Wild Thing

by Anne Stuart

  It wasn't working. This time they'd used one of the dud syringes, and all she had in her system was water. She let herself go limp, falling back against the chair in a sprawled-out, ungainly position.

  "Is it supposed to work that fast?" Hunnicutt said doubtfully.

  "Must have hit a vein. Besides, she was already loaded with the stuff. It wouldn't take much to put her under. What do you want me to do with her?"

  "Answer the door. Mick can find some place to stash her."

  "Well, don't take her too far, Mick, me lad. I've got some unfinished business with her."

  It was hard enough trying to stay utterly limp when no one was touching her. Once Mick put his hands under her arms it took all her self-control not to start giggling. She'd always been hellaciously ticklish. He dragged her out of the chair, bumping her along the floor, and she concentrated on every boneless, soggy vision she could think of, from bread dough to wet washcloths to orange Jell-O. If he'd tried to drag her from the room she would have had to straggle, but as it was he just hauled her behind the sofa and dumped her.

  "You're certain that's good enough?" Hunnicutt asked sharply.

  '"Course it is," Mick replied. "They won't be looking behind your furniture, not without a search warrant, and she's got enough stuff in her to keep her out for a week."

  "I don't want her out for a week. I want answers."

  "Well, Alf'll see to that," Mick said cheerily. "Want I should go see what's keeping him?"

  "Please," said Hunnicutt in a long-suffering voice.

  The silence in the room was almost deafening. Libby lay perfectly still, even though her wrist was trapped under her body and her legs were at an uncomfortable angle. She could hardly shift without Hunnicutt noticing. Instead she'd simply bide her time. Sooner or later they'd leave her alone, and she could run for it. Unless, of course, whoever had broached his private kingdom had come to save her.

  But who would even know she was there? For that matter, who would care? Not that stupid man on his stupid island who'd let her walk away without a word…

  "Police," Alf said as the door slid open. "I couldn't stop 'em."

  There was enough noise in the room now that Libby could roll over without being heard. She scooted forward so that she could get a glimpse of what was going on. It looked like a whole army of police, legs and boots and someone in a dark suit and expensive shoes. She slid down further, trying to get a better look."

  "What can I do for you, gentlemen?" Edward J. Hunnicutt's mellow tones would have fooled most anyone, and Libby held her breath.

  "I'm Detective Major Larrabbee of the Johnson Harbour Police, Mr. Hunnicutt. First off, we have a warrant for the arrest of Alfred Droggan, also known as Orville Johnson and for Michael Brown, also known as Mick the Ferret, for the murder of Dr. William McDonough and the abduction of Dr. Elizabeth Holden. There's also a question of charges against you, sir, for unlawful restraint, environmental crimes, trafficking in controlled substances—"

  "Don't be absurd!" Hunnicutt protested, shocked. "My environmental record is spotless! As for drugs, I have no interest or need to be involved in illegal drags…"

  "Experimental tranquilizers for both humans and animals, Mr. Hunnicutt. They're only illegal if you don't hold a doctor's degree, and as far as I know, the three of you don't."

  "I think this conversation is at an end," Hunnicutt said pleasantly. "You can talk to my legal department."

  "Where is she?" It was a new voice, one she didn't recognize for a moment. Australian, slightly raspy. And then she knew.

  "I have no idea who you're talking about," Hunnicutt said stiffly. There was a pause. "Have we met? You look vaguely familiar."

  "No," said John calmly. "We've never met."

  "You're not going to let them take us, are you, boss?" Alf demanded hoarsely. "You promised us you'd look out for us."

  "Don't worry, Mr. Droggan, my lawyers will have this all cleared up in no time and the two of you will be released. I have no idea what they're talking about. Dr. McDonough died in a car accident, and Dr. Holden left my employ voluntarily several days ago. I'm afraid I have no idea where she is."

  That was a cue if ever she heard one. Libby put her hands on the back of the sofa and hauled herself up. She was still feeling weak and shaky from the drugs, but her mood had improved enormously.

