by Lynsay Sands
"At night?" she asked with alarm.
"It is better at night," he assured her, starting up the beach. "No sun."
Abigail considered that as they walked and supposed it was good to avoid the heat and sun of daylight. It would prevent their getting too dehydrated, which had to be good. And she had just woken up from sleeping, so should be good for walking. Still, Abigail didn't think Tomasso had slept at all while she was down for the count. The man had caught fish and cooked it instead.
They probably wouldn't walk far then, Abigail thought hopefully. An hour or two, and then they'd probably stop . . . Not that she didn't want to walk all the way to civilization tonight. She did. The sooner they found a phone, the sooner she could find out what had happened to Jet. It was just that she hadn't done anything physical in a long time and wasn't sure she could manage much more than a couple hours of slogging through the sand. She was pretty sure she wouldn't have to though. Tomasso would need sleep. An hour or so and he'd no doubt be ready to bed down.
Five
"Sure, sure, an hour or so and he'd be ready to stop," Abigail muttered to herself, glazed eyes fixed on her feet in the darkness. The coconut water had been surprisingly yummy, refreshing even despite being warm, and the fish had been delicious. Then they'd started walking, and by her guess, had been doing so for four or five hours now. Abigail was ready to drop. The only thing that kept her moving was her worry about Jet and the fact that Tomasso, who hadn't slept, was still going.
"What?"
That question made Abigail glance up to see that Tomasso had stopped again to wait for her. Like Jet, he had much longer legs than her and she couldn't possibly keep up. Every time he stopped to wait for her, they started out together again once she reached him, only for her to drop back a bit with every step. Raising her eyebrows at his questioning expression, she asked tiredly, "What what?"
"You spoke," he pointed out.
You spoke, she thought. Not you said something, just you spoke. The man always used the minimum amount of words to express himself, she thought wearily and waved away his comment. "I was just talking to myself."
Tomasso didn't turn away and continue walking then as she expected, but eyed her with concern. "You are exhausted."
"We've been walking for hours, Tomasso. Of course I'm exhausted."
She saw his eyebrows rise in the darkness. Thank goodness for moonlight, she thought, and then blinked at him when he shook his head and said, "One."
"One what?" she asked, hoping he meant they'd only walk for another hour, although even that seemed way too long for her at that point. She really was dead on her feet.
"We have been walking one hour," he explained.
"No way!" Abigail raised her watch to press the button to light the face. She'd thought it was still working when she'd checked it earlier, but when she saw that, according to it, he was right and only an hour and a couple of minutes had passed since they'd set out, she tapped it with irritation and muttered, "It must not be working. I'm sure we've been walking forever."
She glanced to Tomasso then, expecting to see impatience or irritation. Instead what she found was a combination of what she thought might be amusement, sympathy, and affection.
Rather than chastise her for slowing him down, he said, "You have been through a lot. You are exhausted. We will rest."
Abigail sagged with relief. She was exhausted, and was happy to blame it on everything they'd been through instead of being out of shape. She was less happy to rest, however. At least her conscience was. Her body was ecstatic at the thought, but her conscience was oozing guilt at the delay in finding civilization and getting help for Jet.
If he needed it, the exhausted part of her commented to ease her guilt. Maybe he didn't. Maybe Jet was fine and she was worrying for nothing.
Or, her conscience countered, maybe Jet was even now being transported to that island the client had mentioned. The island where "the doc" would perform experiments so horrid the client had claimed he'd rather be dead.
Abigail knew there was also a chance Jet might be dead. The client had mentioned that option, but she simply couldn't face that possibility. She couldn't lose Jet on the heels of the loss of her mother. She just couldn't.
"One hour," she said firmly, moving the last few steps to Tomasso. "We'll rest for an hour and then start walking again."
Tomasso grunted what might have been an agreement, and took her arm to urge her into the line of palm trees. He led her to one a good twelve feet into the jungle, brushed away the detritus on the sand beneath it to clear a spot for them, then urged her to sit. Settling next to her, Tomasso leaned back against the tree, and then slid an arm around her shoulders and drew her to rest against his chest.
