by Ginna Gray
David stood motionless; his tough face looked carved of stone. Abigail held her breath, one hand clamped over her mouth, the other over Chelsea's muzzle.
The rumble of the speedboat engine reached a nerve-wracking zenith... and then began to fade.
Chapter Three
It worked," came Abigail's surprised whisper. Then, jubilantly, "It really worked! They passed us by!"
She turned to David, but her smile faded when she encountered his tierce scowl. The words of gratitude she had been about to utter immediately slipped from her mind.
"Who the hell are you?" he snarled.
"I... I told you. M-my name is Abigail Stewart."
"All right, Abigail Stewart. I want some answers, and I want them fast. What have you done to get those two after you?"
"Nothing! It's true, I swear it!" she added in a rush when his mouth twisted. "I'm just here on vacation. Honest!"
"A tourist, huh? Where are you from? What do you do for a living?"
She blinked at the rapid-fire questions.
Chelsea growled.
"I... I'm in the book business. That is... I own a small bookstore in Waco, Texas. It's a moderate-size town about ninety miles south of Fort Wor—"
"I know where it is. How long have you lived there?"
"A-all my life."
"How long have you owned the store?" .
"A couple of years."
"And before that?"
"I was a librarian."
Even in the near darkness she saw the disdainful twist of his mouth and the way he rolled his eyes. "Figures," he muttered.
"Now, see here—"
"Tell me about this business of yours," he ordered, ignoring her budding indignation. "Do you handle rare books? First editions? Manuscripts?"
"N-no, not at all. I...I carry mostly popular fiction. You know..." Her hands fluttered in a vague, nervous gesture. "Mysteries, westerns, sci-fi, romances...that sort of thing. And most of those are paperbacks. I sell both new and used books, but nothing of great monetary value."
"I see. So, if what you say is true, then whatever's behind all this isn't connected with your business?"
"Certainly not. How could it—?" She stopped, her eyes widening. "Oh, my stars! You're not suggesting that I deal in anything illegal?" she demanded huffily.
"I'm not suggesting anything. Just exploring possibilities."
"Well, that isn't one, so you can just forget it! I am not a criminal! I lead a quiet, simple, law-abiding life. For heaven's sake, I'm the victim here!" Disturbed by her agitated tone, Chelsea whined and licked Abigail's elbow, then bristled at David. He glanced at the tiny dog, snorted and returned his attention to her mistress.
"You can save your outrage, Legs. Those wide-eyed looks, too. They don't cut any ice with me. When I was with the Bureau I came across a sweet little old lady who was a rabid terrorist. And angelic choirboys who worked as runners for drug dealers. So until I know for certain that you're what you claim, I'll reserve judgment."
"Of all the... I refuse to stand here and be insulted li—"
"You're right. We'll go below where we can get comfortable. This is liable to take a while."
Ignoring Abigail's outraged sputters, he grasped her arm and propelled her down the steps. Chelsea snarled and would have jumped from the purse and attacked him, but a command from Abigail checked the action and silenced her.
Below, David shoved Abigail down onto one of the bench seats that enclosed the table. Once the curtains were drawn over the windows and the doors closed, he turned on a light and joined her, sliding in on the opposite seat and bracing his back against the bulkhead.
In the small confines of the cabin Abigail was uncomfortably aware of him—his size, his overwhelming masculinity. His near-naked body.
It struck her that they were alone together on a boat, miles from anything or anyone. All she knew about the man was that he was rude and overbearing and and ex-FBI agent. Abigail grew still, the word 'ex-FBI' echoing in her mind. For the first time it occurred to her to wonder why he had left the Bureau.
Abigail wasn't accustomed to being alone with a man— any man—especially not a tough-as-nails specimen like David Blaine.
No one would ever describe him as handsome, she realized. His features were too strong, his face too harsh and etched with experience. He exuded a raw maleness, an aura of leashed power that unnerved her.
