Heart of a Hero

by Sara Craven

  Dawn felt mesmerized by the sight of him locked in an elemental struggle with a creature easily triple his size and weight.

  Quince hovered, offering sage advice, his gaze never leaving the prey. Periodically it would jump clear of the water, writhing with strength and grace, then splash down again and tear forward, still firmly hooked. It seemed a shame to catch and kill this beautiful denizen of the deep, but Dawn felt the excitement anyway. A paradox, for sure.

  When the fish tired, Quince shouted for the others to come and help bring it aboard. Carlotta approached, wearing a cat’s smile as if she planned to devour the thing then and there. Sean hopped around like a seasoned deck hand used to such chores. Minos was conspicuously absent.

  As soon as they had secured the fish and everyone remarked on its size and power, Eric glanced around the deck. “Where is the African?”

  Quince shrugged. “Probably below with Paulo.”

  But he was not. Paulo appeared with cold drinks and declared he had not seen Minos. A search of the entire boat turned up no sign of the big man from Tanzania. As the old gangsters used to say about their victims who were disposed of in the water, Dawn would bet he was sleeping with the fishes.

  “Perhaps he fell overboard! We should go back for him!” Dawn said, stating the obvious to see what sort of reaction she’d get. They all looked at her as if she were the token imbecile.

  “Back where precisely?” Carlotta asked wryly. “I say good riddance.”

  Sean’s quick gaze glanced off each of them, but he said nothing.

  “Shouldn’t you call for a search?” Dawn asked Quince, wide-eyed.

  Eric’s arm slid around her and drew her close. “This is not for you to worry about, Aurora. Be silent now.”

  Though his voice sounded gentle, the command was firm. Dawn dropped her gaze to the deck and sniffled for effect while her mind raced, trying to recall where everyone had been during the last hour or so.

  Unfortunately, her attention had been so locked on Eric’s battle with the fish, she had not thought about keeping track of the other members of the party.

  Quince had remained beside Eric, of that she was certain. The captain had been occupied at the wheel. And if Paulo had come on deck, she would have noticed. Wouldn’t she?

  It was a cinch Minos hadn’t taken a dive over the side of the boat on his own. Either Carlotta or Sean must have given him some help.

  Surely no one, with the possible exception of Quince and the captain, was armed, but she would bet her last nickel they were all trained to disable or kill bare-handed.

  She should have been watching them all. But who would expect anyone to disappear off a boat?

  Quince had expected it, though, she thought suddenly. He didn’t look at all surprised when they noticed Minos was missing. Now she realized what he must be doing. He was giving them the opportunity to eliminate the competition.

  Was this a game for his amusement or simply a business decision? All Quince had to do was issue the invitation to bid, see who responded, run financial checks of their organizations and determine which one was likely to pay the most for what he had to sell. Then he could give that one the best opportunities to kill off the competition.

  If they were all dead but the buyer, Quince would remain safe on his uncharted island, his whereabouts unknown. It would be much easier to transport the lone survivor, the one who actually bought the information, back to the mainland without revealing the location of this place than to arrange for all of them to return. Less chance of betrayal that way, too.

  Those who were not successful at getting what they had come for might want a little retribution. Or their respective organizations might.

  Captain Kerosian, who had brought Eric and her here, had probably been the one to transport the others to the island. Now he was dead. Would Helos be next? As far as Quince knew, Eric’s two bodyguards were out of the picture. The other bidders seemed to have none accompanying them, either.

  “How unfortunate we are in no position to call for help,” Quince said without conviction. “We will naturally return to the island by the same route we traveled, but I seriously doubt there is much hope of locating him now. Captain Helos? Set the appropriate course.”

  And the captain would, Dawn thought. They would return with all the many twists, turns and diversions that brought them to the spot where the marlin were plentiful. Who but someone tracking it on the charts would know if it was the same?

