by Julie Miller
The five minutes she had left before Fowler sent a guard after her wasn’t much time. But the grass came away easily in her hands, and if she couldn’t gather enough now, she could make up an excuse to come outside again to finish her work.
Or…she spotted a clearing at the bottom of the rise close to the beach where bundles of the grass had already been uprooted and cast aside.
Shifting the grass she’d already collected into one hand, she made her way down along the edge of the drop-off, carefully avoiding the slippery rocks and a certain tumble. Like walking through molasses, the sandy ground sucked her boots into its grip, forcing her to shorten her stride and push off at every step. She was breathing hard by the time she reached the clearing.
As she hit the flatter ground, she idly wondered why Fowler’s men would create such a muddy mess. The grass surrounding the turned-up soil had been trodden and destroyed. Perhaps it had something to do with the security system. Or maybe it was nothing more than a place to bury their trash. Tasiya herself had come up with the idea of burning any leftover garbage she couldn’t use in the wood heating stove at night. Perhaps such a practical idea was beneath Boone Fowler’s grandiose scope. Certainly, Steve Bristoe wasn’t bright enough to think of such a thing for himself.
Grinning at the idea of having outsmarted her captors, and reminding herself that coming back late would make her just as foolish, Tasiya quickly gathered the bundles of discarded grass and laid them in her arms.
Beneath the last bundle, the first real shot of color she’d seen in the landscape caught her eye. Dark green and russet brown. A leaf, perhaps? But how could an autumn leaf of such a rich hue bury itself in the sand on Devil’s Fork Island?
Squatting down to investigate, Tasiya saw that the mottled colors weren’t natural, but a pattern on a tiny corner of cloth sticking up from the ground. She shifted the grass to one arm to pick up the material, but it was stuck. She dug away some of the wet, sandy soil on either side, wrapped all five fingers around it and gave it a good tug.
About six inches of mud-caked cloth ripped up through the soil. Enough for her to recognize a camouflage pattern. Tasiya frowned. The soldiers who’d been captured along with Bryce and the other bounty hunters wore uniforms of this material.
Why would someone bury a uniform?
With a new sense of urgency and half-formed revelation of fear, Tasiya dropped the bundles and used both hands to pull. Mud and gravity worked against her, but with a determined heave she pushed with her legs and yanked until the ground gave way.
Tasiya flew back and landed on her bottom. But she hardly noticed the discomfort of mud and water soaking through her jeans.
She could only shiver and stare.
She’d unearthed a man’s cold, dead hand.
Biting her lip to keep from screaming out loud, she scrambled to her feet. But mud and panic and the heels on her boots kept her from finding her footing, and she slipped. Windmilling her arms and fighting for balance, she stumbled backward. Between leather soles and slick rocks she went down hard on her hands and knees.
Allowing nothing more than a gasp of pain, she planted her feet, stood, then cried out in shock as her knees and shoulders were zapped with a jolt of electricity.
Tasiya collapsed to the ground, shaking. But she was less concerned about her body’s temporary paralysis than she was about the sudden, loud, blaring alarm she’d triggered when she hit the invisible security fence.
“Oh, God. Oh, God,” she whispered, her tongue tasting like copper in her mouth.
Each howl of the alarm grated along her nerves like a vicious shout in her ear. But she could feel herself breathing again. And though the feeling hadn’t returned to the tips of her fingers and toes, her larger muscles were beginning to work. The sight of that stiff, crumpled hand sticking up through the ground warned her of what she must do.
That dead man would be her if she was discovered here.
Pulling herself up to her hands and knees, Tasiya crawled across the rocks like a drunken woman. But with every inch, she gained speed, clarity, control.
She could hear Fowler’s men shouting in the distance now. She gave her fingers no choice but to cooperate as she pushed the hand back into its resting place and scooped the sand and soil back over it. Booted feet were tromping through the grass now, closing in on her position. She was running out of time to hide her discovery.
