by Ann Major
But this one was black and gritty and ugly. When she turned it over, it disintegrated in her hands and an ugly creature that looked as deadly as a scorpion skittered out of it.
It was a sign.
She screamed, and throwing down the shell, she ran.
She couldn’t see him.
But she could feel his dark, unseen force in the shadowy jungle as she raced back toward the shallow lagoon.
But the sand was so deep, she was soon exhausted.
With her every step, her bare feet seemed to sink more deeply into the ankle-deep sand. He stalked her remorselessly as he raced along the hard, packed path that lay just inside the jungle.
Sweaty and too light-headed to go on, she stopped before she was halfway to the lagoon. Her chest was heaving, and she had to gasp for every breath.
He stopped, too.
When she could breathe again, she decided the straightest path to the cabana was through the jungle.
Two minutes later she was plunging through thick canopies of dark vines, and then through a long tunnel of overarching palms.
The rain forest was dark and quiet. It was like entering a cathedral and leaving the real world behind. Fearing snakes or iguanas, she, nevertheless, sank down into a thick bed of damp ferns to rest a minute.
The trees with their dripping ivies and lacy ferns were so shadowy and all-enveloping that she considered hiding there indefinitely. Then she made out the shape of a howler monkey, ambling toward her along the narrow trail. Overhead more monkeys kept up with him by racing from branch to branch.
Strange how the monkeys made no sound.
Strange how the figure on the trail kept growing larger and larger—until he was much too large to be a monkey.
With a chill she realized that her monkey was a man, and that the man was walking steadily and deliberately toward her. She felt that he knew she was there, that he had known all along, that he knew he had all the time in the world to take her.
Her dress was white.
In another instant he would be so close he couldn’t miss her.
She bolted away from him, running headlong down the path of overhanging darkness that led away from the sunny road and the swimming pool and the cabanas. Away from Cutter.
Her pursuer raced after her.
When her pace slowed, his did, too.
But he was breathing so hard she could hear him.
When she glanced back over her shoulder to see how close he was, she stumbled on a sprawling root and fell.
Her head hit a tree. Then she was on the ground, and the dense trees were blackening.
Something wet was dripping on her cheek. She opened her eyes to blurred shadows and radiant green foliage. Less than a foot away, a twig snapped under a heavy boot heel.
Dear God. She gasped in panic as an ever-tightening band of fear compressed her lungs.
He took a final step, so that when she tried to lever herself to a sitting position, her fingers touched the dusty toes of his tall, black leather boots.
From her vantage point on the jungle floor, her gaze traveled up his muscular legs, widening in shock when she registered his swarthy features.
“Get up, señora.”
She had never seen him before. Still, from Cutter’s description, she recognized him instantly.
“Mucho gusto, señora. My name is José Hernando.”
His raspy voice was so ordinary. As was his face. His broad Indian nose, his olive dark eyes and swarthy skin were the features of so many Costa Ricans. Even his thin, cruel lips, so like a Spanish conquistador’s, were common enough, too. Had she chanced to meet him elsewhere, she would never have known him for a killer.
“How did you find us?”
“Your sister.”
“Chantal?”
“I met her the night of your auction. We became friends.” He smiled. “More than friends. She is a woman of extraordinary talents.” He spoke in a cold, dispassionate tone. “She knew you would go to your mother’s funeral. She followed you to Costa Rica and called me. Funny, I was in Europe. I never considered this a possible hiding place. I suppose it’s a nice country—if you don’t mind the rain.”
In a panic, Cheyenne tried to crawl away, but Hernando stamped his boot down, nailing her to the damp earth with her skirt. Then he pulled her up by her hair.
“Cutter,” she whispered in a desperate, frozen voice.
“He can’t help you now.”
So, it had all been for nothing.
Their marriage.
Their love.
Their happiness.
Everything.
Thirteen
When the door of the cabana crashed open, Cutter bolted awake instantly. He knew at once that Cheyenne was gone and that he had a dangerous intruder.