  "Oops," she said. "I must have slipped your mind."

  "Damn it!" Alf screeched. "What the hell did you do, Mick? I told you to give her the full syringe. She should be out like a light!"

  "I did what you told me, Alf, I swear," Mick said tearfully. "I don't know what's wrong with her…"

  But Libby wasn't particularly interested in Mick's pleas. Instead she was looking at the one man who stood off to one side, in a dark suit, definitely Italian, probably Armani, though why the hell he should have an Armani suit was beyond her. He looked elegant, civilized, like a stranger.

  But it didn't matter. He'd come for her.

  "I don't know who this woman is or what she's doing here, but…"

  "If I were you, Hunnicutt, I'd wait for your lawyers," John said calmly. He reached behind the sofa and hauled her over it, effortlessly, into his arms.

  Alf and Mick were already in handcuffs, arguing. "He'll get away with it," Alf was fuming. "That's what always happens. The workers get it in the arse and the bosses go free."

  "Don't you worry about it, Alfie," Mick said soothingly. "We haven't been in the slammer for years—it'll seem like old times. And when we get out, let's go into business for ourselves this time. It's no fun being a minion. We need to be independent contractors. Look on it like a vacation, old boy. Three squares a day, nice climate, no women around to make demands. The days will go by in a flash, you mark my words."

  "More likely the years," said the man who appeared to be the senior officer. "Come along then. And Mr. Hunnicutt, I would suggest you not leave here until we've had a chance to sit down with you and your lawyers. There are some very serious charges being made, and we intend to get to the bottom of them."

  Alf paused at the door, turning to stare at John. "Don't I know you?" he demanded suspiciously.

  "I don't think so," he replied, keeping a protective arm around Libby. "How's your arm?"

  A look of dawning realization swept over Alf's beefy face, followed by complete horror. Before he could do more than sputter, he was gone, with Mick still chattering cheerfully about the lovely time they'd have in jail.

  Libby was leaning against John in a cheerfully bemused state. The detective came over to them. "You'd best take your lady out of here, Mr. Hunter," he said kindly. "She looks done in. We can take it from here."

  "Thanks, Reg," he said. "Come along, Libby. We'll find you a nice place to sleep it off."

  "I already slept it off," she said, dignified in her shorts and sandals and complete lack of underwear. "And I'm not sure I want to go anywhere with you. You don't love me."

  He looked absolutely appalled. Hunnicutt cleared his throat, and even the police detective looked as if his collar was too tight.

  But John rallied, braver than she'd expected. "What makes you say that?" he asked in a calm, conversational voice, taking her arm in his and leading her out into the hall, away from their curious witnesses.

  "You let me go. You didn't try to stop me."

  "You didn't want to stay."

  "You didn't ask me."

  "Okay," he said. "I'm asking you."

  She blinked. "Asking me what?"

  "Asking you to stay."

  She'd lost the gist of the conversation completely. "Stay where?"

  He patted her arm soothingly. "With me, Libby. Back on the island. Come along."

  "But you don't love me," she said plaintively, harking back to her original argument with bulldoglike tenacity.

  "Of course I do. Let's go home."

  She narrowed her gaze suspiciously. "Do I have to fly?"

  "Darling, you're already flying," he said sweetly.

&
nbsp; "Because if you make me get in another one of those tiny airplanes I'm not sure that you're worth it."

  "I'm worth it," he said confidently. "And I promise to distract you on the plane."

  She looked doubtful. "How?"

  "Leave it to me. I'm very inventive."

  She was tired of arguing, so she simply leaned her head on his shoulder and let him lead her out of that spotless, soulless bunker. The evening air was warm and humid, and Libby didn't wake up until they'd landed safely in Johnson Harbour.

  It was almost midnight, and Captain Roger was waiting for them. "You see what kind of trouble you could have saved yourself if you'd just shown a little sense in the first place?" Roger said. "You take that poor little thing down below and get her something to eat. She looks worn-out."

  She gave Roger a wan smile. "I'm not hungry."

