Hurricane

by Cherry Adair

  The Fouseks’ palatial home, set in hundreds of acres of rolling hills, was as big as a good-sized hotel, with hundreds of rooms and God only knew how many precious, invaluable works of art hanging on every wall. Artwork Addison privately thought belonged in a museum for everyone to enjoy.

  Hollis treated the place like her own private hotel, and came and went at whim. Apparently she’d been there when the theft had occurred. Very inconvenient. Addison shook her head. Interrogated by the authorities? Confined to her room with her belongings being searched? The press? Yeah, Addison could see how traumatic that must’ve been, and why her dear mother needed a vacation from her perpetual vacations. She still preferred that her mother vacation elsewhere.

  She scanned the article. Perhaps Hollis English-D’Marco-Payne-Smithe-Belcourt-Moubray had a mention—nope. How disappointing for her mother.

  As in all the other heists, the paintings had been sliced from their frames, leaving no clues as to the identity of the thief. No signature tells, no fingerprints. Procioni—Raccoon—was the name Interpol and European officials had given to a deviously clever art thief who’d struck, frequently and randomly, over the span of five years. Hundreds of paintings had been reported stolen. These latest were the most valuable yet.

  Authorities suspected many more had been taken from private collections and not reported. Cézanne, Picasso, Degas—the thief wasn’t discriminating, but every painting was highly coveted, and high-priced.

  Procioni stole from residences, private collections, galleries, and museums with equal ease. So far to the tune of over one billion dollars. Whoever it was had yet to be caught. That was a lot of time to elude capture. Speculation was that the thefts were perpetrated by a gang, possibly organized crime. Others insisted it was an individual. The public’s imagination had romanticized the robber to epic proportions.

  When Addison thought art heist she thought of Pierce Brosnan in The Thomas Crown Affair, but she highly doubted the thief was that cool and sophisticated. The thefts had caught the public’s imagination—and hers as well. But no matter the value of what he stole, he was still a criminal, and as such should be captured and punished.

  Addison flinched as a muffled explosion seemed to come from very close, followed by shouts and a rapid volley of gunshots. Rydell, I hope to hell you’re not doing anything stupid out there. I’ll be so pissed if you get hurt.

  Worrying about him was no longer her job, she reminded herself. She didn’t care—oh, hell. Yes she did. Only inasmuch as she wouldn’t want any of Tesoro Mio’s crew to get hurt. Or worse.

  Out of my control. She tried to tune out the faint noises of warfare beyond her walls as she exited the news article.

  She made a mental note to call Brigita once they cleared the canal. It must’ve been scary knowing someone had sneaked into their home and robbed them when the house—as big as it was—was filled with servants and their perpetual groups of revolving friends and no one had seen the thief. Pretty damn bold of the thief. Pretty damn scary for everyone else.

  Addison switched gears to read some of her favorite society posts to see who had worn what to which function.

  Six

  Having worked so hard to tune out the sounds of shouting and gunfire, when the brutal cries and explosive sounds ceased, the sudden silence jerked Addison back to reality. A chill pebbled her skin as she lifted her head.

  Silence.

  “Good news or bad news?” Leaning over, she pulled the house phone into her lap, but before she hit the button for the bridge, there was a sharp rap at her door. Swinging her feet to the floor, she went to let Rydell in. No one else knocked that way. As if a brief, hard bang with the flat of his fist was enough to gain him entry.

  She stood back as he pushed passed her. The smell of hot, sweaty male filled her senses. She held her breath until the moment passed. Damn him. Damn her. Why did she suddenly have the overwhelming urge to lick his damp skin? Clearly he’d run his fingers through his wet hair to get it out of his face. In contrast with Naveen’s sartorial elegance, Rydell didn’t give a damn what he looked like. Yet Ry’s rough and crumpled look was vastly more appealing for some annoying reason. “Was anyone hurt?”

  “Not anyone on board.”

  “Good to know. Damage to the ship?”

  “Port side’s a bit banged up, but other than that we were lucky. I figured you’d need some fresh air about now.”

