by Joyce Lamb
She stumbled, catching herself against the rear end as her knees almost buckled, and threw up in the weeds. She heard the passenger door open and close, then felt his presence at her side. She kept her eyes closed. To her humiliation, her stomach convulsed again.
Exhausted, she pulled off the baseball cap and shoved the hair back from her face as she gulped in air. The sun felt hot on the top of her head, and the humidity made it difficult to take a deep, cleansing breath.
Ryan offered her a white handkerchief with the initials RK embroidered in one corner.
"You're kidding, right?" she said. Afraid she was going to be sick again, she hung her head, grateful for the protective curtain of hair.
Feeling like an idiot, Ryan shoved the handkerchief back into his jeans. She was so white and shaken that he thought she might faint. But he kept his distance, certain she would deck him if he tried to touch her. Besides, he didn't want to. This was just another attempt to win his sympathy, to get her claws into him so she could fool him the way she had Beau. "Okay now?"
She raised her head and might have laughed at his concern, no matter how feigned, if she hadn't felt so sick. "I'm peachy. Thanks for asking."
There was not a breath of color in her face, but he was de-termined not to give an inch. "Get in the car."
Meg considered running, but only dense, swampy land stretched for miles in most directions. Not one car had whizzed by while she had embarrassed herself in the weeds.
He grasped her arm. "In the car. Now."
She tried to jerk away from him, but getting sick had left her weak and trembling. She didn't have the strength to do anything but jam the White Sox cap back on her head and return to her place behind the wheel.
As she steered the car onto the road, Ryan cranked up the air-conditioning. "The air will help you feel better," he said.
He was right. Her pulse calmed, and though perspiration still beaded her upper lip, her stomach settled.
They rode in silence, Ryan tapping the tips of his fingers on one knee. She was convincing. Could even the most consummate actress pretend to be violently ill? Yes, he decided, a very talented one could fake just about anything. Even love.
And those goons had called her by name, he reminded himself. They had looked right into her face and recognized her as Margot. He had the right woman, damn it.
Leaning forward, he reached between his feet and pulled the gun from under the seat. At her sharp intake of breath, he glanced over to see her gaze fixed on the weapon as if she had never seen one before. "Pull over," he said.
She obeyed, then watched him load the gun as if he'd never handled one before. "You don't know what the hell you're doing with that thing, do you?"
Reaching over, he yanked the car keys out of the ignition. "Shut up and get out of the car."
She didn't move as she considered their surroundings. They had not passed another vehicle since she had pulled over to be sick. The secluded area was the perfect place to commit a crime. No witnesses but a couple of large banyan trees, several dozen royal palms and pine trees, and plenty of marshy-looking, weedy land.
"I'm not going to tell you again." He opened his door and stepped out.
Meg thought about defying him. She wasn't stupid, after all, and had no intention of walking right into whatever he had planned. Then he came around to her side of the Jag and gave an impatient wave with the gun. Something dark and dangerous in his face compelled her to get out. The damp air closed around her like a loose, wet cloak.
He gestured for her to precede him onto a trail leading into the dense foliage. She could smell the salt of the Gulf.
"Does this place have an address? I'll need it for the police report," she said over her shoulder.
Ryan remained silent and tried to keep from admiring her body. Her jeans hugged the firm length of her thighs, the tight, rounded shape of her butt. He would have bet money that she was a runner. Then he chastised himself for letting the sight of her backside distract him. He had never been drawn to any of Beau's women, except on a superficial level. He would've had to be dead not to appreciate the blond-haired, blue-eyed goddesses Beau had escorted to the few social events he had grudgingly attended.
Maybe that was what was so disturbing about the woman shoving aside low-hanging branches just ahead of him. She was different. Beautiful, yes. But not in the supermodel, too-thin, that's-not-her-real-hair-color fashion. Her attractiveness was natural, unplanned.
