by Ginna Gray
"In the beginning. But by the end of that first sUmmer I had gained a healthy appreciation for just how hard that frail old man had to work for his few pennies. After that I never took anything that didn't belong to me. And to this day it makes me see red when anyone takes advantage of someone too old or too young, or some who's just not equipped to stand up for themselves."
"You mean like a lone, defenseless woman?" Abigail teased, earning herself a long, hard kiss.
She told him about Aunt Harriet, who had a platitude for every occasion, and whose opinions and attitudes were as stiff and unbending as the boned corsets she had insisted upon wearing.
"She sounds like a witch," David commented when Abigail recited some of her aunt's strict rules.
"She just had her own way of doing things," Abigail defended. "She was much older than my father, and set in her ways by the time I came to live with her. It couldn't have been easy on a woman who had no tolerance for messy, noisy children to be suddenly saddled with her brother's child at her age!"
David told Abigail about his sisters, who were identical twins; daring, irrepressible Erin with her insatiable curiosity and wanderlust; soft, gentle Elise who possessed a quiet strength that had surprised them all.
He filled her in on Max Delany, the globe-trotting entrepreneur whom Erin had married, and Sam Lawford, Max's best friend and partner, a reserved man who had spent four years as a prisoner of war and had returned a cold emotionless shell of a man, until Elise had thawed the ice around his heart.
He regaled her with stories of his sister's high jinks over the years, the worry and trouble they'd caused him, and how he was glad they both had husbands now to watch out for them. But beneath his gruffness and grousing, Abigail heard the pride and love.
Fascinated, she listened to it all with the intense interest and envy of one who had grown up alone in a sterile home, longing for brothers and sisters, the warmth of a family.
That whole day they did not leave the house. Lunch and dinner were consumed, though neither could have said an hour later what they had eaten. They talked for hours and spent quiet, reflective times wrapped in each other's arms, both aware of the minutes ticking by, but loath to bring the matter up.
And they made love repeatedly.
All too soon, however, the idyll ended. As the setting sun splashed ocean and sky with red and orange, the Freewind eased from the boat house and set course for Alhaja Verde.
On reaching the island, once more they hid David's boat in the cove and used Pepe's skiff, which they had left there the night before, to return to San Cristobal.
A message from Leo awaited them at the cantina. The terse note said the meeting was set for that night at eleven at the Casa Delgado de Vuente on Camino Acequia.
"I do not like it, mi amigo," Pepe pronounced, pacing back and forth. "The hombre who brought the note, he is muy bad. And that place, it is up there on the mountain, miles from nowhere. No one has lived there for years. This could be a trap."
"I know, but we'll have to chance it. At the moment we don't have any other options."
Pepe gave them directions to the remote hacienda and the loan of his pickup. He wanted to accompany them, but both Constanza and David vetoed that idea.
"If this operation goes sour and something happens to me, I want Abigail to have someone back here to turn to for help."
The explanation soothed Pepe's injured pride, as David had intended, but sent fear streaking through Abigail. She shot him an alarmed look, her face pale. Good Lord. Was he expecting serious trouble? From their own people?"
She tried to ask him on the drive up the mountain, but he waved her questions aside, saying he had to concentrate on the switchback road. After several rebuffs, Abigail gave up.
They had been climbing for almost a half hour and had not passed a structure of any kind when David pulled the pickup off the narrow dirt lane and braked to a stop behind a stand of trees. "The hacienda should be about a quarter of a mile up the road."
"Then why did you stop here?"
"You didn't think I would just drive up to the front door, did you? Before I let you get anywhere near that place I'm going to check it out." Hooking a hand around the back of Abigail's neck, he pulled her to him for a hard, very thorough kiss that left her body weak and her head whirling. "You and the mutt stay here. If I'm not back in thirty minutes, you turn this truck around and hightail it back to Pepe's. Got it?"
"But, Da—"
"No buts. You do as I say, Legs. I mean it."
Before she could argue further, he eased open the door and slipped away into the darkness.