Abigail didn't resist his actions, but she didn't relax either. It was impossible to relax in his arms. It just felt too good being there and she was too aware of the feel of his naked skin under her cheek and hand . . . and his scent. Tomasso smelled good. There was no cologne or perfumed shampoo to cover his natural aroma, but he still smelled lovely. Like wind and sea and sun. His skin was also a little cooler than her own where her hand and face rested . . . and as she'd suspected, his leafy loincloth hid everything from this angle, she noted with a little disappointment.
"You are not sleeping."
Abigail grimaced at the comment and then pulled back as much as his arm would allow to peer up at his face. "How did you end up in that cage?"
It was something she had wondered about as she'd worked on removing his duct tape, but with everything going on she'd never really got the chance to ask until now.
Tomasso tugged her back to his chest, holding her head against his shoulder with one hand, but then said, "My brother and I were shot with drugged darts as we left a bar in San Antonio, and woke up some time later naked in cages."
"They have your brother too?" Abigail jerked out of his arms to peer at him with dismay.
"They did," he said, and pressed her to his chest again. "He escaped."
"What?" Abigail asked with outrage, immediately upright again. "He escaped and just left you there? Your own brother?"
Tomasso didn't bother to force her back to his chest this time, but merely explained patiently, "He had to. Else he would have been recaptured and caged up again. One of us had to get free and contact . . . our people."
Abigail stared at him blankly. "Our people? Who are these people?"
"The reason we were in Texas," he responded and Abigail immediately scowled.
"Well, that tells me absolutely nothing," she said grimly. "Who--"
"An organization who were looking into the disappearance of several young . . . people who had gone missing from the bar scene in San Antonio," he explained carefully.
"Oh. So, like the Feds," Abigail said, relaxing back against him again. She was pretty sure it was the FBI who were called in on kidnappings and such. But . . . "You mean you guys weren't the first kidnap victims? Jet's clients took others?"
Tomasso nodded. "Several."
"That's awful," Abigail said with a frown as she considered it. Several young men like Tomasso locked up naked in cages and being shipped to Venezuela. It was probably some kind of sex ring, she thought as her fingers brushed over Tomasso's chest. Pretty, sexy young men like Tomasso with all his sex appeal and naked prettiness and sex.
Realizing she seemed to have sex on the mind any time she got close to Tomasso, Abigail gave her head a shake and sat up again. Once there was even that little distance from his body she was able to think more clearly and recalled the client saying something about someone called "the doc" and experiments. Maybe not a sex ring then, she realized.
"So you were working for the Feds, trying to catch these kidnappers, but got kidnapped yourself," Abigail reasoned out.
Tomasso hesitated and then said, "Si. We volunteered."
She considered his words, wondering what they'd volunteered to do and suddenly thought she knew the answer. "You volunteered to be bait? To be ki
dnapped? Are you insane?"
"We did not expect to be kidnapped," Tomasso said calmly. "They had only taken individuals prior to this and we were two. We intended only to see what we could find out."
Abigail eyed him narrowly. She didn't think Tomasso was being wholly honest with her. She suspected he'd known there was a good possibility that they might be kidnapped, or at least that one of them might, and yet they'd volunteered for the job anyway. Letting it go, though, she said, "And it worked. You were both kidnapped."
"Si."
"But your brother escaped," Abigail murmured.
"Si, and according to you, I was being transported to Caracas. It must be where the others are," he added with a frown. "I must get that information to . . . the organization so that they can begin to search the city and--"
"Not Caracas," Abigail interrupted.
"What?" Tomasso asked.
"Your final destination wasn't Caracas," she explained.
"What?" he repeated with dismay. "But on the plane you said we were flying to Caracas."
