Relative Strangers

by Joyce Lamb

  Grasping the splintered chair leg that she had used on the television, she swung it at Turner's head. It connected with a jarring crack, and he pivoted toward her.

  She swung again. He caught the makeshift weapon with one hand, grinning, and walked her backward until her back hit the wall. Panic stuck in her throat.

  Turner twisted the weapon in a direction her wrist would not bend. One final jerk, and she released it with a grimace. He trapped her against the wall with his shoulder and pulled out a gun. "This will be fun."

  Over his shoulder, Meg saw Ryan staggering to his feet. She went for Turner's eyes, but he grabbed her wrist, yanked her around so that she faced Ryan, and locked a forearm across her throat. He pressed the gun into her back, where Ryan wouldn't be able to see it.

  Meg saw blood trickling from the corner of Ryan's mouth, saw a red welt at his temple. Black spots floated across her vision at the sight of the blood on him, but she blinked them away. "He has a—"

  Turned jerked her head back, choking off the warning, and her air.

  Ryan's eyes went black with rage, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "Let her go." He took a menacing step forward.

  Meg dug her fingers into the arm against her throat, sought to catch Ryan's eye. But he had focused his hatred on Turner, as if he knew that seeing her struggle for air would undo him.

  She felt Turner flex his gun hand behind her back, heard the slight but distinct click of the hammer being pulled back. She gasped out a desperate attempt to say the word "gun."

  Too late. Ryan lunged.

  Meg didn't hear the gunshot.

  She just saw Ryan reel back. He hit the wall and slid down it, his eyes wide with shock. When he hit the floor, his head flopped forward. A broad streak of blood defined the path that his body had taken down the wall.

  Suddenly free, Meg staggered forward, a black curtain closing in at the edges of the world. "Oh, God. Oh, God."

  Dropping to her knees at his side, she gripped his arm with a shaking hand. Blood had stained his shirt from his shoulder across the front of his chest, had spattered his neck and face with bright red droplets. There was so much of it she couldn't tell where he'd been hit. "Oh God, no."

  Turner hooked a hand under her arm and hauled her up. Choking out a protest, she tried to get away from him, slapping, kicking and screaming at him. Ryan needed help. Ryan was bleeding. Dying.

  Shoving her against the wall with one hand, Turner pinned her there with a hand on her throat. He pointed the gun at her nose, and she froze, comprehending that if she was dead, Ryan would most certainly die, too.

  "What's going on here?"

  Turner turned at the sound of his partner's voice, and Meg shoved at him with a strength born of desperation and fury. He stumbled back, and she shoved again. Off-balance already, Turner went down on one knee and ducked his head as Meg fell on him and rammed a fist at his face. She punched him again and again until strong hands seized her by the arms and lifted her away.

  She saw blond hair and a scar as she writhed against this new assailant, screamed in frustration when he wrestled her to the floor and pinned her on her stomach, a knee in her back. With her cheek smashed against the carpet, she saw Ryan propped against the wall, blood pooling under him. She squirmed desperately under the weight on her back.

  "Help me, asshole," Dillon shouted at his partner. "Get the cord from the blinds."

  He let up with the knee, but before she could take advantage, he wrenched her arms behind her back. "Tie her. Hurry, damn it."

  Turner wrapped the cord around her wrists and jerked it tight. Meg released a sharp gasp of pain, her head arching up off the floor.

  "Not so tight. Jesus," Dillon snapped.

  The cord loosened slightly.

  "Gag her, too."

  Turner stuffed something, a dishcloth from the texture of it, in her mouth and secured it with a bandanna.

  Bound and gagged, Meg let her cheek fall to the carpet and lay still. She focused on Ryan, on his chest. She couldn't tell if he was breathing. Hair fell across his forehead and into his eyes, but he showed no signs of awareness.

  The knee in her back disappeared as Dillon got to his feet. "What the hell were you thinking, Turner?"

  "The guy was threatening me," Turner said.

  "He doesn't even have a weapon, dickhead. Just get her out of here."

