“Yes, damn it,” Boone’s voice replied. “The Secret Service bitch and the bounty hunter went down a few days east of here. It seems they survived the crash.”
Isabella was coming! Excitement jolted through Hope and she gripped her daughters tighter until Becky squirmed.
Boone continued, “But don’t worry. Our employers are taking care of it. We won’t have to deal with anyone except Cooper. He’s due here Monday.” He chuc kled menacingly. “And we all know what to do with him, don’t we?”
When the others laughed agreement, fear lanced through Hope. What were they planning for her husband?
Oh, God. She had to escape, had to get away and intercept Louis before he played into Boone’s hands.
Hope turned her attention to the screws holding the single window shut.
If there was a way out, she was going to find it and use it to save her husband.
To save her family.
Chapter Eleven
Isabella woke with a jolt, startled by the quick pain in her arm, the solid warmth beneath her cheek and the gentle tangle of fingers in her hair. She sat up too fast and bashed into a low thatch of branches.
The hand that had been stroking her moments earlier—or had that been a dream?—grabbed her and yanked her back down.
“Quiet!” Jacob warned. “And lie still.”
She froze, the situation coming back to her in a blink as she remembered the plane crash and the dark hunter. The explosive kiss she and Jacob had shared near the crash site and the way he had refused to talk about it, as though the encounter had meant nothing to him.
Then she realized something else. He had let her sleep through the night. She tilted her head and glared toward his silhouette, which was outlined by the strange purple of predawn. “You were supposed to wake me for a watch.”
“I wasn’t tired,” he said, stifling a yawn.
She should have been annoyed that he’d made the de cision for her, but damn it, he was right. She’d been exhausted and needed the down time for some healing. So she nodded, figuring he’d catch the motion, or at least the intent. “Thanks.”
He touched her cheek. “You’re welcome.”
The fleeting brush reminded her that she’d slept on his thigh, curled up near his side, with his arm draped across her, his hand in her hair. Reminded her that she’d slept well, when on any normal night she might have been up pacing.
Reminded her that Jacob Powell was a potent temptation.
She pulled away from him and scooted to the far side of the little hollow, which wasn’t nearly far enough. “Have you seen anything out there?”
“Not yet. Now that you’re awake, I’m going to go have a look-see.” Jacob uncoiled his big body and wormed his way to freedom. Once his feet disappeared from their hiding space, he ducked his head back in, eyes deadly serious. “Stay put, okay? I left you the gun, and there’s water in the canteen and food bars in the bag. Go easy, though. We’re a few days from the road by my calculations.”
Then he was gone with only the faint crunch of footsteps to mark his passing.
Leaving her in the hollow.
Alone.
Without warning, a memory slammed into Isabella. She’d been eight years old, maybe nine, and her father had been home on a brief break between sales trips. She’d been playing outside by herself when he’d appeared, carrying his all-too-familiar suitcase.
He’d leaned down, kissed the top of her head and walked to his car without a backward glance.
He hadn’t come back.
Fear ripped through Isabella without warning. Icy panic drenched her arms and legs, leaving her heart to beat crazily inside her suddenly hollow chest. She clenched her teeth around a scream, or maybe a whimper, and willed the emotions away. She clenched her fists and dug her fingernails into her palms as the madness howled through her.
This. It was this she feared more than anything. The mood swings. The near-paralyzing emotion that overtook rational thought, rational response. The doctor said it wasn’t clinical, that she had normal responses, normal emotions.
But sometimes she didn’t believe it.
Mortified but unable to stop herself, she curled her knees into her chest and wrapped her arms around her shins, as she’d seen her mother do so often. Shutting the world out. Shutting her only child out.
Except that there was no child here, no husband gone on yet another “sales” trip, no suburban house that looked picture perfect on the outside but wasn’t.
Here, there was only a carpeting of cold dead leaves.
Here, there was only Isabella.
