by Cerys du Lys
Despite what I’d claimed about the people who would be looking for me, I didn’t think anyone would even realize I was missing. I’d told my mother I’d try to give her a call in a week or so when I reached the city of Izmir, but Mom was often in a location where both cell and internet coverage were bad, so she wouldn’t be worried when she didn’t hear from me.
Disgusted with myself for my folly, I flung my shirt into the sink and scrubbed it, then opened the cupboard doors in search of something else to wear. Ruthlessly I pushed aside hangers and rifled shelves. He was irritatingly neat. His shoes were lined up, and his shirts all looked as if they’d been freshly washed. Belts were hanging from hooks. His clothes were simple and casual—mostly T-shirts and jeans, bland and muted of color—but they were of good quality.
The shirts had no tags. In fact, none of his clothes, including the leather jacket and the bad-weather gear, had labels of any kind. Maybe they’d all been removed to make it difficult for anyone to identify him if he was captured.
The only frivolous item I found was a pair of black leather pants that obviously went with the jacket. I took them out and ran my fingers over the buttery-soft leather, imagining them molding to his lean, muscular legs. I flushed as the fantasy veered in the direction of X-ratedness. What was the matter with me? In the year I’d been with him, Mark had never inspired such fantasies.
Disgustedly I thrust the trousers back on their shelf.
My captor’s shirts were huge on me, but I pulled on a faded blue one, anyway. Then I abandoned the closet and went through his drawers.
I didn’t know what I hoped to find—personal papers, passports, newspaper clippings about his crimes, something that would give me more of a handle on who he was and what he was up to—but I had little luck. The three drawers, which were lined up vertically right next to the bathroom door, only confirmed that he was neat, simple in his tastes, and likely to remain a mystery.
In the top drawer, I found various toiletries, all Turkish brands. A toothbrush, comb, bottle of aspirin and other medical supplies were also in the drawer.
The bottom drawer contained two clean towels and a long, slim, rectangular case. My pulse leapt as I pried open the case, wondering if he’d been careless enough to give me access to a weapon. If I found a gun, I would use it, dammit. But the case contained the segments of a delicate, silvery flute, each piece nestled in a blue-velvet lining.
A flute. I tried to picture him playing it. My imagination was usually vivid, but here it failed me. “Stolen, no doubt,” I said aloud, and closed the drawer. Maybe it was a freaking antique.
Frustrated, I checked out the rest of the room. There was a desk built into one corner, with a laptop packed away underneath it. It worked, but was password protected. There were several books neatly lining the bookshelves. Paperbacks, mostly. The more literary volumes included the works of Homer—in Greek, no less—and some Latin poetry. Could he read Latin and Greek?
His popular fiction included novels by such writers as George R. R. Martin and Ken Follett. There were also five or six books by a writer I’d never heard of, Stephen Silkwood. They appeared to be historical mysteries. All the volumes appeared to be well-thumbed.
So he liked to read. So what? I took down a collection of poems by Coleridge, which fell open in my hands to one of my favorite poems, “Frost At Midnight.” I read it silently, feeling the nameless sorrow that the poem invariably induced in me. Why did it disturb me that an international criminal engaged in the despicable business of stripping a country of its priceless historical relics should own a volume of poetry?
I flipped to the front of the book. It was inscribed in a feminine hand: “To Nicholas. Happy twenty-first birthday, my love. Forever... Elizabeth.” At the bottom of the page the same hand had written, “Penshurst College, Rolling Meadows, Massachusetts.”
Curious now, I closed the book. The short inscription had told me a lot. His birthday, his age, the name of his college, whom he’d been fucking back then. What had happened to Elizabeth? Did she know her college sweetheart had grown up to be a thief?
What else would I learn, I wondered, from possible inscriptions in the other books?