  Hands caught at Meg's shoulders, wrenched her to her feet. Turner tossed her over his shoulder and headed for the door.

  Away from Ryan.

  She bucked on his shoulder, beat her head against his back. Even when his shoulder ground into the tender part of her abdomen, she continued to squirm. Unfazed, Turner carried her down the steps and to a dark blue van parked in the driveway. He pitched her carelessly into the back of it.

  Meg rolled, gained her knees and lunged for the doors as he climbed in. Hooking his hands around one of her elbows, he dragged her farther into the van, then, gripping her shoulder, forced her forward and down. "On your stomach," he ordered.

  She was no match for him, even if her hands had been free. But lying still was too much like giving up. As he turned to shut the doors, she flopped onto her back and kicked at his butt with both feet. He stumbled forward, smacking his head on the door. Calmly, he closed the doors, but when he faced her, his cheeks were bright red. Blood streamed from a split in his lip where she had struck him earlier.

  "Big mistake, bitch," he said, and backhanded her.

  Her head snapped to one side, but she clung to consciousness by a thread. If she let go, Ryan would die.

  Dillon got into the van and started it. He glanced back as he steered the van into traffic. "Get rid of the gag. I have some questions."

  Her brain worked sluggishly as Turner loosened the ban-danna and removed the gag. The moment it was gone, she started bargaining. "I have money. Tons of it. It's all yours if you—"

  "Shut up," Dillon said.

  "All you have to do is call help for him. We don't have to go back. Please, he's going to bleed to—"

  "Turner?"

  Turner leveled a gun at her head.

  "See Turner's gun?" Dillon asked.

  Meg steeled herself. If Ryan died, she had nothing to lose anyway. "Use a pay phone. It could never be traced to you."

  Turner raised the gun as if to strike her and Meg braced for the blow.

  "No!" Dillon shouted. "We need her conscious if we're going to get our hands on those fucking emeralds. Sit down. When I'm done, you can play."

  Turner obediently sat on the wheel well and grinned down at her, his tongue flicking over his lips.

  She watched him, aware of the way her shirt had bunched up to reveal bare skin. A sick new dread crawled through her.

  Dillon said, "Where are the stones?"

  She kept her gaze on Turner. "I'll tell you if you go back and help Ryan."

  "It's too late," Dillon said.

  Her senses sharpened, and she shifted on an elbow so she could see the back of his head, Turner's threat forgotten. "What do you mean it's too late?"

  "Just what I said. It's too damn late."

  "No." A crushing pain paralyzed her, as if a steel pole had been driven through her chest. Closing her eyes, Meg's muscles went slack.

  Ryan was dead.

  Chapter 21

  "Looking for me?"

  Margot whirled, her breath jamming in her chest when she saw Slater Nielsen standing before her in the hallway outside his study. "How did you—"

  "Did you honestly think I wouldn't adjust my security systems after training you to evade them all these years? You were tripping silent alarms all over the place. Very sloppy." He let his gaze rove over her, as if he had missed her. Then, smiling, he gestured toward his office door. "Please, be my guest."

  She entered his office, feeling him watch her every move. Its decor—a heavy mahogany desk, dark brown leather sofa and chairs, gleaming hardwood floor and a mural of a sailboat on a glass-like lake—was the same yet see
med different. She had never entered this room with the conviction that she would not leave it alive.

  Behind her, Slater put a hand on her shoulder to stop her. "If you wouldn't mind."

  His hands were brisk and thorough as they moved over her arms, down one jean-clad leg and up the other. He discov-ered the gun she had tucked into the waistband at her back and took it. "Have a seat."

  Calm washed over her as she lowered herself to the sofa. It was out of her hands now, and she was relieved. She no longer had to worry about whether she would be able to pull the trigger when it was time.

  "Welcome home, Margot," Slater said.

  He had changed slightly. The wrinkles at his eyes seemed more pronounced, and his thick, dark hair had more gray in it. His body, however, looked trimmer than it had three months ago, more toned. The designer suit he wore fit more snug in the shoulders, looser at the waist. His blue eyes, a startling icy hue enhanced by the tan he maintained year-round, were framed by long, black lashes that Margot had often envied. He had a tiny dark mole on his cheek where women preferred a beauty mark. Her gun looked small and ineffective in his large hands.

