by B. J Daniels
Willa stared at him, hating him. He'd turned her life upside down. How had she ever thought he was hand-some? He was cruel and horrible. She glared at him, wanting to hit him but he held her at arm's length, his fingers tangled in her hair, and she knew if she tried, he would just dunk her again. Her eyes burned from the saltwater—and anger.
"If I let go of you, are you going to attack me again? Scream? Try to get away?"
She narrowed her eyes at him. "Would it do me any good?"
"None. All you'd accomplish is making sure whoever was shooting at you knows where we are and get us both killed."
He let go of her hair and stepped toward the beach, extending his hand as if to help her ashore.
She took a step back, the water up to her breasts now.
"Look, I'm not going to hurt you, okay?"
"Isn't that what all killers say? You probably told your partner that before you shot him."
A flicker of pain crossed Landry Jones's face and she thought for a moment he would drown her. He looked like he wanted to. Instead, he turned and waded through the water up to the beach. Stopping, he turned to look at her.
"See?" he said, holding out his hands. "And for the record, Zeke tried to kill me. It was self-defense."
She eyed him suspiciously. "If that were true, then why are the police looking for you?"
He sighed heavily. "It's my word against yours. All you saw was me shoot him. You obviously didn't see him try to kill me."
"Right. That's probably why the police didn't find a gun on him."
Landry made a low animal-like sound. "I saw you panic and take off. I came after you. Obviously someone took Zeke's gun to make me look guilty."
"Obviously."
He shook his head. "I don't care what you believe, all right? Now come out of the water. I already told you I'm not going to hurt you."
A wave slapped her in the back, throwing her forward. She took a few steps toward him and stopped. He retreated even farther up the beach to give her space.
Don't trust this guy. Do not—repeat—trust this guy.
"You still think I was the one shooting at you back there?" He walked over to where he'd tossed his weapon before dragging her into the Gulf, picked it up and held the gun out for her to look at it. "You see a silencer on here?"
She stared at the revolver in his hand. No silencer. The person shooting at her on the path had a silencer on his gun. She felt her body go limp with the realization that more than one person on this island wanted her dead.
"You are smart enough to know the sound a gun makes without one, aren't you?" he asked sarcastically.
"How do I know you didn't take off the silencer before you grabbed me?"
He rolled his eyes. "Why would I do that?"
She didn't know. In fact, all she knew about this man was that she'd seen him shoot his partner, that apparently before that he'd been a police officer, and that he was now wanted by the law. The fact that she was the only witness to that shooting put her in a precarious position to say the least.
"I have no reason to trust anything you say."
He stared at her as if she'd just said something astounding, then he groaned, pulled off the cap he'd been wearing and raked a hand through his full head of dark hair. "What am I going to do with you?"
"I was wondering the same thing."
"Sweetheart, do you have any idea how many people want you dead? There are people waiting in line to kill you."
"Don't call me sweetheart," she snapped back.
"What I'm trying to tell you is that there is a massive manhunt going on for you right now."
She lifted a brow. "For you, as well, it seems."
He smiled. And for just an instant she forgot that she didn't find him handsome. "Point taken."
He reached into the shorts pocket, drew out a wet crumpled photograph and held it out. Reluctantly she stepped close and took it, recognizing the man in the picture at once.
"You remember him." It wasn't a question. He'd seen her reaction to Simon Renton's photograph. "He came into your art studio the night before your gallery showing. He left something there. I need it back."
So that was why she was still alive. He needed something from her. "And you think I have it?"
"I know you have it. Or at least can help me find it and end all of this."
And she had a pretty good idea just how it would end.
She glanced down the beach. The tide was coming in. The surf pounded at the rocks off to her left. To her right the short sandy beach ended in a throng of mangroves. Her only chance was getting past Landry and making a run for it back up the trail.
But even if she managed to get past him, she knew she wouldn't get far back in the brush and trees. And taking off swimming would be suicide even if he didn't come after her and drown her. Not to mention, the person who'd been shooting at her could be waiting in the trees.
"Look, I know what you're thinking," he said, his voice softening. "But you're out of places to run. There's already someone on the island taking potshots at you. It's just a matter of time before they kill you."
This, at least, sounded true. She said nothing, just looked at him, wondering what it was he thought she had and what possible chance she had of surviving this.
"You have a problem?" he asked.
She glared at him, realizing she was beyond caring right now if he shot her or drowned her or broke her neck. "Kind of the same one. I don't believe anything you tell me."
"You have quite the mouth on you, Ms. Willa St. Clair." He took a step toward her, backing her to the edge of the water, his gaze locked on her lips. "Quite a nice mouth, actually."
She felt herself squirm under the heat of those dark eyes. She was at his mercy, completely alone with a man she knew was a killer. But she also sensed that backing down would only make her more vulnerable—if that were possible. She stood her ground as he stepped so close that she could see tiny gold flecks in that dark gaze and feel heat radiating from his body.
