by Linda Ladd
After that, the girl stood quietly and just leaned her head back against his chest, either thinking about what he’d said or planning how to kill him. He guessed the latter. She was also looking around the boat now, at the calm, glittering royal blue sea surrounding them, while waves rocked the Sweet Sarah in a gentle swaying motion. Not a single boat or human being was in sight. The yacht from which she’d come was now far away and adrift, unless her attacker had come back with reinforcements to claim it. So, okay, they were alone in the middle of nowhere, and he could hold her immobile for the next two days if he had to. No problem for him, but she wouldn’t like it much. Neither would he. He’d like it less than she would. After a long stint of heavy breathing and silent consideration, she took a deep breath and held her body stiffly.
“Okay. I get it. You can let me go now.”
Novak had not been expecting cooperation. Nope, and he wondered if her capitulation was a ruse designed to throw him off. But he let go of her anyway and stepped back away from her, not stupid. He expected her to dart away again, make a run for the bow, maybe, or try to knock the hell out of him with both fists. Less likely, she might jump overboard in a dramatic show of bravado. But that would just be silly and self-defeating on her part, and his gut told him that she wasn’t a stupid girl, despite the fact that she’d somehow gotten herself tangled up with some low-life criminals who had beaten her and left her for dead.
To his surprise, she did not respond in panic. Instead, she backed slowly away from him until her retreat was stopped by the gunwale opposite him. It was only then that she seemed to realize she was nearly naked again, the towel left behind down in the Zodiac. She crossed her arms over her breasts.
“Where are my clothes? Give them back to me!”
She spoke educated English with a thick Spanish accent, breathless as hell at the moment. She looked Hispanic, Mexican, probably. Her eyes were not brown but darker than that, huge and thickly lashed and so black that they gave off a silver sheen from the sun’s bright glare. She wasn’t particularly pretty, nowhere near as beautiful as his wife had been, but she looked fairly good under such unfortunate circumstances. Surprised by her newfound courage, he watched her without comment. She watched him back. A wary standoff on both their parts, big-time.
“Your clothes were wet and bloody and ripped up. You came out of the water as cold as ice. I took them off you, right after I saved you from drowning, and wrapped you up in warm blankets. Your stuff is probably dry by now, if you would like to put it back on. I laid the clothes out in the sun, up there on the foredeck. I also brought some clothes off that boat you were on. Don’t know if they’re yours or not, but they looked about your size.”
Novak pointed to where the black shorts and oxford shirt were spread out on the roof of the cabin. She shielded her eyes to see them, and then she gazed back at him. Their eyes locked hard for a long moment. She was sizing him up. He was sizing her up, too. His eyes remained steadfastly on hers. Hers looked big and confused and distrustful. Then they started darting around like crazy, looking for a way out of the terrible mess in which she’d found herself. She was hovering right on the edge of a panic precipice, swaying there, not sure yet what to do. Novak couldn’t say he blamed her. She was in one hell of an ugly predicament. She didn’t know who the hell he was. She didn’t know if he was a good guy or a bad guy or a really bad guy. And she didn’t know what he planned to do to her, way out there in the middle of the ocean, all alone, no other human being in sight to help her.
“Who are you?”
The girl hadn’t asked him that—she had demanded the answer. Her ebony eyes had narrowed down now into suspicious slits. She had voiced the question imperiously, as if she was used to giving orders and expecting them to be followed without question. As if she was used to waving manicured and beringed fingers and things would be done for her. She was one of the privileged few, all right. She had reacted as the spoiled princess of a rich and doting family would behave. Only problem was, he didn’t dote on her. And he didn’t like spoiled princesses, or rich parents.
“Who are you?” he countered, crossing his arms over his chest.
Novak watched her wet her dry lips, and then she seemed to taste the blood on her mouth and reacted to it with a dark frown. She appeared somewhat startled by his question. She eyeballed him for a long moment and slowly shook her head. The slight movement obviously started her head to pounding, or maybe she just hadn’t noticed the headache until then. She grabbed both sides of her head with her open palms and groaned out loud. When she looked back at him, her expression revealed visible shock. Her words came very low, distressed.