  "I trust you had an uneventful trip here," Slater said.

  "Can we cut the bullshit?"

  He arched a salt-and-pepper eyebrow. "I never considered our relationship bullshit, Margot."

  She glanced away, long enough to get her nerve back. "Is it the emeralds you want?"

  "You think all this has been about emeralds? I thought you had outgrown your naivete."

  "Then what? What do you want from me?"

  "Margot, honey, I never wanted anything from you that you weren't willing to give. Twelve years ago, I gave you choices, and you made them."

  She rose, intending to confront him face to face. But when she stood in front of him, dwarfed by his superior height, she retreated to a pair of French doors that opened into a flower garden. She gazed through the panes at carefully tended red roses, protected from the harsh sun by large shade trees. "You gave me a lot, Slater, but you never gave me choices.

  You told me what you wanted and I did it."

  "I don't recall you ever questioning what I was asking you to do, my dear. How did you get a conscience?"

  She turned. "You sent me after the wrong set of emeralds."

  Some satisfaction nudged her at his frown. He put his hands, along with her gun, into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. "Well, that brings us to what happens now, doesn't it? We both know that resuming the relationship we had before Mr. Kama is impossible." He pursed his lips. "You once asked me why I chose Beau Kama, and now I'll tell you. He was a test."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I suspected that your heart wasn't in the game anymore, that perhaps you were growing tired of me. So I tested you with a rich, handsome man who was also, of all things, a nice guy. You were right when you questioned my choice of target. Mr. Kama didn't fit the profile, and you fell for him the moment you met him. You can't imagine how angry that made me, Margot."

  His smile didn't touch his eyes as he crossed to her. Withdrawing a pack of cigarettes from an inside jacket pocket, he shook one out. "Cigarette?"

  Margot started to refuse, then accepted it. She needed something to distract her from the realization that she had stumbled into his trap, killing the man she loved along the way.

  Slater produced a lighter that he had once told her was solid gold and lit the cigarette for her. She sucked the air into her lungs, narrowing her eyes as she focused on the buzz and its accompanying calm.

  Slater watched her, waiting for her to exhale. After the smoke swirled through the air between them, he said, "Now, the options are somewhat muddied. You've been flirting with death for a while now. Defying Mr. Bloodhound was not a bright move and unlike you. He's still in jail, in case you're wondering."

  "I hope he rots there."

  "He just might." He waved a dismissive hand. "But we were talking about you. Coming out of hiding concerns me, Margot. I had no idea where you were. Did you know that?"

  "I figured as much since none of your thugs were pounding on my door."

  "Yet here you are, trying to sneak into my home with a gun." He paused as he sauntered to a bar stocked with ice and the finest Scotch. "Drink?"

  She shook her head.

  "My conclusion," he went on, "is that you've resigned yourself to your fate. You know I can't let anyone get away with double-crossing me because then my other employees might be tempted to be less loyal." He splashed liquor into a glass and swirled it before sipping. "What it boils down to is this: How do I deal with you when what you expect is for me to kill you? We both know how much I like to behave in unexpected ways." He smiled as warmly as he was capable, showing perfect white teeth.

  Margot had felt those teeth gently nibbling at her bottom lip and even at her breasts, but now they looked like they could rip open her jugular.

  "Why don't you sit down, Margot? You look a bit pale."

  "I'll stand."

  His smile widened. "Do I need to tell you how much I'm enjoying this, Margot?"

  The way he kept using her name aggravated her.

  "The key, naturally, would be to take something from you that you care about," he went on. "Mr. Kama filled that bill

  nicely, but I didn't get to see your face when you found him, so I feel a bit cheated. Would you like to know the alternative I have in mind?"

  Margot held her breath, cigarette forgotten.