"If you expect me to help you, then I suggest you stop threatening me," she said, surprised her voice could sound so calm with her pulse thundering in her ears. "All you're doing is convincing me you're exactly the man I think you are and certainly not one to be trusted."
His hand came up so quickly it took everything in her not to flinch. His fingertips were cool and rough as they trailed across her cheek to her lips. He dragged one finger over her lower lip, his gaze never leaving her eyes, then trailed it down her throat, stopping at her collarbone.
She held her breath and wondered just how far Landry Jones would go to get whatever it was he thought she had.
He drew back his fingertips and stepped away.
She let herself take a breath, her body trembling, suddenly more afraid than when he'd held her under water. There were worse things than death.
Landry was losing patience—with this woman— and with himself. He was used to getting what he wanted. Even Freddy D.'s men knew better than to push him too far.
For most of the past two years, he'd worked undercover, using intimidation like a weapon. Maybe he'd been undercover and around men like Freddy D. for too long.
But this woman was also exasperating as all hell. She was nothing like the mild-mannered Willa St. Clair he'd asked out for coffee the night of her art showing. Funny how just a few days could change a person. Or had all this steel been under all that sweet innocence?
Well, if she'd changed, he had only himself to blame for it. Seeing a man shot down in front of her had to have an effect. Especially on a woman like Willa St. Clair. He'd had a friend of his on the force do some checking on the artist. He suspected she was as squeaky-clean and green behind the ears as she seemed to be.
Or had been. Now she was on the run and desperate. He knew from experience that that alone could change a person.
He raked a hand through his hair and sighed. "Let me lay it out for you. I infiltrated a crime organization operating out of southern Florida. A
fter a while Zeke came in and then Simon." He looked past her to the gulf, his eyes dark. "We worked for a man named Freddy D."
"Freddy Delgado," she said.
He nodded, wondering if she knew more than he did at this point. Was it possible she'd already found the disk?
"We knew Freddy had a cop in his pocket," he continued, watching her face for any sign that she was way ahead of him. "My job was to find the dirty cop." He touched his tongue to his lower lip, eyes darkening. Her expression hadn't changed. "I had several leads on cops who Freddy was paying off to look the other way, but they were small potatoes. The guy I was looking for would have to be close to Freddy. Real close. As it turns out, real close to me, as well."
"You're telling me Zeke was the dirty cop." She didn't sound like she believed it for a minute. "But you said he came into the organization undercover after you."
He smiled. The woman was sharp. And she'd been paying attention. "Yeah, so now you understand why I was blindsided. I never suspected Zeke. Why would I?"
Her hair was wet. It curled around her lightly freckled face. Her eyes were wide and blue. She couldn't have looked more adorable—even with the straight blond hair she'd had the night he met her. It hit him that under other circumstances, he really would have asked her out that night after the art show. She had that much of an impact on him.
"Give me one good reason to believe anything you're telling me is the truth," she said, those big blues narrowing.
He studied her for a moment, then lifted his shirt to show her the wound in his side. "When Zeke walked up to the car that night, I didn't see the gun in his hand until it was almost too late."
She flinched at the sight of his wound. "How do I know you didn't get shot when you attacked the safe house where the police were keeping me?"
He raised his hands slowly as if in surrender. "What is it going to take to get through to you? Isn't it possible I was trying to save you?"
Her gaze said, Not a chance in hell.
The gunshot wound had surprised her. She could see where he'd been shot. The area was red and angry, although clearly starting to heal. Someone had shot him. Was it possible Zeke's had been one of the shots she'd heard that night?
She thought of Simon Renton, remembering how he'd lied about wanting a painting for his anniversary, a painting his wife had picked out. She'd foolishly opened the door and let him in that night even though every instinct warned her not to.
"What did Simon leave in my studio?" she asked as she realized her only hope was to find out what was going on, what Landry Jones wanted from her.
He seemed to relax a little. "A disk. Simon put it between a painting and the backing." Landry's gaze softened. "You saved him and the disk that night."
"At what cost to my own life since he still died?" she said angrily. "And for what? Some stupid disk?" She shuddered. "Do you think it was worth it for him to be tortured to death? He still told them about the disk and the painting, didn't he?"
Landry looked away. "Simon knew what was at stake. We were all risking our lives to bring down an organization that steals, kills and pollutes all of our lives."
She said nothing, not sure what to believe. "What's on this disk?"
"If I told you that, I would have to kill you."
She looked at him, narrowing her eyes. "You think that's funny?"
"Actually, truthful. I'm serious, Willa. That's why I have to find that disk before Freddy D. and his men do."
It was the first time he'd called her Willa. She hated that he used her name in that soft tone of his and it had an effect on her.
"Aren't the police looking for it, too?" she asked, and saw the answer in his expression. "You want to find it before the police do, and you tell me you have nothing to hide?"
"It's complicated. The bottom line is that the disk is worth killing—or dying—for. You're going to help me find it. One way or the other."