Abigail checked the luminous dial on her wristwatch. She shifted on the sprung seat and looked around, but it was so dark she could barely see three feet beyond the truck. Chelsea padded across the seat to the driver's side and stood up on her hind legs to peek over the edge of the window. Abigail checked her watch again.
The quiet night closed in around her. Every sound seemed magnified, menacing—the dry rustle of leaves in the trees, the hoot of an owl, the insects' intermittent whir. When a small creature stirred in the underbrush beside the truck Abigail jumped and let out a squeak. Chelsea promptly bounded onto her lap and hung over the edge of the window opening, growling ferociously.
"Hush, Chelsea," Abigail ordered. Her gaze swept the darkness. She shivered and rubbed her arms. She half expected someone to leap out from behind a tree and drag her from the truck.
Abigail checked her watch again. Heavens! She'd had no idea thirty minutes was so long. She fidgeted. She drummed her fingers. She tapped her foot.
And every few seconds she checked her watch.
As anxious as she'd been for the time to pass, when it did, with no sign of David, she rued her impatience and would have wished every minute back if she could have. She gnawed on her thumbnail and searched the darkness. David, where are you?
She checked her watch again. She'd wait another five minutes.
When they were up, she waited another five... and another.
Finally Abigail scooted over behind the wheel. She reached for the ignition key, but drew her hand back at the last second and bit her thumbnail again. It had been forty-five minutes. He'd told her to leave if he wasn't back in thirty. She looked around again, her expression pained.
Darn it! She couldn't go off and leave him! She didn't care what he said, she simply couldn't do it!
Her nerves jumping, Abigail put Chelsea back into the side pocket of her purse and eased out of the truck. Out in the open, the dark night took on added menace. Her in-sides quivered like gelatin, and gooseflesh rippled over her arms.
Squelching the cowardly urge to climb back into the truck and do as David had instructed, she took a determined step toward the road, then halted. If he had been abducted, it might be wise to stay out of sight. A sundress and sandals were not the best attire for tramping through the woods at night, but there was no help for it.
The undergrowth among the trees scratched Abigail's legs, and low limbs and vines caught her hair and slapped her in the face. There seemed to be a thousand hazards hidden in the shadows just waiting to deal her grief. More than once, Abigail tripped on a protruding root she couldn't even see. An owl hooted, and something skittered away in the darkness. In the distance a creature screamed, and Abigail's skin crawled. Still, she kept going.
The road was off to her left. She tried to keep it in view, but between the darkness and her poor sense of direction she got off course and emerged from the woods at the back of a house set far off the road.
Light shined from two windows—in a room that Abigail guessed to be a kitchen, and from a shallow basement window.
Admonishing Chelsea to be quiet, Abigail crept across the yard, crouched low. Her heart pounded, and her mouth was so dry her tongue felt swollen.
She kept a wary eye on the back door and the lighted window beside it as she sneaked toward the basement window. When she reached the house, she pressed against the wall and droppe
d onto her knees. The bottom of the window was mere inches above ground level, and she had to bend over to see inside.
Abigail gasped when she did and put her hand over her mouth. David sat on the floor, leaning back against a post with his hands tied behind it. He sat with his head tilted back against the post, his eyes closed. One side of his jaw was puffy and discolored, and the cut above his eye had been reopened. Fresh blood spatters dotted the front of his shirt.
Oh, David, what have they done to you?
Anger consumed Abigail. The very idea that agents of their own government had hurt David spurred her temper to heights it had never reached before.
She had to do something to get him out of there. But what? She surveyed the only entrance available to her. The narrow casement window opened outward. It would be a tight fit, but she thought she could make it. At least the window was open and there was no screen. Abigail poked her head inside and was delighted to see there was a workbench along the wall below.
Glancing at the doorway again, she set her purse close to the opening, then got down on her hands and knees and shimmied backward through the window, feet first.
A soft bump brought David's eyes open, and his jaw dropped. Nothing in his life had ever surprised him—or frightened him—as much as the sight of those gorgeous legs and cute little rear end coming through the window.
