by Diana Miller
He switched on the radio. “It’s definitely a sailboat and coming our way at a good clip. Did you get hold of Harry?”
“He just got here,” Sam said. “Do you want us to stake out the coast?”
“Not yet.” Paul watched the boat. “What’s Jillian doing?”
“She’s in the kitchen, making a cup of tea.”
“Good. If she looks like she’s going outside, head to the house and stop her.”
“Should I wake Mac?” Sam asked.
“Yeah.” Having both Sam and Mac on duty would guarantee Harry an ally if one of them had figured out their location and leaked it. Unlikely, since neither had access to a GPS or anything comparable, let alone the expertise to get around the island’s sophisticated communications safeguards. But being paranoid had saved his ass more than once.
The setting sun made it impossible to see the boat clearly, but it was definitely approaching the island. After a couple minutes, the boat shifted out of the sun’s direct path. The hairs on the back of Paul’s neck raised.
“I can see two men on deck,” he said into the radio. “One’s driving, another’s pacing. The pacer might be the guy who nearly killed me in D.C.” Cold sweat trickled down his spine.
The image of his near-assassin was branded into Paul’s brain. From this distance, he couldn’t make out the pacer’s features, but he was the right size and had the same dark facial hair. “Give me Harry.”
“I’m here, Paul.” Harry’s perpetually calm voice came through the radio.
“Anything on the other monitors? I don’t want to take my eyes off the boat.”
“Nothing. Still only two guys?”
“On deck.” He didn’t need to mention the dozen possibly crowded below.
“Can you see what they’ve got?”
“Not yet.”
The bearded man stopped pacing and stared in the direction of the island. Paul’s blood froze.
“Head out back,” he told Harry. “Take a radio.”
The evening seemed ominously quiet, the setting sun bathing the world in an eerie orangish glow. This wasn’t supposed to happen. No one was supposed to find them. Even if he summoned help now, no one would arrive for several hours, far too late to do them any good.
Keep cool and think.
He was panicking because of what had happened in the Rockies. He didn’t know for sure anyone had found them. Even if they had, they’d lost the element of surprise. If the boat’s occupants shot, Harry would shoot back. Provided their shot missed Harry, but Paul didn’t dare have Harry shoot first, not until he was positive the boat didn’t hold innocent tourists. Harry wouldn’t miss.
Paul watched the boat through the telescope. He’d always hated waiting. In the thick of things, you couldn’t do much besides act and react. The waiting phase gave you too damn much time to contemplate what might happen. To imagine all the horrifying scenarios that necessitated his Plans A through at least D.
Both men were moving now, too quickly for casual sailing. “Get ready, Harry.” Paul hadn’t expected them to shoot from this far out. They must have something unusually powerful and accurate, something that would cause a hell of a lot of destruction.
Something that would turn him from a sitting duck into a dead duck. He needed to get the hell out of here.
Chapter 20
Paul backed toward the door, his focus on the boat, his radio at his ear. The wind gusted, chilling the sweat that had pooled at the base of his spine. He shivered, backed up faster.
Then the sail jibed and the boat turned.
Paul stopped. “They came about and are heading away,” he told Harry through the radio.
“Could be waiting for reinforcements.”
“I know.” Paul returned to the telescope and made a quick 360-degree check. The water appeared otherwise empty.
That didn’t mean the boaters were alone. He switched the radio to Sam’s frequency. “Keep a close eye on the monitors. They might be using the boat to divert our attention from someone already on shore. Is Jillian still in the living room?”
“Drinking tea and reading.”
The boat sailed away for a moment then came about again. The sailors had adjusted their course a little south, but were still approaching the island.
What if a missile destroyed everything in the compound except the house? Paul’s stomach lurched. Jillian might be the only survivor. She wasn’t armed and wouldn’t be able to protect herself from someone on shore.
“I’m heading to the house.” Paul ran to the door then down the steps, two at a time.
He was almost at the bottom when Sam radioed. “We intercepted a call from someplace called the Mimosa Inn. Two couples headed out on a sail this morning and aren’t back yet. Could that be our boat?”
The Mimosa Inn was on an island nearly seventy miles away. Paul considered that for a moment. “With today’s winds, they could be this far off course, and maybe the women are below. Any maydays?”
“Not that I’ve heard.”
“The call may have been faked to put us off. Although maybe the sailors are too dumb to realize how off-course they are. Or too embarrassed to admit it.”
Paul raced back up the stairs then crept to the telescope, keeping below the cover of the fence. He peered through the telescope.
The guys on deck doused their sails. Paul held his breath. The boat turned left then moved faster. Away from the island.
He called Harry. “They’re motoring now, heading east. Go inside and give the authorities an anonymous call with their location.” If the boat’s occupants were inept tourists, they needed more help than they realized. Disorientation was a major problem in this area during the day. In the dark, it could be deadly.
Paul watched until the boat disappeared from view. The sun was nearly down, a sliver of deep orange beyond the heaving sea. He checked the surrounding area one more time. Still empty.
His stomach and breathing calmed, and his heart rate slowed. “I’m coming down,” he told Harry. “Send Mac back to bed, but you and Sam keep watching the monitors. Especially on shore.”
