Thief Of Hearts aka Stolen

by Tess Gerritsen

  The ranking officer of the naval team stepped forward and met the blond man. “Lieutenant Commander Tobias, Royal Navy.”

  “Simon Trott. VP operations, the Van Weldon company. How can we help you, Commander?”

  “We’d like to inspect your crew.”

  “Certainly. They’ve already been assembled.” Trott pointed to the knot of men huddled near the bridge stairway.

  “Is everyone on deck?”

  “All except the captain and Mr. Van Weldon. They’re up on the bridge.”

  “There’s no one below decks?”

  “No, sir.”

  Commander Tobias nodded. “Then let’s get started.”

  Trott turned to lead the way. As the rest of the boarding party followed Trott, Jordan hung behind, waiting for a chance to slip away.

  No one noticed him duck down the midship stairway.

  With all the crew up top, he’d have the below-decks area to himself. There wasn’t much time to search. Slipping quickly down the first corridor, he poked his head into every doorway, calling Clea’s name. He passed crew’s quarters and officers’ quarters, the mess hall, the galley.

  No sign of Clea.

  Heading farther astern, he came across what appeared to be a storage bay. Inside the room were a dozen crates of various sizes. The lid was ajar on one of them. He lifted it off and glanced inside.

  Swathed in fluffy packing was the bronze head of a statue. And a black glove-a woman’s, size five.

  Jordan glanced sharply around the room. “Clea?” he called out.

  Ten minutes had already passed.

  With a surging sense of panic he continued down the corridor, throwing open doors, scanning each compartment. So little time left, and he still had the engine room, the cargo bays and Lord knew what else might lie astern.

  Overhead he heard the sound of rumbling, growing louder now. The helicopter was about to land again.

  A mahogany door with a sign Private was just ahead. Captain’s quarters? Jordan tried the knob and found it was locked. He pounded on it a few times and called out, “Clea?”

  There was no answer.

  She heard the pounding on the door, then Jordan’s voice calling her name.

  She tried to answer, tried to shout, but the tape over her mouth muffled all but the faintest whimper. Frantic to reach him, she thrashed like a madwoman against her bonds. The ropes held. Her hands and feet had gone numb, useless.

  Don’t leave me! she wanted to shriek. Don’t leave me!

  But she knew he had already turned from the door.

  In despair, she jerked her body sideways. The chair tipped, carrying her down with it. Her head slammed against an end table. The pain was like a bolt of lightning through her skull; it left her stunned on the floor. Blackness swam before her eyes. She fought the slide toward unconsciousness, fought it savagely with every ounce of will she possessed. And still she could not clear the blackness from her vision.

  Faintly she heard a thumping. Again and again, like a drumbeat in the darkness.

  She struggled to see. The blackness was lifting. She could make out the outlines of furniture now. And she realized that the thumping was coming from the door.

  In a shower of splinters the wood suddenly split open, breached by the bright red blade of a fire ax. Another blow tore a gaping hole in the door. An arm thrust in, to fumble at the lock.

  Jordan shoved into the room.

  He took one look at Clea and murmured, “My God…”

  At once he was kneeling at her side. Her hands were so numb she scarcely felt it when he cut the cords binding her wrists.

  But she did feel his kiss. He pulled the tape from her mouth, lifted her from the floor and pressed his lips to hers. As she lay sobbing in his arms he kissed her hair, her face, murmuring her name again and again, as though he could not say it enough, could never say it enough.

  A soft beeping made his head suddenly lift from hers. He silenced the pager hung on his belt. “That’s our one-minute warning,” he said. “We have to get out of here. Can you walk?”

  “I-I don’t think so. My legs…”

  “Then I’ll carry you.” He swept her up into his arms. Stepping across the wood-littered carpet, he bore her out of the room and into the corridor.

  “How do we get off the ship?” she asked.

  “The same way I got on. Navy chopper.” He rounded a corner.

  And halted.

  “I am afraid, Mr. Tavistock,” said Simon Trott, standing in their path, “that you are going to miss your flight.”