He watched, too stunned to speak, as Abigail squirmed and wriggled her lower body through the opening. For a moment she hung there by her waist while she struggled to drag her purse closer. Then, after a glance over her shoulder, she pushed off.
She landed with a soft thud, and David found his voice. "Abbey, what the hell are you doing here?"
Glancing over her shoulder, she frowned. "Shhh. Do you want to get those guys down here?"
"Dammit, Abbey! I told you to leave if I didn't come back!"
Stretching up on tiptoe, Abigail managed to grip the bottom of her purse with her fingertips and pull it down. She hopped down from the workbench, hurried over to David and dropped onto her knees beside him. "That would have been rather foolish, wouldn't it?" she said, more than a little pleased with herself.. "Who would have come to your rescue if I had?"
"Abbey, so help me, when we get out of this mess, I'm go—"
"Oh, shush your blustering. You don't scare me," she said blithely, and proved it by kissing him into silence. When she raised her head, her eyes were dreamy—until she focused on his injuries. "Oh, David, your poor face."
"Never mind that. Just get me untied. Quick, before those goons get back."
"Oh! Right!" Setting her purse down among a stack of crates in the shadows behind David, she ordered Chelsea to "stay" and went to work on the ropes.
No sooner had she gotten started than the door at the top of the stairs opened. Abigail jumped and looked up, and her mouth fell open as three men stepped onto the landing. "Those two are the men from the docks. The ones who ransacked my hotel room," she whispered to David incredulously.
"Yeah. I know."
"Well, well. What have we here?" the man in the lead said. David saw Abigail's shock deepen as the man's Boston accent registered. "If it isn't Miss Stewart." He looked at David and chuckled. "I wouldn't have thought a hard case like you would inspire that kind of devotion, Mr. Blaine. I expected Miss Stewart to be long gone by now."
As the men clattered down the stairs, Abigail's gaze never left them, but she muttered under her breath, "Chelsea, stay. Stay, girl. And be quiet."
"But then, what would a scum bag like you know about loyalty?" David drawled.
"You mean because I chose to throw in with my Russian comrades?"
Abigail sucked in her breath.' 'You mean you're a traitor to your own country?"
"Me? Of course not. Haven't you heard? There's Glasnost and Perestroika now. Why, we're all one big happy family."
"Yeah, sure," David sneered. "And Stalin was a Jesuit priest."
"Shut up, pig!" The order, issued in accented English, came from the ugly brute with the flat face, who delivered a vicious kick to David's ribs.
"Oh! You beast! You leave him alone!" Incensed, Abigail sprang to her feet and flew at the man with her fists flailing. She managed to land a sharp blow on his nose that elicited a gratifying grunt of pain before he and his partner could subdue her. Even then, she twisted and kicked and butted until Shovel-face slapped her across the face with such stunning force her eyes glazed.
"Leave her alone, dirt bag!" David lunged and strained against his bindings, spewing obscenities.
"Ahhh... it's like that, is it?" the American said with a sly smile.
He turned to Abigail, his eyes narrowing. "Tell me, Miss Stewart. Where is it?"
Abigail stuck her chin out in flagrant defiance, something she would not have had the nerve to do only a week before. "Where is what? I don't know what you're talking about."
Shovel-face raised his hand to slap her again, but the American stopped him. "No, Ivor. Not yet. Sergio will be here soon, and he'll want to question her himself. If you knock her silly she won't be able to answer, and he won't be pleased."
The brute did not look happy, but after a brief hesitation, he lowered his hand. Following the American's instructions he tied Abigail to another support post, six feet from where David was tied.
When done, the three men started back up the stairs. Half way to the top the American paused and looked down at David, his expression for once showing concern. "I'm warning you, Blaine. Sergio will be here soon, and he'll get his answers, one way or another. You may be able to stand anything he dishes out, but I don't think Miss Stewart can. Or that you'll be able to watch." He jerked his head toward the door at the top of the steps. Through it they could hear the other two men talking in Russian. "He'll turn Ivor loose on her. As you noticed, he enjoys hitting women. In any case, it won't be pretty. So why don't you do yourselves a favor and tell us where the list is?"