The boat might be the Mimosa’s missing sailors.
But the fact the boat had left for now didn’t guarantee it wasn’t something else—something infinitely more dangerous.
* * * *
Paul pounded on Jillian’s bedroom door at eight the next morning.
The bed creaked then her feet hit the floor, and she stomped to the door. He probably should have let her sleep. He was anxious to get started, though, and God knows he’d been up for hours. The boat had turned out to be the Mimosa’s missing sailors, but its presence had made him realize that he and the guards weren’t enough. Jillian had to be able to protect herself.
She opened the door. “What now?” She looked as if she’d rather be facing a dozen puking kids in the ER than him.
“Do you know how to use a handgun? I didn’t think so,” he said when she didn’t immediately answer. “Get dressed. It’s time for your first lesson.”
“My what?”
“Your shooting lesson. You need to know how to use a gun.”
“Why?”
“So you can protect yourself if someone attacks you.”
Jillian crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. “You claim no one knows we’re here or that this place even exists. I’ve also got almost as many guards as the president and what Ryan swears is the best security system known to man. What’s the probability I’ll be attacked here, let alone need to protect myself?”
“It’s possible.”
“Anything’s possible.” She threw up her hands in obvious disgust. “I hate guns, and I’m not learning to shoot one because you’re paranoid.”
“You’ll need to know how if you go to Denver.”
She dropped her hands. “I’m going to Denver?”
He leaned against the door jam. “I’m considering it.” Which was true; he was cons
idering it—considering how to convince her to drop the whole ridiculous idea.
“I’ll have guards in Denver. I’ve also taken self-defense courses, and I have mace.” She grabbed the door handle.
Paul stepped into her room then towered over her. “Mace and self-defense courses. Jesus. You’re not dealing with purse snatchers here.”
She raised her chin, her eyes fixed on his with the intensity of twin lasers. “I am not using a gun. Please leave.”
That authoritative approach might work on cops in the ER, but he didn’t have to worry about a harassment complaint if he kept pushing. He could get away with hauling her to the shooting range and physically forcing her to hold a gun.
However, he had a feeling the lessons would be unpleasant enough without using strong-arm tactics. “I’m not advocating you try a shoot-out. If you see someone, you need to run like hell. I just want you to have every possible advantage.”
“Isn’t it more likely I’ll shoot myself than someone else?”
“Not after I teach you.” He said that with a straight face, although how much an unwilling novice would learn in a few lessons was anyone’s guess.
She crossed her arms again. “I can’t shoot anyone. I’m a doctor, for God’s sake.”
“You’d be amazed how fast the urge for self-preservation kicks in when someone’s trying to kill you.”
Jillian’s defiant expression didn’t budge. So much for reasoning with her. “Look, I’ll cut to the chase. You’re learning to shoot, no matter what I have to do. End of discussion.”
If he’d still had the mustache and beard he’d worn in Keystone, the heat in her eyes would have singed them. She glowered at him for a long moment before she spoke. “Am I allowed to have a cup of coffee first?”
Paul kept his face expressionless—any indication of the triumph and relief he felt would probably reignite her. Besides, winning this battle didn’t put the war in the bag. “I’ll meet you in the kitchen in half an hour.”
* * * *
Precisely thirty minutes after he’d left her, Paul strode into the kitchen, and Jillian’s muscles tensed. She got up from the table, set her empty coffee cup by the sink, and trudged behind him to the four-car garage behind the house. He opened the side door, and they stepped into a spacious, nearly empty room.
“What is this?” The place clearly wasn’t used for storing expensive automobiles. Unfortunately, the odor of gunpowder and the paper targets on the wall opposite a long railing gave Jillian a pretty good idea.
“It’s a shooting range. It used to be a garage, but it’s been redecorated. And soundproofed.”
She needed to relax. Jillian leaned against the concrete block wall, breathing deeply as Paul opened a wall safe and removed a revolver.
“I’m going to teach you how to load the gun.” He held it out to her. “Here.”
“Let me watch you first.”
He demonstrated, removed the clip, and held the gun toward her again. “Now you do it.”
She stared at it and took another deep breath. She could do this. She’d had her hands on worse things during her medical career.
She took the gun, and her stomach heaved. She’d never touched a gun in her life, never realized they were so heavy. And cold enough chill her entire body.
Paul rested a hand on her shoulder. “You’ll get used to it.” His voice was unexpectedly gentle. “This is important. You have to learn to load it before we can concentrate on shooting.”
Shooting. She had a feeling it was going to be a long morning.
* * * *
It was a very long morning, at least from Jillian’s perspective. After she’d mastered loading, she’d put on a headset to block the noise, then advanced to raising the gun, aiming, and pulling the trigger. Paul had pointed at a paper target with several holes in the mid-chest region and told her to try to hit the heart.
Hit the heart. She never even hit the target. She hit the wall, the ceiling, even the floor once, everywhere but that blasted paper. She hated every damn shot, the feel of pulling the trigger, the kick when the gun went off, the distinctive blast the headset couldn’t totally block, the nauseating smell.
