Dane chuckled. Yeah, suggested. “Threatened” was more like it. He thought back to two days ago when Murdock and Ellen Denby had cornered him in his office.
“You’ve become a real pain in the ass,” Murdock said in his typically brutally honest style. “If you don’t get your act together, there’s going to be a mutiny and you’re going to lose some top agents.”
Before he could open his mouth to protest, Ellen piped in, “What Dane needs is to get some. How long has it been, anyway, big man, since you had a woman?”
Dane narrowed his gaze on Ellen, Dundee’s only female agent, and grinned at her. “You volunteering for the job, Denby?”
Murdock burst out laughing. Ellen eased her curvaceous hip down on the side of Dane’s desk and smiled coyly.
“Only if hazardous duty pay comes with it,” she said.
“If you take on our Ellen, you’d be the one needing hazardous duty pay,” Murdock said.
“Murdock could be right about that.” Ellen crossed her long, shapely legs as she settled on the edge of the desk. “Besides, I’m not your type, am I, Dane? You like your women soft and sweet and adoring. The old-fashioned type is what turns you on.”
“For your information, I don’t need a woman and I don’t need a vacation. I need employees who will—”
“Ask how high when you say jump,” Ellen said.
“Have I gotten that bad?”
“Worse,” Murdock confirmed. “You’ve pushed yourself to the limit for way too long, buddy boy. It’s past time for you to take off to the Caribbean for a couple of weeks. Stop by and see Sam and Jeannie.”
“Have you talked to Sam about this?” Dane realized that if they’d spoken to Sam Dundee, he really must have been acting like a real SOB lately.
“Sam agrees with us,” Ellen said. “It’s vacation time for you. Right now. Effective tomorrow.”
Dane headed toward the marina, where he’d docked the Sweet Savannah this afternoon. He hadn’t set foot on her in a couple of years. He’d almost forgotten how good it felt to be at the helm, to stand on the flying bridge and head out to sea. The yacht had been a part of his past—part of his life with Lorna. He had taken a lot of ribbing at the Bureau about being a millionaire playboy, but the people who knew him well knew that a playboy was the last thing on earth he’d ever been.
Sure, he’d been raised in the lap of luxury in Savannah, the only son in one of the wealthiest and most revered Old Southern families. But he had also been raised with a sense of responsibility and the knowledge that he was expected to become a productive member of society. His grandfather had been a federal judge, his father a prominent criminal lawyer, so his joining the FBI directly out of college had carried on a family tradition in law enforcement.
The evening breeze cooled as it came in off the Gulf waters. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The face that appeared in the darkness was Lorna’s. After all these years, he still couldn’t forget how peaceful she had seemed lying there in her bed, looking like a sleeping angel. Only she hadn’t been sleeping. She’d been dead.
Opening his eyes, he cursed under his breath. Damn! That’s what came from having leisure time, from idle hours without something to occupy his mind. He couldn’t spend his entire vacation thinking about Lorna. If he did, he’d go mad.
Suddenly Dane heard a whimper, then a loud gasp. He had thought he was alone on the beach.
“Help me! Please, help me!”
Dane tensed at the sound of the pleading voice. Female. Close by. And frightened.
Although his vision had adjusted to the darkness during his stroll along the beach, he found it difficult to make out anything other than a small, dark silhouette heading in his direction. He took several steps toward the shadowy figure before confirming that it was, indeed, a woman.
She reached out for him. “Oh, thank God!” She grabbed the front of his shirt and bunched the soft cloth in her tight fists. “Someone just tried to kill me. I need help. Please—”
The woman fainted dead away. Dane grabbed her up in his arms. He glanced around for any sign of an attacker, but saw no one and sensed they were alone on the beach. He had two choices—either take her aboard his yacht or carry her over to the Grand Hotel. Instantly he chose the closer and safer location. He knew the woman’s attacker wouldn’t be aboard his cruiser.
