“No buts!” Phil snapped. Either you love him and want to be with him, or you don’t.”
“If you love him, you have to find a way,” Claire urged. “Stop dragging your feet. Do something.”
Mandy jumped up, nearly knocking over her chair. Damn! What made them think they knew more . . .?
Claire and Phil knew. Of course they knew. They’d even survived loving the same man.
Tears blurred Mandy’s eyes as she stood in front of the greatroom’s wall of glass that looked southeast toward the town of Pine Grove. She was a selfish, self-righteous prig. Forty lashes with a wet noodle.
But if she gave up AKA after losing Kira, what did that make her?
She didn’t have to give up the fight. Peter had suggested she work long-distance. What was twelve hundred miles to a computer terminal?
Mandy rubbed her eyes, blinked. Stared out the window. “Claire,” she called, “is there another controlled burn scheduled for today?”
“No.” Swiftly, Claire joined Mandy at the window, where a huge column of dark smoke could be seen, rising in the distance. “I’ll check with Brad.” Scooping up her walkie-talkie cell phone from the desk, she punched the button.
A minute later she was back at the window, Phil by her side. “Brad says not to worry, it’s at least ten miles away, but it’s a real one this time, started by lightning. They’ve already had to close down I-75.”
Ugly, Mandy thought. At the moment the cloud of smoke was no bigger than last week’s controlled burn, but the menace made it uglier, far more frightening. Trees and shrubs were burning, terrified animals running for their lives. Firemen gearing up, knowing they’d have nothing but a few tanker trucks, flamethrowers for backburns, a helicopter with a Bambi bucket, and a variety of basic tools for hand-to-hand combat.
“It’s all right, Mandy,” Phil said. “We get lots of wildfires in Florida. Our guys are experienced. They’ll have that controlled in no time. Come on, let’s eat.”
Mandy shivered, prickles running down her spine. There was something ominous about that billowing black cloud, a pall on the day.
Almost . . . a warning.
Day after day of brilliant sunshine, interspersed with occasional puffs of white clouds, spiced only by the endless twittering of birds and squirrels, was a dead bore. Mandy came close to livening up yet another long day by shouting, “Boo!” at the stately egret stalking toward the chicken leftovers she had just tossed onto the deck.
Four days waiting for the other shoe to drop. No beach, no malls, no plays. No ballet. No clubs. One trip to the grocery store with Peter riding shotgun, almost literally. Mandy carried a Smith & Wesson AirLite in her purse. Peter had a Glock 9, with a 12-gauge openly displayed on top of the refrigerator. Yet nothing, absolutely nothing, had happened.
Doug Chalmers was wrong. And so was Brad, who had stopped by the evening of their three-girl luncheon to assure them the wildfire near Pine Grove was under control. Claire’s husband also dropped a few dire hints about his experiences with the Russian mafia, ending with such encouraging words as, “Don’t worry, but stay inside, keep your doors locked and guns handy. Never think you’re safe.” Aargh!
Amber Run had once been Shangri-la, a sheltered refuge from the drama of the outside world. Now . . . the days were merely surreal, outwardly like every other day of mockingly brilliant sunshine since Mandy had come to Florida. But at night the jungle along the river came alive with phantom menace. Trees creaked in the breeze; dry and brittle leaves whispered like lost souls. Wild hogs snorted for acorns under the live oaks. Smaller creatures chirped and chattered, trilled and hooted. Mandy thought birds slept at night, but that didn’t seem to be the case in Florida. The air around the house was filled with strange and mysterious sounds.
Would it be possible to hear a footfall on the deck?
At the moment it was only dusk, with another night to endure. Not that having an excuse to snuggle up to Peter was all that bad. Mandy’s lips curled as she watched the egret fly away, its broad expanse of white wings taking it high over the pines and live oaks. Well fed and free.
As she wanted Nadya to be free. And the other girls across the river. The women and children Kira had been trying to help.
Slaves everywhere.
So if she and Peter had to endure a siege, so be it. It was a small price, compared to what Nadya and her friends had paid. Besides, after four days the problem seemed moot. Doug Chalmers reported that all was quiet across the river. Business as usual. The FBI case was on-going. Hopefully, not long now until action would be taken.