  Fifteen

  Clea felt Jordan’s arms tighten around her. In the momentary silence she could almost hear the thudding of his heart against his chest.

  Trott raised the barrel of his automatic. “Put her down.”

  “She can’t walk,” said Jordan. “She hit her head.”

  “Very well, then. You’ll have to carry her.”

  “Where?”

  Trott waved the gun toward the far end of the corridor. “The cargo bay.”

  That gun left Jordan no choice. With Clea in his arms he headed up the corridor and stepped through a doorway, into a cargo bay crammed full with packing crates.

  “The landing party knows I’m on board,” said Jordan. “They won’t leave without me.”

  “Won’t they?” Trott glanced upward toward the rumble of the chopper rotors. “They’re about to do just that.”

  They heard the roar of the helicopter as it suddenly lifted away.

  “Too late,” said Trott with a regretful shake of his head. “You’ve now entered the gray world of deniability, Mr. Tavistock. We’ll claim you never came aboard. And the Royal Navy will have a sticky time admitting otherwise.” Again he waved the gun, indicating one of the crates. “It’s large enough for you both. A cozy end, I’d say.”

  He’s going to shut us inside, thought Clea. And then what?

  A ditching at sea, of course. She and Jordan would drown together, their bodies locked forever in an undersea casket. Suddenly she found it hard to breathe. Sheer terror had drained her of the ability to think, to act.

  When Jordan spoke, his voice was astonishingly calm.

  “They’ll be waiting for you in Naples,” said Jordan. “Interpol and the Italian police. You don’t really think it’s as simple as tossing one crate overboard?”

  “We’ve bought our way into Naples for years.”

  “Then your luck is about to change. Do you like dark, enclosed places? Because that’s where you’re going to find yourself. For the rest of your life.”

  “I’ve had enough,” Trott snapped. “Put her down. Pry the lid off the crate.” He picked up a crowbar and slid it across the floor to Jordan. “Do it. And no sudden moves.”

  Jordan set Clea down on her feet. At once she slid to her knees, her legs still numb and useless. Dropping down beside her, Jordan looked her in the eye. Something in his gaze caught her attention. He was trying to tell her something. He bent close to her and the flap of his jacket sagged open. That’s when she caught a glimpse of his shoulder holster.

  He had a gun!

  Trott’s view was blocked by Jordan’s back. Quickly she slipped her hand beneath Jordan’s jacket, grabbed the pistol from the holster and hugged it against her chest.

  “Leave her on the floor!” ordered Trott. “Just get the bloody crate open!”

  Jordan leaned close, his mouth grazing her ear. “Use me as a shield,” he whispered. “Aim for his chest.”

  She stared at him in horror. “No-”

  He gripped her shoulder with painful insistence. “Do it.”

  Their gazes locked. It was something she’d remember for as long as she lived, that message she saw in his eyes. You have to live, Clea. For both of us.

  He gave her shoulder another squeeze, this one gentler. And he smiled.

  “Come on, get the lid off!” barked Trott.

  Clea hooked her finger around the pistol trigger. She had never shot anyone before
. If she missed, if she was even slightly off target, Trott would have time to squeeze off his entire clip into Jordan’s body. She had to be accurate. She had to be lethal.

  For his sake.

  His lips brushed her forehead and she savored their warmth, knowing full well that the next time she touched them they might carry the chill of death.

  “It seems you need a jump start,” said Trott. He raised his pistol and fired.

  Clea felt Jordan shudder in pain, heard him groan as he clutched his thigh. In horror Clea saw bright red droplets spatter the floor. The sight of Jordan’s blood seemed to cloud her vision with rage. All her hesitation was swept away by a roaring wave of fury.

  With both hands she aimed the pistol at Trott and fired.

  The bullet’s impact punched Trott squarely in the chest. He stumbled backward, his face frozen in surprise. He weaved on his feet like a drunken man. The gun slipped from his grasp and clanged to the floor. He dropped to his knees beside it, made a clumsy attempt to pick it up again, but his hands wouldn’t function. As he sank to the floor, his fingers were still clawing uselessly for the gun. Then they fell still.

