A Matter of Circumstance

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A Matter of Circumstance Page 4

by Heather Graham


  She would get to the bottom of this! She would find out exactly what they wanted—and see that they never got it! There would be a chance for escape somewhere along the line. There would have to be!

  She closed her eyes and ducked her head beneath the trickling water to rinse her hair, shaking and shivering still, but now just a bit calmer, a bit more in control. It was amazing what a cold shower could do.

  But just then—just when she had convinced herself that she could survive!—she heard her name spoken again, and spoken much too close!

  “Mrs. Blayne…”

  She let out a shriek of horror, aware that the husky, low-timbred, unaccented tone belonged to green-eyed Miguel.

  “Damn you!” he swore next, and she shrieked again, because his arms were suddenly around her, wrapping her in the pink plastic curtain. She dragged in a breath to scream again, but that massive tanned hand of his was suddenly over her mouth, and to her absolute horror he was standing behind her, touching her, in the tiny confines of the shower stall.

  He pulled her hard against him. All the naked length of her back was against his chest and hips; he wore only a pair of cutoffs, and she could feel with painful clarity all the rippling muscle that composed his shoulders and arms, all the short dark hair that ran riot over his chest. She squirmed, near hysteria, but she managed only to wedge her bare buttocks more intimately against him.

  “Stop it, please, will you?” he begged her in a whisper, dipping his mouth near her ear. “I’ll explain if you’ll just—”

  His hold had loosened. With a burst of strength she wriggled away from him and opened her mouth to inhale again for a frenzied scream, too frightened to realize that her scream could do nothing but bring her other captors running.

  “Damn it, you’re worse than a greased pig!” he rasped out, and then his hands were on her again, but far worse. Because this time, in his attempt to restrain her, his fingers closed over her breast before finding a hold against her ribs again, and he’d already regained a smothering hold over her mouth.

  Still swearing beneath his breath, he manipulated her around to face him, and that, too, was far worse, because then her breasts were pressed against his chest and her hips were horribly level with his, and she had never been forced to realize so staggeringly that a man was a man, and this one was made of iron. She almost passed out, but the water, cold and beating against her back, revived her, and she found herself tilting her head to stare into those incredibly green eyes. She realized a little belatedly that he was angry and aggravated, but intense and serious and not—apparently—about to molest her. Not any more than he already had, that was!

  “Listen! I’m not going to hurt you! I had to come in here because I had to talk to you without the others hearing. Mrs. Blayne, please, promise me that you won’t scream again and I’ll move my hand.”

  Promise that she wouldn’t scream….

  She wasn’t sure that she could. The screams just kept building inside of her. She was standing naked in a two-by-two cubicle, crushed against a near-naked stranger with the muscled build of a prizefighter. Screaming was instinctive!

  “Please!” he urged her again.

  She didn’t know why she nodded at last. Perhaps because she didn’t have any choice. And perhaps because she wanted to believe him, because she wanted to trust someone. Perhaps it was something in his eyes that promised pride and integrity and sincerity. Perhaps it was because she would pass out and pitch helplessly against him, if she didn’t breathe soon….

  Slowly he eased his hand from her mouth. His eyes slipped from hers for just a moment, traveling downward, then upward once again, locking with hers.

  “Mrs. Blayne,” he whispered, “I’m a cop. If you want to come out of this, play along with me. I’m all that can stand between you and—”

  “A cop!” she gasped incredulously. A cop? The hell he was! Where was his badge? Where was his gun? Cops didn’t help kidnappers. They didn’t assault the victims!

  “Mrs. Blayne, I’m with—”

  “If you’re a cop,” she demanded, shaking, realizing all over again that she was naked with him in a tiny space, “where’s your badge?”

  “I dumped it. I lost my gun coming after—”

  “Get out of here!” she snapped suddenly, aware that hysteria was rising in her again. “Cops don’t crawl into the shower with kidnap victims! They don’t—”

  She hadn’t realized how her voice was rising until his hand fell over her face again, shutting her up.

  “Shh! Are you trying to get us both killed? If they even get a whiff of who I am, I’ll become shark bait, lady. And I’ll be damned if I think you’re worth it!”