  The fishing expedition was over and the bidders reduced to three, plus one unnecessary and highly expendable wife. She looked up at Eric, then at the others. They had figured that out, too. Who would be next?

  Chapter 10

  Eric marveled at Quince’s ingenious plan. It was dastardly, yes, but you could hardly expect more from one who made his living off terrorists.

  Quince had to be aware of the financial standing of the groups represented in the bidding war or they wouldn’t have been invited here. When each of the losers returned unsuccessful, there could be repercussions. If they didn’t return at all, that might also be the case, but by then he would bet that Quince would be impossible to find.

  Dawn looked worried, as she should. Quince had noticed her consternation. Some of that worry was real, Eric knew, and at least a part of it was for him personally, not just the outcome of the mission. Though there was still no direct mental communication between them, he felt very strongly that she cared. If not romantically, then surely the way she would in covering a partner’s back.

  They were guided below where they lounged in the cabin with cold drinks. With the sun directly overhead, it would be impossible for anyone to gauge their direction on the return trip even if they remained on deck.

  Quince had choreographed everything. How he had gotten the marlin to cooperate was anyone’s guess, but it had gone down like clockwork, Eric had to give the man that much. Or maybe Quince was just lucky things were working out as he’d planned.

  He sipped his soft drink and placed a protective arm around Dawn. As little Aurora, she performed beautifully, looking up at him with those soulful doe eyes, letting her sensitive lips tremble just a little.

  God, he would have given his eyeteeth to kiss her, but an open display would be totally out of character for Al-Dayal. Instead, he squeezed her shoulder and released it. “Get me another pillow. My shoulders ache from all that exercise.”

  She hesitated only a second, then obeyed. Eric noted Quince’s gaze flick from him to Dawn and back again. Then he smiled. “You are a very lucky man, Jarad.”

  Eric frowned, then folded his hands across his stomach. “So it is said. Perhaps a man makes his own luck.”

  Quince shrugged. “Some think that’s true and in the event of good luck, it might be. I’ve found that bad luck, however, usually takes us totally unaware.”

  “It is how one reacts to any luck that determines his ultimate fortune,” Eric replied evenly, adjusting the cushion Dawn placed behind his neck. She sat down beside him again, ever the dutiful wife.

  “Enough stupid philosophy,” Carlotta snapped, addressing Quince. “I need to have done with this now and fly home. Why can we not present our bids now and have you drop us on the mainland?”

  She clunked her glass down on the table and stood, rubbing her upper arms with her palms as if she were cold. Or frightened.

  “Patience, my dear,” Quince said with a toothy smile. “All in good time.”

  He reached behind him and hit a switch. Music flooded the cabin. “Rebetika,” he explained. “Sad, isn’t it? For a time, this music was outlawed by the government because it so often deals with poverty and suffering, but now it is becoming prevalent again.”

  He listened to the plaintive, haunting strains for a time, then added, “Governments come and go, but the people themselves will prevail eventually.”

  “Now there’s a freakin’ message to live by,” McCoy agreed, his voice rife with feeling.

  Eric felt, aside from his and Dawn�
�s reasons, that the Irishman was probably the only bidder present whose motives for acquiring the radar-shield plans were in any way connected to patriotism. However extremist their views were, the members in Sean’s sort of group almost always possessed passion and dedication. He would die for his cause, but he would rather kill for it.

  Carlotta rolled her eyes at Sean’s comment and sat down again, resigned to endure whatever Quince arranged. She had little choice. Her motive was power. She got off on control, too, and now she had none. He didn’t need her thoughts to know this woman was determined and deadly.

  He wished he hadn’t been forced to bring Dawn along on the mission. Though he wouldn’t have had the chance to know her if he hadn’t. Her presence put her at tremendous risk, and seriously hampered his goals.

  Eric was unused to fear while on the job. Only a fool was never afraid, but he had never let it become a problem for him. Mostly he ignored it, but now he couldn’t. He was afraid for Dawn.