  "Then you let her rest. If I were twenty years younger she wouldn't have to settle for a sorry specimen like you," he grumbled. "But I'm warning you now, you treat her right or you'll have me to answer to."

  "Yes, sir," John said with surprising seriousness. "I will."

  And Captain Roger turned to the tiller and began to sing a cheerfully bawdy song at the top of his lungs.

  Chapter Sixteen

  « ^

  Captain Roger had lit an oil lamp in the tiny cabin, illuminating its cozy reaches. The bed where she'd lain and wept that morning was over in the corner, still unmade, and she went and climbed on it, sitting cross-legged as she turned to look at John. It was the first time they'd been alone since he'd brought her out of Hunnicutt's fortress, and she suddenly felt shy.

  "What are we going to do now?" she asked.

  He appeared to consider the question far more seriously than it deserved. "I've had a lot of time to think about it, and I've come up with some alternative. Number one, I could come back to Chicago with you."

  "But I—"

  "Let me finish. I hate cities, I hate the cold, but if I had to, I'd do it. I just don't want to. The second alternative is that you come back to the island with me. The problem is, you like cities, you like civilization, and you like people."

  "I'm not sure if that's true after this week," she said caustically.

  "All right, let's say you like people more than I do," he qualified. "You also like it here more than I like it in the States. However, it still wouldn't be fair to ask you to give up everything and stay here."

  "But I didn't—"

  "There's a third alternative," he continued, riding roughshod over her protests. A habit he was going to have to learn to break, she thought fondly. "We live on the island. You have to understand that every now and then even that much civilization is too much for me, and I have to get away. The Australians call it a walkabout. I just need to disappear into the bush for weeks and sometimes even months until I get my bearings back. When that happens, you could go back and spend time in the city. Actually, you could go back any time you wanted, but this way, it would work out best for both of us."

  "You have been putting a lot of thought into this, haven't you?" She didn't let her voice give away a thing.

  "Have you come up with any alternatives? If you're worried about the cost of flying back and forth to the States, I wouldn't if I were you. For one thing, I have pretty much more money than I can ever use in a lifetime. And I'm willing to bet that Hunnicutt decides granting you a generous severance package is the proper thing to do."

  "That's all he has to do?"

  "I'm expecting he'll deed Ghost Island and the research facility to the University of Cairns and promise never to set foot in Australia again. Of course they won't hold him to it—he's got deep-enough pockets that he'll be welcomed with open arms in a couple of years. Maybe by then he'll have developed a new hobby. So what do you think?"

  "Fine," she said.

  "Fine?" he echoed. "That's all you have to say?"

  "Fine, I'll come back to the island with you, fine that I'll stay with you until you decide you need to wander off, and that's when I'll get my fix of civilization. It sounds very practical. But actually that wasn't what I was asking you."

  "It wasn't?"

  "No," she said. "I mean, what are we going to do now?"

  His surprise was only temporary. He glanced back at the door. "There's a lock. Not that Roger ever comes below when he's piloting the Katie O. The engines make a hell of a noise—covers up almost anything. Though he said he could hear you crying on the way to Johnson Harbour."

  "He was lying," she said flatly, daring him to contradict her. "Then we've got four hours to kill. Why don't you start by taking off that damned suit?"

  His grin was slow, seductive. "You mean you don't like my Armani?"

  "Why in heaven's name would you need Armani?"

  "I teach classes every now and then."

  "No one teaches in Armani, trust me on this. Lose the tie."

  He unknotted it, slowly, his long, dark fingers working the knot loose. He pulled it free from the collar and draped it around her shoulders, then stepped back to look at it speculatively. "You know, there are some entertaining things we can do with that tie…"

  "Not now. Take off the coat."

  "Yes, ma'am." He stripped off the jacket, laying it across a chair.

  "Now the shoes."

  "These are specially made Italian leather. I've spent so many years of my life barefoot that I can't wear ready-made shoes."

  "I like you barefoot," she said. "Take them off."

  He kicked out of them, then peeled off his socks. "What about the shirt? Egyptian cotton?"