She was small and light in his arms, probably close to a foot shorter than his six-two. Within minutes he had carried her aboard the Sweet Savannah and belowdecks to the saloon. Just as he deposited her on the L-shaped settee, situated aft to port, the woman’s eyelids fluttered and she groaned.
Rising to his feet, Dane stood and visually surveyed the petite lady from head to toe. About five-three, he surmised. Trim, bosomy, and pretty. Expertly styled, chin-length black hair spread out across the gray settee cushion.
She opened her eyes—big, brown, expressive eyes. Glaring up at Dane, her fear and uncertainty showed plainly in the look she gave him. “Where am I? What happened?” Her voice clearly proclaimed her as a Southerner.
Dane crouched down on his haunches beside her. “You’re aboard my yacht at the Point Clear Marina,” he told her. “You came running up to me on the beach a few minutes ago and told me someone had tried to kill you.”
“I know that!” She glared at him in a way that told him she thought he was an idiot. “I meant, what happened after that?”
“You fainted.”
“I didn’t! I’ve never fainted in my life!” She tried to sit up, but groaned and fell back on the sofa. “Oh, God! Do something, will you?”
“What would you like me to do, Ms…. Ms….?”
“Annie Harden.”
“I’m Dane Carmichael.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said sardonically. She ran her hand over her side, then lifted the hand and moaned when she inspected it. “Do you suppose we could forget good manners and cordial chitchat for the time being, Mr. Carmichael? I think I may be bleeding to death.”
Dane noticed her palm was covered in blood. Immediately he examined the left side of her burgundy suit jacket. A wet, sticky stain had formed around a wide cut in the fabric. “Tell me what happened.” He began unbuttoning her jacket, intent upon examining her wound.
She slapped at his hands. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m trying to take a look at your wound to see how badly you’re hurt.” He grabbed her wrists and brought her hands over her head. Holding her arms steady with one hand, he used the other to lift her jacket. The white blouse underneath was drenched in bright red blood.
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t manhandle me.” She twisted and turned her arms in an effort to free herself from his hold, but suddenly cried out in pain and quit squirming. “He had a knife. I don’t think he stabbed me, although it felt like it. I think he just slashed my side.”
Dane gently pulled the damp fabric out of the skirt waistband, then up and over the five-inch tear in her skin. Probing with the utmost caution, he examined the wound. Long and gaping, but not deep. “You’ll need a few stitches, but I think you’ll live. You probably fainted from a combination of pain and shock.”
Dane stood, walked across the saloon into the galley and rummaged in the overhead teakwood cabinets. He removed a small, white towel, went back over to the woman and covered her wound with the soft, clean cloth. Then he took her hand and laid it over the towel.
“Makeshift bandage,” he told her. “Keep the towel firmly over the wound. I’ll take you to a hospital, right after I call the police.”
“I doubt the local authorities will be of any help,” she said. “I spoke to them a few hours ago and they practically laughed in my face.”
Dane stared at her, puzzled by her statement. “How about filling me in on what you’re talking about?”
Annie Harden took a good, long look at the man with the baritone Southern drawl. He was big, tall, and leanly muscled. Sleek and agile. And dressed casually, in tan cotton slacks
and a navy knit shirt. His short, thick brown hair looked windblown. And even though he didn’t smile and there was no warmth in his rugged, tanned face, she noted something in the depth of his blue eyes. Sadness. Loneliness. And kindness.
“Would you mind helping me sit up?” She held out her hand.
He noted how small her hand was, how slender her fingers. Her nails were neatly manicured and glistened with clear polish. No rings. But a slender gold bracelet circled her wrist.
He took her hand, then leaned toward her and draped her shoulders with his arm. When he lifted her, she moaned quietly. It bothered him that she was in pain. She seemed so small and helpless cradled there in his arms.
“Thanks.” She shrugged off his embrace.
“Sure.”