She had never seen shoulders that wide or that muscled—except maybe on a movie screen. A purple bruise the size of a saucer marred the bronze skin covering his left shoulder. Another created a darker shadow through the whisker stubble along his jaw. A line of dried blood marked the cut above his left eyebrow, and his knuckles were scraped, beginning to puff. David appeared oblivious to his injuries. He just sat there, studying her.
His scent drifted to her, musky and virile and not at all unpleasant, a heady combination of soap and sweat and man. The simple act of breathing took on an unsettling intimacy as, with each breath, Abigail inhaled that masculine aroma. Every nerve in her body hummed. With an effort, she fought the urge to squirm and returned his stare with a haughty self-assurance she was far from feeling.
Considering her though narrowed eyes, David absently scratched his furry chest. Abigail's jaws clenched. The man was an uncouth savage. And did he have to flaunt himself that way?
Her heart began to thud, and her mouth went dry. Folding her hands together on top of the table, she set her face primly and struggled to hide the foolish reactions.
Her glare hadn't the slightest effect on David. He continued his interrogation as though the interruption hadn't occurred.
"You say you're here on vacation. Do you take these kinds of trips often?"
Her wintry expression slipped. "Well...no. Actually this is my first. You see, I recently came into a substantial sum of money, and—"
"How? And how much?" he demanded, pinning her with that unnerving steady stare.
Oh, Lord. If only he weren't so...big, so.. .so masculine. If only he had on more clothes.
To cover her unease, she glared back and snapped, "If you must know, by turning thirty. That's when I received the inheritance left me by my parents. And the amount is none of your concern. Suffice it to say that I'm far from wealthy, but the trust fund does insure that I'll never go hungry."
"How long ago did your parents die?"
"When I was a child. I was raised by my Aunt Harriet."
"The one who disapproved of cussing, I take it. I'll lay odds she was a straitlaced spinster, too."
Abigail couldn't be sure, but she thought she saw his cynical mouth twitch. Rude, sarcastic brute. Folding her lips in a tight line, she gave him a censorious look but refused to confirm or deny his statement. It galled her to admit, even to herself, just how accurate his assessment was.
"Anyway," she continued with a sniff. "Most of my customers seemed to think the occasion called for some kind of celebration, and they all urged me to take an exotic trip. So I came here."
"What made you pick Alhaja Verde? There are dozens of better-known island vacation spots you could have chosen."
"One of my regular romance readers, Edna Mae Poison, recommended it. Her husband's second cousin had been here. She'd won the trip on a television game show. Anyway, it sounded perfect, since I didn't want to go to a trendy spot. I... I'm not comfortable in those kinds of places."
The long steady look he gave her said he wasn't at all surprised. Again fighting the urge to squirm, Abigail lowered her gaze and focused on her laced fingers. Anything was better than staring at that brawny chest.
For a few moments neither spoke. Just when she thought the questions were over, David asked, "So tell me about your social life. Are you seeing anyone on a regular basis? Sleeping with anyone?"
Abigail's head shot up. Her face couldn't have registered more shock if he had thrown a bucket of water in it. "That is none of your business!"
He leaned forward, his whiskey-brown eyes narrowed
and hard. Emitting a low growl, Chelsea propped her tiny snout on the edge of the table and lifted her lip. David ignored her. "Now you listen up, Legs, and listen good. I don't like getting shot at. Not one damned bit. In fact, when it happens I get downright nasty."
"So I noticed." Her cool tones dripped contempt. "You behaved like a savage back on the pier."
"What!" He jerked forward on the seat. His jaw dropped, and his eyes bulged. "Jeez, I don't believe this! Lady, in case it didn't register, I saved your butt on that pier! And if you'll recall, you came to me!" he shouted with righteous ire, jabbing his chest with his thumb. "I didn't ask to be dragged into your troubles! And while we're on the subject, why the hell didn't you lend a hand instead of standing there like a stump?"
"Me/!What could I do?"
"I don't know... kick... bite... scratch. When someone attacks you, you hurt him any way you can. Hell, you could have hit him with your purse. From the looks of that thing, it would've coldcocked the guy."
