by Karen Leabo
Marrying her had been a huge mistake. He’d been younger then, more naive. After she took a bullet in a dark alley, a bullet meant for him, he’d been overwhelmed with gratitude. He could turn things around for her, he’d thought, give her a stable life. Rachelle had turned into his project.
He’d failed—miserably—to rehabilitate her, but he’d never, never stopped caring for her, feeling as if she were his responsibility.
Maybe she didn’t live a sterling life, but she’d never hurt anyone. She didn’t deserve whatever Jimmy and his cohorts had done, or were planning to do, to her.
He shook off the dismal thoughts. Maybe his boss didn’t think Rachelle’s life was worth the effort it would take to find her, but Clint disagreed. Even if this caper got him into a lot of hot water, he owed it to Rachelle to do whatever it took.
“I’ve never killed anybody,” he said to Marissa. “I’m not a criminal.”
“Oh, right. That’s why you broke in here looking like Al Jolson,” she said with a brazen toss of her head. “What are you planning to do with the knife, slice up some mushrooms for pizza?”
She had nerve, he’d give her that. Most women in her position would by now have been reduced to trembling hysterics. She was trembling, a little, but she was not in the least hysterical.
He wanted to reassure her further, tell her the knife was for intimidation purposes and self-defense only. He wasn’t about to kill someone in cold blood. But he didn’t want his hostage to get too cocky. If she convinced herself he wouldn’t hurt her, she might brazen her way out of the situation.
“If you cooperate, you won’t get hurt. I’m not a criminal,” he said again, realizing he sounded like Richard Nixon.
“Then why are you doing this?” Now she sounded scared, too scared to smart-mouth him further.
His conscience pinched him. Maybe some version of the truth would calm her. “Your brother made a good friend of mine disappear. I need a little leverage to convince him to tell me where she is.”
“I don’t think I understand.”
He dispensed with the sugarcoating. “My friend learned a little too much about Jimmy’s business dealings. Now she’s gone. Do I need to draw you a picture?”
“You’re saying Jimmy …” Marissa surprised Clint by laughing. “That’s ridiculous. He can’t even swat a fly without feeling guilty. If you believe he hurt your girlfriend, you’ve been sadly misinformed.”
Clint shrugged. “Think what you will.” If she deluded herself into believing Jimmy’s hands were clean, that was her business. “Do you have a scarf, or maybe a pair of pantyhose in that bag of yours?”
“Why?” she asked warily.
“I have to tie you up. Sorry.”
“You’ve already pawed through my things,” she said, shoving the open duffel bag toward him with one delicate bare foot. Her toenails were painted a pearly pink, he noticed. “Help yourself.”
Guiltily he riffled through her things again. He found a box of bullets, and his life flashed before his eyes. Who’d have thought she would carry a whole box with her? How many people did she plan on shooting over the weekend?
He’d almost made a costly mistake by not getting rid of Marissa’s gun. She might have managed to get hold of the thing, reload it, and blow his head off.
Nonchalantly he took the box of bullets and tossed it out the porthole. It gave a satisfying plop as it hit the water.
She made no comment.
He selected, then discarded, a leather belt as a possible instrument of bondage. Finally he settled on a bra—lacy and shell pink, like her toenail polish. He idly wondered if she had panties to match.
“Turn around and face the wall,” he ordered, his voice rough.
She obeyed, thank God. He wasn’t sure what he would do if she resisted. Violence toward women wasn’t one of his specialties.
“Cross your wrists behind you. Higher—yes, like that.” As he knelt beside her on the bunk and tied her wrists together with a half hitch, he discerned the faint scent of peaches. Lord, the woman smelled like his aunt Aggie’s peach orchard! Damn, she was turning him on. Of all the annoyances.
“Scoot over here.” There were a couple of built-in drawers at the foot end of the bunk. He secured her wrists to one of the handles. “Is that comfortable?”
“Of course not,” she snapped.
“Is it survivable for a few hours?”