Their eyes met and held for a brief moment. Annie’s breath caught in her throat. Her rescuer was a handsome man, just the kind most women dreamed would come to their rescue if they ever needed help. She tried to dismiss the queasy feeling in her stomach, telling herself it was due to the trauma she had experienced. But in her gut, she knew that her tummy doing somersaults had nothing to do with the slash in her side nor the pain and everything to do with sexual awareness. She wasn’t some naive kid who’d never experienced the effects of a powerful physical attraction. She was a thirty-four-year-old divorcée, who had learned the hard way not to give charming, good-looking men any power over her.
Sizing up this guy, she instinctively knew he was a heartbreaker. No telling how many women had lost their hearts to him and gotten nothing but misery in return. Even though Preston had been younger and smaller built, there was something about this man that reminded her of her ex-husband. Something in his manner, in the tone of his voice and his take-charge attitude.
“Want to tell me what happened to you tonight?” Dane asked as he flipped open his cellular phone. “Before I call the police.”
“Go ahead and telephone them. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, after you call.”
Dane nodded. “You can fill me in on the way to the hospital.”
Clutching the blood-soaked towel covering her side, Annie said a quick prayer of thanks that her attacker hadn’t killed her. If she hadn’t taken self-defense classes and known how to handle the situation, she might be dead right now. As it was, she had a nasty wound, but she wasn’t going to die from it.
While Dane made the call, Annie’s mind wandered back two days to the evening when Halley had telephoned her from her room at the Grand Hotel, here in Point Clear. The moment the phone line had gone dead, Annie’s instincts had warned her that Halley was in trouble—big trouble.
If anything had happened to the girl, Annie felt that it was her fault. After all, she’d been the one who had encouraged Halley to break free and become independent of the same life-style that had once smothered her.
“They’ll meet us at the hospital,” Dane said. “Guess I’d better call a cab. I don’t have a car with me.”
“We can take my car,” Annie said. “I picked up a rental when I arrived this afternoon.”
“Where is your car?” he asked.
“Over at the hotel.”
“Why don’t you tell me exactly where it’s parked, give me a description and the keys, and I’ll bring it over here. You can wait belowdecks, safe and sound.”
A momentary sense of alarm tightened every muscle in her body. She didn’t want him to leave her alone. “That sounds like a good plan.” She stuck her hand into her jacket pocket and pulled out a key ring. “It’s a blue Chevy Impala, parked on the ground level of the Marina House.”
“I’ll find it.”
“Mr. Carmichael?”
He paused on the first step up to the deck. “Yes?”
“Thank you.”
When he nodded, his lips curved upward in an almost smile. “Are you afraid to stay here alone until I get back with the car?”
“I’m not afraid,” she said. “Just nervous. But I’ll be okay. You go get the car.”
Dane hesitated momentarily, then turned and headed toward the steps leading to the lower deck where his stateroom was located.
“Where are you going?” she called after him.
“Be back in a minute.”
True to his word, within a minute, he emerged from the stateroom below and came back up into the saloon. He held a gun in his hand. Annie shivered.
“Here.” He laid the weapon on the sofa beside her. “Do you know anything about guns?”
“Not much,” she admitted. “Mother keeps my father’s old Smith & Wesson revolver in a desk in the den. It’s not loaded and neither of us has ever used it.”
“Well, this one is loaded and ready to fire. All you have to do is release the safety.” With a quick flick of his finger he showed her how to accomplish the simple feat. “Just be sure you don’t shoot me when I come back.”
“How about a password, so I’ll know it’s you?” she suggested, half joking but partly sincere. She didn’t want to be afraid, was trying very hard not to be. But she was. Not that she’d admit it to this man—to any man—but knowing that someone wanted her dead scared the hell out of her.
“A password, huh?” Dane’s lips quivered as he tried not to smile. Who the hell was this woman—this Annie Harden—and why had fate thrown her into his arms? he wondered.