  “I do.” Addison’s heart ached as she scanned his familiar features, once so dear and precious to her. For a moment she wanted to wrap herself around him, feel the strong beat of his heart and the strength of his arms around her. She wanted to feel safe and loved. She wanted the yawning abyss of the past year to be washed away, and things to go back to normal.

  She wanted Sophia alive.

  That was a pain no one could ever fix.

  “We’ll have a late dinner in Mangalore with the dive team,” Rydell told her. “Then head out again in the morning.”

  Addison hardened her heart, her foolish yearnings, and her voice. “I’ll have a quiet dinner right here. Enjoy yourself. Goodbye.”

  “Addison…”

  “No.”

  His chest lifted as he dragged in a breath. The wet cloth of his black T-shirt clung to his broad chest and defined his six-pack. As rock hard as his damn heart. “You don’t know what I was going to say.”

  “I don’t give a damn what you were going to say, Rydell. There’s nothing you could possibly verbalize that interests me. I hope you find what you’re looking for sooner than your allotted two weeks. Then the only word I require from you is goodbye.”

  The muscles around his eyes tightened, then he reached out. Addison flinched as he brushed a light finger against her neck. “The flak vest rubbed a red spot right here.”

  That brief, light brush of his fingers send a domino effect of rippling sensations through her nerve endings, shocking her to the core. His touch no longer had any business affecting her.

  Stepping back, she removed the heavy vest, then held it out to him. “Thanks for this. Glad I didn’t need it. You kept the castle safe, and the dragons at bay. Bully for you.”

  “I protect what’s mine.”

  No, you bastard, you don’t. “I’m not touching that line with a ten-foot pole.”

  His shoulders stiffened, as if he were braced for a blow. His eyes went flat. “Are you coming?”

  Not only were his head and damn heart as hard as flint, he was impervious to the undercurrents swirling around them. “In a while. There’s no need for you to keep track of me. I won’t get lost.” The Tesoro Mio was 160 feet long and 30 feet wide. Three upper decks, two lower. Way too big for a single woman. And way too damn small for herself and Rydell to share the space.

  “Would you prefer we not eat on board tonight?”

  “I don’t give a damn where or if you eat, Rydell. Do whatever the hell you want. As long as you’re nowhere near me when you do it.”

  “Hearing you loud and clear, Addy. But you can’t avoid the conversation forever.”

  “Really? You managed to do just that just freaking-well fine. Now it doesn’t suit me to rehash the past at your damn convenience, and it’s too late anyway.” She wasn’t interested in his explanations. It would be too damn little, too late.

  “Will you ever be recepti—never mind.”

  Right. Never mind. Sophie was dead. Talking about her was too damn painful, and talking about her precious baby with Rydell would be picking at barely healed scars with a rusty penknife. “In the quest for expediency: If you think of a question for me, the answer is always no. See how simple that is?” Of course she hadn’t thought that one through quickly enough. Rydell could easily phrase something in a way that her no would mean yes.

  Devilish amusement now sparkled in his storm-cloud-gray eyes, but his lips remained sober. Yes, he’d come to the same damn conclusion. Jerk.

  “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.” Reaching for the door handle, he paused to look b
ack at her. No trace of humor remained. His eyes looked flat and dull, an expression she wasn’t accustomed to seeing in him. He was typically a man whose boundless energy was reflected in the shine of his eyes, whose laser-sharp focus seized each moment with verve and gusto.

  She looked closer, then shook her head, refusing to believe that she glimpsed anything other than what she expected of him. Must be a trick of the light.

  “Get up on deck,” he ordered. “Go for a run. Breathe. I’ll stay out of your way.”

  When the door snapped shut behind him, Addison stared at the space he’d vacated. She held the back of her hand to her mouth, trying hard to breathe calmly. He sucked all the damn oxygen out of a room. That was the only reason she felt breathless.

