by Diana Miller
Not that she had any intention of trying to escape now that she believed Paul was with the government and she was in danger. She wasn’t stupid, for God’s sake. And not that anything short of pointing at a map would give her a hint where they were. Her knowledge of Pacific islands was limited to the minimal amount the Chicago school system thought inner-city kids needed to know, supplemented by the news, movies, and James Michener’s novels. She knew that volcanoes and coral had filled the Pacific with thousands of islands of varying shapes and sizes. She assumed they all had names, but doubted she could list even a dozen. She also knew some islands, like Hawaii, were tourist meccas, while others were uncivilized and even uninhabited.
Some had been used by the United States military during World War II. That must be where they were headed, to some installation the government still maintained.
At the top of a hill, they finally left the trees. The shimmering ocean was gloriously visible. The elaborate metal gate in front of them was the first evidence of habitation besides the airstrip. A stone and mortar fence about eight feet high extended along either side of the gate. Treetops peaked over the fence, and much farther back was a stone tower that had to be a lookout. Clearly, they’d reached the military compound, set on a bluff overlooking the ocean.
Tony stepped out of the SUV and opened the gate.
They drove from the gravel onto the blacktop road inside, and Jillian’s eyes widened. This was no military base. It was a mansion, the kind in TV and magazine stories about the rich and famous on the Mediterranean or in Southern California—cream stucco, red tile, and wrought iron, with a large front patio, and balconies along the second floor windows. A well-manicured lawn, beautifully landscaped with trees and vivid flowers, surrounded the house.
Tony pulled into a circular drive then stopped the vehicle.
“Get out.” Paul exited the vehicle without sparing her a glance.
Jillian got out of the SUV, breathing in ocean air with floral undertones. “Why are we here?”
“This is where we’re staying.”
“Here?” No way would the government dare use tax dollars to build anything like this.
“You’d be surprised what the government seizes from criminals and gets from families wanting tax write-offs,” Paul said. “They use this place as a safe house and sometimes for stopovers. It’s the only thing on the island, and this island is the only habitable one for seventy miles. And the title’s a mess. The records show that the island’s completely undeveloped and owned by some Englishman who actually sold it in the late 1800s.”
Jillian followed Paul through the wrought iron and glass front door. Obviously, the government had confiscated the owner’s furnishings. The place was a model of expensive elegance, with high ceilings and enormous windows, hardwood floors covered with Persian carpets, and artwork everywhere.
“All of the rooms are made up, so take your pick,” Tony said. “I’ll get you something to eat.”
Jillian followed Paul up a staircase with wood so gleaming she saw her reflection in each step. The long hallway looked like a college dorm crossed with an art museum—more than a dozen closed doors, with paintings and carvings decorating the spaces between them.
Halfway down the hallway, Paul stopped and opened a door. “You can use this room.”
She walked into an exquisitely decorated bedroom, the sapphire drapes open to expose sliding glass doors that led to a balcony and a spectacular view of the ocean. “This is incredible.”
“It’s one of the government’s nicer places. When you’ve cleaned up, come down to the kitchen. It’s right off the living room.” He left.
The intricate Persian rug had probably cost a good part of her annual salary, and the furniture was undoubtedly as antique as it looked. The attached bathroom was bigger than her apartment’s kitchen.
She sank onto the sapphire blue silk bedspread covering the queen size bed, the aura of unreality even stronger. This room belonged in a hotel so far out of her price range she’d be embarrassed to request a brochure, but she was staying here on an island in the Pacific, courtesy of the United States government. All because someone wanted to kill her. She didn’t know which part was more unbelievable.
“Jillian?” Paul knocked.
She opened the door.
He’d changed into gym shorts and a faded New York Knicks T-shirt. He held out some clothes. “I thought you’d appreciate something cooler than your sweater.”
“Thanks.” She took the clothes from him. The top T-shirt was from Bruce Springsteen’s Born in the USA tour.
“Born to Run would have been a little more appropriate,” he said.
“I really am sorry.”
“I told you to forget it.” Paul leaned against the door jam, folding his arms. “Besides, being stuck here is a lot nicer than being snowbound.”
His amiable tone and expression were such a pleasant change that Jillian kept her voice equally pleasant. “How long have you known Tony?”
“A while. I’ve been here before.”
“What’s his nationality?”
“American. Although his father was Vietnamese and his mother Thai.”
“What language were you speaking with him?”
“Chinese. Cantonese, actually.”
“You know Chinese?”
“A few dialects.” At Jillian’s curious look, he shrugged. “I’ve always been good at languages. Although Tony thinks my Vietnamese accent is atrocious, and my Thai is limited to hello, good-bye, and a few good swear words. That’s why he talks to me in Cantonese.”
In Keystone, Paul hadn’t hinted speaking even the Spanish he’d have needed in Bolivia, let alone Chinese dialects, Vietnamese, and God knows what else. In contrast, Jillian’s language knowledge was limited to two years of high school French and her previous foreign travel to a long weekend in Toronto. Why had she ever thought they had anything in common?
She forced her mind to another topic. “Who are Harry and Adele?”