Little Miss Annie sat there, a nasty knife wound in her side, and stared up at him with defiant dark eyes that dared him to even suggest she might be afraid. No doubt, she was one of the new breed of independent women.
“How about driftwood,” he suggested.
“Driftwood?”
“Yes, driftwood.” Because I found you on the beach, he almost added, but didn’t.
There was no reason for him to feel so protective of this woman, even if she was injured. Hadn’t he learned by now that helpless creatures were his weakness? He had spent a lifetime taking care of wounded creatures. Birds with broken wings. Stray cats and dogs, hungry for nourishment and love. And people. Misfits seemed drawn to him. Because you have an understanding heart, his mother had said. Was that why he’d been so drawn to Lorna? Sweet, beautiful, perfect Lorna. So fragile and helpless. So in need of his constant love and approval.
“What are you waiting for?” Annie asked when she realized he’d made no move to leave.
“Nothing,” he said. “I’m gone.”
When he disappeared from her view, she glanced down at the handgun lying on the sofa. She really didn’t know much about guns. Although she’d taken self-defense classes and carried pepper spray in her handbag, neither had prevented the attack on her tonight. She had left her bag in her room when she had walked over to the Bay View Restaurant for dinner. Upon her return to the Marina House, she’d opted to take a stroll on the beach and enjoy the beautiful June evening, while she tried to decide what to do next in her search for Halley. Walking always helped her clear the cobwebs from her mind and put things in the proper perspective. It had never occurred to her that she might be in danger, that someone knew Halley’s last phone call had been to her—about what Halley had called the story of a lifetime.
The man had come from out of nowhere, brandishing a knife. A well-aimed knee-thrust into the man’s groin had probably saved her life. She shuddered as she remembered the sheer panic that had raced through her when he’d jumped her.
Annie held the damp towel to her side and wished Dane Carmichael would hurry. She’d tried not to let on that she was in a lot of pain. She prided herself on not being the weak, weepy type.
Then you shouldn’t have fainted right into his arms, she reminded herself. That was a great show of strength!
No big deal, her conscience chided. The guy will drive you to the hospital and you’ll never see him again. You don’t have to prove anything to him. He’s a stranger who just happened to be there when you needed him.
She cringed at the thought of needing anyone, especially some big, macho guy who seemed quite comfortable in the role of her protector.
It seemed as if only a few minutes had passed when she heard footsteps above, on the deck. Her heartbeat accelerated. A tremor racked her body. Oh, God, what if the knife-wielding attacker had found her?
She undid the safety on Dane Carmichael’s gun and aimed it directly at the steps leading to the deck. Whoever was up there, she was ready for him.
Chapter 2
“Driftwood,” a baritone voice called from above.
Annie heaved a sigh of relief. Her whole body shivered as the fear clutching her heart released and allowed her to breathe again. “That was quick.”
Dane descended into the saloon. “I ran. Come on, let’s get you to the hospital.”
He lifted Annie up into his arms before she knew what was happening. She opened her mouth to protest, but didn’t when she reluctantly admitted to herself that, in her present state, she was better off letting Mr. Macho carry her. After all, it wasn’t every day that she lived through an attempted murder.
“So, Ms. Harden, want to tell me about the attack?” Dane asked as he carried her off his fifty-foot cruiser.
“You sound like a policeman.” The pain in her side intensified with each step he took, but she gritted her teeth and didn’t complain.
“I used to be a federal agent,” he said.
“Which agency?”
“FBI.” He leaned down, opened the passenger door of her rental car and slid her into the front seat. He closed the door, rounded the hood and got in, then glanced over at Annie. “Now I’m the CEO of Dundee Private Security and Investigation in Atlanta.”
Annie laughed. Leave it to her to run right into the arms of a trained bodyguard. No wonder the man acted protectively toward her. That’s how he made his living. “Boy, was I lucky. Just think, you could have been a shoe salesman from Memphis.”
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