“It says here you’ve been jailed at least three times. Once for the all-purpose disorderly behavior, once for burglary and once for a knife fight. Quite an impressive criminal resume at your age, which is…” He looked up from the file.
Vik shrugged again.
“Clearly, you’re going places. The question of course is where.” He closed the file and dropped it onto the bare metal table. “Jail, most certainly, if nothing changes. The morgue at some point, probably before you’re twenty at this rate. Does that cover it as far as your aspirations go, young man?” Then he hastily added, “Save me the shrug this time, will you?”
Vik shrugged, deadpan.
Vik woke up with a start from his dream about meeting Crenshaw for the first time. The girl was still beside him on the bed, watching him, just as she’d been the last time he cracked his eyes open to verify her whereabouts before he’d dozed off. He sat up, glancing at his wristwatch. It was almost midnight, but he didn’t want to turn in for the night without checking out the situation up on top.
“Okay,” he said, as if she’d said something, which she hadn’t. “Give me a minute to go to the can and then we can go up on deck. I don’t need to tie you up or leave the bathroom door open or anything to make sure you don’t dart out of here while I’m in the head, do I?”
She shook her head no. He believed her. She probably wasn’t looking forward to seeing the rest of his merry band of thieves at all, let alone on her own.
“Can I get up from the bed though?” she asked, sounding quieter than the last time she’d spoken.
“Yeah. Sure.” At his permission, she popped up and went to sit on the vanity stool as he went into the bathroom.
After he’d taken care of his business in the can, he came out and found her in the exact same spot. She hadn’t even gotten up from the stool. Without asking, he gently tugged the rubber band off her ponytail, allowing the luxurious silk of her long brown hair to flow around her shoulders. He spread it out, ignoring the flinch she gave at his touch, noting that the thick strands were almost dry again.
“You have beautiful hair.”
Which from her expression she translated into I’m going to rip your spleen out and feed it to the sharks. She looked that horrified by his compliment.
“Look, relax, Samantha. I’m just making conversation. You’re pretty. I’m appreciating the fact. I haven’t seen a girl as pretty as you in quite some time.”
“Save your compliments,” she said, getting off the stool. “Let’s get this, this demonstration or whatever, over with.”
He nodded and led her out of the cabin. God, how he wished he really had just been laid by this beautiful, prickly girl. As it was, he’d be content not to have to kill anybody else tonight defending her honor.
Or get killed himself of course.
Hand in hand with her captor, trying not to flinch from him, Samantha let him lead her down the passageway and then climbed the steps behind him to the upper deck.
The other men were lurking around, grins on their filthy faces as they caught sight of them emerging from below. The small motorboat from which the pirates had boarded the yacht was nowhere in sight, and a few duffle bags were now tossed around here and there. The landing force’s belongings presumably. None of the men seemed in much of a rush to do anything at this point. They’d broken into the yacht’s stash of beer and were drinking companionably, which she supposed wasn’t all that surprising since there wasn’t really that much to do. The yacht practically ran itself, as her father used to say.
Samantha hiccupped back an odd surge of emotion.
“First test,” Vik whispered in her ear, pulling her closer.
If he meant what he said, he wasn’t going to rape her. Just maul her a little for appearances sake. He was probably some kind of pervert who got off on this whole twisted scenario. Because he sure as hell wasn’t impotent. He’d pretty much proven that.
Why she should trust him, she had no idea. But it wasn’t as if she had a Plan B or anything.
He held her chin in his long, roughened fingers and tilted her face up to him, leaning down a little as he did so. He brought his lips to hers firmly, closed mouthed at first, cool and competent, and then his tongue traced the outline of her lips. She stiffened. She couldn’t help it, even though he tasted clean and minty and the sensation of his mouth on hers was not at all unpleasant, from a technical standpoint. He pulled away to kiss along her jaw, her neck, making it up to her ear to whisper, “Relax.”
“I don’t know, Vik,” one of his cohorts called out. “I’m not sure your girl likes you any more than she liked Gunderson.”
Vik lifted his head to glance over at the grinning speaker, the Hispanic-looking man who had held her arm in a vise grip as Vik fought with the blond giant.
“I’m working on it,” he told the other man, turning to face him, his arm casually around her waist. She tried to relax. She really did.
“I’ll soften her up for you if you want,” one of the others cracked.
“Hey, watch it,” the first one responded. “That’s what he fed Gunderson to the sharks for trying.” He held his palms up playfully. “Hands off, Vik. See?”
Vik nodded. “Good. See that it stays that way.”
Samantha tuned out of the conversation as the men conferred on the details of their criminal plan, whatever the hell that was. She just hoped it involved dropping her off at the nearest possible strip of land or at the very least ransoming her and allowing her father to come collect her in his helicopter, or his smaller yacht, or even that damn lifeboat if it came down to it.