  * * *

  Hours later they docked in the bustling port of New Mangalore, India. The late-afternoon sky, a brilliant blue streaked with apricot and lemon yellow, beckoned Addison to run on deck and breathe in some fresh air after she’d been cooped up all day in her cabin. At Rydell’s urging she’d had a long and vigorous run a few hours earlier. She’d chosen the treadmill in the gym, mainly because he’d told her to go on deck, but also because she didn’t want his eyes on her as she ran. On deck there were any number of vantage points from which he could see her, and any number of places where she could accidentally run into him. At least in the gym she’d see him coming. But since she’d been braced for him to come in the whole time, her run had been neither fun nor relaxing.

  Now, feeling like a prisoner in her own home, restricted, annoyed, and put upon, she wanted fresh air. “Oh, freaking get over yourself.” She was starting to sound like her mother. Except she only got pissy when she was stressed or around her ex-husband, unlike her mother who was a raging bitch all the time.

  Damn it, she wanted her old self back—the old self that was typically happy, the person whose default reaction to circumstances and others was something other than knee-jerk bitchy. She wanted to feel again the undying optimism and sense of adventure that had made life fun and exciting. Since her daughter’s death she’d been diligently, consciously, working on regaining some of her joie de vivre—and then Rydell had shown up and stomped all over it.

  She couldn’t allow herself to backslide and fall into the darkness that had almost obliterated her. The last damn thing she wanted was to become her mother. Addison hated being a bitch. She hated … hating. But seeing Rydell again made it impossible not to backslide, because he reminded her viscerally of all she’d lost.

  “I will not be a bitch. I will not be a bitch. I. Will. Not. Be. A. Bitch.”

  Today.

  One day at a time. Hell. One hour at a time. She could do this.

  Worse than disliking the bitchiness, she knew what waited should she slide back any farther. Bitchiness was just the armor for the darkest despair she had ever experienced, and if she allowed her backslide to continue, she was going to feel the acute, raw, and crippling pain that came with Sophie’s death. If she slipped back into that level of despair once again, she didn’t know if she’d ever find her way out. Worse still, she might stand on that precipice of not caring if she drew another breath or not.

  One day at a time.

  One hour at a time.

  Fresh air.

  If she had space and fresh air, she’d feel more like herself. She wasn’t a prisoner, and she sure as hell didn’t have to confine herself belowdecks just because her ex-husband happened to be on board and a thorn in her side. The Tesoro Mio was as much hers as his to do with as she pleased. And right now she pleased to go for another damn run without Rydell watching her every move like a lion watching his dinner.

  Instead of racing up on deck, she waited for him to disembark. He’d be back soon, bringing with him the very last people Addison ever wanted to see again: the dive crew who’d been witness to her greatest sorrow. They’d been with her when Sophie died, and Ry had been nowhere to be found.

  Through the large windows in her cabin she observed Ry’s departure. He and the security people he’d hired parted ways with handshakes, them into a black, unmarked van, Rydell into a waiting taxi.

  His too-long dark hair lifted in the breeze as he turned, hand on the roof of the cab. She swore he saw her there in her cabin watching him. He couldn’t of course, the glass had a mirror-like tint on it, but she felt his gaze like a caress. Rubbing her bare arms, she stepped back but couldn’t stop watching until he got inside the vehicle and disappeared from view. Did his heart ache as hers did? Did he sometimes—hell, all the time—feel as though he couldn’t draw a real breath? Did he ever imagine he smelled the sweet, milky breath of his daughter on the breeze?

  Tears burned and her ribs squeezed around her lungs in a vise as she waited for Rydell’s taxi to move. The answer to her question was no. Rydell Case was too controlled, too contained, to let his imagination carry him into the abyss. Pragmatic and unemotional, he’d put the death of their child into one of his many emotional vaults, then not only locked the door but thrown away the combination and moved on.

  He professed a willingness to talk about Sophie’s death because he knew she couldn’t. A win–win for Rydell. A safe bet, making him look like a grieving father and her like a coldhearted, unyielding bitch.

