by Jo Leigh
Things would get trickier now, though. Assuming they were heading for the Cayman’s, they’d have to get fuel. She wasn’t sure how often they’d have to stop, but when they did, there would be a chance.
She looked at his face, at his very dark, long eyelashes. At his lips, perfect for a man. His nose was pretty damn nice, too. Oh, who was she kidding? He was a babe, and even her, with her limited knowledge about men, knew he’d been around the block many, many times. Probably with fabulous women, because, well, come on.
Had he really told her the truth last night?
She shivered remembering his whispered words just before he’d made love to her. God, that was the sexiest thing ever. She sighed, knowing she was behaving like an adolescent.
And why not? She’d stunted her growth, her heart had atrophied—and for what? All that planning, all that fear hadn’t helped one damn bit. She’d still been kidnapped. So she could have been having a fabulous life all this time instead of whining about her regrets.
At least she wouldn’t regret last night. If she had to go, this was the way to do it. Well, not this. This sucked. She needed Michael to be okay. She could face whatever came next if he was beside her. Alone? She’d rather die than be that scared again.
A moan made her freeze, hold her breath. She watched him, afraid to blink, as he moaned again, moved his head. He winced, and that had to be a good sign, right?
“Michael?”
He opened his eyes just a little, then closed them again. “What happened?” His voice sounded thick, dry.
“They hit you.”
“With what? A refrigerator?”
“I don’t know. They brought you in last night. Well, early this morning, although I’m not sure what time. They dumped you on the bed and told me to tell you that if you tried that again, they wouldn’t be so nice.”
He tried to lift his head but just winced again. “Yeah, they were real swell.”
“It was brave of you to try,” she said. “Hold on. I’ll cool down the washcloth.” She took the small blue towel from behind his head, making him hiss, then hurried to the bathroom. The water was really cold, which was good. She wished she had ice, though.
When she got back to the bed she saw he hadn’t moved at all. She tried to be gentle as she applied the cold compress, but she hurt him anyway.
“Is it me or are we moving?”
“We set off sometime around sunrise. I think.”
“Right.” He put his hand on the back of his head, trying to feel the extent of the damage, but in the end he just held the cloth and slowly sat up. “Jesus.”
She reached over beside the bed and brought back a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin. “I got this ready. I figured—”
He moaned again and took the aspirin bottle from her hand. He brought the cap up to his mouth and snapped the bottle open with his teeth. Then he dumped a bunch of the small white pills in his mouth. At least six.
“Won’t that—”
He dropped the open bottle, took the glass and drained it in a few hard gulps.
“That’s a lot of aspirin,” she said.
“It’s a very large headache.”
“You need to eat something, then. Your stomach lining will get very irritated.”
He looked at her through shuttered eyes. “I appreciate the concern, but my stomach lining is the least of our worries.”
“Fine.”
He patted her hand. “Don’t be hurt. It’s good of you to care. But I’ve taken this many before and I’ve been okay.”
“Still…”
“You’re right. I hope they feed us soon. I promise to eat every bite.”
She sat back, adjusting some of the pillows so she could look at him comfortably. “How did you get into the other room? I didn’t even see you go.”
“You were sleeping.”
“I gathered.”
“I’m pretty good with locks.”
“I gathered that, too. But we have no idea how many people there are on board. It would have been pure luck if you’d been successful.”
He winced again, and she was pretty sure it wasn’t about the pain in his head.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have let things get this far.”
“You’ve done everything you could.”
“Not everything.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. I’ll figure this out. I won’t let them hurt you.”
She reached over and touched his hand. “I know.”
He looked away, and she wished she’d never brought up the subject. “Let me get you some more water.”
“It’s okay. I’ll go.”
“No, you’re—”
“I want to wash up,” he said. “And you should go through those clothes again. I’m pretty sure I saw at least one T-shirt that would fit you.”
“I don’t know….”
“Try. A shower will make you feel better.”
She smiled at him, amazed that even now he was thinking of her. That he could look so good even when he was in so much pain.
Once he’d closed the bathroom door, she went to the dresser and found a couple of men’s T-shirts that she thought they could each wear. There was also a bikini that would substitute for underwear. She’d wash her own in the shower, then…
Would she be alive tomorrow to put on her own underpants? Did she want to die wearing someone else’s skimpy bikini?
Tears welled at the thought of never seeing her father again. He’d overprotected her, but he’d done it out of love. For all his preoccupation with business, he’d always kept her close. Loved her the best way he knew how.
And, oh, God, never to see Sara again? That hurt as deeply as the thoughts of her father. Sara might not be a blood relative, but in every way that mattered she was a sister. A damn good one, too. They hardly ever fought, but she never hesitated to tell Tate the unvarnished truth.
The ache to see her friend again took her breath away, and she sat down on the edge of the bed. It was probably a good thing Dr. Bay wasn’t around. What an idiot. Fake kidnappings. Please. The woman needed major therapy herself.
Tate sniffed, her anger at her therapist distracting her from the pain of her losses. Once again she thanked God for Michael. She’d have lost it without him. She just wished she could do something to make him feel better.