She glanced at the dark rolling waves, which seemed more frothing than usual since the yacht was travelling faster than her father had run it. His only purpose had been to talk some sense into his daughter on his own turf in the middle of nowhere, not make a quick getaway. Her father was probably having a fit, Michael and all the others calling every cop and private detective they could find to rescue her. There was probably a task force devoted to it, sporting some cool name like “Operation…”
Actually, she couldn’t think of a cool name and she didn’t care what it was called. Just as long as it got her out of this nightmare. She stiffened her posture. And he would. Her father would.
Unless of course he was at the bottom of the ocean by now, the fragile raft no match for these seas.
The railing seemed to beckon and she started to veer toward it before Vik yanked her back to her side.
“Okay, everything seems in good shape. I’m going to go back down for the night.” Still holding her arm, he swooped down to pick up one of the duffle bags. “Work out a little more tension.”
He steered her back to the cabin to the accompaniment of catcalls and lewd suggestions she resolutely refused to decipher.
Once they were closeted inside, the door closed behind them, she breathed a sigh of relief. That hadn’t gone too badly.
He dropped the duffle bag onto the bed and without warning, backed her to the wall and held her there.
For a long, open-mouthed kiss.
Fuck. He couldn’t have her shivering like a virgin every time he came near her. They had to at least look as if they were fucking. He was very good at pretending—part of the reason why he was such a good agent—but not everybody was. She was the kind who apparently wasn’t. Big-time. She had reacted to the kiss out there as if it was exactly what it was—a first kiss by somebody who had no business kissing her. Even if he had already raped her and she had fought against him for every second of it, she wouldn’t have looked like she had looked out there. That hesitance, that wariness of the unknown. Untouched. She just wouldn’t have. It was hard to explain to someone. But it just wasn’t right.
And anyway, he wanted them to look as if they were bonding. That would help too.
But she needed a little more reality to carry off the pretense.
So fine. He’d give her some reality.
When he had her backed against the wall, he took advantage of he
r surprise to kiss her, hot and heavy and with everything he had. No acting involved actually. Her closed-mouth kiss up on deck had been enough to turn him on. Having her soft wet mouth open for him to plunge his tongue into was heaven. His cock of course reacted accordingly and he rocked it gently against her stomach, his hands going from her shoulders to her ass, cupping it so he could get better purchase. It was high and firm and rounded just like a woman’s should be.
Only then did she become aware enough to start to struggle. She planted her palms against his shoulders, trying to push him away as she attempted to turn her head from the kiss.
He let her, but only for a second, during which, her mouth free, she demanded breathlessly, “Get away from me.”
He ground his hard cock into her now squirming form, a little ashamed of the pure shot of pleasure that rocked him as he pulled the cradle of her thighs up a little higher. “No,” he muttered. “I promise I won’t fuck you.” She still struggled wildly and he loosened one hand from her ass to grab her chin and hold her face so he could look her in the eyes, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I promise. I won’t fuck you. But you have to get more used to my touch to be able to carry this off. I promise I won’t fuck you,” he said again.
She quieted. “You’re probably some weird wacko,” she finally said, wrenching her chin from his hold, but keeping eye contact, which was what he wanted so he let her.
“Probably,” he conceded. “For not fucking you, certainly.”
He bent his head, murmuring as he did so, “Just let me kiss you.”
And she did, resting her hands lightly on his shoulders.
Was this how Stockholm Syndrome, or whatever the hell it was called, got started? With wild intoxicating kisses and promises not to go any further? Was that how the captor managed to lure the captive in? Because if it was, this guy was very, very good at it.
By the time he lifted his head and smoothed her hair back from her face, she had forgotten where she was and who she was. More incredible still, she had forgotten who he was. A very dangerous thing indeed.
“That’s better,” he said.
“Why are you doing this?”
“It’s not important for you to know why I’m doing this. Just that I’m the only chance you have on this boat. As long as you believe that, you’ll get out of this.”
“Are you banking on getting some kind of reward from my father, on top of the ransom or something?”
He came at her again. Suddenly, he was back kissing her and she was back letting him. His thumbs caressed the hollows of her cheeks as his tongue explored and his hips leaned into her so she could feel his erection against her stomach. In a good way.
When he pulled back this time, he whispered, “Stop trying to figure it out. You can’t. Just go with it.”
His kisses on her neck, her throat, made her shiver. What was that thing he was doing with his tongue? What… She got hold of herself, just barely, and pushed against him. “Why are you doing this?”
“Kissing you? I told you why.”
“No, not kissing me. I mean not, er…”
“Not fucking you?”
She nodded briskly and he sighed, pulling back, bracketing his forearms on the wall behind her so that he kept her in his little cocoon, but wasn’t touching her otherwise. “Invent any backstory you want,” he said. “Maybe my mother was raped a long time ago, or my sister and there was nothing I could do about it. So I’m helping you now.”
“Is that why? Really?”
He set his lips to her temple. “What does it matter?”
“It matters to me,” she whispered.
“Okay. Yes then.”
“How do I know you’re not just making that up?”
“You don’t. I make a lot of things up.”
He cupped her chin and leaned down to kiss her again. And idiot that she was, she let him, not that she could have really stopped him anyway. She wanted to forget, to feel good again, to feel like herself, the empty-headed pampered girl she was, just for a minute.