Tasiya lurched to her feet, grabbed one of the sheafs of grass, swept it across the sand to cover her tracks, then tossed it over the exposed fingertips. Snatching up the remaining bundles, she scrambled up the hillside.
For the few seconds she climbed, she debated whether it was smarter to run and put distance between her and the body, or whether running would only make her look suspicious. But the decision became a moot point as she cleared the rise and was greeted by voices shouting “Halt!” and the black steel barrels of three rifles pointed straight at her.
Tasiya cast her eyes to the ground and froze.
“What are you doing out here?” Steve Bristoe, the skinny blond man who’d been so inept in the kitchen, seemed much more sure of himself on guard duty.
She bit down on the hateful resentment shouting inside her. Bristoe was one of the men who’d beaten Bryce and held him down while Marcus whipped him. Her lungs swelled painfully in her chest as she tried to calm her breathing and keep her head. “I went for a walk. I was gathering grasses to weave a basket and I fell. I am sorry about the alarm.”
Bristoe nodded to the other two men. “Walk the perimeter to make sure she’s the only thing to set it off.”
As the other two hurried in opposite directions to do his bidding, Bristoe nudged the tip of his rifle through the grass in her arms. Apparently satisfied that she hadn’t run off with the militia’s silver, he shouldered his weapon.
“Basketweaving?” he asked skeptically.
Tasiya nodded. “The kitchen supplies are limited. I thought I could help by making some items myself.”
He might have withdrawn his weapon, but he wasn’t letting her go. Wrapping his bony fingers around her upper arm, he jerked her into step beside him. “Whatever smokes your shorts.”
Tasiya glanced up. She had no idea what that meant. But as long as he was taking her away from the unmarked grave, she wasn’t going to ask any questions.
“WAIT HERE.”
Tasiya was well aware of the temperature as she stood outside Boone Fowler’s office in her wet clothes. The blustery draft swirling up the spiral staircase raised goose bumps along her skin and made her teeth chatter. But it was nothing like the coldhearted chill of Boone Fowler’s voice as Steve Bristoe knocked and pushed open the door to report how the cook had taken herself for a walk, and accidentally tripped the alarm when she fell.
When Fowler’s response didn’t match the report, Tasiya realized he was holding two conversations—one with Bristoe, and one on his cell phone. As had become her habit of late, when the militiamen talked, she went quiet as a mouse and listened.
“…more money, for one thing. You can’t expect me to get the results you’re after in only two weeks. I have too many new recruits. Training isn’t cheap.”
Tasiya hugged her arms around her middle and tried to rub some warmth into her body without drowning out the terse posturing in Fowler’s voice.
“You don’t worry about what I have on videotape. It will be very persuasive, I promise you.” Dimitri would no doubt want to know about this conversation. “When the time is right, you’ll get your money’s worth, I promise you.
Just what kind of message did Fowler want to send? Did his method of persuasion have anything to do with the dead man?
“Uh-uh, pal. You don’t screw with my timing. Was it your idea to kidnap the princess?” Tasiya turned her ear to the doorway, wishing she could hear who was on the other end of that line. She wondered if that person was as displeased as Fowler seemed to be. “The whole world’s lookin’ for her, and I don’t need that kind of sc
rutiny.” He paused. “No. No one has any idea where we are. Now why would I tell you? That’d be one more person I’d have to trust.” She huddled tighter within herself at the evil in Fowler’s laugh. “Not any more than you trust me. Good. I’m glad we understand each other.”
He snapped his fingers, and Tasiya quickly stepped away from the door when she heard Bristoe headed her way. But Fowler’s voice still carried into the hall. “I’ll expect a deposit in my account tomorrow. The usual amount.” With an insincere friendliness he added, “Always a pleasure.”
Tasiya pressed her back against the cold stone wall and closed her eyes, breathing a sigh of relief that she’d gathered information without getting caught. At some point Dimitri would hear whatever news he wanted to hear from her and hopefully release her father. Though the thought of returning to Lukinburg and beginning her sentence as Dimitri’s mistress was growing more unappealing by the minute.