Half an hour later, I had my answer, although it didn’t help much. He had several inscribed books. He must know the mystery author, Stephen Silkwood, since Silkwood had autographed each of his books with a different cheerful insult. Two other volumes also bore messages: a volume of Shakespeare’s plays, which young Nicholas had won as a prize for special achievement in prep school, and an archaeology text, which said merely, “Dear Nick... good show! Granddad.” Several of the books had his name written in them—Nick Gabriel—in a dark, angular hand. So Gabriel, it appeared, was his last name.
The rest of the day passed uneventfully. The cabin refused to yield up any further information, unless I was interested in sea charts and shipboard navigation, which I knew nothing about. I started to read one of the historical mysteries, which turned out to be set in 16th century England during the reign of Elizabeth Tudor. It helped distract me from the near-constant worry about what was going to happen to me.
At sunset, I was considering pounding on the door and demanding something to eat—he had yet to feed me—when I heard footsteps approach the cabin. I tried to psych myself up as the lock was disengaged. This time I was determined to keep my emotions under control.
But it wasn’t Nicholas Gabriel who unlocked the door and entered the cabin. It was the younger man, Metin.
“Greetings,” he said in heavily accented English. “I bring food.”
“Thank you. I thought maybe you guys were planning to starve me.”
He came in, kicked the door closed with one booted foot and looked for a place to set the tray. He seemed reluctant to put it on the desk with the charts. He finally placed it on the end of the bed.
I, meanwhile, had stepped casually toward the bathroom. I’d noticed a latch on the inner door. Metin was cocky and far too handsome for my liking. Medium height and slender, he was fit and strong. His skin was dark and his teeth a blinding white in contrast. He wore a mustache that gave him a rakish air. He was dressed in the regulation jeans and T-shirt.
He had been the one to suggest fucking me, and I didn’t like the look in his eyes now. He didn’t frighten me quite as much as Nick did, but he was a male, possibly armed, definitely dangerous.
“You are well?” he asked.
“Fine. Your name is Metin, right?” It seemed politic to be friendly. He was young; maybe I could gain his sympathy.
“Evet. Yes. And your name is Ellie.”
“That’s right.” I tried a smile, to which he responded with a grin that made him less sinister. “If you’re down here, who’s sailing the boat?”
“Nick is at the helm.” Ellie noted that he referred to Nick with respect. “It only requires one when we are not under sail.”
“So we’re using the engine?” I had known that, actually, from the noise. “I thought so large a yacht must possess crew of at least three or four men.” I smiled at him again. “I don’t know much about boats.”
Metin nodded as if it were to be expected. I was a female, after all, and a foreigner. “Oh, no, it is just the two of us. When the sails are extended we must both work, but tonight Nick will direct our way until it is his time to sleep. Then I will work the boat until morning.”
“When will it be his turn to sleep?”
Metin pulled a cell phone out of his pants pocket and checked the time. “One hour from now.”
One hour’s respite. That was all I would have. I bit my lip. That was why I hadn’t seen Nick all afternoon; he was taking his turn at the helm so he’d have the night free to “sleep.”
I looked up to find Metin watching me, his dark eyes filled with curiosity and something that looked like compassion. “You are afraid from something?”
I felt a rush of irrational affection for the young man. He was friendlier than his captain was. “I guess I am.”
<
br /> Metin was shaking his head in surprise. “How can that be? All women admire Nicholas. He is very much a man.”
This didn’t offer much consolation.
“You must become his woman, but where is the terror in that? You are not so young,” he added dispassionately. “And you are American, so you must be—” he hesitated here, clearly searching for the right term “—making sex with many men.”
I wasn’t sure whether to be insulted or touched. I no longer sensed any threat from him. His precious Nicholas must have made it plain that I was his woman. And Metin seemed eager to put my fears to rest.
“I don’t know where you get your ideas about American women, Metin, but I don’t go around making sex with many men.”
He looked skeptical. “You travel alone, without a male relative’s protection.”
I could feel myself flushing. Damn sexism, anyway. “Men travel without a relative’s protection, don’t they? Why shouldn’t women be free to do the same?”