“Former CIA agents, married to each other. They retired from fieldwork ten years ago and now help Tony take care of this place, doing guard duty when necessary. Adele paints and Harry writes, so they appreciate the solitude.”
Paul straightened, unfolding his arms. “The government sent lists of your ER patients and Andy’s cases from the past couple years. You can review them after lunch.” He gave her a mocking smile. “Getting them was a good idea, even though I know you were trying to make me relax my guard so you could call Andy.”
Jillian met his eyes. “That isn’t why I suggested it.”
He shook his head slowly, looking genuinely amused. “You can’t lie worth a damn, so don’t even try. Don’t bother looking for a phone in the house since there isn’t one. Don’t even consider trying to leave since an alarm sounds if you touch the gate or top of the fence. I’m also staying in the bedroom next door.”
Jillian hugged the clothes to her chest. “I wouldn’t try to leave or call anyone even if I could,” she said quietly. “I don’t want to cause any more problems.”
“Good. Tony has no doubt prepared a feast for us. After we eat, he’ll show you around the house.”
“Can I go outside?”
“Only if I’m with you, and I don’t have time today.”
“I won’t try to leave—”
“That’s not why,” Paul said. “It’s for your safety. I don’t think anyone who shouldn’t knows about this place, but I’m not taking any chances.”
She nodded, resigned.
“I’ll see you at lunch.” He turned away.
“Paul.”
He looked at her over his shoulder.
“Thanks for getting me out of the house. For saving my life.”
“Just doing what they pay me for.” Then he strode away.
* * * *
Tony had indeed set out a feast in the kitchen—meats, cheeses, and breads for sandwiches, a couple sala
ds, a fruit bowl, and homemade shortbread. After lunch, he took Jillian on a tour of the house then gave her a stack of papers and Paul’s instructions. She spent the remainder of her first day in paradise parked on a tufted gold velvet sofa in the elegant living room looking through lists that gave her no more idea why anyone would want to kill her than she’d had when she’d started.
After she’d finished, she headed to the kitchen in search of something to drink. Tony was chopping vegetables. In contrast to the antique-filled rest of the house, the kitchen was modern, with light granite countertops, stainless appliances, and dark wood cabinets.
“Can I help you?” She raised her hand. “I swear I’ve finished my assignment from Paul.”
Tony pointed to a colander of green peppers glistening like emeralds in the sunlight. “If you would slice those, I would be most appreciative.”
“They’re beautiful.” Jillian carried the peppers to a cutting board and selected a knife from the wood block on the counter.
“The garden in back is slightly neglected, but thrives nonetheless.” Tony began stringing a pile of bright green snow peas.
Jillian cut the sides of the first pepper from its core then sliced one strip. “This thick?”
“Perfect. I hope you like tuna.”
She resumed slicing. “I love tuna.”
“Good. I caught it this morning.”
“You like to fish?”
Tony nodded. “When I have the time and a good excuse, such as guests for dinner.”
“Uninvited guests.”
“A lovely lady such as yourself is never unwelcome. And Paul is an old friend.”
“Do you have a family?” Jillian sliced the last pepper and tossed the remains into the garbage can under the sink.
“My wife died nearly twenty years ago, but she left me two sons and a daughter. I also have seven grandchildren.” Tony pointed his knife at a pile of trimmed scallions. “Those next, into one-inch pieces, please.”
Jillian picked up the scallions. “Where do your children live?”
Paul strode into the kitchen. “I need your help in the office, Tony.”
“As soon as I finish the marinade, I will be out. Five minutes at most.”
“Be careful what you say around Dr. Rodgers,” Paul said. “She can’t be trusted.”
“You should probably hide the knives, too.” Jillian waved the one she was using. “I might overpower you all and get away.”
“Good idea.” Paul didn’t crack a hint of a smile. “Lock up the knives before you leave, Tony.”
Jillian concentrated on meticulously slicing the scallions, not looking up until she heard the outside door close. Tony minced garlic with the efficiency of a master chef.
“I’m not planning on trying to escape, no matter what Paul thinks,” she said. “Not now that I believe I’m in danger.”
Tony met her eyes, his knife hovering over the garlic. “Paul can be too distrustful. He has always been cautious, but since Helene was killed…” He gestured with his knife.
“His wife?”
Tony transferred the garlic into a bowl on the counter. “They had been married only three years. Her death affected him greatly.”
“I can imagine.” Paul might be an ass, but he had suffered a terrible loss. “He said she was killed in a car accident.”
Tony looked at her, his eyes hooded. “In a manner of speaking.”
“What do you mean?”
“Helene was killed by accident, and her death did occur in a car.” He paused. “Paul’s car. His enemies blew it up.”
Chapter 15
Paul’s wife had been killed by a car bomb meant for him.
Jillian was still fixated on that revelation when she headed downstairs for dinner two hours later. It explained so much. In Keystone, Paul had considered her a one-night stand, a vacation affair at most. Instead she’d become another woman threatened by his profession. Deja vu, even down to the car bomb that killed Kristen. Now he was stuck with her, a woman whose presence had to remind him continually of what had happened to Helene. A woman who was still alive, while the wife he’d loved was dead.