“I didn’t know you were into mud wrestling, sugar.”
Snapping open her eyes, Tasiya looked straight up into Marcus Smith’s leering smile. The leisurely stroll of his gaze along her sticky clothes sickened her as if he’d groped each clinging curve with his meaty hands.
“He’ll see you now.” Steve Bristoe’s startling grip on her arm was almost a welcome relief.
But Marcus pointed a finger and shook his head. “Hands off, Bristoe.” He wagged his finger, and the younger man let go. “The little lady’s not to be touched.”
Every bruise on Tasiya’s body, whether from the rocks this morning or Smith’s hand at her throat last night, throbbed in protest at the hypocritical order. She might not be familiar with American customs, but she was painfully familiar with the lustful need to punish and control shining in Smith’s yellowed, solicitous smile. He wasn’t being gallant, he was staking his unwelcome claim on her.
“Bristoe!” Fowler yelled from his office. “You’re wasting my time.”
Smith nodded over his shoulder. “Go back to your post. As security chief, I’ll take care of her.”
Screaming no! would do her little good. Bristoe was already jogging toward the stairs, clearly intimidated by the bullying ox.
“After you.” Marcus Smith moved close enough for her to smell the sweat clinging to his clothes, close enough for his stale, tobacco-steeped breath to wash over her face. But he didn’t touch her. He didn’t have to. She understood the mockery in his defense of her. She understood the threat of retribution somewhere down the line if she ever dared speak out against him or interfere with his treatment of the prisoners again. “Move it, sugar.”
With a dutiful nod, Tasiya slipped past him and entered Boone Fowler’s office. Smith followed right behind her, making sure she walked right up to where Fowler perched on the edge of his desk.
The militia leader patted the folded-up cell phone beside him on his left. “I had to tell my colleague we were running a drill.” His calculating black eyes bored into hers. “What happened, foreigner?”
Tasiya fixed her eyes on the scruffy tip of his faded beard. “I was returning from the dock when I decided to take a walk. I have been inside for many days. I needed fresh air. The ground was uneven and I fell. I am sorry.”
On Fowler’s right side lay a black-handled pistol. His men weren’t the only ones who had gone on alert when the alarm sounded. “You decided to take a walk? You needed fresh air?”
As soon as he saw her gaze dart to the gun, his hand snaked out. Before she could draw her next breath, he had the barrel of it shoved up beneath her chin. Using the gun, he tipped her face up to his and demanded that, for once, she look him in the eye. “First I had to discipline Marcus for putting his hands on you, after you tried to come on to him.”
Was that Marcus’s version of what had happened in the interrogation room? She could almost feel that yellowed smirk leering behind her. Tasiya’s stomach clenched into knots since the gun allowed her no other outlet for her rage and frustration.
“And now you’re setting off alarms? Do you want me to think you’re deliberately trying to sabotage my work?”
Tasiya bit her tongue on the lie she must keep and swallowed her pride. “I am only one woman. How could I possibly hurt you or any of your men?”
Fowler considered her response for a moment. She held his gaze, daring him to believe her. Either the direct approach had appeased him or he was tired of dealing with someone he’d labeled inferior. Shrugging aside the life or death moment, he removed the gun and got up to lock it inside the gun cabinet that framed the wall behind his desk. Growing shamefully accustomed to spying by now, she took note of where he stashed the key in his top drawer.
When he strolled back to face her, she quickly averted her eyes so he wouldn’t know what she’d seen. “Just so long as you remember that, foreigner. You have no power over me. No one does. Not even our illustrious government. Gift or not, understand that I will do whatever’s necessary to keep it that way.”
Even kill a man and hide him in an unmarked grave?
“I understand.” More than he knew.
“Now go get cleaned up before you touch my food. Marcus, you’re with me. I want to start taping tomorrow.”
THE WOMAN NEEDED to talk.