  Her eyes widened. Could it possibly be true? His Spanish had been perfect; his English, when he spoke to her alone, had no accent whatsoever. Yet when he spoke to Julio, he sounded as if he was barely comfortable with the language. Like a chameleon, he could change in the wink of an eye….

  “Eh? Miguel?”

  They both froze as someone rapped on the door again and called out to Miguel. A barrage of Spanish followed. Miguel held still for a moment, then called something back, something that she didn’t understand a single word of.

  Footsteps moved away from the door. Mandy was crushed so tightly to his chest that she felt the expulsion of his breath and the rapid beating of his heart.

  He stared down at her then with absolute dislike and fury. Still holding her to him, he reached around and turned off the water; it seemed that his striking eyes became razors that sliced right through her.

  “Listen to me, lady. Listen good. I’m a cop—whether you believe it or not. Go along with me. I’m only going to warn you once, because, honey, I can bail out of this thing real easy by myself. I spent all night talking my heart out to convince them that I’m a refugee, too, that I was your gardener, that you’re married to a man twice your age, and therefore became involved with me hot and heavy. They didn’t take you to kill you or rape you. Julio Garcia is a desperate man, but fairly ethical, for a kidnapper. I don’t trust his companions all that far, however. Julio decided to keep me around because he thinks I can keep you under control. Blow that, and we could both be dead. Pull one more stunt against me and I swear I’ll jump overboard and swim out of this thing. I don’t mind sticking around to fulfill my job, but I’ll be damned if I’ll keep worrying about getting killed because of you instead of for you!”

  She stared at him, shaken by his anger, shaken by the intensity of his words. Was he really a cop? Or was he one of them, just a little more educated, a far better actor? What a way to control a captive, to convince her that a cop was with her and on her side!

  He shook her suddenly. “Do you understand?”

  She lowered her eyes, then closed them quickly. All she saw when she looked down was his muscled and hairy male chest, slick and hard against her breasts. And of all things, she felt her nipples harden against him.

  “Yes!” She gasped, trying to escape him, but he held her against him, and she shook in sudden horror and confusion. “Yes! No! I don’t understand any of this. I—”

  “Just go along with me now! Julio just said to get the hell out, lunch is ready. I don’t have time to try to convince you any further.”

  He released her completely and stepped out of the shower stall, finding a towel to dry his slick shoulders and chest. He didn’t look back at Mandy but stuffed the towel toward her, then found the gray terry robe and shoved that to her over his shoulder.

  Quivering and confused, Mandy hurriedly accepted the towel, though she didn’t bother to dry herself thoroughly, and fumbled into the robe. It was worn and fell to her feet, but it didn’t make her feel especially secure. She wrapped it around herself as tightly as she could, then knotted the belt.

  His back was still to her, but just inches away. Beneath his tan she noted a smattering of freckles across his shoulder and thought them curious, considering his coloring.

  Oh, God! Who the hell was he reall
y?

  “Are you decent?” he asked her.

  She started to laugh, but caught herself quickly, afraid that if she got started, she would never quit. “You didn’t worry whether I was ‘decent’ or not when you charged into the shower!” she accused him.

  “Shh! Damn you!” he said in a vehement whisper, whirling around, hands on hips, to face her.

  Her lip started to tremble, but she didn’t intend to let it. She tossed back her head and stared at him dubiously. “Do cops always run around in the pursuit of duty with no weapons, no ID and no shoes?”

  He groaned impatiently. “I told you—”

  “Oh, I know what you told me,” she said. “I’m just not sure I believe a word of it.”

  He closed his eyes and sighed, then stared at her in exasperation. “Gamble, then. You’re with me, or you’re not. But if you’re against me, remember, I’m gone.”

  “Gone? From where?” she demanded.

  “From wherever we are. Near Cat Cay, I think. I’m a hell of a good swimmer. A dive overboard, that’s all it would take. They don’t watch me like they’re going to watch you.”

  “And why the hell should they trust you?”

  “Because I know how to play this game, lady,” he said grimly.