And she was smart. He could see it in how she was studying the situation from every angle at every moment, working it in her head, trying to chart an escape. She hadn't given up, hadn't resigned herself to what was happening. She still believed that she would walk away from this unscathed. She was either a fighter or unwilling to accept that her game was over.
Meg paused where the trail forked. "Which way?" "Left."
They stepped out of the trees onto a beach littered with the pieces of millions of shells that had been pounded into debris by Gulf waves. Only yards from where they stood, those same, gentle waves caressed the shore.
They both stopped the moment their feet touched sand, and Meg's heart began to pound in her ears. "Dayle," she said under her breath.
Ryan curved his fingers around her elbow, not willing to take the chance that she would bolt.
Meg swallowed back the new sickness that bubbled into the back of her throat at the sight of her friend, the Gulf at her back, a gun aimed at her temple. Someone had hit her more than once—both eyes were surrounded by purple, swollen flesh. Blood had caked at one corner of her mouth and under her nose.
Meg flicked her gaze to the man who held the gun to Dayle's head and vowed revenge. She registered the dark po-nytail, square jaw and skin that was leathery brown. Two paces behind him stood another man, also with a gun. He had a military haircut, a scar stretching from one temple to the corner of his mouth, a wide, sunburned forehead, and thick, blond eyebrows. He had mean eyes that squinted against the sun.
"Drop it," Scar said, gesturing at the gun in Ryan's hand.
Ryan cocked the weapon instead.
Meg heard the hammer click as if it were right next to her ear, then realized that it was. He had leveled it at her head in much the same way the thug threatened Dayle. Meg didn't dare breathe, conscious of the dampness of Ryan's hand on her shoulder.
"Who's your new friend, Margot?" Leather asked.
How could he look right at her and not realize she was not Margot? But with a gun aimed at her best friend's head, she wasn't going to deny him what he wanted to know. "Says his name is Ryan Kama."
"Shut up," Ryan hissed near her ear, incredulous that she had given him up so easily. Anonymity had been his best weapon. They'd had no idea what he wanted with their boss. "Where's Nielsen?" he snapped.
Leather smiled. "I'm afraid he had other plans for the morning. If he'd known you were a Kama, he may have been willing to rearrange his calendar."
Too late, damn it. Ryan's fingers tightened on Meg's shoulder, digging in. "Then I suggest you get him the hell out here now."
Meg sought Dayle's eyes. Are you okay?
Dayle nodded, then winced as Leather jammed the gun against her temple. Meg's chest tightened with rage and with fear for her friend. Dayle might not survive another night with these two. She had already been beaten or worse. Meg knew she had to do something. Anything. "Are you boys interested in a trade?"
Ryan stared at her in disbelief. What the hell was she doing? "No trades." He yanked her closer to him as if to show that she was his.
Meg kept her gaze on Leather. "Give her to him, and you can have me."
Nodding, Leather smiled, his tongue snaking over his lower lip, as if "you can have me" meant something really good to him. "Sure, Mags. Excellent."
Ryan felt a moment of panic as control was almost snatched from him. Clamping an arm around Meg's neck, he dragged her back against him. "No deal. Tell Nielsen he blew his chance to get his hands on her. She's mine, and I'm guessing she'l
l sing to the feds for all she's worth." He pointed the gun at her head. "No fast moves or the con artist here buys it."
Scar and Leather raised their hands in a gesture of submission.
Ryan backed toward the line of trees at the edge of the beach, bracing as Meg's struggles became frantic. "Don't leave her with them!" she cried. "You can't leave her with them! Dayle!"
He kept her in check as he edged backward, his main concern to get the hell away before someone shot him and swiped his only key to finding Beau's killers.
As he half-dragged, half-carried her from the trail into the dense woods, Meg kicked and bucked and tried to throw him off balance, her voice hoarse from calling Dayle's name.
"Shut up," he hissed. "You're going to get us both killed."
But her desperation only increased. Cramming the gun into the waistband of his jeans, he clamped his hand over her mouth, vaguely noticing that she had lost the baseball cap in her struggles.