Bryce sat on his cot, eating the broth-soaked bread and cheese Tasiya had brought, and watched her pace off the length of his cell as she recounted the events of her day. Mostly, he watched the soft folds of her skirt catch around her long, strong thighs and tease the curve of each shapely calf. Three steps one way hinted at the womanly shape beneath her drapey clothes. Three steps back, and he caught a glimpse of creamy skin.
Though his stamina and flexibility had been severely compromised by the whipping, he noted that he must be regaining some of his strength. How else could he account for his body’s healthy response to the mental debate of whether he liked the view better coming or going?
Certain parts of his anatomy didn’t seem to care that he was supposed to be recuperating. Every precise movement of that articulate mouth, every careless bounce of those midnight curls, every spark that glittered in those exotic eyes triggered an answering pulse beat in his veins. The night air coming off the water was cool, but his temperature seemed to rise another degree with each detail he noticed about her. And judging by the rising heat pooling behind his zipper, he was noticing a lot more than he should.
Coming or going didn’t matter. He drained half the cup of water she’d poured and wished it was icy cold. No matter how he looked at Tasiya Belov, there was something to like.
And if she’d shown any interest in him beyond the need of a sounding board, Bryce might have forgotten his plan for tonight.
He had only a few days of solitude, with minimal supervision from the militia, to make something happen. And whether she knew it or not, Tasiya was going to help.
“I think if I was a man, he would have shot me.” Tasiya had finally stopped. She stood at the window, hugging her arms around herself and staring up at the waning moon.
Bryce stopped chewing. He scrambled for the emotional detachment he’d been practicing all day, choking the bread past the lump of rancor in his throat. “He pulled a gun on you?”
His voice sounded remarkably calm, considering the damage he wanted to do to the man who’d threatened her.
Her slim shoulders lifted with a deep breath. “He held it to me right here.” She faced him and pointed to the deadly target beneath her chin. “He has three rifles and several pistols in the cabinet in his office. One day it’s a knife, now a gun. For a man who cannot stand to put his hands on me, he seems to have a very—” Bryce gritted his teeth as she searched for a word he was pretty damn sure he didn’t want to hear “—disturbing…way of making contact.”
When had Fowler pulled a knife on her?
Screw emotional detachment.
Finding out where a cache of weapons was located barely registered through the impotent fury firing in Bryce’s veins. He set aside his last bite and pushed himself to his f
eet, forgetting for a moment that Bryce Martin on full charge could be a pretty terrifying thing as well. “Did he hurt you?”
“No.” Tasiya flinched. Her eyes widened like saucers. Their focus darted from corner to corner of his tiny cell, no doubt taking note of the fact that he stood between her and the door.
No, Fowler didn’t hurt me? Or no, don’t come any closer, you big brute?
Bryce curled his toes into the floor and fisted his hands to keep his protective anger in check. He turned to the side to let her know she could pass by without fearing him, that she could leave at any time. He had to show her with his body that she didn’t need to fear him since he knew that reassuring wasn’t an expression his face could make. “I’m sorry.”
Tasiya’s brow furrowed as she searched for something in his craggy features. He couldn’t tell what she saw until she spoke. “You startled me is all. You are not like Boone Fowler. The man has no heart. He cares about causes, not people. I am the one who is sorry if I made you…uncomfortable.”
“Hell, you can’t hurt me.”
Her eyes were touched with some of that pity he’d planned to take advantage of. But the tight set of her mouth and the flush of color on her cheeks made her look as if she was mad enough to spit. “Just because you can withstand pain does not mean it should be inflicted upon you.”
Tasiya’s succinct words chipped away at that brittle shell of self-protection he wore like armor around his heart. She was defending him the way his grandparents used to, back when kids had teased him on the playground or a girl had reneged on a prom date when she got a better offer.
It just meant she had a kind heart, he reminded himself. She was a good person, nothing more, nothing less. But her insistence touched him. The fact she took a couple of steps toward him meant even more.