“This is really going to take hours?”
“If we’re lucky. If your brother comes through the way I think he will.”
“What if I have to go to the bathroom?”
“We’ll deal with it.” That was one of the oldest tricks in the book, and he wasn’t about to fall for it.
She sighed. “I suppose this won’t cripple me for life or necessitate any amputations, but if you think it’s comfortable, you try it.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” He checked the bonds one final time, resisting the urge to run a comforting hand down her bare arm. He doubted his touch would be the least bit comforting to her. “Now, any idea where the ignition key is?”
“You’re going to hijack my brother’s boat?”
“More importantly, I’m hijacking you.” Jimmy probably wouldn’t be easy to intimidate. He’d no doubt seen or been a part of his share of violence and threats, starting with the murder of his parents, which everyone knew was the result of some kind of gangland territorial dispute. He would not stand still while he thought Marissa was in danger. Jimmy Gabriole would either give Clint what he wanted … or kill him.
TWO
“Ignition key?” Clint repeated.
“I don’t know,” Marissa answered sullenly. Did he actually expect her to help him steal Jimmy’s boat? “Jimmy probably keeps it with him. He’s very security conscious.”
“Afraid his own sister would steal his boat?” The hijacker grinned annoyingly.
“Afraid some lowlife would break in and steal it!” she corrected him. “How did you get in here, anyway?”
“That padlock on the hatch was child’s play. Hot-wiring a boat, though, that’ll be a new experience. Are there any tools on board?”
“If I knew I wouldn’t tell you where,” she said.
Clint had to admire her fortitude. She was remarkably unintimidated by him, despite the fact that he looked like a rejected thug from central casting and she had no way of knowing he wouldn’t actually harm her.
He made a cursory search for tools and found a tool-box in the hold with everything he would need to get the boat started. Now he had to worry about being seen. He would be above, drilling holes, in plain sight. The pier was nearly deserted—he’d noted that during his hours of observation—but occasionally people would stroll by, admiring the beautiful boats.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Marissa said, “are you planning to drill holes and make a big mess?”
“Unless you can tell me any other way to get the engine started.”
She hesitated. He apparently knew what he was doing, and Jimmy would be furious if his boat was damaged when he recovered it. “The ignition key is in the silverware drawer in the galley,” she offered, still unsure if she was doing the right thing.
“Thanks. You don’t by any chance have a cellular phone, do you?”
She sighed. He would see it sooner or later. “There’s one right in front of your face, on the wall above the fridge.”
“Oh. Thanks again. I appreciate the help.”
“You’re welcome,” she said insincerely. Sheesh. A polite hijacker. She’d never heard of such a beast.
Marissa didn’t see him for a while as he ran about above deck untying lines, pulling up bumpers. She kept hoping that somehow, someone would put a stop to this insanity. Then the engine started, and the boat eased away from the dock, on its way to who knew where, and her hopes for an easy resolution turned to flotsam.
To distract herself from her roiling stomach, which did not care for the bumpy ride, she thought about the hijacke
r’s accusations against Jimmy. Lord, what had her brother gotten himself involved in this time? He was always claiming that he’d gone straight, that he was running a legitimate business or holding a real job. But time and time again, he got sucked in by the lure of easy money—usually some scheme instigated by his “friend” Eddie Constantine.
She had to face the fact that Jimmy was a weak man when it came to money, and women, and food, and booze. But—and this was an important distinction—he didn’t have a mean bone in his body. He never even got angry. Marissa had meant what she told the hijacker. If some woman had turned up missing, killed, or kidnapped, Jimmy wasn’t responsible. He might flirt with the edges of organized crime, but he wouldn’t delve deep enough to be privy to murder and mayhem.
She supposed that was why she’d never been able to turn her back on him. No matter what else he did, he cared for people, especially her. He was even nice to his ex-wives!