"Back to threats? What will you do to me? Try to drown me again? Torture me? Beat me up?"
He groaned. "What do you want?"
"How about the truth? What's on the disk?"
"Important information about organized crime in southern Florida—names, numbers, enough to shut down these people."
She waited, staring at him.
He groaned again. "There's also proof on the disk that I didn't kill Zeke in cold blood. Proof that it was self-defense because the name of the dirty cop is on that disk. That disk will clear me."
"Or condemn you," she said.
He smiled and settled his gaze on her. "Either way, I need the disk. I'm asking you to trust me and help me find it."
Trust him? How could she, given what she knew? "How do I know that once you have the disk you won't kill me?" She couldn't suppress a grimace.
He raised a brow. "You don't. But without me, sweetheart, you're dead. Someone on this island obviously knows who you are and has been paid to come here and kill you." He smiled. "You left a trail anyone could follow. You think they're going to let you off this island alive without my help?"
He had a point. He'd found her and obviously someone else had. Unless, of course, he was the one who'd shot at her. But would he take such a chance when he needed her alive to help him find the disk?
The alternative was that he was right. Someone on the island wanted her dead. Other than Landry Jones.
"We need each other," he said.
"At least until you find the disk."
He shook his head in obvious frustration. "You want to get off this island alive? Help me and I'll help you. Maybe by the time we find the disk, you'll realize you can trust me."
Maybe. But she doubted it. Even if Landry Jones wasn't a murderer, he was dangerous. Especially to a small-town girl from South Dakota.
She looked toward the trail and again thought about trying to make a break for it. If she could reach Carlos, get him to take her to the mainland…
As she started past Landry, he grabbed her wrist so quickly she hadn't even seen the movement. His fingers clamped down. "Don't underestimate me, though. That would be a mistake."
She winced in pain and he loosened his grip, turning her hand over and opening his fingers. He frowned down at the bruises on her wrist.
"Who did this?" he asked, sounding angry.
This from a man who had just held her under the water. "I almost fell in the pool last night at the villa. One of the residents grabbed me." She rubbed at her wrist as she pulled it free.
"One of the residents?" he repeated. "You sure he was trying to save you?"
She wasn't sure of anything, and it must have showed. "How did you know it was a he?"
Landry only smiled. "I think you'd better tell me about the other people on the island before we go back."
"We're going back to the villa?" she asked in surprise. She'd figured they would be going back to the mainland. And she would get away from him.
"Don't you think it would be wise to find out who on this island might have reason to want you dead?" he asked.
"You mean other than you." Her sarcasm wasn't wasted on him.
"I'm amazed you've stayed alive this long," he said, stepping past her to pick up his backpack.
Now that she knew what was at stake, Willa was surprised herself. But as she looked into Landry's handsome face she was reminded again that there were worse things than death. Taking him back to the villa with her could be one of them.
"And how exactly do you intend to explain your appearance on the island?" she asked. "All the apartments are full."
"You let me worry about that," he said. "Tell me about everyone on the island."
Willa told him about Odell, Henri and Blossom. Landry listened, and when she finished she had the strangest feeling that he'd already known all of it.
She recalled the animal-like movement she'd seen from the balcony last night. It hadn't been Odell. It had been Landry. She was sure of it. "How long have you been on the island?" she demanded.
Landry grinned. "Long
enough to know what you sleep in."
She felt her face heat as she remembered her little foray behind the villa with the shovel. "You were spying on me last night?"
"Look, the tide is coming in. We're losing our beach. Pretty soon we'll be arguing about this underwater." He turned his back on her and started through the trees.
She didn't move even when she felt a wave wash around her ankles.
He disappeared into the trees and she was considering taking the boat and making a run for it, when he returned looking irritable at best.
"What?" he asked, hands on his hips.
"Did you see what happened by the pool last night?" she asked.
He shook his head. "I came running when I heard you scream but by then your friend Odell had already saved you."
"He isn't my friend," she snapped. She was angry at Landry for spying on her. But even more angry that he hadn't seen what had happened before Odell showed up at the pool. "So are you going to tell me which painting Simon hid the disk in?"
"No." He started to turn toward the trees again but must have seen that she wasn't moving an inch until he told her. "It's a painting of a sailboat. That's all you need to know right now."
A painting of sailboat? She had done dozens of those.
"You're just going to have to trust me."
She stared at him. Trust him? He had to be kidding. Did she even believe him? She believed he was after something. Possibly that was the only reason she was still alive. What she feared was that there was something on the disk that Landry Jones needed to save himself, all right. He needed the disk so he could destroy it for his boss Freddy D.—and save the truth from coming out about him. And once she was dead there wouldn't be anyone to testify against him. It would be his word against a dead man's.
He smiled. "Calculating the odds?" His question took her by surprise.
"What odds?"
"Whether I'm lying to you or not."
He'd hit too close to home and she knew it must have shown in her expression. "Just my luck that Simon picked your art studio."