AT LEAST, MICHAEL thought, there was no way he could feel worse. What the hell had happened to him? He was supposed to be a goddamn warrior, a fighter, a champion.
As the water poured down over him in the small shower, he couldn’t think of one thing that had gone right in the last two days. Even the good parts made him feel like shit. Tate was going to find out about Charlie. She was. And he had to be the one to tell her. Only…how? Especially now, when he didn’t have a plan other than to wait and strike at the next opportunity.
He’d be lucky if she didn’t strike him first.
He didn’t even know who’d hit him. Or with what. Or how many people were currently on board. Or what direction they were going.
Maybe it was just his turn. Charlie’d been the bad-luck magnet all these years. Maybe now it would come up roses for his brother while Michael went straight down the tubes.
He grabbed the soap and scrubbed up, shaking off his self-pity and thinking about how he was going to tell her. It seemed so naive, from this vantage point, to think his problems could have been solved by sexing her to sleep. Talk about stupid. Talk about thinking with his dick.
He moaned as he fell forward, then groaned when he actually hit his sore head against the fiberglass wall. He should go into that saloon and fight until he couldn’t fight anymore. With luck, he’d wipe them all out before he flung himself overboard to be eaten by sharks. Then Tate could radio for help. The end.
She’d still find out Charlie was his brother, but he’d have died bravely trying to save her, so that would prove that he hadn’t been…
“Shit.” He sighed de
eply, closed his eyes and turned the shower to dead cold.
ED MARTINI FINISHED his eggs Benedict while he watched the final race at Santa Anita. He wasn’t even thinking about the money he’d just made from the race or the five million stashed in his safe back at the house. He was thinking about fifty million tax-free dollars. The dough wouldn’t make a big difference in his life. Hell, he did everything he wanted now. But he’d know, goddammit, he’d know each and every day that he had fifty million fucking dollars that Sheila wouldn’t be able to touch. Not even with those godawful two-inch fingernails of hers. What the woman wanted with little palm trees painted in green on her fingers was beyond him. They looked like crap, but he supposed they went along with her bleached hair and her wide-load ass.
The trick would be to let her think he had the money. She couldn’t be sure, because if she was sure, she’d sic the IRS on him. But she had to think he had it and he wasn’t giving it to her. That would make her insane. More than any new girlfriend, even one who was twenty-five. More than any new car. It would kill Sheila that he had that much cash that she couldn’t spend. The bitch.
“Hey, boss?”
“Yeah, Jazz?”
“I never been to the Cayman Islands. They nice?”
“Yeah.”
“Nice women?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“How long is it gonna take us to get there?”
“This boat? If we hit good weather? Maybe eight days.”
“Fuck. What are we gonna do for eight days?”
Ed leaned back in his chair. He knew just what he was gonna do: conduct his business, like usual. Just ’cause he wasn’t in town didn’t mean he wasn’t raking it in. “Jazz, you just concentrate on keeping your eye on our happy couple. You caught him last night, but he still managed to get out of that locked room.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“Be sure it doesn’t.”
Jazz, who had eaten his bacon and eggs in about ten seconds, then cleaned his gun, lowered his voice. “What about him?” he said, nodding toward Charlie.
“Charlie,” Ed said.
The kid stopped eating, nearly choking on his bacon. “Yeah, boss?”
“You finish your breakfast, then take food in to your brother and his girlfriend. You make sure he understands that if he tries anything like he did last night, it won’t be good for your health.”
Charlie swallowed again. “Okay, sure. He won’t do it again. I swear to God. He won’t. He promised my old—”
“I don’t care. Just make sure he understands.”
Charlie nodded unhappily as he pushed his plate away.
THE SHOWER WAS SO small she kept bumping her elbows. Hers at home was quite large, with three different showerheads. It doubled as a steam room, and she could also simulate the patter of a rain-forest squall if she so desired. Here, the water was marginally warm, the soap was blue and smelled like antiseptic. And she didn’t trust for a moment that one of those men from the saloon wouldn’t burst through the door.
Yes, she still had faith that Michael would stop anything bad from happening, but she’d discovered early on that logic had little to do with irrational fears. Hence the word irrational.
She kept washing, wondering what her hair was going to look like after using that dime-store mousse she’d found. What her skin would feel like after a few days away from her Intensité Volumizing Serum. Oh, well. She’d make do. What choice did she have?
Without even reading the label, she washed her hair, then put conditioner on, and as she rinsed she wished she’d brought the darn razor in with her. Although she wouldn’t have been able to shave her legs, not in this small space. So she’d do it after. She could still rinse off in the shower.
She thought about Michael for the hundredth time since she’d climbed in the shower. He’d smelled awfully good after his. But then, he was a man. Oh, was he ever.
She laughed at herself, wondering if she was going to be this moony teen the whole way to the Caymans. It wouldn’t matter, she supposed. No one would know. And why shouldn’t she do exactly as she pleased?
Most people thought she did, anyway. She knew they didn’t dare compare her to Paris Hilton, but there were other trust-fund babies that were around her age. She’d heard them talk about how ridiculous she looked in her old-fashioned limo, how she dressed like Queen Elizabeth. She wasn’t completely protected from the gossip and the backbiting.