“I don’t know. I don’t know who I am. Tell me.”
Oh yeah, right, Novak thought. She must think him a moron. Or born yesterday. He was neither. “Sure you do. Think harder.”
“I don’t know! I swear I don’t!” She paused, glancing around, frantic all of a sudden. “Look, mister, I don’t remember anything until I woke up down there without my clothes on. I swear, I swear.”
“You don’t remember a thing, huh? You don’t remember being on a white yacht named Orion’s Trident? I suppose you don’t remember being chased by some guy who slugged you in the face with a gun and then knocked you overboard? None of that rings a bell?”
“No! I don’t understand any of this! Who are you? Tell me!” Now her voice quavered a bit, her eyes getting wide and watery with distress that appeared legit enough. She put her fingertips against the bandage around her forehead, as if she’d just become aware of it. Oh man, if she was lying, putting on a show, she was laying it on nice and thick. And Novak would bet his life she was lying, and that meant she was damn good at it. Professional caliber, maybe. Which would be a good thing for him to keep in mind. However, she looked so small and beaten and victimized that it was hard to ignore her vulnerability. Novak’s gut told him she wasn’t nearly as innocent as she was letting on. Pure instinct, but his instincts had always been damn good.
It was much more likely that she remembered everything that had happened last night, and quite clearly. She just didn’t want to tell him for her own reasons. Self-preservation, probably, at its finest. Maybe everybody aboard that yacht had been a criminal, including her. Maybe it was some kind of heroin-or coke-running operation out of Cancun. Maybe she had provoked the guys she was working with, stolen from them or tried to take them out and pocket their shares. That didn’t much stand to reason, either, but nothing much did stand to reason at this point. Not in Novak’s estimation, and skeptical was his middle name.
Still, there was that one room aboard the Orion’s Trident, the one with the shackles and bloodstains. And there were the dark bruises on her wrists and ankles, blue-black and ugly and painful. She had been somebody’s prisoner, no doubt in Novak’s mind, but that didn’t mean she was a Girl Scout, either. He didn’t say anything, curious to see what she’d do next.
“You’re telling me that you pulled me out of the ocean and put this bandage on my head and saved my life. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yep, that’s what I’m saying. And you’re welcome.”
“Why? What were you doing out there all by yourself? What do you want with me? Why are you holding me captive?”
Novak just gazed at her. She was beginning to annoy him. “What difference does that make? Just so you know, though, I don’t want a damn thing from you.”
“You look all …” she floundered around for a suitable description, “scruffy and … not good.”
Scruffy and not good? So much for cleaning himself up. “Well, you don’t look so hot yourself, kid. But you do look a good sight better than you did last night when I dragged you aboard my boat. I had to mop up a pint of blood you left on my deck. So you’re welcome for that, too.”
She frowned some more. It seemed to hurt her headache. “This is just too much. I can’t even think straight. I can’t believe this is happening to me.”
“No kidding.”
&nbs
p; Silence. She peered out to sea again. Looked in every direction. Frowned some more. The sun glinted on those black eyes. It was hot, probably ninety degrees. She was sweating. So was he.
Novak got fed up with the conversation, or lack thereof. “Look, why don’t you just tell me who you are and where you live so I can get you the hell off my boat and get back to my own life. I’ve got things to do and places to go. You’re an inconvenience that I don’t want to have to deal with right now.”
“Like what?”
Novak scowled down at her. “Like what what?”
“Like what do you have to do?”
“You tell me who you are. Then I’ll regale you with the story of my life.”