Marissa looked out the porthole. Through the rain droplets she could see the lights of the many restaurants that lined the exit channel from Clear Lake into Trinity Bay … then Galveston Bay … then the Gulf of Mexico. My God, where was he taking her? Oh, why hadn’t she gone with Jimmy and Sophia? She could be sitting in one of those restaurants now, sipping a margarita.
The boat made a particularly dramatic swoop as it crested a swell. The farther out in the channel they went, the rougher the sea became. Pretty soon it would be a roller-coaster ride. Marissa didn’t know if her stomach could make it. She wondered how long they would be out on the water.
On deck, Clint was wishing he’d kept his wet suit on. The rain came down in earnest now. That and a generous amount of salt spray from the rough waters had soaked him through to the skin. The stormy weather didn’t bother him—he’d been negotiating these waters since he was big enough to sail a Sunfish, and he’d survived some hellish storms. But he hated being cold and wet. He hoped like hell that Rusty remembered to bring everything Clint had asked for, which included a change of clothes and a proper pair of handcuffs.
Clint concentrated on staying between the red and green flags that delineated the channel. He had the water to himself—no other idiot would be crazy enough to go out in such weather. He hoped Rusty wasn’t having any problems with his boat. Rachelle’s brother had decent boating experience, but he was only twenty-five. Clint could remember having a lot more chutzpah than brains at that age.
He was unutterably relieved when he saw the five-mile buoy that marked the agreed-upon rendezvous point, just far enough into Trinity Bay to avoid witnesses. He’d used the Gabrioles’ cellular phone to alert Rusty, who was standing by for his call, that the operation had launched successfully. They’d agreed to meet between eleven-thirty and midnight.
Clint checked his diving watch. He was early, and it seemed as if the rain might be easing up. Maybe there was a God after all. He pulled to the side of the channel and dropped anchor, hoping Rusty wouldn’t be too long.
It was time to check on his pretty little hostage. Clint opened the hatch and descended, surprised to hear moaning. Oh, Lord, what now? “Marissa?” He made his way as quickly as he could to the V-berth. The boat made a violent pitch, sending him sprawling against the galley table. Damn, he’d have a bruise there tomorrow to match the other thirty-seven he had.
“Marissa?” he called again, whisking back the curtain.
She was right where he’d left her … but she didn’t look too good.
“What’s wrong?” he demanded.
“Oh, just let me die.” Her eyes were closed, her head thrown back, and beads of perspiration dotted the ivory skin of her forehead and upper lip, though it was not warm in the cabin.
Then it hit him. She was seasick! Her color was actually more celery than ivory. Maybe fresh air would help. He opened the porthole, letting in some damp, cool air. “You’re not going to throw up, are you?” he asked with trepidation. If she did, in her current position she would … no, it didn’t bear thinking about.
“Yes,” she answered him. “Any moment.”
“Oh, jeez.” He wasted no time untying the pink bra that bound her hands to the drawer handle. There were ugly red marks around her wrists, he saw, feeling a twinge of guilt.
“Oh, thank you, thank you,” she said as she wiggled past him.
“Wait a minute.” He was in instant pursuit, wondering if this might be a ploy. Would she lunge for a kitchen knife? He grabbed her arm, so at least he would have some control over her. He didn’t believe she could overpower him, but a frightened woman with a flying pan or a steam iron was a force to be reckoned with.
“Fresh air. I have to go on deck,” she said.
“No!” What if she jumped overboard? If she was a strong swimmer, she could make it to land. And if she wasn’t, she would drown. Neither prospect was desirable. He grabbed one of her ankles even as she was pushing up the hatch.
“Let me go!”
“You can’t go up there. It’s … dangerous. If you’ll just look out the porthole at the horizon, you’ll feel better.”
“I have to get outside!” She gave a mighty kick backward with her free foot, which landed squarely on Clint’s nose.
He yowled and released her; she made good her threat and hopped out on deck. He was right behind her, but as it turned out, there was no need for him to worry. She headed straight for the railing, leaned over it, and lost the contents of her stomach.