She sank her teeth into her lower lip and cursed Jacob in her head. Before he’d come back into her life, she’d kept herself level, in control. Her life had been ordered, organized. Effective.
Then she’d gone to him for help and sent herself spinning right back into that crazy place, where she wanted to laugh out loud one moment and scream with frustration the next.
Madness.
Brush crashed overhead. Isabella jerked back and muffled a cry, but it was Jacob’s feet that pushed into the shelter, Jacob’s body that followed.
And Jacob’s eyes that lit on her face and immediately darkened with concern. “What’s wrong?”
She dug her fingernails into her palms. “Nothing. What did you see outside?”
“Nothing,” he parroted, then opened his arms. “Come here.”
She wanted to deny herself the comfort, wanted to deny him the opportunity to give it. Wanted to prove once and for all that she didn’t need him, never had. Instead she launched herself at him. Tears burned against her lids, in her heart, and she felt the first of them leak free when his arms came up to close around her solidly, comfortingly, as though he would protect her from everything.
As though he knew exactly what she needed at that moment and would do anything in his power to give it to her.
Isabella knew it was an illusion, that he was no doubt irritated that she’d broken when she so needed to be strong, when they needed to get the hell out of here, stay ahead of their pursuer and get to hangman’s cabin before the Monday morning rendezvous. But she let herself cling to the illusion a moment more.
Let herself cling to Jacob.
Their bodies touched intimately at chest and thigh, creating a warm cocoon that excluded the dawn chill. Her arms wrapped around his waist, their legs intertwined, and Isabella wasn’t quite sure anymore where she left off and Jacob began.
Dangerous thoughts.
She stiffened and tried to pull away, but he tightened his arms and murmured into her hair, “No, stay.”
His voice made the moment more real. Too real. Isabella froze, suddenly aware of her breasts pressed up against the hard wall of his chest, her arms clutching his torso.
Clinging.
But instead of pulling away, he held on tight and buried his face in her hair. “It’s okay to be scared.” He rocked her from side to side. “Being afraid doesn’t make you like your mother. You’re not her. Never were.”
The words struck a chord, but she didn’t want him to see, so she pushed away and wiped her eyes. “What did you see outside?”
He held her eyes a moment longer, as though he knew what she was thinking, what she was doing. But in the end, he blew out a breath and answered, “Not a thing. But he’s out there.”
She nodded. She felt it, too. A sense of watching eyes. Waiting violence.
Now was not the time for long conversations.
In silent accord, their recent whispered conversation buzzing between them like an unfinished sentence, they quickly packed the emergency kit and checked their weapons. Then they slipped from concealment and walked through the forest single-file.
Jacob broke the trail, using the compass feature of his watch to keep them heading nearly due west. Isabella followed, watching their back and moving branches now and then in an effort to obscure their tracks.
As she walked, she thought of their situation. Odds were that th
e black-clad man would catch up to them before they reached civilization. Wouldn’t it be better to meet him on their terms? Thinking that, considering the implications, she sketched out a plan in her mind.
By the time they paused for a midmorning break, she had a strategy for turning the hunter into the hunted.
All she had to do was to convince Jacob to go along with it.
ON THE OTHER SIDE of the locked door, Hope heard the television babbling to itself in the cabin’s common room, furry with static. She thought she caught references to Lunkinburg and a speech by Prince Nikolai.
She nearly closed her eyes on the stab of pain that accompanied the name. She remembered meeting the handsome freedom fighter, remembered talking to her husband late into the night about the king’s despotic rule and the U.S. government’s desire to see Nikolai on the throne.
She knew some people thought Louis had married her during a midlife crisis, casting her in the role of trophy wife though it was a first marriage for both of them. But that was far from the truth—it had been love, plain and simple. They had met at a charity dinner, each on the arm of someone different. A month later, he had called her for drinks. Six months after that, they had been married in a quiet ceremony and the twins had followed a discreet year later.