  “Either that, or you’re one of them.”

  He smiled with a certain malicious humor and advanced those few inches to her, rounding his fingers over her shoulders so that she almost screamed again from the pure electricity of that touch.

  Never had she seen anything as intense, as compelling, as frightening—as dangerous!—as the kelly green blaze of his eyes. She couldn’t speak; she couldn’t have screamed even if it had been her most ardent desire. She could only stare at him in silence.

  “Lady, place your bet quickly. We’ve got to go now, unless you want Julio in this head along with the two of us! If I were you, though, I’d change my tune—quickly. I’d admit to this ignoble affair and cling to me as if we’d been passionately involved for ages! Hey—” he cocked his head, daring her “—you might not like your other options. Julio is fairly ethical, but those other two have been talking about your senos all day.”

  “My—my what?” Mandy swallowed.

  “Breasts, Mrs. Blayne. They’re quite entranced with…them.”

  She started to jerk away, and he laughed without a trace of amusement. “Like I said, there’s only so far I’ll go for you if you won’t cooperate. So have it your way. I’m a fugitive like the others, probably a murdering rapist. Take me—or leave me.”

  She swallowed again, lowering her eyes, desperately trying to decide whether to trust him or not. She didn’t…. But what were her options?

  He’d kissed her, struck her, abused her! But not done half of what he might have, she reminded herself.

  He was already reaching for the door. She clutched his arm, and he turned back to her, arching a dark brow.

  “If you’re really a cop, why can’t you overpower them? Why can’t you arrest them?”

  “Oh, God help me!” he breathed, looking heavenward. “Mrs. Blayne, should I really introduce myself as a police officer? And arrest them? Now that’s a laugh. I’ll say, ‘Hey, let’s go to jail.’ I haven’t got a weapon on me, but they’ll just say, ‘Sure, let’s go, you want to put us in jail, fine.’”

  Mandy flushed. “But you should be trying….”

  “I am trying!” He swore heatedly. “I’m trying to keep you alive—and I’m trying to stay on top of you myself to keep these guys from deciding that, hey, they have you, so what the hell…if you catch my meaning, Mrs. Blayne. Although God knows you seem to be strange enough! Maybe you’d enjoy their attentions. Did you marry Peter Blayne for his money? Yeah, I could be way off. Maybe you’d enjoy the excitement.”

  “What?” Stunned, outraged, she shrieked the word.

  She should have learned not to shriek by now. He slapped a hand over her mouth before she could blink and drew her against his hard length in a frightening manner, staring down at her with danger sparking from his eyes.

  “Shut up!”

  Shut up? She had no choice. So she blinked, realizing that this man—this cop?—thought she was the senator’s wife, just as the others had assumed. He actually assumed that she’d married an older man for money. Oh, how dare he!

  His hand moved from her mouth. She smiled very sweetly, narrowing her eyes. “No, Miguel. I married Peter Blayne because he’s fabulous in bed, and I don’t need any excitement! So lead on. Just keep your hands off me and I’ll be as quiet as a mouse.”

  He grinned crookedly, and she was startled at the effect of his expression on her. He was a handsome man, really handsome. Dark, tall, broad, muscled, sexy and very physical. And fascinating, with those strange bright eyes. And when he looked at her in that dry, insinuating fashion she felt an involuntary sizzle sweep through her. One she instantly denied, vehemently denied. She was still in love with a memory, still convinced that only a deep and rich emotion could ever create such steaming awareness….

  She closed her eyes, dizzy. What if he wasn’t a cop? And what if he was?

  It was insane. Was she cracking already? So weak that she was willing to cling to anyone—especially anyone male and muscled—because she was scared? She wasn’t. She wasn’t!

  His scent was all around her, the roughness of his touch, that feel of steel in his arms. She wanted to trust him.

  “Mrs. Blayne,” he said softly, with a touch of amusement, “I won’t touch you, but I suggest that you do touch me now and then. You were having a passionate affair with me, remember?”

  “Why…why,” she whispered, head lowered, “would they believe that? Why would they believe that you would risk your life to be with me?”