Cutter was diving for his pistol in the bedside table, as Hernando burst into the bedroom with Cheyenne, an arm braced across her shoulder, his hand around her throat in a viselike grip, his automatic weapon drawn.
“Don’t even think about it, bastardo.”
The undertone in Hernando’s voice sent a chill through Cutter. He let his hand fall limply away from the drawer. No way could he risk a shot with Hernando using Cheyenne as a shield.
“Buenos días, mi amigo. This time I have your queen. So—it’s checkmate. I win. You lose.”
Cheyenne’s cry was low-throated, fearfully guilty. “Cutter, I’m sorry I went out without—”
“Shut up—” Hernando growled.
She swallowed convulsively as Hernando’s hand tightened on her throat.
Cutter’s head jerked toward her. Her skin was chalk white; her enormous eyes were wide with fright. Seeing her like that filled Cutter with revulsion. Her white dress was torn and muddy. There were bruises on her neck and face.
The bastard had put his hands on her, mauled her, hurt her. Hell. Who knew what else?
Hernando’s eyes burned like coals as he shoved the barrel of his gun hard into her check. “Now, smart guy, sweat! Crawl! Pray!” He waved his gun. “Get down on the floor! Now! On your knees! Then beg me for her life, or I’ll shoot her now!” He moved the gun back to her face. “Then you’ll die, too. And I’ll tell the world that the great el genio is a wimp without huevos.”
Cutter felt utter, blinding rage. The muscles in his face tightened into a savage mask of hate. “Let her go. You can have anything you want. Only let her go.”
“Where’s the boy?”
The two men glared at each other in the jarring stillness of the tiny cabana. The only sounds were the steamy dripping of rainwater from the eaves and the incessant chatter of the parrots from the nearby trees.
“Where is he?” Hernando yelled.
“Let go of my mom, pervert!” Jeremy screamed from a back window.
When Hernando whirled, Cutter dived for his enemy’s knees.
Jeremy’s dark head disappeared from the window.
“Call him back!” Hernando howled as Cutter crushed his right knee and a bone cracked.
“Let her go, or I’ll tear out your larynx!”
Just as Cutter slammed a fist into Hernando’s jaw, the gun exploded.
“Jeremy!” Cutter cried out. “Cheyenne! Run! Meet me at the field of orchids! If one of us doesn’t make it, don’t come back, no matter—”
Hernando fired again. Cutter’s voice died away as blood spurted from his shoulder. He could barely feel the bullet that had ripped through bone and sinew as he sagged weakly to the floor.
A third bullet shattered glass.
Orchids and water spilled everywhere and mingled with Cutter’s blood.
Miraculously the hard hands at Cheyenne’s throat fell away. Hernando was hugging his knee. The next thing she knew Jeremy was dragging her free and pulling her out of the cabana into the jungle to safety. Cutter staggered up and was right behind them as they raced from the cabana through snarled tangles of foliage and dripping rain forest.
They tried to stay together as they ran down th
e familiar path that led to the field of orchids, but Cutter was breathing hard and moved slower. The rain forest was so dense and dark, they were soon separated.
She and Jeremy broke out of the forest and into the sunny field of dazzling pink blossoms at almost the same moment.
But Cutter wasn’t there.
They didn’t dare scream his name.
When he didn’t come, she folded Jeremy, who was as pale as death to her frightened eyes, into her arms. They sank to their knees in the bright, soft-petaled blossoms. Motionless, they clung to each other, hugging each other. She smoothed the black hair from his hot face, waiting and praying silently to herself for another five or ten tense minutes.
Not so long ago all she had wanted was to be free of danger, to have her son. To have her own life.
She had not wanted to marry Cutter.
But everything was different now.
Hernando had kidnapped her son. Traumatized him.
But Cutter had come and gotten Jeremy back. Cutter had helped heal Jeremy and professed his love for her.