"We were," Abigail assured him, and then explained, "But that guy who was duct taping your arm mentioned an island. He said . . . now what was it," she muttered, trying to recall. "I think he said, 'Enjoy the flight. It's the last one you'll take. Once you reach the island, you'll never leave.'" She paused briefly, trying to recall if she'd got it right and then shrugged helplessly and said, "Or something like that anyway. I know he mentioned an island and experiments and someone he called 'the doc' though, so Caracas wasn't your final destination. An island was. They probably had a boat waiting in Caracas or something."
"Or another plane," Tomasso muttered with a frown. "For all we know, Caracas may only have been a halfway point and they were going to fly on to Brazil or Argentina."
"Maybe," Abigail allowed. "But I doubt it. The island is probably somewhere off the coast of Venezuela. Otherwise, why not just have Jet take them to Brazil or Argentina?"
"True," he murmured and looked a little relieved at this news. "So we need only look for an island they might take them to."
Abigail snorted at his words. "Only? Venezuela has something like 1,750 miles of coastline and maybe seventy-two islands." Noting the dismay on his face, she added quickly, "But the airport should help narrow it down."
"I do not understand," he began with a frown.
"Well, there are only two international airports in Venezuela--Simon Bolivar in Caracas and La Chinita in Maracaibo. As far as I know anyway," she added, because while she was good with geography and had researched some stuff with her mom to keep her spirits up, they hadn't focused terribly hard on Venezuela after reading about the whole kidnapping capital of the world bit. According to the information they had looked at, there were something like five kidnappings reported a day and most kidnappings weren't even reported. Apparently, they actually had an anti-kidnapping squad, for heaven's sake. What other country had that? Abigail and her mom had quickly lost interest in that country as her post-cancer-celebration trip destination so hadn't researched it as hard as some of the others.
"I do not understand what matter it is that there are two international airports," Tomasso said impatiently.
"Oh, right," Abigail said, recalled to their conversation. "Well, the island's likely closer to Caracas than Maracaibo, right? Otherwise they would have had Jet land at La Chinita."
"Ah, I see. Si," Tomasso murmured. "So we should concentrate our search for the island on Venezuela's eastern coast."
"I would," she said with a shrug. "And the smaller islands too. I mean, this 'doc' could be on an inhabited island, but that bit about 'once on the island you'll never leave' kind of makes me think there can't be other people on the island that might aid in an escape."
"You're right." Tomasso smiled and gave her a quick crushing hug. "Thank you. You are brilliant."
Flushing, Abigail shook her head and barely restrained herself from saying, "Pshaw. It was nothing."
God, she was pathetic, Abigail thought suddenly. He gave her a compliment and she went all melted caramel inside. Boy, how low had her self-esteem dropped this last year? And why? She may have dropped out of medical school, but she'd done it to tend to her ailing mother, not because she hadn't been able to handle the classes. Abigail had loved medical school. She'd thrived there. She'd felt strong and smart and important. She was going to be a doctor.
Now, a year later she felt like a big fat lump of a loser. And she shouldn't, Abigail told herself firmly. She was just as smart as she'd been a year ago, and she could finish medical school. She might have to work her way through the last two years, but she could do that.
As for the fat lump part, so what if she'd added thirty pounds to her already generous weight? Her size didn't seem to bother Tomasso, why was she letting it bother her? She should be more concerned about her health. Not being able to manage more than an hour's walk before feeling like she was going to die probably wasn't good. It wasn't like they'd been walking fast.
Of course, it was harder to walk in sand than on a solid surface, Abigail acknowledged. And she was suffering a head trauma. She probably had a concussion too. And that would be hard on the body. Perhaps she should just cut herself some slack and stop being so critical of every little thing she did or didn't, and could or couldn't do. Tomasso may be Hercules with loads of strength and stamina, but she was not Wonder Woman, and that was okay.
"Come on," Abigail said suddenly, getting to her feet.
"Where are we going?" Tomasso asked with surprise, popping to his feet beside her.
"I've rested long enough. We can walk again," she announced, making her way out of the jungle and toward the beach.
"Are you sure?" Tomasso asked. "We did not rest long."