Now he looked as though he were barely resisting laughing at me. He controlled himself, though, and said, “Americans are more easy about these things than Turks.”
“Look. I am not your friend’s woman. I am my own woman. I do not choose to share myself with him or anybody else. Can you understand that?”
He looked doubtful. “If you are not Nick’s woman, he will not be able to protect you from the others.”
I stiffened to attention. “What others? Where are we going?”
The young man’s smile vanished and a guilty look replaced it. “You will pardon me. It is not permitted for me to tell you.”
“Metin, please! Who are these others? Where are we going?”
He quickly retreated to the door. “Afiyet olsun,”he added, the Turkish for bon appetit. Then he fled, locking the door behind him.
Frowning, I sat down to my supper of bread, cheese, fruit and hot, strong tea. I was hungry, so the food tasted good, but when I finished, the butterflies in my stomach started up again, giving me indigestion. One hour. Iwaited, begrudging each minute as it passed by. You must become his woman, but where is the terror in that?
Why did those simple words sound like a prophecy of doom?
Chapter 6
Ellie
I stiffened at the sound of the key in the door. It was dark in the cabin. I had switched off all the lights, with the exception of the overhead lamp in the toilet, which showed under the closed bathroom door. The water in the sink was running; he would probably hear it as soon as he entered the room. For a few seconds he would assume I was in the head, and during those few seconds, I would act.
The door swung inward, hiding me where Istood flattened against the wall, holding The Complete Works of William Shakespeare high over my head. It was the only weapon available. He’d taken the knife with him and I had not been able to find his gun. The volume was heavy; my arms were aching. But he was fit and strong, and I was worried it wouldn’t be heavy enough.
He entered and slammed the door. Aiming at the golden glint of his hair, I brought the book down with all my strength. Quick and alert as a cat, he pivoted. Shakespeare struck him on the shoulder and crashed to the floor.
He was cursing as he grabbed me, spun me around and jammed me, face first, against the wall. He twisted my arms behind my back, which fucking hurt. I must have yelped with pain. The boat rocked, which pressed his body into mine from behind. As we rolled over another wave, I felt him grow aroused. It was impossible to mistake the pressure of a stiffening cock against my ass.
Oh God. Big, pathetic mistake. Too bad I had never learned kickboxing or Tae Kwan Do.
“Giving me an excuse to punish you?” he asked.
“Do you need an excuse?”
“No.” The painful pressure on my arms changed, but did not ease. He shifted so that one of his hands smashed both of my wrists together. With the other hand, he reached around to the front of my body. His grip closed over one of my breasts. He explored, caressed. His fingers were strong and warm, and their touch sent a current through me. My heart throbbed as my breast expanded to fill his palm.
Dammit! I wanted to scream with fury at my dumbass body’s weakness.
“Stop it,” I said, trying to keep my tone icy.
“You’re going to have to get used to me touching you. I’ll be doing it a lot.”
“No.” I writhed against the wall, attempting to free myself. Uselessly.
“Yes.” His fingers rose to my chin and tipped my head back. He pressed his face into my hair. “My advice is to relax and accept it. Because you’re going to lose this battle.”
Oh, God. My instinct was to surrender. Lean into him. Allow his hands to do whatever they wished. I could feel a softening inside me as my core came alive. Did I seriously have chemistry with this jerk? What was wrong with me?
It must be because of not having a damn orgasm for a while. Jet-lagged and traveling, I hadn’t gotten myself off for, jeez, I didn’t remember how long. This horrible man had a body that was attractive to me, no matter what else he had done. Hormones don’t have a conscience. Or a trace of good sense.
He turned me around and flipped on the overhead light. I was panting, while his chest still rose and fell at a normal rate. If his shoulder hurt, he didn’t betray it. Poor Shakespeare was more damaged than he was.
“Where were you going to go? Over the side?” His hands tightened on my shoulders; he shook me slightly. “We’re nowhere near land. Even a trained long-distance swimmer wouldn’t have a chance.”
“I was hoping to convince Metin to put me ashore.”