Hernando had almost killed her. Now he had Cutter.
She loved Cutter.
He had risked his life to save hers. He was willing to die for her now. He had known he’d been hit, when he’d ordered them not to go back.
But she would have no life without him.
Jeremy would have no father.
Cutter had told her not to come back for him and, in truth, the mere thought of facing Hernando again terrified her. But the thought of what Hernando would do to Cutter if she didn’t go was even more shattering.
“Jeremy, baby, I have to go back and try to help your father,” she whispered raggedly, starting to rise. “You have to stay here.”
“No!” Stubbornly he tugged on her skirt.
“Jeremy, if you go back, too, he’ll kill us all. Your father and I don’t want that.”
“I took karate, didn’t I?”
She smiled faintly, hopelessly. “No. Absolutely no. You have to stay here.”
“But, Mom, you just sat on the bench and watched me.”
“I paid attention,” she said bravely. “Stay here. End of argument.”
Tiny droplets of blood spattered the jungle floor.
Cutter could barely stand up, much less run.
Still, he staggered forward, panting; what little strength he had left was draining out of him.
His torn shirt was blood-soaked. The boiling-hot pain in his right shoulder was spreading down his arms and spine. He couldn’t feel his hands. His legs were paralyzed; his vision was blurred by mists of pain, and his sense of direction obliterated by the tunnel of thick draperies both ahead and behind.
When he fell, he couldn’t get up. A terrible cold was creeping through his body. Still, he smiled as he imagined Cheyenne and Jeremy safe, together, in the field of orchids.
He could die happy, if only they were safe.
Cheyenne was all that mattered. She and Jeremy.
All his life he had wanted love.
For a brief, shining time he had found it.
Cutter held that thought even when he heard Hernando stumbling on his bad knee as he tramped through the thick jungle undergrowth, his clumsy, crashing steps growing ever louder.
Cutter imagined her face, when she was all aglow after they’d made love.
Cheyenne. He wanted to die with her image branded on his brain.
He saw her on the beach with her glorious red hair blowing in the wind when he would have died if she hadn’t saved him. He thought of her eyes, which changed from emerald to hazy green, depending on her mood. He thought of the way they lit up with joy or darkened when he made love to her.
Almost, he could be happy as he lay there and thought of her. Almost.
He shut his eyes and waited for his executioner.
Hernando was at the helm of his Cigarette boat racing out of the cove at incredible speed. There was no anger in him now, only grim pleasure and satisfaction as he roared away from the other fishing boats whose brawny captains and crews waved to him.
Maybe el genio had smashed his knee. Maybe he’d even be crippled for life.
But he, Hernando, had won.
His men had made easy work of Lord’s man in Cannes and forced him to call his boss and lie. Then they’d beaten O’Connor and dumped him into the Mediterranean. Incredibly the tough bastard had swum to shore and lived.
El genio would die for sure. He would motor farther out.
Too bad he’d passed out cold again and, thereby, was out of his misery. The rich wimp had taken a bullet through his shoulder. He’d bled like a stuck bull, all over the cockpit. He was as white as a phantom and bound and gagged and unconscious now. His ankles were chained to a concrete block. As soon as he reached deep blue water, Hernando would throw him overboard.
Hernando was regretting that the woman and the boy had gotten away when he heard a noise from the cabin. As he turned, he gave a startled cry when they sprang at him from the hatch.
The boy and the woman.
His hands felt away from the throttle as they jumped him with stunning force.
The boat raced on at its dizzying speed as he dived for his gun.
He collapsed on his bad knee, and the gun slid away. Díos! Where had they come from?
She struck a glancing blow to the back of his head. The boy’s hand crashed into his neck in a karate chop.
A wave broke across the bow, drenching him. Blinded by salt spray, Hernando lost his grip on the wheel.
The boat spun out of control.
His last thought was, “Good, I will kill them all!”