The poor woman, he thought, then caught himself. She was a Mafia princess, and she’d just kicked him in the face, probably broken his nose if his luck was running true. She wasn’t some delicate hothouse flower. But she was really, really sick.
The torrential rain quickly soaked through Marissa’s clothes and turned her hair into dark, glossy ropes. Clint put his arm around her, more to keep her from being jostled overboard than out of concern for her condition. He noticed the warmth of her body, the softness of her skin, even the smell of her rain-soaked hair. And when she straightened up, her nipples were clearly visible through the wet T-shirt she wore.
Clint felt an unmistakable tension in his groin and had to stifle a groan. He didn’t need this—this adolescent reaction to a pretty woman. In his skimpy attire, it wouldn’t be difficult to see, although Marissa was probably too sick to take notice.
“C’mon, you can’t stand out here in the rain all night,” he said.
She was leaning against him, her eyes closed, breathing in great gulps of air. “Leave me out here. Maybe a wave will wash over the boat and take me with it when it leaves. Put me out of my misery.”
“No, no, that won’t do,” he said in his most cajoling voice. “I need a live, healthy hostage if I’m going to negotiate with your big brother. Come on, one foot in front of the other.”
“The boat’s too stuffy,” she complained, leaning her head on his shoulder. But she began moving toward the hatch.
“We’ll unstuff it—open some windows, turn on the AC.”
She stopped, grabbing a handle for support. “What if I have to get sick again?”
“We’ll find you a basin. You can’t stay out here. It’s dangerous.”
“I think going below with you is dangerous,” she groused, proving that she wasn’t so sick she didn’t appreciate her situation.
“Nonsense. I’m a pussycat once you get to know me.” Basically, he was telling the truth. Until a couple of hours before, he’d been the soul of virtue, the consummate FBI agent—long hours, nose to the grindstone, everything through the proper channels. In fourteen years with the Bureau, he’d never driven Bureau cars for personal use, he didn’t drink or get involved in sex scandals.
He’d been saving it all up for now, he guessed.
“Pussycat? A big, nasty panther, is more like it,” Marissa said. At least she’d stopped groaning, and she felt well enough to argue. Once they were back inside the boat, where there was some light, he could see she had a little color in her face other than green. But she was also shivering.
&nbs
p; “Why don’t you put on some dry clothes?” he suggested.
“Mmm, too much effort.” She collapsed into one of the built-in banquettes in the galley dining area. “Can’t you stop this boat from pitching?”
“I’m good, but I’m not that good.” He searched around until he found a small trash can. He emptied it into a larger receptacle in the galley, then handed the smaller can to Marissa. “Here. No more trips on deck, okay? You scared me half to death. I thought you were going to throw yourself overboard.”
“I considered it.” She leaned back and closed her eyes, calm for the moment. “Do you think you could fetch the stomach medicine from my bag?”
“Dramamine is what you need. You don’t have any?”
“No. I didn’t think to bring that. I’ve never been prone to seasickness before. Maybe Jimmy or Sophia has some. When Sophia—my brother’s wife—travels, she brings everything that’s not nailed down. You know, she wouldn’t be caught dead without matching purse and shoes.”
“I’ll check around.” Clint knew he ought to tie Marissa up again. But as sick as she was she hardly seemed much of a threat.
He dug around in the suitcases he found in the main sleeping cabin, finding all kinds of intriguing items, including lots of black lingerie and a pair of handcuffs. The handcuffs brought him only a moment of satisfaction; they were the play kind that didn’t really lock. As for the lingerie, if he had to paw through women’s underwear, he’d have preferred Marissa’s dainty pastels.
In a zippered leather case inside Jimmy’s duffel bag, he hit pay dirt—a package of generic travel sickness medication. It would have the added benefit of making Marissa drowsy, thus easier to handle. Not that she was all that difficult right now. She’d been fairly cooperative from the beginning, something he sorely appreciated.