The egret disappeared into the twilight, heading for wherever it spent its nights. Mandy went inside and began the routine of locking up, closing the vertical blinds, drawing the draperies. She flipped the switch that activated spotlights at the four corners of the house and the one for the lights in the parking area below. She jumped as the buzzer on the dryer sounded only a foot from her hand.
Damn! She was a Kingsley-Armitage. Her nerves were supposed to be stronger than that.
Scowling, Mandy tossed the load of her personal laundry into a wicker clothesbasket and headed for the blue and green bedroom. As she started to fold a particularly sexy nightgown, her anger faded beneath pulse-pounding memories. If she ever tried to convince herself that she’d come to Florida solely for a research job, she had only to look at this evidence of the surreptitious trip she’d made to Victoria’s Secret in Boston before heading south. Not to mention the new clothes she’d ordered on her way down.
She’d come to Amber Run, armed and ready. Not with guns and ammo, but with a new hair style, a full array of fashionable cosmetics, and a suitcase full of sexy lingerie. And somehow she’d done it without admitting her motive. Even to herself.
Talk about denial!
More exactly, she’d come armed, but not ready. Not ready to admit her true feelings. Not ready for the full force that was Peter Pennington. But she’d survived the tidal wave of emotion. Now she only had to come to terms with the aftermath . . .
Prickles ran up the back of Mandy’s neck. Her fingers crumpled the soft fabric of the gown. Someone was watching. Now. This very minute.
Silly. Nobody could get in. Nobody could even see in. So why was she so certain eyes were staring at the bedroom window. Don’t just stand here, idiot. Take a look!
She should call Peter. But just yesterday, when a sharp crack sounded on the south side of the house, she’d dashed upstairs, breathlessly declaring there was someone out there. He’d turned his face to the office ceiling and howled. Laughed so hard he’d nearly fallen off his chair.
Mandy was not amused.
She had heard, Peter kindly informed her, the sound of a dried-up palm frond snapping off and falling to the ground below. If she’d learned to recognize the crash, crunch, and snort of a wild hog, how could she panic over the snap of a palm frond?
So this time she was going to be brave. Mandy edged toward the bedroom window, opened a crack between the flowered draperies and peeked out. It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust, for the deck and trees outside to coalesce into solid forms. A sound—eerie and forlorn rose above all the background noise outside. Mandy dropped the drapery, jerked back, quivering. And yet, the sound had been . . . distinctive. Recognizable. She frowned, squared her shoulders, peeked out once more, staring at the towering live oak that loomed just beyond the deck’s ornately carved railing.
Mandy sucked in her breath, eyes widening. Easing the drapery back in place, she ran to the kitchen where Peter was bent over a sheaf of manuscript pages spread out on the kitchen table. “Peter,” she hissed, putting a finger to her lips, “come see.”
Alarmed, Peter jumped to his feet, scattering precious pages onto the tile floor as he followed his wife’s swiftly retreating back.
“Look at the branch that’s almost touching the deck,” Mandy commanded, pulling the drapery aside.
Peter peered out. “For God’s sake, Mouse,” he growled, his heart rate pl
unging in relief, “it’s only an owl.”
“Only an owl! That’s the biggest owl I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s huge. It’s gorgeous. How can you say, ‘It’s only an owl?’”
What he’d feared was an array of men in ski masks, creeping forward, guns and knives at the ready. A goddamned nature lesson was not what he needed at this point. “Look, Mouse . . .”
“My name is Mandy.”
Counting to ten wasn’t going to be enough, Peter thought. Remembering they were on the teetering knife edge of hammering out a reconciliation wasn’t going to be enough. Mandy didn’t need to worry about the Russian mafia; she was in worse danger right here and now. He was going to wring her neck.
But sparks were shooting from her huge green eyes. Those oh-so-vulnerable windows to a valiant soul. “It’s a beautiful owl,” he heard himself say. “And twice the size of any I’ve ever seen. Sorry I lost it, but for a minute there, I thought . . . well, I thought you’d seen something else.”
Mandy’s face fell. “I should have realized . . . I’m sorry.”