Abigail's stiff spine grew even stiffer. She lifted her chin, her mouth pinching as though pulled by a drawstring. "For your information, I abhor violence," she said in her best starchy librarian voice. "I find it repugnant, demeaning and crude, as well as unnerving." Plus, she'd been scared witless back on that pier, but she wasn't about to admit that to this Neanderthal. "I came to you for help, hoping to avoid violence. I thought our government hired civilized men. Obviously I was wrong."
"So, what did you expect? Robert Stack in a three-piece suit?"
"Certainly not a barbarian! You, sir, are nothing but a... an uncouth hooligan!" she sputtered.
"Oh, yeah. Well let me tell you something, Legs. You'd better thank your lucky stars that you stumbled across this hooligan," he snarled, thumbing his chest again. "Instead of some pencil-pushing cerebral type. And believe me, the Bureau's got its share of those jerks. If you hadn't, you'd be enjoying the hospitality of your two ugly friends right now, experiencing the pleasure of having your toenails pulled out."
Abigail's face paled. Her spine lost its starch, and she sagged back against the bench seat, her indignant bravado whooshing out of her like air from a pricked balloon. "You... you..." She paused and tried to swallow, but her mouth was as dry as dust. "You think they would have tortured me?"
David shrugged and resumed his casual slump against the bulkhead. "That or worse."
"Worse?" she croaked. "What could be worse?"
"Several possibilities spring to mind," he replied dryly, giving her an under-the-brow look that made her breath catch.
"Oh."
The shaky one-word reply in no way softened his demeanor. He continued to regard her through narrowed eyes, his harsh face like granite. "If I'm going to keep that from happening, I've got to know what's going on. Which means you'll damned well answer any question I ask you. You dragged me into this mess, don't forget."
Guilt mingled with fear and anger, creating a tight knot in Abigail's chest. "I....I'm sorry," she said as crisply as she could manage. "I shouldn't have involved you. I realize that now. If you'll kindly take me back to San Cristobal I'll get the next flight home and we'll both be out of it."
He stared at her and shook his head. "Are you really that naive? Or just plain stupid? You don't seriously think I can just drop you off and go on my merry way, do you? Or that you can just toddle back to Waco and leave all this behind?
"First of all, I may not be Sir Galahad, but I sure as hell don't go around leaving helpless women to fend for themselves. And second, even if I tried, I'd still be up shi... uh... the creek." Her uncomprehending expression drew a burst of muttered profanity from him. He raked a hand through his unruly hair. "Look, Legs, don't you see? Those guys are after something. They're not going to give up until they get it. Or we get them."
She flinched. The picture of that violent encounter on the pier was still fresh in her mind. The thought of going through something like that again made her stomach queasy.
"They aren't going to forget my face. Or my boat. Like it or not, I'm involved. If I'm going to get both of us through this in one piece, I'll need all the information I can get. You never know what might give you the answers you need. So start talking."
Abigail still didn't like it, but she felt too guilty to refuse. "There's no man in my life. Not at the present, anyway," she added quickly. The last thing she wanted was for David Blaine to find out that her social life was a big fat zero. She hadn't gone out with a man in years. Not since Ted had...
Abigail caught herself and firmed her lips, refusing to even complete the thought.
"How about friends? Tell me about those. Especially these customers of yours. The ones who urged you to take this trip."
She almost laughed out loud. The people he referred to were all women, avid romance readers who came into her shop to pick up the latest books and talk. It was ludicrous to suspect any of them of some nefarious plot.
Abigail told David so, but he kept hammering away. He questioned her about every facet of her life, about every move she'd made and every person with whom she'd spoken or come into contact since leaving her home the day before.
Throughout the grilling, David's face remained impassive, his stony expression and cold eyes giving nothing away. Not until she told him about the woman who had been her seat mate on the plane trip to Alhaja Verde did he show a reaction.
"When you say this Patrice Johnson had to get off the plane in Mexico City, what do you mean?" he asked with sudden interest, sitting forward and bracing his forearms on the table, "Are you saying it was an unscheduled departure? She wasn't ticketed for Mexico City?"