  He chuckled dryly. “Because Latins are a passionate people, Mrs. Blayne. They usually love deeply, hate deeply—and possess their women as loyally and heatedly as they do their pride.”

  She stared at him, searching his features, seeking an answer, and she prayed that she wasn’t a victim more of his arresting features and eyes than she was of the circumstances.

  “Are you Latin?” she asked him.

  “Half,” he answered curtly.

  “Miguel!”

  The call came from very near the door. Had they been overheard? Mandy started to shiver all over again. If he was here to help her and she caused him to be murdered, she would never forgive herself in a thousand years—even if he was an SOB.

  Damn him! She wouldn’t tell him that she wasn’t Peter’s wife, either!

  “Let’s go!” he hissed.

  She nodded. He took her hand, and she didn’t resist him, but just before he opened the door he twisted his handsome head ruefully toward her and mouthed out a quick query.

  “I almost forgot. What’s your name?”

  “Blayne! You know—”

  “Your first name, stupid!”

  “Amanda!”

  “Mandy?”

  “Only to friends,” she said pointedly.

  He smiled. “And lovers, Mrs. Blayne? Mandy, let’s go!”

  CHAPTER 4

  Lunch consisted of a salad and arroz con pollo, chicken and rice, served belligerently to Mandy and charmingly to Miguel by Maria and another woman, up on deck.

  Mandy had tried her hardest to assimilate the layout of the craft during her quick walk through the hall to the steps leading topside. There hadn’t been much to assimilate. The vessel was old, at least forty years, worn, but well-kept. There were another two sets of sleeping quarters past the head, then a shabby salon and a galley, and to the extreme aft, the captain’s cabin.

  The older woman had stared at Mandy with extreme disapproval as they moved through the galley. Mandy had ignored her, but she hadn’t been able to ignore the smell of the food; the aroma was captivating, and she was forced to realize that she was starving.

  The deck of the motorized two-masted sailboat was lined with old wooden seats, and that was where Miguel led her. Mandy ke
pt her mouth shut for several minutes while she perused her surroundings and her curious party of abductors.

  There was Julio, called Garcia by the others; the young woman, Maria; the older woman; and two more men, one a heavyset fellow with a swirling mustache, the other gaunt and hungry-looking. Mean, Mandy thought, and far different from Julio Garcia, who, strangely, had the look of a poet.

  They all laughed and chatted in rapid Spanish, drinking Michelob out of bottles and eating off paper plates as if they were simply out for a picnic at sea.

  Including Miguel. He laughed and chatted along with the others, tensing only slightly beside her when some apparently ribald comment was made about her by either the man with the mustache—Juan, she thought his name was—or Roberto, the gaunt man with the lascivious eyes.

  If Miguel was on her side, he certainly knew how to enjoy himself in the interim. He ate with a hearty appetite, complimenting the two women on their cooking. So far Mandy hadn’t been able to pick up more than a word or two of the conversation, but mannerisms were universal, and it was easy to tell that Miguel was managing to fit right in. There was only one difference between him and the other men: they were carrying large guns in shoulder holsters.

  Miguel had none. He was still barefoot, bare chested, clad in his wet cutoffs, assuring her that he could not be hiding a weapon anywhere on his person.

  She turned her gaze to the ocean surrounding them, wondering how far they had come, and in what direction. Miguel had told her that he thought they were near Cat Cay, which meant the Bahamas. She saw nothing around them right now but the sea and sky, and her heart sank in desolation. She might never be found, never be rescued! There might well be hundreds of uninhabited islands in this stretch of the ocean. She’d been taken away in a little speedboat, and now she was on an old sailboat. The police—if they could even look for her now that they were out of American waters!—wouldn’t even know what they were looking for.

  The police!

  She twisted her head slightly and stared at Miguel, seated so casually beside her, idly holding his beer and laughing at one of Roberto’s jokes. Was he really a cop? It was hard to believe at the moment! He was taller, stronger, tougher than the other men, muscled but trim, lean and mean-looking. If he was a cop, why the hell hadn’t he done something?

 

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