  She was coldhearted all right. Her heart was frozen, and nothing would melt the icy pain of it. She was learning to live with that. Pinching the bridge of her nose to hold back the prick of tears, she waited until both vehicles pulled away from the dock before leaving the cabin.

  She practically bumped into her chief steward when she opened the door. “Oops.” Smiling, Addy did a little dance step to regain her balance. “I’m going up for a run.” Had he coincidentally just been passing her cabin, or had he been standing guard?

  “On deck, right?” he said easily. Now that Addison knew Rydell had hired Oscar to be her private security detail, she noticed things she hadn’t noticed before. Oscar, Jax, and Patrick had all been with her since she’d commandeered the ship. None of them wore their white crew shirt tucked in as the other crew members did. From whom did Ry anticipate she’d need an armed guard’s protection?

  She gave her chief steward an assessing look. “Are you armed, Oscar?”

  Sharp brown eyes scanned her face. “Always.”

  That was it. No further explanation. She left it at that. Oscar had always been affable without being overly friendly. Now she noticed his dark eyes were hard and ever watchful. His body language was alert rather than relaxed.

  “I wouldn’t recommend going ashore, however. The docks aren’t safe. Especially here,” he said, easily changing the subject as he fell into step beside her. “And never at this time of evening.”

  She was aware, and that wasn’t why she’d asked if he were armed. But she had her answer. “Don’t worry. I’m running on the deck.” Eighteen laps would give her about a mile. She’d rather run flat-out on a soccer field for five miles, but she wasn’t about to go and look for one in a strange city at dusk, and she’d run her requisite five miles on the treadmill earlier. She and Rydell were both runners, and together they’d designed a track on deck so that they could get their exercise outside when they were at sea. At the time they’d laughed that they’d get more exercise in the bedroom and had spent as much time picking a mattress as they had designing the track.

  For inclement weather, there was the state-of-the-art gym, with its enormous windows and wide, sliding doors, but Addison preferred to be outside with the wind in her face.

  “Want company?” Oscar asked as they started up the polished mahogany stairs.

  Not really. But he’d watch her from the deck above anyway. He, too, was a runner, and she knew he’d enjoy a good run, even if it was in circles. “Sure.”

  They emerged onto the middle deck to the sounds and smells of bustling New Mangalore Port. Located along the coast of southern India, the area was a feast for the senses. The port itself was as unattractive and bustling as any other major port in the world, but beyo
nd the prosaic, the area was surrounded by tall palm trees, with a backdrop of the hazy Sahyadri Mountains. The area showed its rich cultural heritage in the scents and sounds drifting to them on the warm breeze.

  With the spicy fragrances of exotic foods and flowers filling her senses, Addison started jogging, Oscar beside her. The ocean zephyr brought with it the smells of brine, fish, curry, and fruit from a nearby market. Golden, late-afternoon sunlight glinted off azure water as brilliantly colored returning fishing boats wove their way through the pleasure craft dotting the harbor. A large oceangoing luxury liner gleamed white and brass as it disgorged passengers for a late tour of the prominent and sacred temples nearby.

  The blurred sounds of voices, the throb of drums, and the faint clatter of a train on its tracks served as a backdrop to the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of Addison’s steps as she broke into a steady run.

  “Okay?” Oscar asked, giving her a concerned glance as her feet faltered.

  Addison picked up the pace, because life went on despite the pain in her heart. “Sorry. Distracted.”

  She still had the option of disembarking, catching a flight to Sydney, and waiting for Rydell to bring the ship to her. And her buyer. But that could be weeks, if not months during which she’d be shelling out her profit to live in a hotel. Possession was nine-tenths of the law. As long as she remained on board she’d have some say when Rydell returned the ship to her control. As much as she didn’t want to be here, Addison knew she didn’t have much choice.

  She’d worked up a good sweat, then return to her cabin to—not hide. Retreat. A sound plan. Until she heard the throb of helicopter rotors approaching. Shading her eyes, she observed the scarlet-and-gold chopper hovering overhead. She knew those colors and the logo of lions emblazoned on the crest under a crown. Shit.