like Mr. Wates.”
“Your bluffs are getting tiresome, Miss Balough,” Wates commented.
Erika didn’t know whether or not Homeland Security actually did offer rewards, but it sounded reasonable to her. “The FBI and the ATF want a piece of this, too,” she said, embroidering the lie. “Smuggling stolen weapons out of the country gets a lot of people very excited.”
There was a pause. Someone, probably Leavish, cleared his throat.
Another hit, Erika thought. “They know everything I do,” she said. “If you hurt me—”
“Leavish, did you search her?” Wates demanded.
“Uh, Dick said he did.”
“That idiot,” Wates said. “Did he check her for a wire?”
“I don’t know.”
Erika realized the next logical step at the same time Max apparently did. He pushed away from the table and moved in front of her. “Stay where you are, Leavish,” he said. “I’ll do it.”
She heard the slithering hiss of a switchblade locking into place. Sucking in her breath, she got her feet under her and tried to rise from the chair but Max caught her shoulder to keep her where she was.
“Relax, Red. I’ll be gentle. This time, anyway.”
She saw the flash of metal near her ribs and jerked her chin down. “No!” she gasped. “Please!”
“Hold still.” The blade of Max’s knife was razor sharp—it sliced through the duct tape that bound her arms as if the layers were no more than paper. He peeled the tape from the front of her jacket, then used his grip on her shoulder to lean her forward and ripped the rest of it from around her back. Before
she could register the relief of being able to draw a full breath, he unzipped her jacket, thumbed open the top four buttons of her blouse and thrust his hand inside.
The shock of his palm against the bare skin of her chest sent more lights dancing across her vision. She knew he couldn’t be Sloan, but oh man, how was it possible that the touch of any two men could feel so much alike?
Max skimmed his fingertips along the ridge of her collarbone, over her bra and down the side of her ribcage. “Nothing so far,” he said.
Erika knew what he was doing. He was making sure she wasn’t wearing a hidden microphone. Considering her bluff, she should have expected this. Struggling against Max’s search would gain her nothing. She had no hope of overpowering him—her arms might be free but her wrists were still taped and he outweighed her by at least eighty pounds. Resisting would probably make things worse. It might result in Wates and Leavish joining the search.
At least no one else was aware of the real source of her distress. Max couldn’t guess how each brush of his fingers was awakening nerve endings that had been dormant for a year. He wouldn’t know how the smell of his Old Spice and the scent of his skin were jabbing tiny, insidious holes in her wall of sanity.
He ran his palm along her midriff, and her breath hitched on a sob. This was sick, she told herself. The ghost thing was bad enough, but feeling anything other than revulsion at this stranger’s touch under these circumstances really was crazy. Wasn’t there a psychological syndrome that dealt with being attracted to your captor? Something else to talk to Dr. Goldstein about if she ever got back to his couch.
“Well?” Wates asked.
“Still nothing,” Max said. His voice sounded strained, like stiffened velvet. “Where are you hiding it, Red?”
Erika spoke through her teeth. “I’m not hiding anything. I’m not wearing a mike.”
He tugged her blouse from her skirt and slipped his hand around to the small of her back.
Longing, sharp and hopeless, broke through her reason.
Sloan had loved to rub his cheek along the dip at the base of her spine. Sometimes when he hadn’t shaved, the rasp of his beard would make her skin tingle on the edge between pleasure and pain. Then he would smooth his fingertips along the rise of her buttocks, just the way Max was doing now, except Sloan would follow the caress with a kiss…
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