Peter pulled her into his arms, his anger dissipating on a surge of passion. There was nothing like the threat of danger to send a man’s libido into overdrive. “I’m the one who’s sorry,” he murmured. “I got you into this. I only wanted us to be together, to be happy . . . and I’ve dragged us into hell.”
“I’m the one who crossed the river,” Mandy reminded him. “I’m the one who had delusions of grandeur, the hotshot who thought working for AKA automatically made me a junior Jeff Armitage, if not a female James Bond. Big joke,” she added forlornly, burrowing further into the comfort of his shoulder.
“Not a joke. In true Bond style you stirred up a hornet’s nest.”
“And need a few Bond miracles to get us out,” Mandy sighed, snuggling in for an even tighter fit.
Oh, yeah. With a flick of his wrist, Peter tossed the blue wicker laundry basket onto the floor, scattering transparent nightgowns and barely-there bras and panties over the soft thick blue rug. Clothing swiftly followed.
The queen-size bed a hopeful Peter had set up for his wife was being tested at last.
Later, Mandy would wonder if things might have been different if they hadn’t fallen asleep in a blissful haze of exhaustion. If they’d managed to maintain their reputations as Jeff Armitage’s protégés. If they’d remembered Brad’s Never think you’re safe.
Would they have heard the tinkle of glass as the spotlights disintegrated onto the deck? The whispering rasp of the lock on the utility room door, the clunk of the security chain hitting the wall, the catlike footfalls of the four men who surrounded their entwined bodies?
A moot point. They were caught, naked, their precautions useless. With four armed men staring down at them. The Glock, the AirLite, the shotgun, their cell phones might as well have been on the moon. Mandy knew she should be terrified, but her only coherent thought was guilt. She’d finally done it. She’d managed to kill them both. Just when she and Peter . . .
“Get dressed,” the tallest of the men barked, shining a powerful beam into their eyes. Before being blinded by the light, Mandy caught a glimpse of the four men clustered around the bed. Stalwart clichés in black. Ominous ski masks added to the menace of the squat Mac-10s in their hands, the glint of knives hanging from their belts, the MP-5 submachine guns slung over their backs. Overkill. Intimidation. And highly effective. Nobody, but nobody—most certainly not an author and a researcher caught naked in bed—was going to argue with them.
But . . . “I’m not getting out of bed naked!” Mandy declared.
One of the dark silhouettes stepped forward, placed the muzzle of his Mac-10 machine pistol directly against Peter’s head. The leader barked something unintelligible, then disappeared into the darkness, light dimming as he took the powerful flashlight with him. The gun against Peter’s temple never wavered.
“Here.” A bath towel landed on the bed in front of Mandy. “You will hurry,” the leader added in a tone that had Mandy whipping the towel under the bedcovers.
“Call your dog off,” Peter ground out. “I can’t get dressed if I can’t move.”
More unintelligible words. Cold metal receded. Slowly, carefully, Peter shifted his feet toward the floor.
Mandy squirmed beneath the covers, attempting to convince the towel to cover her nakedness, her mind scrambling just as hard. The tall man, the leader, hadn’t said much, but it was enough for her to recognize his accent wasn’t Russian. She was almost positive it was Karim Shirazi. Which gave her some slight hope. He’d had an opportunity to kill them once before and hadn’t done it. Maybe . . . hopefully . . . this was just another warning.
“My clothes are in the other room,” Peter said.
A jerk of the leader’s head, and Peter was allowed up, his naked body a stark contrast to the black-clad invaders. Two of the men followed as he walked down the short hallway to his own bedroom. The third man positioned himself in the doorway, his back to Mandy’s room.
The leader’s powerful flashlight flicked over the room, illuminating the closet, dropping to a survey of the floor. The beam made a leisurely examination of the blue wicker laundry basket, the scattering of intimate apparel. Mandy could feel her whole body blushing. This man, this scumbag, sleazeball pimp, was in her bedroom, getting his kicks out of her most intimate secrets.
As Mandy watched the Iranian’s flashlight move from nightgowns to bikini panties to discarded clothing, a useful thought finally penetrated her brain. Her cell phone was in the pocket of her slacks. “I’ll put on what I was wearing earlier,” she said. “If you’ll turn that light somewhere else,” she added a bit more sharply than was wise.
