by Regan Black
From behind the desk, Eaton narrowed his gaze. “Is that part of your process?”
“Well, my process would be to go for a run or take a yoga break outside. Painting the outdoors isn’t the same as breathing fresh air.”
“No.”
“Exactly. I didn’t think you’d grant either of those requests.”
“I won’t take the cuffs off either.”
“You do know the law of diminishing returns?”
“As well as I know you’re running out of time,” Eaton said, his gaze on his laptop.
She rocked back and forth on her feet, then twisted her shoulders side to side. Anything to get the blood moving. The girl in the picture had the sweetest expression and despite her aggravation with Eaton, Charlotte couldn’t purposely botch that precious face. She wasn’t particularly well known for her portraiture, but she didn’t really have much of a choice.
His mention of the painting increasing in value hadn’t escaped her notice. The prevailing joke among artists was that death was the best way to boost sales and gain fame. All she’d really wanted from fame was the means and reputation to eventually create a retreat that would give artists and other creatives a place to rejuvenate and recharge.
She peeked at Eaton again. What did he have planned? He wasn’t going to let them walk out of here because he’d had a change of heart. He’d been too hard on Mark for her to believe that.
“Do you think you’re in love with him?” Eaton asked, interrupting her speculation.
He’d asked her that question, or a variation of it, each time he’d had her brought in. The significance escaped her.
“I’ve loved Mark all my life.” She gave the same honest answer as she had previously. If these were her last hours, she wouldn’t hold back. “He’s family.” Though she kept her gaze locked on the canvas, she heard his chair scrape against the floor as he pushed back from his desk.
“He doesn’t love you,” Eaton said, his cold eyes stared at her from over the top edge of the canvas.
A bug under a microscope would have more confidence and definitely more space. Between his intimidation tactics and the cuffs changing the weight of her brush strokes, she was close to ruining the painting. There couldn’t possibly be time to start over. She took half a step back.
“I’ve watched this family for years. Learned their patterns, strengths and weaknesses,” Eaton bragged. “It’s clear to me, and it should be clear to you, the Hanovers don’t factor in their lives.”
Then he hadn’t done any deep research at all. The Hanovers and Rileys were inseparable in spirit even when they weren’t in the same geographical area. Patricia and Sue Ellen had decided nothing would minimize their friendship and they’d built those values into the family dynamic.
One more reason Charlotte had never confessed to her unrelenting crush on Mark. She wouldn’t be the wedge that interrupted how well the families clicked or that made any of them feel awkward.
She lowered the brush so he didn’t see her trembling. “Does that mean I’m free to go?” It was worth a try.
“No.” He shifted a bit and she decided if she ever painted him, he’d be a snake, lurking and ready to poison any perceived happiness.
“The handcuffs are a hindrance,” she said. “I’d like to honor your daughter by capturing the sparkle in her eyes. That’s delicate work.”
He came around to view the canvas from her angle. Watching him, she caught his first unguarded reaction to the painting. The meanness faded from his expression, softening as he took in the photo coming to life on the canvas.
A gratifying moment for any artist, to know the work makes an impact. Inwardly she sighed. If it was going to be her last painting, she should give it her best effort. Who knew taking pride in the work would be so frustrating?
He pulled a key from his pocket and released the cuffs. “Don’t make me regret it.”
“You won’t.” She shook out her hands and circled her wrists one direction and another, releasing the tension. “May I walk a bit?”
Eaton scowled. “Stay clear of the door and my desk.”
Since he’d put the easel on the opposite end of the room, it wouldn’t be a problem. She plucked the photograph from the clip at the edge of the canvas and paced the width of the office. Back and forth, letting her hands and mind rest. Using the wall for support, she stretched her back and legs too.
Eaton worked at his desk, ignoring her. Like the other times she’d been in here, she couldn’t decide whether to be offended or relieved that he didn’t see her as a threat.
Straightening, she came around to view the canvas from several paces away. Glancing between the photo and the canvas, she looked for a way to leave a clue that she’d painted this one under duress.
The only option that would possibly escape Eaton’s notice was the foliage that wouldn’t be found in Hawaii. She could leave in that live oak branch under the tropical canopy. And it really wouldn’t matter unless Eaton sold the painting.
She studied the picture, creased and worn at the edges from being in his wallet.
Despite his blustering, he’d never sell this painting of his daughter.
She returned to the canvas and picked up her brush, determined to bring the girl’s eyes to life before either the cuffs or reality paralyzed her. She’d stepped back again, almost satisfied when an outburst erupted from the other end of the building. The screech and scrape of metal dragging against metal hurt her ears.
Eaton was on his feet and out of the room in an instant. Was he having Mark tortured in the cage today?
Her eyes darted to Eaton’s abandoned desk and then to the camera at the opposite corner from her easel. If Eaton was broadcasting the camera feed, someone was likely monitoring it.
Did she dare try to send out an SOS? After everything Mark had endured, she had to take the chance.
Another shout sounded from the direction of the cage room and she set aside her paint and brushes and scurried to the desk. She had no idea what she was looking for, only that she needed to find something helpful. He’d always kept the bulletin board behind his desk covered when she’d been in here. She pushed aside the rolling chalkboard and stepped back, aghast.