  Sure, she was good at testing security. Her record showed she was great at hand-to-hand and an expert shot, but he knew she had never come up against these sorts of international hard-asses before.

  If McCoy or Carlotta managed to take him out first, she would be left a lamb among wolves. She had no weapons except her wits. He prayed those were as sharp as they appeared to be. Maybe he should plan to strike first and eliminate the risk of leaving her vulnerable.

  Eric tried again to read Quince, hoping for some indication of what was on the agenda when they reached the island. He drew a blank. Quince merely smiled at him, nodding in time with the sorrowful strings of the bouzouki.

  Neither could he read the others. Maybe Quince’s block had shaken his confidence in that regard. Maybe Dawn had. Maybe he had simply lost the ability. He could function without it, he assured himself. Somehow.

  A little over an hour later, they were back at Quince’s estate having a light luncheon on the terrace. No one ate at first. They didn’t touch a dish at all until Quince himself had eaten some of it.

  Eric and Dawn were no exception, though Eric was doubtful Quince intended to do away with any of the bidders himself. No, he apparently planned to let them take care of each other. The man was enjoying himself, that was plain to see.

  Carlotta kept casting sly looks in McCoy’s direction. Maybe she planned to join forces with him if she could arrange it. Two of them working together could dispatch ol’ Al-Dayal in a heartbeat. Even now, she was most likely thinking about the cold-blooded seduction she had planned for the Irishman tonight after everyone else had gone to bed. Eric switched his attention to McCoy and figured that Sean would be wise to such tricks. Had he decided what he would do about it?

  Eric concentrated on the excellent souvlaki. Greece was famous for the skewered meat, grilled and sliced thinly, then tucked inside pita bread. He absolutely loved the stuff Dawn had jokingly called goat burgers. She was daintily wolfing hers down now, obviously famished after their morning outing.

  “Why not go for a swim after lunch, eh?” Quince suggested. “There are suits in the cabana that should fit everyone.”

  The pool looked inviting and the heat had become almost oppressive. The high walls that surrounded the terrace, pool and gardens blocked the sea breeze that might have cooled it a bit. The fans only stirred the hot air.

  “I’m for it,” Sean announced, tossing down his napkin. He chucked Carlotta under her stubborn chin. “If the little chili pepper here promises not to try to drown me.”

  She jerked away from his touch and gave him a haughty glare. “Go straight to hell, McCoy.”

  He laughed merrily and sauntered off to change. Moments later, they watched his expert dive into the pool. “Water’s fine,” he crowed, daring Carlotta with a look. “Cool,” he added provocatively, drawing out the word.

  She tossed her braid over her shoulder and went to change into a suit.

  Quince raised a brow. “Jarad? Do you not swim?”

  Eric pretended resignation. “If you insist. Aurora, you will remain here where I can see you.”

  It went without saying that Al-Dayal would never allow his wife to swim in the company of other men.

  Even Quince did not bother to suggest that. Instead, he offered to keep her company. “I promise to be a perfect gentleman, Jarad. Go have your swim. You have nothing to worry about.”

  With a warning glower, Eric went to the cabana, reluctantly leaving Dawn alone with their host. He trusted she could handle herself in broad daylight with him less than fifty feet away. Maybe she could get something out of Quince about what he had arranged for the evening.

  Dawn watched Eric’s controlled laps as Sean and Carlotta splashed around like dolphins. She ignored Quince, even though she could feel his cold gaze fastened on her.

  “You would like to swim, too, wouldn’t you, my dear?” he asked, all tea and sympathy. “What a pity Jarad is so mired in the old ways.”

  She shrugged and continued observing the pool.

  “You strike me as an independent woman at heart, Aurora,” Quince announced, his voice low and persuasive. “I’d wager you didn’t know what you were getting into when you married him, did you?”

  “I knew he was a Muslim.”

  “But not that he would stifle your every impulse and thought. That has to become tiring after a while.”

  “I am a faithful wife, Señor Quince. And a faithful Muslim since I converted.”