“Hmm,” he said against her lips, pulling back after a moment. “Now you look like you should.”
And with that, she promptly burst out into tears.
Chapter Three
Vik didn’t have much experience with women crying. Well, none actually. And he wasn’t interested in getting any.
He wondered if it was safe to leave her alone just yet. She could lock the door behind him. The rest of the crew seemed to accept his possession and she seemed to be less intent on flinging herself overboard.
Or she had until now, until these endless sobs that racked her delicate shoulders. At least she was being quiet about it.
“Christ.” He stomped into the bathroom, not sure what he was looking for, but settling on a washcloth which he held underneath the tap until it was soaked through and then brought out to her like some sacrificial offering. “Here.”
She took the cloth and sopped her face, taking deep breaths as she fairly sagged back against the wall.
“Better?” he finally said.
She nodded, straightening.
“In the spirit of coaching you on how to get through this, I’m just going to have to mention that giving in to a crying jag right after we make out is not going to be very convincing on this ‘you’re my babe’ thing.”
She nodded. “Yes. I know. I understand.” Another deep breath. “I’m fine now.”
“If they think I’m just raping you nonstop, these animals will want to join in the fun.”
Her full pink bottom lip trembled.
“I’m not saying that to upset you. I just think the best hand we can play is that I want you for myself and you’re bonding with me or something. Go ahead and think of that Stockholm Syndrome thing if it helps you.”
“Yes. Yes, I will. I understand.”
“Good.” His hands went to the waistband of his still-damp jeans. “Now don’t let this freak you out, but I’m going to have to get out of these if I’m going to get any sleep.” He reached for the duffle bag, rummaging through it and extracting a pair of shorts. Christ, it was hot as hell. “I’m going to go in the bathroom and shower and change and you’re going to sit in here and calm down.”
She nodded.
“And when I come back in here, we’re going to lie down to sleep in that nice comfortable bed and get some rest.”
“What?”
It was so loud he practically jumped himself.
“Shush,” he warned, wondering why the hell he hadn’t used a good old-fashioned “shut your mouth”. “Keep your voice down whenever we talk in here, for obvious reasons.”
“I thought I’d sleep on the couch,” she whispered back. The cabin was so goddamn big, he just noticed, that there was a bed and a vanity and a couch in what was its own separate sitting room. This was by far the biggest yacht they’d ever hijacked. “Or you can sleep on the couch.”
He said quietly, “Neither of us is sleeping on the couch. Appearance is reality.” Not to mention he wanted to keep her close while they slept, just in case somebody got crazy and burst in here. But she didn’t need to be thinking about that possibility. He didn’t want another crying jag.
He went back to the door of the cabin and checked the lock. It was solid. If he put a chair in front of it, it’d just freak her out.
He headed for the bathroom. “If you want to continue this conversation, you can do it while I’m in the shower.”
She declined to of course and he closed the bathroom door on her. He needed to think for a minute without babysitting her. He stripped off the clammy jeans and stepped into the glass block shower.
The hot spray of the state-of-the-art showerhead was heaven to his sore muscles. The knife fight had affected him more than he’d let on. His body always tensed up after something like that for hours and he had a hard time ridding himself of the tension. Even his brief nap hadn’t helped. The pulsing jets of water were exactly what he needed.
Well, not exactly.
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He thought of the girl back out there in the cabin, ashamed of himself for being turned on by her given the circumstances, but there it was. His cock stiffened as he pictured her in the wet tee shirt on the deck. God, it would be nice to take one of those firm, high tits in his palm and just feel her up, for real, not for show as he had in front of Gunderson. His hand settled for feeling up his own cock, and he tugged on it sharply.
The sooner he got off, the easier it would be to go back into that cabin and sleep next to her all night, protecting her—from them and him.
Samantha never cried. It was one of the things she prided herself on. Like never obeying one of her overbearing brother Michael’s direct orders or never going to sleep without flossing or never failing to leave a generous tip, no matter how bad the service. It was just who she was.
She may have been a motherless girl since she was seven years old, but not a crybaby.
So she was disgusted at herself for resorting to tears, even under the circumstances. It was just that the sight of that man’s handsome satisfied features as he murmured his approval at her enjoying his kiss just drove her to it. He was a thug, a killer, no matter how he pretended to be nice to her, and yet he was all she had. The others were even worse.
For once in her life, she had absolutely no idea what to do and absolutely no one she could summon to help her. The concept of getting out of this all on her own—or only with the help of one confusing thug who also happened to have saved her from a worse thug and who claimed to be not about to take advantage of that—well, it was daunting. And the fact that he was gorgeous and a really good kisser was the last straw. Could she be any more humiliated?
She heard the shower switch off and pushed the palms of her hands against her eyes, hopefully stemming any further wetness, for her own sake and also because it clearly had annoyed him. When he came out a few moments later, bare-chested, rubbing a towel against his wet hair with only a pair of shorts around his lean hips, she made a resolution.
She was so not going to floss tonight.
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