But she hit him again. A puny blow, but the boat lurched. He fell forward, flailing his arms, unable to get away from her. His forehead crashed into the windshield.
The boat rolled. His good leg buckled, and he went reeling to starboard. Blinded, off balance, he grabbed at everything, anything, wanting to take the boy and the woman with him as he fell.
His hand locked in a vise around a slender ankle.
The woman gave a cry, startled and low-throated, delivered in terror when he captured her.
As Hernando fell overboard, dragging her with him, the world suddenly became silent and slow.
His skull hit the water at high speed.
She struggled, kicking at him, but he held onto her relentlessly.
Then the big boat sped away, leaving them in its roaring wake.
Motion. His lifeless body swirled helplessly, tugged under by a powerful undertow.
There’d been no chance for a poor boy like Hernando to learn to swim in the barrio. As he sank, drifting deeper, his fingers dug into her ankle ever tighter as he fought to breathe.
He gagged and strangled.
So did she.
Salt water burned his sinus passages and filled his lungs.
She lashed out at him, kicking ever more frantically, but he held her slim limb in a merciless death grip till the last of her strength was gone.
He fought the invading water till he could fight no more.
Soon he barely felt the burning pain everywhere in his head. He barely knew that his body was churning and twisting and sinking ever deeper into the blue.
She had quit fighting now, but he held on to her limp foot and dragged her down.
lf she were dead, a part of el genio would die, too.
For himself, he prayed for one thing—to see Isabella’s face one last time.
Instead he saw his mother’s face as she had lain in the dirt after the barrio jackals had beaten her and called them both terrible names. Instead he remembered the vow of vengeance he had taken that day.
Still, he wanted to think of Isabella, not his mother.
His daughter’s face would not come.
His eyelids flickered. His eyes rolled.
Everything grew dark and silent.
Holding on to the lifeless woman, he drifted deeper until he was lost forever in the cold, blue darkness.
&nb
sp; Cutter was pale, shivering, unconscious.
They were calling for a doctor.
“Please, dear God, please don’t let him die,” came the faraway, slurred sounds of a woman’s husky prayer.
Her voice, weak and fragile.
Or was it?
Hot, searing pain spread through Cutter’s right shoulder.
Freezing. Hungry. Cold.
Freezing. Hungry. Cold
The sun was burning through the clouds. He could feel its warmth upon his skin even as he shuddered.
Dimly Cutter felt the peaceful lapping of the waves beneath his dangling feet as two men carried him from the boat and lowered him onto the sand. There were voices around him, in the distance, nearer, too.
He opened his eyes.
Shapes came slowly into focus. Uniforms. Both white and blue.
Then she was there, kneeling closer because he stirred, uncaring that her sodden white dress dragged in the sand.
When she saw that he was conscious again, her face grew radiant. Weak as he was, her beautiful smile and sparkling eyes filled him with the savage urge to live.
“I waited and waited,” she breathed, shivering. “I was so afraid, so worried, you wouldn’t ever wake up.”
“Cheyenne, my love,” he whispered soundlessly, wondering why she looked so wet and bedraggled.
She wore white. Only today her dress was plastered to her body. Her wet red hair blew in the wind as it had that day so long ago on the island when he’d fallen in love with her. Still, to him she looked like an angel.
He moved his lips, but when he tried to speak his throat burned.
“You came back,” he whispered at last, though his voice was dry.
“For you,” she said gently. “I would have had no life—without you. You told me once that you played by your own rules. Not some gangster’s. Not mine. I guess I decided maybe I’d better show you I could do the same.”
“I’m supposed to save you.”
“Maybe it was my turn.”
“My turn, too, Dad!” Jeremy said. “I chopped him in the neck like that Lupe guy taught me to. I was brave this time, huh?”
“Very brave.”
“I thought maybe Hernando would use the Cigarette boat,” she said. “We got to it first, broke the lock on the hatch and hid inside.”