No wonder Paul treated her the way he did. His feelings toward her were a mish-mash of grief, guilt, and resentment, understandable even though it wasn’t her fault.
She always made allowances for difficult patients and families in high-stress situations. She could certainly give the same consideration to someone who was trying to keep her alive. From now on, she’d be cooperative and pleasant no matter how Paul treated her.
When she walked into the kitchen, Paul was sitting at the butcher-block table, and Tony was at the stove. She gave each a smile, which Tony returned and Paul ignored, and then sat across from Paul. Tony dished out the food, artistically arranging a piece of tuna, a colorful mélange of vegetables, and a scoop of rice on each plate.
She took a bite of perfectly grilled tuna, followed by crisp stir-fried vegetables and fluffy jasmine rice. “Tony, this is fabulous. Have you ever worked as a chef?”
Tony smiled faintly. “Never, but I think I would have enjoyed it. Perhaps in my next life.”
“Everything’s superb. Especially the sauce with the tuna. Fermented black beans and ginger?”
“With a touch of garlic and chili oil. And soy sauce, of course.”
“Excuse me, but if you’re done being the perfect dinner guest, I’d like to discuss something with Tony,” Paul said.
Jillian’s mouth popped open at his condescending tone, but she forced herself to swallow her angry retort. “Go right ahead. I’ll continue enjoying my food.” She sipped her wine, something white and excellent.
Paul immediately spoke to Tony—in Cantonese. Jillian struggled to maintain a pleasant expression as she ate. Remember what he’s been through, what he’s going through now.
After conversing with Tony for several more minutes, Paul stood and left the kitchen.
The back door slammed. “I apologize for our bad manners of not speaking in English,” Tony said. “We were discussing a technical problem that sounds much more serious than it is. Paul did not want you worrying.”
Right. Saving her from worry definitely wasn’t why Paul had shut her out. But she’d resolved to tolerate his attitude, and Tony wasn’t at fault. She gave him her warmest smile. “No apology is necessary. Where did you learn to cook?”
* * * *
The scream woke her. Loud and anguished, like from an amputation without anesthesia.
Jillian opened her eyes, her heart hammering. Her bedside clock showed 2:17.
The noise had come from Paul’s room. She jumped out of bed then raced through the dark room and dimly lit hallway to his door.
“Paul?” She knocked and waited. He was thrashing around and moaning. She tried the knob then slowly opened the door.
The bedside light came on. Paul sat up in bed, his back against the headboard. He held a gun aimed at her.
“Paul, it’s me.” She stepped into the room. Luckily, he was alone; she hadn’t even considered he might be fighting off an intruder. “Are you all right?”
He shook his head several times as if to clear it. “Jesus, Jillian, what are you doing barging in like that? I could have shot you.”
Despite his harsh words, his voice was strained. His features were taut, sweat glistening on his face and bare torso, the bed sheet wound around his waist.
“I heard you scream.”
“I’m fine.” Paul lowered the gun to the nightstand with a trembling hand. “Fine.”
He sure didn’t appear fine. Jillian closed the door and walked toward the bed. “Are you sick?”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry I woke you.” He shivered and pulled the sheet and blanket up to his chin.
Jillian pressed her hand to his forehead. “You aren’t feverish, just sweaty. Did you have a nightmare?” About his wife, no doubt, courtesy of all those memories her presence was dre
dging up.
“I’m fine.” His uncharacteristically faint and shaky voice belied his words.
Jillian sat down and put her arms around him. She rubbed her hands up and down his back through the bedclothes, using long, slow strokes. “You helped me in the SUV, so I owe you. I’m not leaving until you stop shaking.”
* * * *
Paul willed himself not to shiver. But he was so cold, and between the nightmare and nearly shooting Jillian in his resulting disorientation, his heart felt like a time bomb hammering away its last seconds. He dropped the sheet and blanket and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against his chest. Warmth radiated through her cotton T-shirt, taking the edge off his chill.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“Then don’t talk.” Jillian continued massaging his bare shoulders and back. “Just relax.”
Paul concentrated on Jillian’s soothing hands. He never talked about it; talking made him relive it. So did dreaming about it. The nightmare rarely came now, but every time was as horrible as the reality had been.
“I should never have gone to South America.” The words streamed out. “I hate working there. Everything’s related to the drug trade, and it’s brutal, the players barely civilized. When you’re deep undercover, you have to go along with them if you want them to trust you. It’s like being in hell. After a few years there, I swore I’d never go back. Then this came up. They needed me because I had an old cover that would get me in fast. It was right after Helene died, and I didn’t care about much of anything. So I went back to South America.”
Jillian rested her cheek against his chest as her fingers kneaded the back of his neck.
“When I was there before, I had a reputation for ruthlessness, although the stories were lies we’d planted. People still remembered the Devil and welcomed me back.” He shook his head. “It was even worse than before, the things I saw and didn’t dare stop, the drugs, the brutality, the women, forcing them…” His eyes teared. He squeezed them shut. “I hated it. So damn much.