She shut her eyes and gave a heavy, put-upon sigh, quite the dramatic young gal. She wavered on her feet and clasped her fingers around the rail. “Oh no, oh, my God, I feel funny … oh, I think … I think I’m going to faint …”
And then her eyes rolled back into her head, and she did faint, damn it. It wasn’t any act, either, Novak was pretty sure, although he had an idea that she might be quite the actress whenever the moment called for it. Not this time, though, not as hard as the back of her head cracked on his shiny teak deck. And not unless she was Cate Blanchett in disguise, acting the hell out of a swoon scene in some costume drama. He crossed over to her, squatted down and lifted her eyelid, found that she really was out cold. From the look of her body, it was more likely from lack of nourishment and hydration than from loss of blood. He cursed under his breath again, swung her up in his arms, and carried her below. Novak was not happy. No, he was definitely not happy. Now he supposed he was stuck babysitting an unknown, theatrical girl until her memory came back and/or she decided to quit playing games and level with him.
On the other hand, he guessed taking care of her until he could get her to somewhere safe was a good sight better than getting stinking drunk every night in order to drown out all those scared little voices of everybody he loved, endlessly calling inside his head. Time would tell on that, too, he guessed. Because he was fairly certain now that he was stuck with this frightened young woman, whoever the hell she was, and that she was not telling him everything, and that whatever she wasn’t telling him now was gonna be very bad news for him later on.
Chapter Three
Although Novak felt a modicum of sympathy for the girl he’d rescued, he also felt like she was going to be a gigantic pain in the ass. Yeah, he had a pretty good suspicion that his delicate little mystery girl, who had demonstrated that she could fight like the devil and probably had a few dirty tricks up her sleeve that she could only have learned by experience and/or tutelage, was not an amnesiac. She was playing the role fairly well, he had to give her that. She awoke the second time in the evening after about three hours spent on the bunk unconscious. Or pretending to be.
Novak had checked on her several times to make sure she wasn’t bleeding from the head or nose again, but she had been lying on her back, her chest rising and falling evenly. She was making little snorts and snores like his old beagle named Banjo used to do during Novak’s formative years spent down at his father’s sheep ranch in Queensland, Australia. To this day, he still missed that good old dog. Novak was fixing himself some supper in the galley when he heard the girl stirring around in the fore cabin. Lots of storage cabinets clicking open and shut. She was searching the boat, probably for a weapon. He heard the hatch above her bunk raise up, the one that led out onto the bow. Damn nosy girl, despite his hospitality. He had a feeling she might know how to use a gun—just instinctive self-preservation on his part. She wouldn’t find one. He kept them locked up and well hidden in secret compartments. He wasn’t overly worried that she would take off in the Zodiac again, either, not when she was aware there was exactly nowhere to flee. Besides that, he had it secured to the stern with knots she could never untie.
About ten minutes passed before she showed up in the door of the galley. Looking hangdog and pitiful now, she stayed right there and stared at him. Novak glanced over at her and then returned his attention to the stovetop. His new boat had a great galley setup. He’d designed it himself to accommodate his height. Sailboats weren’t designed for big men his size; no boats were. All the most modern conveniences and appliances were installed in the galley, with plenty of room still left to turn around. He loved the Sweet Sarah, loved everything about her. He probably valued her more highly than anything else he had. She was his sanctuary in bad times and his home in good times, and he rarely invited anybody on board. This time, he’d made an exception.
Forking up a fillet of flounder sizzling in the skillet, he flipped it over. He’d put yesterday’s catch on ice before all hell had broken out in the guise of a skinny kid. The grease popped and smoked. The cornmeal-crusted fish smelled good. His stomach growled. He was hungry. She looked even hungrier. She looked like some kind of homeless refugee from Somalia, or someplace. She was skin and bones. Today’s Hollywood producers would love her.
After flipping the other fillet over to brown, Novak turned to her. “Want something to eat, kid?”
“Yes, please. Oh, thank you. Maybe that’s why I fainted up there. I don’t usually pass out like that.” Her words came out fast and sounded über-conciliatory to Novak, and pretty damn phony, too, maybe—but then, he was always highly suspicious of everybody. Always had been, always would be. That particular idiosyncrasy had served him well in his long and violent career. He nurtured it and kept it alive. She stood watching his every move as if she expected him to whip around and charge her using the spatula in his hand as a weapon. Not gonna happen. She had on the black shorts she’d worn when he’d pulled her out of the sea. He’d brought the dry garments down and laid them on the bunk beside her while she slept. She had also helped herself to one of Novak’s 3X Extra Long white cotton Tshirts that he kept folded in the fore lockers. Guess she didn’t like the clothes he’d brought off the Orion’s Trident. His shirt hung on her, as big as a jib sail, reaching well past her knees. When she saw his interest in the T-shirt, she hastily explained, “Uh, I’m sorry, but I borrowed this shirt. Hope you don’t mind. I found it in the cabinet. My blouse was all ripped up and had blood on it and stuff.”