  “Get out of here,” gasped Jordan.

  “I won’t leave you.”

  “I can’t leave, period. My leg-”

  “Hush!” she cried. On unsteady legs she stumbled over to Trott’s body and snatched up his gun. “There’s no getting off this ship, anyway! They’ve heard the shots. They’ll be down here any minute, the whole lot of them. We might as well stick together.” She tottered back to his side.

  He sat huddled in a pool of his own blood. Tenderly she took his face in her hands and pressed a kiss to his mouth.

  His lips were already chilled.

  Sobbing, despairing, she cradled his head in her lap. It’s over, she thought as she heard footsteps pounding toward them along the corridor. All we can do now is fight till the bitter end. And hope death comes quickly. She bent down to him and whispered, “I love you.”

  The footsteps were almost at the cargo door.

  With a strange sense of calmness she raised the gun and took aim at the doorway…

  And held her fire. A man in a Royal Navy uniform stood blinking at her in surprise. Behind him stood three other men, also in uniform. One of them was Richard Wolf.

  Richard shoved through into the room and saw Jordan and the growing pool of blood. Turning, he yelled, “Call back the chopper again! Have the Medevac team standing by!”

  “Yes, sir!” One of the naval officers headed for the intercom.

  Clea was still clutching the pistol. Slowly she let the barrel drop, but she did not release the grip. She was almost afraid to let go of the one solid thing she could count on. Afraid that if she did let go, she would drop away into some dimensionless space.

  “Here. I’ll take it.”

  Dazed, she looked up at Richard. He regarded her with an almost kindly smile and held out his hand. Wordlessly she gave him the pistol. He nodded and said softly, “That’s a good girl.”

  Within fifteen minutes a team of medics had appeared, helicoptered in from the nearby Royal Navy ship. By then, Clea’s legs had regained their circulation and she was able to stand, albeit unsteadily. Her head was aching worse than ever, and a medic tried to pull her aside to examine the bruises on her temple, but she shrugged him away.

  All her attention was focused on Jordan. She watched as IV lines were threaded into Jordan’s veins, as he was lifted and strapped onto a stretcher. In numb silence she squeezed onto the elevator that carried his stretcher up to the deck.

  Only when one of the officers held her back as they lifted Jordan into the chopper did she understand they were taking him from her. Suddenly she panicked, terrified that if she lost sight of him now, she would never see him again.

  She shoved forward, elbowing aside the naval officer, and would have run all the way to the chopper were it not for a grip that firmly closed around her arm.

  Richard Wolf’s.

  “Let me go!” she sobbed, trying to fight him off.

  “He’s being transported to a hospital. They’ll take care of him.”

  “I want to be with him! He needs me!”

  Richard took her firmly by the shoulders. “You’ll see him soon, I promise! But now we need you, Clea. You have to tell us things. About Van Weldon. About this ship.”

  The roar of the rotor engine drowned out any other words. With despairing eyes, Clea saw the chopper lift away into the wind-buffeted darkness. Please take care of him, she prayed. That’s all I ask. Please keep him safe.

  She watched the taillights wink into the night. A moment later the rumble had faded, leaving only the sounds of the wind and the sea.

  “Miss Rice?” Richard prodded gently.

  Through tears Clea looked at him. “I’ll tell you everything, Mr. Wolf,” she said. And an anguished laugh suddenly escaped her throat. “Even the truth.”

  It was two days before she saw Jordan again.

  She was told that Jordan had lost a great deal of blood, but that the surgery had gone well, without complications. She could learn no more.

  Richard Wolf installed her in an MI6 safe house outside London. It was a sweet little stone cottage with a white fence and a garden. She considered it a prison. The three men guarding the entrances did nothing to dispel that impression.

  Richard had told her the men were a necessity. The contract on her life might still be active, he’d explained. It was dangerous to move her. Until Van Weldon’s topple from power became general knowledge, Clea would have to be kept out of sight.