He had pictures of the Riley family organized almost like a police investigator, with facts and links and comments about each of the five siblings and Hank too.
Although it sure looked as if he’d hoped to kill Matt and Grace Ann, he’d clearly moved on when they survived, focused now on Mark. Beneath Mark’s official navy headshot was a long list of potential attacks.
Disconcerting—fine, terrifying—but nothing she could use right now.
She reached for the bulletin board, intending to hold it up for a camera. It was secured to the metal wall. On an oath, she carefully untacked the plans for Mark and held them up to the camera, praying only Eaton monitored the broadcast. Since he was gone, she might stand a chance of this information getting through to the proper authorities.
Once the bulletin board was restored to its previous condition, she turned to the computer.
There had to be a way to send out a distress call of some sort.
Eaton, despite the bare bones set up, hadn’t slacked on security for his laptop. She quickly discovered the device was password-protected and she had no idea what the code might be. She couldn’t even see what he’d been working on before the noises drew him away.
Outside the door, voices were raised in anger. She could hear Quick-Punch Kid—the name Mark had given to one of the men—Eaton and Mark himself. If he was vocal, he couldn’t be hurt too badly. It wasn’t much comfort. She used the precious opening to search each of the drawers in Eaton’s desk.
The voices swelled and she turned, caught in the harsh, cold gaze of Muscle. “What are you doing?” he asked.
His tone was too reasonable as he closed the door
behind him. Locked it.
A fear bigger than anything she’d experienced so far gripped her joints as he advanced on her. She couldn’t even stand up. So much for being an asset to Mark’s escape plans. She was about to die.
A tear rolled down her cheek. She’d wrecked everything, doomed them both, since Mark was too honorable to leave her behind. Oh, she’d blown it.
“Stand up,” Muscle ordered.
She managed it, barely.
“How did you get out of the cuffs?”
“Eaton took them off so I...” Survival instinct kicking in, she edged around the far end of the desk. “So I could paint without them.” His eyes tracked her like a predator. She froze. The desk wasn’t enough of a barrier and they both knew it.
“You’re not painting.”
“No.” Her chin came up. Cowering only gave him more power. And pleasure. She could see the malicious intent in his gaze. “I needed more paint color. Your boss keeps the supplies there.”
He shoved the desk aside and lunged for her and she darted for the area where she’d been painting. Maybe he’d think twice about damaging the canvas Eaton had commissioned.
He was quicker than he looked and she found herself knocked face-first to the stained floor. She struggled to breathe and he easily flipped her to her back, pinning her under his massive body. The eager, sinister gleam in his eyes was enough to vaporize her moment of bravado. He flexed his pelvis and his evident erection made her stomach cramp.
This couldn’t be happening. Could. Not. Recalling her self-defense classes, she aimed her forehead at his nose, missing when he moved out of reach. “You’ve got spirit.” He chuckled. “I like that.”
She resisted with every fiber of her being as he pushed her arms overhead. He clasped both her wrists in one unbreakable grip. The pose thrust her breasts higher. Wanting to squirm, she held as still as possible, unwilling to give him an ounce of satisfaction.
“You’re hurting my hands.”
“Don’t care about your hands,” Muscle said.
“You should.” Eaton’s voice carried a clear threat.
Relief coursed through her. Salvation shouldn’t wear Eaton’s face, but she’d take it. The moment Muscle released her, Charlotte scurried out of his reach, back to the easel.
The respite didn’t last. “What did she do?”
Muscle pulled himself to his full height. “Found her snooping around your desk.”
“I was looking for more paint. To capture your daughter’s eye color,” she spit out, glaring at Muscle. “I told him that.” She knew he could contradict her, but she relished planting doubt about him in Eaton’s mind.
Eaton’s dark eyes shifted to her. “I take it you were planning to punish her?”
Muscle stood tall, lips compressed, apparently smart enough not to answer that question.
“Go be useful and guard the dock,” Eaton ordered.
Muscle’s chin dipped once in the affirmative and he hustled out of the office, a little cowed in Charlotte’s view.
As Eaton made way for the bigger man, Charlotte saw Quick-Punch Kid holding Mark, his handsome face a fixed blank mask.
“I’ll kill you,” Mark vowed, as Muscle walked by him.
“You’re nothing but a little fish without your team.” Muscle made a barking seal sound and then he was gone.
A chill slid down her back as Mark’s gaze collided with hers.
Eaton walked over and slapped the cuffs on to her wrists. “Finish.”
He turned on his heel, escorting Mark away with the other guard’s help, and she feared she’d ruined everything.
* * *
Mark’s fury wouldn’t subside. Charlotte’s face had been so pale, her blue eyes huge with fear, her hair a tangle from the scuffle. He prowled his cage, mentally tearing Muscle limb from limb. He could practically hear the man’s dying breath.
Charlotte must hate him by now. He was the only reason she’d been swept into this mess. His failure to outmaneuver the guards had given Muscle the opening to take advantage of her.
She’d been attacked, nearly raped, and he’d done nothing about it. All because Muscle was right—Mark couldn’t get out of here without his team.