All that came out in rapid Spanish, but somehow sounding like a typical American teenager all the same. Maybe she’d gone to school in the States. He shrugged. “I don’t care. Wear whatever you can find. It’s a little baggy on you. The clothes in that bag I put on the bunk will probably fit you better.”
Novak engendered a small smile, designed to disarm her, but he wasn’t good at smiling or disarming, not with pleasant looks, anyhow. Especially not now. He didn’t want her aboard his boat any more than she wanted to be there. She just looked down, as if embarrassed. He returned his efforts to cooking his meal, but he made sure he knew where she was and what she was doing. At the moment, she was inching around behind him. She sat down in the booth at the dining table. He had his .45 handgun, a Kimber 1911, stuck down the back of his waistband, just in case she was planning to attack him with a table knife. He had set out two plates and glasses, figuring she’d be hungry as hell when she settled down and became rational. But she didn’t ask for anything, just sat silently and watched him work at the stove.
Novak didn’t look at her again. He lifted the glass lid off the wild rice, cut off half a stick of butter and dropped it on top, and then pulled the pan off the burner. He replaced the lid so the rice would steam. He pulled out a cutting board and sawed off a couple of pieces of thick Italian bread. He fixed her a generous plate of food and set it down on the table in front of her. She just stared at it, her eyes downcast. It appeared to Novak that she was about to burst into tears again. He hoped to hell not.
“Well, go ahead. Eat. The food’s good. I didn’t put anything in it.”
Novak went back to the fridge, got out a couple of Dixie beers, placed them on the table, and then he filled up his own plate. By now the girl had begun to eat, all right, wolfing down the grub
as fast as she could get it in her mouth. He wasn’t sure she was even chewing it. Maybe she really was starving. Maybe those guys who held her captive hadn’t fed her anything the entire time she was on board. Maybe he should cut her some slack and quit being so tough on her.
Then again, he didn’t know her from a hole in the ground, and he didn’t particularly like the temperament she’d shown him so far. He sat down across from her at the table and pushed a bottle of beer close to her plate. She kept shoveling food into her mouth, looking down at the plate as she ate and not at him. He ate, too. His manners came off a hell of a lot better than hers. Neither of them said a word for the entire meal, just concentrated on the food. He finished first because she wanted more than he did. He filled up her plate again. Then he got himself a second beer and sat down across from her and watched her partake.
“Those guys didn’t give you much to eat, I take it?”
“What guys?”
“Don’t start with me, kid.”
After that, she looked more scared than conniving. She stopped eating and laid down her fork. She propped the head of it on the edge of her plate. Her knife was lying across the top edge. She had placed a paper napkin down on her lap and had been dabbing the corners of her mouth. Once she got past the initial hunger pangs and slowed down, she had begun to show good table etiquette. Looked like she was a well-mannered young woman, even when half starved. He wished he could tamp down his wariness of her, but it hadn’t happened yet. She had to prove herself trustworthy first.
“So, tell me. You remember your name yet?”
“No, sir.”
“You can stop with the sir. No need. Call me Novak.”
She was a Mexican national, Novak was almost certain. He knew lots of people from that country and she looked the part and sounded the part, except for some U.S. syntax and slang. He was pretty sure now about her being schooled in the States. Maybe she was a Mexican American. Second or third generation. He took a swig of beer, observing her while he did it. He just wasn’t so sure about her yet. She seemed okay now, just a poor kid who had gotten herself into trouble with some bad people. Unfortunately, his gut kept insisting just the opposite. “Tell me what you do remember.”