“Forget it. He’s loyal to me.” His tone was scathing. “Besides, no Turk would touch the woman belonging to his kardesh—his good friend, his brother.”
“I don’t belong to you.”
“Wrong,” he said, picking me up bodily and swinging me toward the bed, “like it or not, you do.”
He dumped me unceremoniously, then stood back and did some stiff circles with his left shoulder. “Fuck. What did you hit me with?”
“The Complete Works of William Shakespeare.”
He snorted a laugh. “Shall we read The Taming of The Shrew together?” He picked up the volume from the floor and stuffed it back on the shelf. Then he locked the door and jammed the key into the front pocket of his jeans. “Turn off the tap. This is a boat, not a bloody hotel. There’s no water to waste.”
“Do it yourself.”
He grabbed me again and marched me to the sink, his arms brutally strong around my struggling body. “Do it,” he ordered harshly, forcing my head down until it was just above the tiny sink. Water from the open tap splashed in my face. The basin was full. He pushed down until my nose and mouth went into the water. Terrified that he was going to hold me under, I flailed around with my one free arm until I found the tap. I shut the water off, trembling, afraid of what he might do next.
He jerked my head up and dragged me away from the sink. I gasped, shaking myself like a wet pup. He shoved me at the bed. I stumbled and fell upon it. I righted myself quickly, brushing at my eyes where tears had formed. I was not going to let him see me cry.
He stood beside the bed, his legs a scant inch from my knees. The boat was riding the waves with more motion now, but he was obviously at home with the heaving of the sea. I noticed that he had impossibly long legs. I followed their lines up past his slim hips and flat belly. He was now wearing a loose sweatshirt with his jeans. The sweatshirt was old and ragged. It had once had long sleeves, but they’d been hacked off at the elbows, making him appear tough and uncompromisingly masculine. I glanced up at his face. His eyes were narrow slits of green, his cheeks rough with the faint gold stubble of his beard. His aura of power had never been stronger. I felt a curl of fear.
“Don’t push me.” Each word was clipped off, separate.
Gathering my battered courage, I said, “Or you’ll waterboard me?”
He shook his head. “I’m trying to figure out if you’re stupid, crazy,
or just incredibly stubborn.”
“I got kept after school a lot when I was a teenager for defying authority. It’s a personality flaw.”
“I’m not the fucking high school principal.”
He sat beside me on the bed, angling his body so he was facing me. I tried to slide away from him, but there was nowhere to go.
“How old are you?”
“You saw my passport.”
“Give me a fucking answer when I ask you a question.”
“Twenty-three.”
“You look younger.”
“I’m not. I graduated from college last spring.”
“Okay. There are a couple of things I need you to understand.”
I waited.
“When we reach our destination, we’ll be meeting with some associates. You’ll be expected to behave in a certain way.”
“Meaning what?”
“Let me demonstrate.”
He stood again, hovering over me where I huddled on the edge of the bed. The cabin was so small that there was nowhere else for me to go, especially with him in it. He dominated the tiny space, making me want to curl up and find an unobtrusive spot in a corner somewhere. He wasn’t threatening me with a gun or a knife now, but I still felt like prey.
He removed the belt from around his waist. It wasn’t made of leather, but of some ropey macramé. I thought he was undressing for the expected sexual assault, and my tension skyrocketed. But he threaded one end of the belt through the buckle, made a loop, and, in a swift and unexpected move, slung it around my neck and tightened it.
I froze. What the fuck?
“Get on your knees,” he said, pulling up on his end of the belt. It was not so tight that it cut off my air, but the threat was there. I had to stretch my neck, moving in the direction he moved the belt. “Kneel up. On the bed.”
My hands had flown to the rope material, trying to fight his control, but the angle was wrong. I couldn’t get purchase. My palms turned slick with sweat, and I felt panic come roaring up again. This couldn’t be happening. Was he going to strangle me? I couldn’t deal with the thought of not having enough air. It was my absolute worst nightmare.