  "It'll make nice dish towels. And don't start telling me you can think of entertaining uses for your leather belt. I have my limits."

  "Coward," he said, laughing. "Do I get to keep my pants on?"

  "Oh, most definitely not. Lose 'em, sailor."

  He unzipped them and shoved them down, kicking out of them.

  "You're wearing boxers?" she said in disbelief.

  "Hey, I was in disguise," he protested.

  "I don't think Hunnicutt and his goons were going to check your underwear." Her voice was caustic.

  "You never can be too careful," he said, moving toward the bunk. "I think I'm getting a little ahead of you. Why don't you get rid of that T-shirt?"

  "Oh, damn!" she said suddenly.

  He knelt on the edge of the bunk. It was narrow, with barely room for two. "What?"

  "I forgot to get my clothes when we were at Ghost Island! I didn't even get anything at Johnson Harbour! I have nothing to wear when we get back to the island."

  "Somehow," John said, "I don't think that will be a problem." And he pushed her down on the mattress, covering her body with his.

  Captain Roger stopped singing long enough to take a healthy slug of beer. He'd been smart enough to bring a few up to keep him company for the trip back to the island—he knew perfectly well he wasn't going to see hide nor hair of John and his young lady for the duration. Already he could hear muffled laughter drifting up from the cabin.

  "Looks like you're finally showing some sense, mate," he said, raising an invisible toast to the cabin.

  And once more he began to sing.

  Three months later

  They'd had a fight, and Libby was miserable. It wasn't their first fight—John had spent too much of his life alone, not taking anyone else's opinions into account, for it to be smooth sailing, but each time the battle raged they worked it out, first verbally, then physically.

  But that wasn't possible this time. He was gone. No warning, no apology, no nothing. She'd slept in that morning, exhausted after an energetic night, only to find him in the kitchen, dressed in what she could only think of as his Wild Man clothes, and she knew he was leaving.

  She had two possible reactions—tears or anger, and she decided to go with anger. She was already feeling far too vulnerable, and crying in front of him would only make it worse. So she'd taken refuge in sarcasm, he'd responded in same, and eventually he'd stormed out
of the house without saying goodbye.

  And then, even worse, he'd stormed back in, picked her up and kissed her so thoroughly she could still feel it days later, and then left again. All without a word.

  That was when she'd cried. And then she became calm and practical. He'd return, he said he would, he always did, and this would give her time to go back to the city, to see the old places and the old friends. To shop, to visit museums, to be in the hustle and bustle of city life.

  Which no longer interested her. Her friends had been Richard's friends, not really hers, and in the year since he'd dumped her she'd been too obsessed with work to make new ones. She could buy anything she wanted on the Internet, and the very thought of the hustle and bustle and noise and crowds filled her with horror. But she dutifully made her reservation, had Captain Roger pick her up, and got as far as Johnson Harbour.

  This time it wasn't Mick and Alf who stopped her. And when she turned back to the Katie O., Captain Roger simply grinned and held out a gnarled hand to help her back on board.

  He'd been gone a week. A week alone in that big bed, a week of solitude and silence that wasn't half-bad once she got used to it. She'd grown to love the quiet noises the jungle made, the sound of the waves lapping on the shore, the cry of the night birds. It was a better place with John there, but even without him it was a better place than anywhere else.

  But God, she missed him.

  It was just past dawn when she woke up suddenly, jerked out of sleep by an unexpected noise. She sat up in bed, pulling the sheet up around her, her heart racing. She slept in one of John's oversize T-shirts and nothing else, and her robe was in the bathroom. She could hear someone moving around in the front room, making no effort to be stealthy. Whoever it was must have thought they were both gone.

  John didn't even own a gun. He said he didn't believe in them, and neither did Libby, but right at that moment she was ready to convert. She slipped out of bed, yanking the sheet off after her and draping it around her as she tiptoed toward the door. She could always sneak out the back and hide. Whoever it was would have to leave sooner or later, and Captain Roger said he'd come by and check on her every couple of days.