Now, holding their daughters close, she fought tears at the strength of her loneliness, at the fear that had driven her for the four days of their captivity.
Limping footsteps neared her door and paused. The door cracked open a notch and her heart spiked, as it always did when the men checked on her.
Through the partially open door, she heard Lyle say, “Another forty-eight hours and we’re home free, right? We just turn the four of them over and head home?”
Fear iced Hope’s heart at the confirmation that they weren’t to be released when Louis arrived. Worse, the whole family was to be turned over. But to whom? And what would happen to them?
The door opened the rest of the way and Lyle stuck his angular face through. He glanced at Hope, then at each of the girls, his gaze seeming to linger longest on Tiff. His beady blue eyes sharpened and he licked his lips, but before Hope could screech at him to keep his filthy hands off her baby, Boone’s voice called from the main room.
“They’re not going anywhere. Get back over here and help me with this detonator.”
Lyle pantomimed a kiss at Tiff, then shut and locked the door.
Hope steadied her breathing and looked down at her baby girls. They clung to her, silent and scared.
She forced a smile. “You guys ready to get out of here? Remember, you’re going to have to be quiet, no matter what happens. Okay?”
She waited until she got two identical nods before she set her daughters on the bed and lifted the mattress to uncover the flat piece of metal she’d managed to work free of the box spring. With it, she was able to pop out the last two screws, the ones she’d left in the frame in case the men checked.
Then she held her breath and eased the window up. It scraped and squeaked very faintly, then ran all the way to the top. Fresh air hit her like a warm slap, reminding her that they were far from Montana.
With her heart in her throat, she looped a bed sheet around Tiff’s body, under her arms. She did the same for Becky, then lowered the girls to the ground outside, one at a time.
When Becky’s face screwed up and tears threatened, Hope forced herself to smile and hold a finger to her lips before she whispered, “It’ll be okay, sweetie. Mommy will be right there.”
Please don’t let her cry, Hope prayed. If either of the girls made a noise, it would be all over.
Heart thundering in her ears, so loud she couldn’t even tell if the TV was still on, she eased through the window feet first, then kicked away from the building and dropped, landing safely away from her daughters.
Then she let out a breath. Okay. So far, so good.
Praying for strength, for luck, she lifted her daughters, propped one on each hip, and took a step away from the cabin.
And her luck ran out.
“Boone! She’s out!” Lyle’s shout came from behind her, from inside the house. A gun fired with a deep bellied roar and she screamed, expecting the burn of pain, but it didn’t come.
She bolted forward, stumbled beneath the combined weight of her daughters and nearly fell.
“No!” She struggled to her feet with more will than strength and ran toward the trees, away from the parking area where Boone’s men had parked two Jeeps and a pickup truck.
She had decided not to trust her luck that the keys might be in the vehicles. The woods seemed her best bet.
Two more shots boomed behind her, then Boone’s voice shouted, “Stop shooting, you idiots! Get her!”
Boots thundered on the porch, and Hope put her head down and ran. The girls clung to her like silent limpets, little fingers digging into her shirt, into her skin. Into her heart.
She wanted to reassure them, but didn’t have the breath. Instead she ran as fast as she could. She gained the treeline, but the sounds of pursuit neared.
She could do nothing more than clutch her babies tighter and run. She dodged trees and leaped a rotten log, her ankle turning when she landed. By force of will, she kept herself up and continued on.
Her mind cleared of every thought except one.
She had to escape. Had to get to Louis.
“Stop!” a voice shouted behind her. “Damn it, stop! We’ve planted—”
A shot cut off the words and was immediately fol lowed by a ripping, crushing explosion. The forest floor blew up twenty feet ahead of Hope. The dirt and leaves leaped tree-high, and a wave of heat and concussion slapped her to her knees.
She stayed down as the flying dirt peppered her with moist chunks. Her mind reeled with shock and horror. Boone’s men had booby trapped the forest around the cabin. She had nearly stepped on one of the traps.