“Aim. Take a deep breath, let half out then slowly squeeze the trigger.” Paul’s constant commands were another annoying sound the headset didn’t block.
Jillian’s shot hit the wall two feet above the target. “Why don’t they make guns that are easier to aim?”
“You just need to get the hang of it.”
“I don’t want to get the hang of it. I hate guns.” She glared at the offending piece of metal.
“Come on, Jillian. Concentrate this time.”
“I am concentrating. Don’t you get it? I can’t do this.” Her shot hit a few inches to the left of the paper.
“You’re getting closer. Again.”
Her next shot hit the edge of the target.
“Good job,” Paul said. “Try again, a little to the right.”
She set the gun on the railing, jerked off her headset, and turned on him. “Good job? I barely managed a flesh wound, and you’re calling it a good job? What do you think I am, a five-year-old you can pat on the head, and I’ll keep trying? I’ve been doing this for hours. It should be evident I’m not getting better.”
“We haven’t been working that long. And you’re getting—”
“I’m getting sore arms and tinnitus, and I smell like a gunpowder factory.”
“I think we need a break.” Paul picked up the gun and carried it to the wall safe.
“Haven’t you been listening?” Jillian waved her powder-burned hands. “We don’t need a break. We need to admit this was a bad idea and quit.”
“I know it seems hard, but you can do it.” Paul closed the safe and met her eyes. “You didn’t think you could learn to ski, but you did.”
“Look how wonderful my life’s been as a result.”
He turned away. “Take some Tylenol for your sore muscles. I’ll give you another lesson in a couple hours.”
* * * *
The shooting range was even more depressing two hours later than when Jillian had left that morning. The gunpowder odor seemed stronger, as if Paul had sprayed some Eau du’ NRA around. The headset made her feel like she’d entered a vacuum chamber. The gun’s chilly weight still turned her stomach. It was already loaded, so she jumped right into pointing at the paper target and listening to Paul’s commands.
“Aim. Breath, then squeeze the trigger.”
She did. Her shot hit a foot above the target.
“Try again.”
Her next shot hit a foot to the right. She set her gun down. “I’m not doing this anymore.”
Before she realized what was happening, Paul had moved behind her, put his arms around her, and picked up the gun.
“Get away from me,” she said, wiggling to free herself.
His biceps closed like a vise on her upper arms, stopping her struggles. “I’m helping you get the feel of it.” He put the gun into her hands then wrapped his own hands around hers and raised the gun. “This is how you should be aiming. Now squeeze the trigger.”
Her shot tore through the target’s heart, enlarging one of the existing holes.
“See? You can do it,” he said.
“No, you can do it.” Jillian wriggled out of Paul’s arms and returned the gun to the railing. “I can’t, which should be obvious by now.” She yanked off her headset and threw it onto the floor. “It doesn’t matter anyway, because you have no intention of sending me to Denver. You hate being stuck here with me, and you’re punishing me by making me do this.”
“I’m making you do this because yesterday a boat got too close for comfort,” Paul said. “It turned out to be tourists way off course, but it made me worry about you being alone in the house. I want you to have every chance to protect yourself.”
“Because you feel guilty about me and because I’m your responsibi
lity. I can’t take it anymore.” Frustration and anger had Jillian waving her arms like an overwrought television evangelist. “As of this minute, I’m relieving you of any responsibility for me, and I’m absolving you of all guilt. Now leave me alone and let me go to Denver. I’m sick of having you treat me like crap. It’s not my fault I’m here.”
“No, it’s my fault you’re here.” Paul grabbed her shoulders, stopping her flailing arms. “And you know why it happened? Because in Keystone, I let myself feel more for you than I’ve let myself feel for any woman in years. I was so eager to be with you that I convinced myself you weren’t at risk, and look what happened. If I let myself get involved with you again, I might screw up again, and this time you’ll end up dead.”
In her mind, Jillian heard Ryan saying virtually the same thing, words she’d dismissed but deep down desperately wanted to believe. “You’re saying Keystone meant something to you?”
Paul’s hands tightened on her shoulders. “It meant a hell of a lot to me. Even though to you it was just preparation for getting back with Andy.”
“I told you I’m not back with Andy. I slept in the guest room when I stayed with him.” She grabbed Paul’s biceps. “I’d never have slept with you because of Andy, no matter what I said. I’d never sleep with a man I didn’t care about.”
They stared at each other, their breaths reverberating in the tomblike silence. Then Paul’s arms were around Jillian and his lips were devouring hers as she frantically kissed him back.
Chapter 21
Jillian’s shirt hit the floor, joined immediately by her bra.
Paul caressed her bare breasts, his touch sending sizzling heat to her stomach and between her legs. He kissed her jaw line, along her neck. “I shouldn’t be doing this,” he said between kisses.
“Don’t stop.” Jillian arched her back, pressing her tight nipples into his palms. “Don’t you dare stop.” Every inch of her skin tingled.
“I can’t stop.” He shoved her shorts below her knees, placed the gun on the floor then lifted her onto the railing. “I want you so damn much it’s killing me.” He yanked off his T-shirt and went to work on his jeans.