"I'm sure," Abigail answered without glancing back. "But this time I think we should walk along the shoreline. The firmer sand will make it less tiring. It feels good on bare feet too," she added, then paused and turned back to ask, "Which reminds me. What happened to my shoes?"
"Oh." Tomasso shrugged helplessly. "I am not sure. One was missing by the time we got to shore. You either lost the other in the air, or when that shark was nosing around us in the ocean."
"Shark!" she screeched with dismay.
"It was a small shark," he said soothingly. "But it did keep nipping at your feet so I had to punch it in the nose to make it go away. It probably pulled your shoe off."
When Abigail just stood gaping at him, Tomasso caught her hand in his and swung her toward the shoreline. "I will hold your hand this time so I know you are beside me and not dropping back. Every time I turned around you'd fallen behind earlier. I must remember you have shorter legs than mine, and therefore shorter steps, and adjust accordingly."
Abigail was quite sure that was babbling for Tomasso. He just didn't talk that much, but apparently felt the need now. She suspected it was an effort to soothe and distract her with words . . . from the fact that a shark had been "nipping" at her feet.
"Good Lord," she muttered, quite glad she'd been unconscious for that part of their adventure. Shaking her head, Abigail asked, "What did you do with my other shoe?"
"I took it off to examine your foot and make sure none of the punctures went through and had pierced your skin," he admitted with a grimace and then quickly added, "It hadn't. Both of your feet were unharmed by the shark."
"Jeez," Abigail muttered, peering down at her feet. She couldn't see them well in the dark, but hadn't noticed any injuries earlier when it was still light, so presumed her feet had escaped the shark's interest without injury as he said.
"Your shoe is probably still back lying by the palm tree where we rested," Tomasso announced, then paused to ask, "Shall I fetch it for you?"
Abigail goggled at the suggestion. Surely he wasn't offering to run all the way back to fetch one, now useless, shoe?
It seemed he was, she realized when Tomasso added, "It would not take me long. I can run very fast and you could rest here a little longer and wa
it for me."
"No," she said dryly, starting forward again. "I think I can do without the shoe."
Tomasso merely grunted and resumed walking too.
They continued in silence for several moments, and then Abigail decided conversation would help pass the time. Hoping it would also distract her from the tingles his holding her hand was sending up her arm, she asked, "What's your brother like?"
"Like me."
His short answer made her smile wryly, and she teased, "You mean, big, gorgeous, sexy and heroic?"
"You think me gorgeous and heroic?" Tomasso asked with interest.
"You left out the sexy part," Abigail pointed out with amusement.
He shrugged that away. "Of course you find me sexy. We are life mates. I am more interested in the gorgeous and heroic part."
Abigail stopped walking, forcing him to a halt. She stared at him with amazement for a minute, and then asked, "Life mates?"
Tomasso considered her briefly, his lips pursed, and then turned to continue walking, pulling her along with him as he said, "My question first."
She frowned, but supposed that was fair and took a moment to try to recall what his question had been. The life mates bit had pretty much knocked her for a loop. It was just so . . . Abigail didn't even know what to call it. It wasn't like calling her his girlfriend, which would have thrown her as well since they'd known each other for such a short period of time. But somehow the term life mate sounded more . . . important somehow. More official or something. She had no idea why.
"So?" Tomasso prompted.
Abigail made a face. "Right. Gorgeous and heroic."
"Si?"
"Well, you must know you are gorgeous," she said with exasperation. "You have an amazing body, and your face would be an artist's dream. It's almost too pretty for a man."
"Thank you," he said sincerely. "I find your body and face lovely too."
Abigail snorted at the claim. She didn't yet love her body so found it hard to believe he could.
"What does that snort mean?" Tomasso asked, pausing again to peer down at her. "You do not agree you are lovely?"
Abigail shrugged uncomfortably, but then decided what the hell, and admitted, "I'm too big. I wish I was slimmer for you. Like one of those swimsuit models. You know, perky breasts, a flat stomach, and slim hips."