  “Ah, and a retired Catholic, if there is such a thing,” he said, nodding. “So you love the man that much, eh?”

  Dawn cleared her throat and looked away, out at the controlled riot of flowers, the elegant frangipani trees and the sweep of manicured lawn. “Of course.”

  He laughed. “Of course not,” he corrected. “If you want out, I am the way.”

  She turned to look directly at him and hesitated a couple of seconds for effect. “What do you mean…out?”

  “Of the marriage. I could help you escape him. You must know what he is…what he does.”

  “He is in the oil business. And he does very little,” she replied.

  Quince’s eyebrows drew together, and he sighed loud and long. “My dear, he is a terrorist, a leader in a movement that is bent upon destroying Western civilization as we know it. Surely you’ve become aware of that during your time together.”

  Dawn swallowed hard and ducked her head as if in shame.

  “I will give you the means to end your servitude to this arrogant man permanently if you say the word.”

  For a long time, Dawn continued to watch the swimmers. Then she turned and asked in a whisper, “What word?”

  Quince smiled. “Patience, little one. As I said to Carlotta, all in good time.”

  Lord have mercy, Dawn thought, carefully schooling her expression of awe, Quince meant for her to kill Eric, or at least his alter ego, Jarad.

  “If you tell him of this conversation,” Quince warned, “he will never trust you again. Always, he will be expecting you to act on my suggestion. I advise you to keep this to yourself for your own good. If he asks, we have been discussing the garden and grounds.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “The fragrance of the frangipani and the recipe for controlling snails.”

  “That would be beer?” he asked, smiling sweetly.

  “And salt. Now we need not lie about the subject of our talk. At least not entirely.”

  “I like you, little one,” he said gently. “And I want you to leave this island in a better spirit than how you arrived. You deserve that.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured, wondering whether Quince meant spirit as in frame of mind, or spirit as in ghost.

  As it happened, Eric, Carlotta and Sean survived their swim and soon were back at the table.

  Dawn could hardly keep her eyes off the expanse of smooth brown skin exposed in the brief suit Eric was wearing. The ruddy-faced Sean McCoy was pale all over, fairly buff, but, she would guess from his muscles, not as efficiently trained as Eric. Also,
he lacked the tensile, athletic grace Eric possessed.

  Carlotta’s bikini left little to the imagination, though Sean kept eyeing her as if his might be working overtime. She was stacked, to put it mildly. Her body was long-limbed, and she moved as fluidly as a jungle cat, with muscles concealed under a slick, firm exterior. Dawn thanked her stars she hadn’t had to don a swimsuit and compete with that body today. That would have been enough to give a girl a complex.

  Relief poured over her when Quince finally suggested they retire to their respective rooms for a siesta, or whatever the Greek equivalent of that might be called.

  Quince reminded them for the third time that dinner was at eight and there would be entertainment. Then he walked on ahead of them to speak with his man, Conroy, who waited just inside the open doors.

  “Probably planning a public execution or something,” Dawn muttered under her breath as they crossed the terrace to the French doors leading in. “He virtually offered to help me kill you.”

  “Shh,” Eric warned. “Play along with whatever he suggests.”

  Dawn wondered if that included taking a knife to his jugular while he slept.

  Eric clasped her hand in his and began questioning her loudly about her short visit with Quince. She dutifully told him about snails, unfamiliar perennials and tamarind trees, noting the satisfied gleam in Quince’s eyes when he glanced over his shoulder at them.

  When they reached their rooms, Dawn headed to the bathroom where she systematically searched for any concealed mikes. It was the smallest room and would be the most difficult to wire. But it was wired, of that she was certain. Anybody with any half sense would go in here and turn on the water to conceal any conversation. That was basic stuff. She had the water on now, to hide any rustling sounds she made.

  There was no camera. She had looked for that first. Either Quince had a jot of decency left in him or hadn’t been able to figure out how to hide one in the john.