At the car, he levered her against the passenger side, pinning her even as she continued to fight. "We can't leave her with them," she said. "Did you see what they already did to her? They'll kill her."
"You're nuts if you think I'm going back—"
A gunshot cut him off, and he let her go to whirl toward the sound. He hadn't noticed how noisy the wildlife had been. Now, he listened to the silence, straining his ears for the sounds of men crashing through the woods toward them.
There was nothing. Only dead quiet.
Meg slid to the ground, her back against the car, her face in her hands. "Oh, God. Dayle."
Ryan didn't waste a second. He hauled her up by the arm. "Get in the car."
She was limp, defeated. He grasped her by the arms, shook her. "Listen to me, damn you. You're going to get into the car, and we're going to get the fuck out of here."
Opening the door, he shoved her inside and slammed it shut. He ran to the other side as fast as he could, but it wasn't fast enough. Meg fumbled her door open, tumbled out of the car and dashed back into the woods, her only thought to get to Dayle.
Ryan crashed into her from behind, taking her down in a full-body tackle.
The crushing weight of his body drove the air from her lungs, and she lay beneath him, stunned and breathless. The edges of her vision wavered in and out. The damp, spongy ground beneath her cheek smelled musty. All around her it was too warm—the air, the ground, the man on top of her— but the heat couldn't ward off the chill that crept through her.
Ryan scrambled off her, afraid he may have hurt her but more frightened by what would happen to them both if the brutes from the beach found them. He caught her arm, pulled her up. "Get up."
"You bastard!" She twisted, took a swing at him, and narrowly missed landing a solid punch.
He seized her wrists, clamped them together and secured them with the white cotton handkerchief he'd offered her less than an hour before when she'd been sick. He felt like a jerk, but he didn't have time to fight with her. "You've got a choice. Either stay here and let those assholes get their hands on you or come with me."
He didn't wait for her response. He just started off at a fast clip toward the car, his fingers gripping the handkerchief that bound her hands. She kept pace with him, and he took that as her answer.
Back in the Jag, she sat in silence, staring straight ahead while he did a U-turn and gunned the engine. When he'd put several miles between them and the beach, he glanced side-ways at his captive. Tears were streaming unchecked down her cheeks. "You don't know what that gunshot was about,"
he said. "It could have been a warning shot."
"Did they look like the kind of people who are going to just let her go now?"
He didn't know what to say. She was right. Dayle would have to serve some kind of purpose for them to keep her alive. Now that he had broken off contact with them and had no way of reaching them to negotiate further . . . He stopped himself. Damn it, he refused to feel guilty for something he had no control over. "She wouldn't be in this mess if it hadn't been for you," he said in a low voice.
Closing her eyes tight, Meg bit into her bottom lip.
At the marina, she gave him no trouble getting back on the yacht, though he sensed she was waiting for the right moment.
That moment came when he turned from securing the dinghy. One second his gun had been tucked in his waistband, and the next it was in her tied hands, cocked and pointed at his chest. Not allowing her the opportunity to feel triumph, he kicked the weapon out of her hands. He saw the pain register in her eyes a moment after he had her on the deck, her bound wrists pinned above her head. "That was stupid," he said, his lips inches from hers.
She glared at him with hatred, scalding tears rolling back into her hair. "She was my best friend." A dry sob escaped before she could choke it back, and she fought the wave behind it.
Taken aback by the raw emotion, he loosened his grip on her.
She jerked her hands free and shoved at him. "Get off!"
As he sat back on his heels, she rolled onto her side, drawing her knees up to her chest.
Rubbing his hands over his face, he tried to block out the sobs she muted with clenched fists. He'd thought he could handle it. He'd thought his rage at Beau's senseless death would carry him through, make him ruthless enough to get the revenge he wanted. But he hadn't counted on this woman whose claims of innocence were becoming ever more con-vincing. He hadn't counted on more people getting killed . . . innocent people. He had taken on an entire organi-zation, and he was just one man.