  And away from Jordan.

  She understood the real purpose of the separation. It did not surprise her that his aristocratic family would, in the end, prevail. Clea was not the sort of woman one allowed into one’s family. Not if one had a reputation to uphold. No matter how much Jordan cared about her-and he did care, she knew that now-her past would come between them.

  The Tavistocks had only Jordan’s well-being in mind. For that she could not fault them.

  But she did resent them for the way they had taken control of her freedom. For two days she tolerated her pleasant little prison. She paced in the garden, stared at the TV, leafed without interest through magazines.

  By the second day in captivity, she’d bloody well had enough.

  She picked up her knapsack, marched outside and announced to the guard posted in the front yard, “I want out.”

  “Afraid that’s quite impossible,” he said.

  “What’re you going to do about it, Buster, shoot me in the back?”

  “My orders are to ensure your safety. You can’t leave.”

  “Watch me.” She slung the knapsack over her shoulder and was pushing through the gate when a black limousine rolled into the driveway. It came to a stop right in front of her. In amazement she watched as the chauffeur emerged, circled around and opened the rear door.

  An elderly man stepped out. He was portly and balding, but he wore his finely tailored suit with comfortable elegance. For a moment he regarded Clea in silence.

  “So you are the woman in question,” he said at last.

  Coolly she looked him up and down. “And the man in question?”

  He held out his hand in greeting. “I’m Hugh Tavistock. Jordan’s uncle.”

  Clea momentarily lost her voice. Wordlessly she accepted his handshake and found the man’s grip firm, his gaze steady. Like Jordan’s.

  “We have much to talk about, Miss Rice,” said Hugh. “Will you step into the car?”

  “Actually, I was just leaving.”

  “You don’t wish to see him?”

  “You mean…Jordan?”

  Hugh nodded. “It’s a long drive to the hospital. I thought it would give us a chance to get acquainted.”

  She studied him, searching for some hint of what was to come. His expression was unreadable, his face a cipher.

  She climbed into the limousine.

  They sat side by side, n
ot speaking for a while. Outside the window, the countryside glided past. The brilliant hues of fall were tingeing the trees. What do we possibly have to say to each other? she wondered. I’m a stranger to his world, as he is to mine.

  “It seems my nephew has formed an attachment to you,” said Hugh.

  “Your nephew is a good man,” she said. She stared out the window and added softly, “A very fine man.”

  “I’ve always thought so.”

  “He deserves…” She paused and swallowed back tears. “He deserves the very best there is.”

  “True.”

  “So…” She raised her chin and looked at him. “I’ll not be difficult. You must understand, Lord Lovat, I have no demands. No expectations. I only want…” She looked away. “I only want him to be happy. I’ll do whatever it takes. Even if it means vanishing.”

  “You love him.” It was not a question but a statement.

  This time she couldn’t keep the tears at bay. They began to fall slowly, silently.

  Sighing, he sat back in the seat. “Well, it’s certainly not without precedent.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A number of women have fallen for my nephew.”

  “I can see why.”

  “But none of them were quite like you. You do realize, don’t you, that you are almost single-handedly responsible for bringing down Victor Van Weldon? For smashing an arms shipment empire?”

  She shrugged, as if none of it mattered. And at the moment, it didn’t. It all seemed irrelevant. She scarcely listened as Hugh outlined the ripple of developments since the Villafjord was boarded. The arrests of Oliver and Veronica Cairncross. The new investigation into the Max Havelaar’s sinking. The cache of surface-to-air missiles found in the Cairncross Biscuits warehouse. Unfortunately, Victor Van Weldon would probably not live long enough to go to trial. But he had, in some measure, met justice. The final rendering would have to come from his Maker.

  When Hugh had finished speaking, he looked at Clea and said, “You have performed a service for us all, Miss Rice. You’re to be congratulated.”

  She said nothing.

  To her surprise he chuckled. “I’ve met many heroes in my time. But none so uninterested in praise.”