  "I've found her, Margot. Just like you asked me to. About the same time that Mr. Bloodhound tracked you down in Wisconsin, I sent Turner and Dillon to Fort Myers Beach to collect your sister. Of course, I let them think they were collecting you. Why bother to explain the finer points to a couple of half-wits? Unfortunately, your sister proved to be a bit slippery. There also was a nasty shooting incident in which one of my associates got a bit overzealous, but luckily for all of us, she pulled through that. Overall, I've expended quite a bit of manpower keeping track of her for you."

  She couldn't respond, rooted to the floor. Meg is safe. He's bluffing.

  Slater went to his desk, picked up an ashtray and crossed to her. He waited while she stubbed out the cigarette, so close she heard him breathing. "Now," he said, "the logical thing would be to bring her here so the two of you can meet. Would you like that?"

  A bluff. Please, God, let it be a bluff.

  He chuckled. "You're not answering, but your face is saying no." He leaned in. "Doesn't that defeat the purpose of me spending my hard-earned money to have your sister found for you?" His lips were poised less than an inch above the curve of her cheekbone. "I'm not getting much feedback here."

  "What did you do?" she asked in a husky voice.

  "What did I do? This is about what you did, Margot." His lips brushed her cheek.

  She flinched back. "She doesn't have anything to do with this."

  238

  He nodded, thoughtful. "True. She's an innocent. But you're not. And you care about her."

  "I don't even know her."

  "But you asked me to find her. You planned to care. And anyone you care about has everything to do with this. Death would be too easy for you."

  "You're . . . you're—"

  "At a loss for words?" he asked. "See? You do care."

  The telephone rang. He moved to answer it, and Margot had only a moment to be relieved he was on the other side of the room before he fastened an intense stare on her.

  "I see," he said into the phone. Watching her, he opened the top drawer of his desk, placed her gun inside and closed it with his hip. "I'll have someone meet you at the dock." He hung up. "Turner tells me he and Dillon will be making a special delivery very soon."

  Chapter 28

  Ryan regained consciousness in the emergency room. Disori-ented and weak from loss of blood, it took him several tries to communicate to the medical staff that he didn't give a damn that a bullet was still lodged in his shoulder, that what he wanted more than a painkiller was t
o know who brought him in.

  "An ambulance, sir," the nurse said, a picture of patience.

  "Was there a woman with me? Dark hair, green eyes—"

  "No one was with you, sir. A neighbor called in the emergency. I'm going to give you something to calm you down."

  "No. Get me a phone."

  "Sir—"

  "I need a phone, damn it." He grabbed her wrist before she could shove a needle into his arm. "Get. Me. A. Phone."

  Another nurse thrust a cell phone into his free hand, and he released the one with the needle. "Thank you."

  He dialed Nick's number with one hand while both women went to work cleaning up his shoulder. Once his friend answered, Ryan barked his name into the phone and choked on a hiss of breath when one of the nurses poured an-tiseptic into his bullet wound.

  "Ryan? Is that you? Jesus, where are you? I lost Margot. I couldn't get a decent signal on my cell phone, so I went back to my cabin to call the feds on a land line. She slipped out while I was gone. I'm sorry, man. I feel terrible."

  Ryan finally got his breath. "Nick, I'm at the ER. Come get me."

  "What happened?"

  "The bastards got Meg."

  Meg fought them again when they transferred her from the van to a midsize boat, but her struggles must have seemed pathetic because they didn't acknowledge them. After reapplying the gag, they locked her in an empty storage compartment below deck.

  In the dark, she began working at her bonds, wincing every time the band of Margot's watch dug into her flesh. She had no idea what she would do if she got free. She only knew that if she could do it before the boat left shore, she might, just might, have a chance of getting to Ryan.

  She refused to believe he was dead. The thug had just been playing with her head, she reasoned. He'd been trying to frighten her into telling him what he wanted to know.

  Only a few short minutes passed before the boat's engines roared to life. Meg fought frantically against the cord wrapped around her wrists. She didn't feel it biting into her flesh as she twisted and pulled. She didn't feel the intense heat. Didn't know that sweat raced down the sides of her face.