Tiff buried her face in her mother’s neck while Becky, the braver of the two, stared at the newly formed crater and opened her mouth on a piercing wail.
Dear God, Hope thought. That could have been us.
She heard footsteps crunch on the leaves behind her. She expected it to be Kane or one of her usual guards, and was surprised when Boone’s voice said, “You should thank me for shooting the trip pad. If I hadn’t, you and your daughters would be dead.”
She bowed her head as Becky’s wailing escalated, echoing all the fear and desperation Hope felt inside.
“Shut her up,” Boone said calmly, “or I will.”
The cold certainty in his voice was nearly as terrifying as the furious explosion or the three-foot-deep crater that gaped nearby.
“Hush, sweetie.” Hope soothed Becky, then Tiff, as well, when the shier girl began to whimper. All the while, fine tremors ran through her and her heart thundered with what had almost happened.
Her heartbeat seemed to say, Dead-dead, dead-dead, dead-dead.
“Bring them,” Boone snapped, and then his foot- steps moved away. Rough hands grabbed Hope and wrestled the girls out of her arms.
“My babies!” Hope struggled as two men—she didn’t know which ones and didn’t care anymore—dragged her up from the ground and muscled her back to the cabin. “Please. Please!” she shouted, but wasn’t even sure what she was begging for anymore.
Please give me my daughters back. Please don’t hurt them. Please let us go.
Please let someone come for us.
But as she was hauled into the cabin and locked into a small, windowless room in the attic loft, it seemed that none of those prayers would be answered. They wouldn’t let her see her daughters—she couldn’t even hear them crying anymore! Though she begged and pleaded and screamed, Hope was left there, alone, until she curled up into a little ball and sobbed.
As she cried, that one last prayer echoed through her body alongside the fear.
Please let someone come for us.
Her mind cried, Louis! as though he might hear her and know of the danger he
was walking into. But there was no reply.
Only emptiness.
DEEP IN THE scraggly woods, the hit man waited.
“There he is.” Isabella gripped Jacob’s forearm so hard he felt the imprint down to the bone.
Or maybe he was too sensitive to her touch. Too reactive to her, by far.
More likely, he thought with an internal grimace, it was nerves from this crazy plan of hers. But damn it, what was their other option? It was either ambush the ambusher, or keep pushing on toward the road and hope he didn’t catch up.
Jacob had agreed to Isabella’s plan because he hadn’t been able to come up with a better option, but he didn’t like it. In fact, he was taking a breath to suggest they pack up and run for the road when she touched his arm and gestured toward a faint shadow of distant movement.
Dark clothes. A predator’s gait. A drawn weapon.
She whispered, “You all set?”
He nodded and mouthed, Let’s do this.
Without further conversation, they fanned the sulky embers of a small campfire and fed it slivers of wet wood. The resulting blaze was smoky enough to attract attention without being obvious.
He hoped.
When everything was set, when their pursuer dropped down into the slight ravine that bordered the site they’d chosen for their stand—he refused to think of it as a last stand—he turned to Isabella. She turned to him at the same moment and they locked eyes.
Contact arced between them. Connection.
Good luck, he mouthed, his mind half on the coming skirmish, half on the woman standing a breath away.
“You, too.”
He didn’t know which one of them moved first, whether he leaned down for her or she tipped up on her toes to reach for him. Maybe both.
He only knew that they met halfway.
Her lips were firm beneath his, strong, like Isabella herself. Then they parted, and he found the softness within, a striking contrast that lodged in his soul even as heat roared through his body, through his brain, and buffeted at his heart.
He crowded closer and felt her hands slide up and around his neck, felt the contrast of warm fall sunlight at his back, the molten heat of sex at his front. Felt the click of connection he hadn’t realized he was missing until it buzzed through his body and cupped a warm hand around his heart.
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