David replied with a succinct, vividly crude, two-word expression.
The other man's face tightened. "You're fools. Both of you," he snapped, and disappeared up the steps.
David lit into Abigail the minute the door closed. "Now do you see why I wanted to keep you out of this? Dammit,
Abbey, if you had just gone back to Pepe's like I told you to—"
"David, please. I couldn't leave you, and that's all there is to it. Instead of wasting time arguing, we should be working on getting free and getting out of here."
"Don't you think I've been trying ever since they tied me? These ropes won't budge."
"Chelsea, come," Abigail called, and the little dog dashed eagerly from the shadows. Whining and wriggling, she jumped up on Abigail and started licking her chin.
Over the top of the dog's head, Abigail's gaze sought David. "When that man hit me I was so afraid Chelsea would come after him. She's well trained and obedient, but I was praying she wouldn't pick that time to disobey."
David rolled his eyes. "Well, I'm afraid you'll have to pardon me, sweetheart," he growled, making no attempt to hide his exasperation. "At the time, that damned mutt wasn't my top priority."
"Well, she should have been. Watch this." Abigail turned her attention back to the agitated animal. "That's enough, Chels. Come on now, girl, I know you're upset. Calm down. Chelsea, sit," she commanded sharply, and the Yorkie obeyed, though she still quivered as she gazed adoringly at her mistress. "Now fetch my purse, Chelsea. Bring it to me."
"Oh, pul-leeze," David groaned as the dog trotted away. "Even if she knows what you're saying, that overgrown mouse can't drag that suitcase you call a purse. The thing must weigh five times what she does."
Ignoring him, Abigail continued to murmur encouragement. "Come on, girl, fetch the purse. You can do it. Fetch the purse. Come on, Chels, bring it here."
David snorted, but to his surprise, short scratchy sounds began to come from the shadows—the sounds of canvas scraping across concrete, inch by inch. His jaw dropped, and he stared at Abigail. "Well, I'll be dam
ned."
The sounds drew closer. Finally Chelsea's furry rear end came into view... then the rest of her. With a Herculean effort, the purse strap clamped between her teeth, the tiny dog leaned back and strained for all she was worth and moved the bag an inch or so. Taking a step back, Chelsea set her legs again and repeated the process. Over and over.
Watching her, David strained at his ropes, unconsciously trying to help.
"That's it, Chelsea. That's my good girl. You're doing fine," Abigail crooned.
"Way to go, Chelsea. C'mon, Tiger. You can do it," David rooted. Chelsea paused just long enough to cut her eyes around at him and growl.
To Abigail's dismay, when her pet succeeded in bringing the purse to her, she couldn't get her bound hands far enough inside to grab anything.
"Aw, hell. I knew it wouldn't work." David slumped back against the post, muttering a string of curses. He had to do something. Fast. He couldn't let Ivor get his hands on Abbey.
"Keys, Chelsea," Abigail commanded. "Fetch the keys."
David's head snapped around, a surge of renewed hope swelling his chest. "The pocketknife! Of course! Your key ring has a pocketknife attached to it! Now if the little fur ball just knew what you were—"
To David's surprise, the dog burrowed into the purse. Seconds later she emerged with the key ring in her mouth.
"Good girl, Chelsea! Good girl! Now take it to David. Go on, take it to David."
Hesitating, Chelsea looked at David and growled.
"Go on, Chels. Take it to David," Abigail said with more force, and the little dog reluctantly obeyed. "Put it in his hand, Chels. Give it to him. That's it, that's my good girl." The instant her mission was completed, Chelsea raced back to her mistress.
David's fingers pried open the blade of the knife and went to work on the ropes. He sawed back and forth, gritting his teeth. Dammit. Trust a woman to have a pocketknife and not keep it sharpened.
One by one, though, the twisted strands of hemp gave way beneath the blade. Just as the last one popped, the door at the top of the steps opened again.
David stilled.