Patricia would get no argument from him now. He was as wrong for Charlotte as a man could be.
He couldn’t get the scene out of his head. She’d been on the floor, utterly helpless beneath a man oozing violent intentions. He wouldn’t ask forgiveness, but he’d feel marginally better once she told him she was okay, assuming she would even speak to him.
Mark dropped to the floor and started doing push-ups to burn off the sense of failure.
She would. Charlotte had a temper, but she didn’t harbor grudges. Growing up, she’d always been willing to overlook his less-than-stellar moments. Hopefully that tendency would apply to this most recent error that ended with her pinned under a nasty excuse for a man.
She must have talked her way out of the handcuffs and used the opportunity to search Eaton’s desk. She deserved a medal for that alone. Mark couldn’t wait to learn if she’d found anything, unless Eaton kept them apart tonight.
He’d been so close to breaking out, taking advantage of just the smaller guard, when Eaton had stormed in to help Quick-Punch Kid subdue him.
Mark heard the bolt slide back on the door and popped to his feet. Please let this be Charlotte. He waited at the front of his cage, eager for a good look at her, a chance to see her accept his apology.
Unfortunately, Quick-Punch Kid walked into the cage room alone. That was a shock since the last time Mark had nearly overpowered him. “I can’t decide if you’ve got an abundance of guts or a lack of brains,” Mark observed.
Quick-Punch Kid didn’t say a word. Eaton must have given him a lecture about being baited by the hostage.
“Tough getting a beatdown from the boss,” Mark said with sympathy. “Does he issue demerits? What hoops do you have to jump through before he trusts you with a gun again?”
A bottle of water and a plate of real food, spaghetti with red sauce and a big meatball, were shoved at him. Mark did his best not to fall on the bounty like a starving dog. Quick-Punch Kid would like that too much. Then he noticed the lack of utensils.
Points to Eaton for always finding a way to disappoint.
“Carb loading? Is the annual Criminal Island marathon tomorrow?”
“Something like that,” Quick-Punch Kid muttered. “Eat while you can, tough guy.”
Mark took a small bite of the meatball, half-worried the food was drugged. “Did someone take food to Charlotte?”
Quick-Punch Kid refused to answer.
Feeling no immediate ill effects, Mark sloppily scooped up some noodles with his fingers. “Where’s your pal?”
Quick-Punch Kid deliberately looked at the door.
Mark didn’t much care about the mess he was making. Red sauce wouldn’t be much different than the blood stains on his pants. His more immediate concern was whether or not he needed to save any of this for Charlotte.
“How’d you get roped into this gig?” he asked conversationally.
Quick-Punch Kid shook his head. “Just eat, man.”
“You were more than happy to take shots at me yesterday and the days before, verbal and otherwise. What changed? You look like someone gave you an ice-cream cone and then knocked it out of your hand.”
“Shut up, Riley, or I’m taking that food.”
“Come in here and try it,” Mark challenged.
On an exasperated sigh, Quick-Punch Kid walked out of the room. Mark slid the plate of food aside and though he would have drained the water, saved half of it as well, just in case.
The change in routine made him nervous. When Eaton was busy wearing him down, he couldn’t pester Charlotte. Today though he’d taken her to the office, left Mark alone
and ordered Quick-Punch Kid to remove the plywood divider from between their cages. They’d be able to see each other now, if Eaton would just let her come back.
Mark had been worried all day that Eaton would knock her around and dump her in the cell, forcing Mark to witness the damage he’d inflicted. A form of torture that would be a thousand times worse than taking a beating. He stood up to pace, remembering too late he was too tall for the cage. Aggravated, he sat down and looped his hands over his drawn-up knees.
There was a solution here, a way out—he just had to find it before it was too late.
He’d work on Quick-Punch Kid for a start—try to wear him down. He was a weak link, and maybe Mark could get him to see he was better off on the Riley side of the equation. If even the smallest doubt led to the man hesitating before striking a blow or pulling a trigger, it was worth the effort.
He’d given Charlotte some fast and dirty advice on surviving in the wild when what she’d really needed was a crash course in self-defense. Although very few moves, unpracticed, would’ve been effective against a man the size of Muscle.
He had to get them out of here. He rolled to his back and kicked the corrugated wall. They were probably on a barrier island based on what Charlotte had seen. He didn’t hear voices or much activity once the men left this modified container. So they either returned to the boat or had a camp elsewhere. A camp made more sense. He hadn’t once heard sounds of any boat or plane bringing in supplies and Charlotte had implied the walk from the dock was lengthy.
Which meant a big enough island that escape was worth the risk.
Cameras or not, he used his hands and feet, working to bend or unravel the links of the fencing, until—finally—he heard the lock open. Eaton nudged Charlotte into the room ahead of him. She looked weary and desperately unhappy and she kept her gaze on the floor as Eaton marched her along to her cage.
Obediently, she stepped inside when their captor opened the door. He set a plastic carryout bag on the floor just inside the door and then closed and locked the cage.
She turned his way and did a double take when she saw him rather than the plywood barrier. The new visibility didn’t seem to please her.