But damn it, he hadn't known what the hell else to do.
Chapter 1
After only one day at Holly's, Margot decided that she had to go. Staying put for too long was foolish. In fact, she may have already endangered her only friend.
Rising from the sofa she'd slept on, she saw on the VCR clock that it was nine in the morning. A glance outside told her it was snowing. Margot didn't relish the thought of hitch-hiking in frigid, snowy weather and considered asking Holly for a ride. But that would mean saying good-bye, something she liked even less than hitchhiking in the winter. Of course, there was Holly's brand-new red Mustang parked out front.
She paused while folding a blanket and sat on the sofa's arm.
A new car would get her somewhere fast, and it was safer than hitching. She could swipe Holly's keys from her purse and be on her way. The chances of Holly immediately re-porting the car stolen were slim because Holly didn't have to get ready for work for another two hours. Those two hours would provide enough time for Margot to get to Milwaukee and trade the car for another one.
Or she could just ask.
Walking to Holly's bedroom door, she opened it a crack and peered in at her sleeping friend. No, she couldn't afford to ask. When it came to self-preservation, being polite wasn't part of the equation.
Margot took a shower and tried to figure out the easiest way to get the emeralds back to Beau's brother. Hiring a courier seemed the obvious choice. By the time anyone figured out who had sent them or from where, she'd be long gone.
To where?
She couldn't picture what came next, and she remembered another time when she hadn't been able to imagine what her future held. Then, no one had been chasing her but her own demons. She'd been sixteen, hitchhiking alone from Wisconsin to Florida, searching for someone she didn't really expect to find and too broke to even buy herself a cheeseburger. Slater Nielsen had been so nice when he had picked her up in his limousine along the Florida highway.
He smelled like heaven and wore expensive tailored clothing. Sipping a cognac, he offered her a soft drink and seemed genuinely interested in her story, edited as it was. After only three hours, he made her a proposition. All she had to do, he said, was learn a trade that he would teach her himself.
Her initial explosive denial prompted a belly laugh that turned his face bright red. He explained that he wasn't a pimp, that he would never ask her to earn a living by using her fabulous body. No, he said, he was interest
ed in her brain.
Intrigued, Margot listened to what he had in mind.
Think of it as an education, he said. He would teach her about art and literature, music and theater. He would introduce her to wine and gourmet cooking, tutor her in politics, history, and economics. And he would teach her how to out-maneuver any security system ever designed.
She'd planned it all at that moment. She would work for him six months, long enough to save some money, then she would move on. It seemed simple, uncomplicated by emo-tional ties and unpaid debts. Slater made it easy.
The first year flew by, and surprisingly, she enjoyed Slater's game. She liked outsmarting people and security systems, delighted in the discovery that she was good at something besides being a bad girl. She had talent. She was smart. Slater had often said so.
As another year passed, she grew reluctant to leave the safe haven he provided. At the estate on his private island, he gave her a room of her own and let her decorate it as she pleased. When she turned eighteen, he bought her a car—a convertible with a stereo that would have made even the most jaded teen drool. At twenty-one, he presented her with diamonds and promises for the future.
They became lovers shortly after that, and she discovered that her fantasies about him had fallen far short of the reality. He had pleased her in ways she hadn't thought possible.
Never did she question what he asked of her professionally. She knew it was wrong, even though she liked it. Sometimes, she was ashamed that she was a professional thief. Yet it all somehow seemed justified. Slater's targets were carefully chosen. Not one of them, until Beau Kama, seemed undeserving of the crimes she committed against them. They were the kind of men who would have treated her like trash if they had happened upon her hitchhiking rather than Slater.
For twelve years, she enjoyed the thrill, the danger, the perks. Then Slater had sent her after Beau, and everything had changed.
Realizing she'd lingered in the shower too long, Margot shut off the water and swept aside the shower curtain. At the same moment, the door burst open and one of Slater Nielsen's most vicious hit men grabbed her by the throat and slammed her back against a wet tile wall.