The beam never wavered. “American women are very arrogant,” said the deep voice behind the ski mask. “You should learn to mind your masters.”
Mandy gasped. Rotten, miserable chauvinist peeping tom.
Stop! Don’t be stupid. He’s the guy carrying the gun. And he has friends. The odds are four to two. And your only weapons are boobs and a smile.
“Foolish female,” Karim growled. “I have seen a thousand women. Nothing you have is of interest to me. You are not young enough or beautiful enough to be of use. Tonight is a different kind of business. Get dressed, then I will explain.”
It wasn’t as if she didn’t know she was no longer young . . . or that she had never been beautiful . . . but it hurt. She was surprised how much it hurt, dammit. Even the bad guys didn’t want her. Except for . . . what?
Surprisingly, the flashlight beam suddenly shifted to her dresser. Mandy supposed Shirazi was merely emphasizing his complete disinterest. She slipped out of bed and grabbed up her clothes, rejecting the temptation to see if her captor’s eyes had followed the light of the flash. She could only hope he was taking note of all the little telltale signs on her dresser that indicated she was truly female—creams, lotions, lipsticks, hairspray, cologne, perfume, makeup mirror.
Shit! Mandy’s attempt to hold the towel in place while pulling on her panties proved futile. With a grimace of disgust she dropped her shield, scrambling into her clothes with as much haste as shaking fingers could manage. As she fumbled with her slacks, while keeping her shirt-clad back to Karim, she felt a surge of satisfaction at the solidity of the tiny cell phone hugging her thigh.
“My shoes are in the closet. And I’ll need my jacket. That’s in the closet too.”
Instantly, the beam of light shifted to the walk-in closet. Would he follow her? Maybe if she took a long time finding socks in the built-in closet drawers, rummaged among the shoes to find just the right footwear to be kidnapped in. Perhaps he would grow bored, not watch so closely . . .
The Iranian inspected the closet, stood back, somehow managing to radiate boredom and impatience at the same time. A few minutes later when Mandy emerged from the closet, she had to work to keep a glow of triumph from suffusing her face. A small victory, probably short-lived. But any successful attempt to outwit Karim Shirazi�
�s smug male superiority was enough to make her day. Her right jacket pocket sagged ever so slightly with the weight of her AirLite twenty-two. Obeying an imperative wave of the flashlight, Mandy headed toward Peter’s bedroom.
Obviously, things had not gone smoothly . . . perhaps Karim’s cohorts preferred it that way. Peter, now dressed, was spreadeagled against the wall, a Mac-10 held under his chin by a menacing black figure who radiated an intense urge to squeeze the trigger. Peter’s hair was tousled, face pale. Blood dribbled from the side of his mouth. Mandy started to dash forward, was brought up short, like a dog at the end of its chain, as Karim Shirazi grabbed her arm. He was, she discovered, as strong as he looked. A quivering circle of light reflected down from the broad splash his flashlight was making on the ceiling after he jammed it, upside down, into his belt.
“All right, let’s have it,” Peter challenged. “What do you want?”
Karim pulled Mandy back against his chest, the hand with the Mac-10 moving up under her chin in a stance similar to the one pinning Peter to the wall. Somehow the Iranian’s body was more frightening than the gun, Mandy thought. It was like coming in contact with a Mack truck. His was the most solid, inflexible flesh she had ever encountered. She struggled to keep from shivering. No way was she going to give him the satisfaction of knowing she was terrified.
“The matter is simple,” Karim stated. “We never stay long in any one place, but usually the choice of length is ours. This woman,” he pronounced with considerable emphasis, “has made that impossible.” Mandy’s stomach churned as her captor’s arm tightened, a momentary wave of the squat ugly gun emphasizing his disgust with the current state of affairs. “So now we must make special arrangements before we can leave, and it is all this one’s fault.” Karim’s arm slid higher, his forearm pressing Mandy’s throat in a choke hold.
Arrogance. Ignorance. Pride. Passion. Mandy tolled the list of her stupidities that had brought them to this disaster. She and Peter were about to die. Karim’s elbow tightened. Mandy’s brain shut down. She’d never been so scared in her life. A wisp—a thin, desperate wisp of intelligence whispered: But if he’s going to kill you, why did he have you get dressed?
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