"That's right. She became ill—quite suddenly, actually—and the minute we landed, she hurried off the plane. I tried to get her to ask the stewardess for assistance, but she refused."
"And you're sure she was a passenger on the plane before it got to the Dallas-Fort Worth airport? She didn't perhaps go on board a few minutes before you?"
"Yes, I'm sure. She told me she was from Alexandria, Virginia, and had caught the flight in Washington, D.C. Why? Do you think she's connected with all this somehow?"
"I'd say there's a strong possibility. The men who ransacked your hotel room obviously didn't find what they were searching for. That's why they're after you now. They think you have it with you."
"Have what with me? I don't understand any of this."
"My guess is that the Johnson woman was a courier. She probably spotted someone on that flight who spooked her, so she planted whatever she was carrying on you and cut out. I'd guess, too, that she phoned her contact in Alhaja Verde the minute she deplaned in Mexico City and told them where they could find the goods."
"Ma-maybe she's one of our agents," Abigail stammered hopefully.
"Not a chance. Those two had KGB written all over them. And didn't you notice? After I kicked him, that ugly bast... uh, brute was moaning something in what sounded like Russian. No, if the Johnson woman is part of this she's either a mole or she sold out."
"Amole?"
"A plant." Her face remained blank, and he rolled his eyes. "You know—a foreign agent in a sensitive position within our government."
"But she seemed so nice," Abigail protested.
"Oh, brother." Looking the classic picture of a thoroughly exasperated male, David slowly pulled his palm down over his whisker-stubbled face. "Jeez, if you're that gullible, it's a wonder you manage to survive from day to day. Lady, you need a keeper."
"Oh, really? A male, I suppose? No doubt some unkempt ruffian like you?" She looked him over, the coolness in her eyes not betraying the wild fluttering in her stomach. "I don't think so, Mr. Blaine. I've been looking after myself just fine for quite some time now, thank you very much."
"I wasn't offering."
"Good!" she said haughtily.
"Fine!" he snapped back.
Scowling, he reached across the aisle and extracted a cigarette from a partial pack on the counter. Abigail wrinkled her nose.
"That
is a disgusting habit, you know."
"Oh, yeah?" David lit up and squinted at her through the spiral of smoke. "Well, it so happens I'd almost kicked it, but after being around you, I need a cigarette. Bad."
Abigail could think of no reply, so she sniffed and folded her arms.
They regarded each other in hostile silence for several minutes. Abigail sat ramrod straight, her chin in the air. David puffed on his cigarette; inhaling deeply and blowing a lazy stream of smoke at the ceiling, his look daring her to object.
After a while his eyes narrowed. He sat forward and stubbed out the butt in the ashtray. "Gimme your purse."
"What!" She clutched it closer. "I most certainly will not!"
"Give me the damned purse," he demanded. "I want to see if I can find whatever it is those two gorillas are after."
"No! I won't have you pawing through my things!" she replied indignantly, jumping to her feet. "I'll look myself."
"Oh, hell!" With lightning speed his hand shot across the table, grasped the tail of her shirt and jerked her close.
"Wha—? Here now! Stop that!" Abigail gasped, but before she could stop him, he snatched the purse from her arm.
"You give that back, you... you... ruffian!"
She struggled with him for possession of the voluminous shoulder bag, but it was a hopeless quest from the start.
"Back off, Legs, and let me handle this," he ordered. "Believe me, you wouldn't have the slightest idea what to look for or how to find it."
David fended her off with one arm, and after a moment Abigail gave up, unwilling to continue such an undignified tussle.
He upended the bag, and Chelsea leaped from the side pocket onto the opposite bench seat, carrying in her mouth a three-inch toy dog. She deposited the stuffed animal in the comer of the seat and took up a bristling stance in front of it, growling at David and baring her little needle teeth.
"What the hell's wrong with that dog? And what's that she's got over there?" he asked, craning his neck.
"Nothing," Abigail snapped. She was shaking with anger. Her lips were pinched so tight, a white line encircled them. "It's just a stuffed toy. She thinks it's her puppy."