How many nights had she wept herself to sleep watching those awful newsmagazine shows? She hadn’t really wanted to shock the world. Well, mostly. But she had wanted to make some kind of splash, even a little one.
The charities didn’t count. Anyone could do her job. Anyone with the right connections. It was easy to give money away when you had her father’s strict guidelines to follow.
But she’d never been to a big premiere or an opening night on Broadway. She’d never been to any of the clubs or found herself searching for a predawn breakfast after carousing all night.
She didn’t just dress like Queen Elizabeth, she partied like her, too.
Tate turned abruptly, tired of her pity party. She turned off the water and stepped out onto the blue fluffy towel. As she dried off she promised herself that she wouldn’t go to that place again. If she had to dwell on the past, it would be to remember all those self-defense classes, her weapons training.
There was no reason she shouldn’t stand shoulder to shoulder with Michael. Fight no matter what.
She grabbed the tiny bikini and put the sucker on. It was tight. And, jeez, her boobs looked huge. But that was okay. So was the T-shirt. Also tight but not too horrible.
She’d also dug out a pair of shorts—men’s, but they were a size medium, and if she tied the little waistband inside, they wouldn’t fall down.
Dammit. She’d forgotten to shave. She rubbed her leg, and it wasn’t so bad. Tomorrow, though, for sure. For now, she put on the mousse and combed her hair. She debated a moment about using the hair dryer, but it would probably be better if she let it dry naturally.
Then she looked at the makeup that had been left in the bathroom. It was no use. She couldn’t use some other woman’s makeup. Not for anything. It was as bad as sharing a toothbrush.
So she washed her panties and her bra, and as she went to hang them in the shower she heard shouting just outside the bathroom door.
Immediately her heart started pounding as though she was seconds from an attack. When she turned to the door, the tunnel vision started, taking her straight down the road to immobility and failure.
She closed her eyes. Took several deep breaths. She pictured her safe place, but the vision of her waterfall didn’t help. The voices—Michael’s and another man’s—were too loud.
Then she changed her visualization. It wasn’t her old green meadow. It was Michael. His face. His eyes. The way he looked at her, then smiled.
She smelled his skin and remembered his taste. Salty, sexy. She brought up the memory of his fingers on her face, and then his fingers weren’t near her face. He was leaning over her, and his intentions were incredibly clear.
He wanted her. He wanted her.
The vision changed once more, and she was carrying her Sig Sauer. And there was Michael. Tall, handsome as sin. And he had his gun, too. He had her back. And she had his. No one was getting past the two of them.
She went to the bathroom door, and as she swung it open she heard the other one yelling.
“You swore to him, Mikey! You swore to our father that you’d take care of me. You think breaking in to hurt Mr. Martini is keeping me safe? You got to cool it, Mikey, or he’s gonna kill all of us, okay?”
Tate’s vision narrowed once more. All she could see was the look on Michael’s face. Shock, anger. Guilt.
He was in on this. He was in on this. She’d slept with him, and he was in on it.
11
MICHAEL SHOT A LOOK at Charlie that had him scrambling out the door, but his main concern was Tate. She l
ooked unsteady, panicked. Everything he’d hoped to avoid.
He went to the bathroom door and put his arm gently around her waist. It was a testament to how bad off she was that she didn’t slap him in the face. “Come on. Let’s get you to the bed.”
She struggled, but so faintly he figured he’d better get her to lie down before she fell down. Goddamn Charlie. It wasn’t enough to fuck up his own life, he had to fuck up Tate’s. Good job, asshole.
As he took her to the bed, he reached for her wrist and got a feel for her pulse. Dammit, it was off the charts, a full-blown panic attack, and he wasn’t at all sure he could help her.
He turned her around and pressed gently on her shoulders. She sat, her hands limp by her sides, her face pale and lifeless. The only thing animated about her was her breathing. She took great gulps, as if the oxygen was far too weak to sustain her.
He wished he could enjoy her shorts, her tight little T-shirt, but he gave them only a glance as he tried to gauge his next move. He needed her to understand what was going on. He expected no forgiveness at all, but he did think they could work together until this horror show was over. If he could just get her to hear him—to believe him.
He sat down next to her, his shoulder touching hers. She didn’t move, but she didn’t lean into him either. “Tate, I need you to listen to me. First, this is all my fault. However, it wasn’t intentional. My brother has been a pain in my ass for a long, long time. I should have cut it off between us years ago, but…
“Anyway, he came to my place, and when I had to leave the room, he broke into my safe. He saw the information I had on Brody. I wouldn’t give him the money to pay off his bookie, so he stole that information and used it as a way of getting out of debt. That’s why you’re here—because I let Charlie into my apartment. I didn’t realize he’d go this far—and I should have.”
As he paused he saw her eyes jig over to look at him, but they went back to staring straight ahead a second later. “I know it’s hard to believe anyone could be stupid enough to let Charlie in the same borough, let alone his apartment. He’s been nothing but trouble from the time he was a kid. He stole, he took drugs, he had no sense about the world. It was always someone else’s fault with Charlie, mostly mine.