by Julie Miller
Cade slipped silently down the slope and, in a crouching run, made his way across to the wooden dock. Something about their white-haired neighbor, this Tony Costa, had bugged him ever since he heard the man speak. Cade still hadn’t placed the voice, but he trusted his gut instinct that told him once he did make the connection, he wouldn’t like it.
Besides, Winston Rademacher had supposedly chosen this particular tract of woods in northwest Connecticut specifically because it was remote. The summer-rental cabins and roadside motels had been abandoned after a new state-of-the art lodge and camping facility had drawn the tourists closer to Mohawk Mountain on the far side of the lake.
And Rademacher was no fool. The man not only had a plan for this kidnapping, but according to their conversation last night, he also had a backup plan. And despite how closemouthed the Armani-suited snob had been about his employer, he wasn’t the kind of man who’d make a mistake like this.
Cade had watched his back long enough to know something was up. The coincidence of two of the old cabins being occupied wasn’t impossible. That the two cabins being occupied were neighbors was too much coincidence for Cade to ignore.
His booted feet made no sound on the dock, and the gentle sound of water lapping against the stony shore was enough to cover the creak of the old, dry wood as he climbed down into the boat.
Besides needing answers, he needed some time alone. Time to figure out just where he’d made the mistake of taking a personal interest in Ellie Standish. The woman was trouble, just as he’d told her. Not because she’d chosen the wrong night to play dress-up and pretend she was a princess. Not because she had more backbone than any quiet mouse of a woman should.
She was trouble because she looked at him with those big blue eyes and made him wish he was something more than Bretford St. John’s son. She was trouble because she’d never been touched by a man. She was sweet and pure and trusting, and she’d gotten the damn-fool notion in her head that he was the one who could teach her about passion.
Sure, he could teach her a thing or two. But not much. The woman was a natural. In her innocence, she’d held nothing back. And the delicious, body-hugging sensation of Eleanor Standish clinging to him as if she never wanted to let go had punched him right in the gut.
Or maybe it was the groin. He tried to excuse his little tenderhearted obsession before it got out of hand. Ellie was an enigma, that was all. The women he’d known had always been experienced. Every one had her own angle to play, whether her relationship with him had been business or pleasure. He’d played his angle, too. The work always came first. Commitment and long-term weren’t in his vocabulary.
And Ellie? Hell, it seemed Ellie still believed in that kind of stuff. That should give him more than plenty of reason to run from wide-eyed comments like You’re a better man than this.
Whatever the explanation, his fake princess was a distraction he couldn’t afford. This job had gone sour long before he realized they had the wrong woman. If he wanted to survive this deal, he had best forget about her surprisingly sharp tongue and unexpectedly soft curves and concentrate on figuring out the puzzles surrounding this kidnapping, instead of the ones surrounding Ellie Standish.
Cade St. John didn’t fail. And he wasn’t about to let hidden motivations or mysterious neighbors or virginal secretaries keep him from success.
So with nightfall and Ellie safely tucked into her basement sleeping bag, he’d slipped past Lenny’s snoring form on the flowered couch and run through the woods for a quick inspection of Tony Costa’s cabin.
He checked the boat from bow to stern. Nothing fancy. Probably a rental from one of the locals. The forty-horsepower outboard engine had seen better days, but appeared to be in good working order. He found a first-aid kit and flare gun in the cubby beneath the steering wheel. He pulled the tackle box from under one of the seats and opened it.
Plastic worms. Dozens of them. Either Costa knew a secret about the lake trout that the other fishermen would love to steal, or the guy knew beans about fishing. Cade picked up the lone box of hooks between gloved fingers. It had never been opened.
He replaced the box and inspected the fishing rod lying in the bottom of the boat. No hook on the line.
How did the man expect to catch anything?
Cade stowed everything where he had found it and turned his eye to the storm brewing in the sky above him. Static lightning flashed in the clouds to the west, matching the turbulence growing inside him. What self-respecting angler left his gear out in the elements?
Cade’s misgivings blazed into outright suspicion.
Within the next two minutes he had circled the perimeter of the house and found a way in. This place was in better shape than the cabin they occupied, though the decor had a terminal case of 1970s avocado green. The refrigerator was well stocked, the indoor bathroom rust-stained but clean. The sofa bed’s flocked upholstery was dated, but the sheets inside were fresh.
Nothing to give him a clue to the man’s identity. No telephone numbers, no photographs, no ID. Not a damn thing.
Maybe the guy really was some celebrity just trying to escape the limelight. But Cade wasn’t ready to buy that idea. He propped his hands on his hips and surveyed the studio-style cabin one more time.
A drumbeat of thunder rumbled overhead. When the first drops of rain hit the corrugated tin of the porch’s roof, Cade found his answer. Enough of one, at least, to prick open every pore in his body and put his reflexes on wary alert.
It was the glint of metal peeking from inside the tissue box on the fake mantel above the space heater. Cade crossed the room and plucked the cylindrical steel tube from its hiding place. He rolled the small projectile between his fingers.
Like the others hidden inside the box, it was a high-powered rifle cartridge—7.5 mm. About the right size to fit an FR-F2 bolt-action rifle. A sniper’s gun. Not uncommon in the Korosolan military.
Cade curled his fist around the deadly round of ammunition and swore. “Don’t tell me you’re here to shoot the fish,” he queried aloud in a whisper that got lost in the pounding staccato of the rain on the roof. Just what kind of prey did their white-haired neighbor have in mind?
He knew damn well that the only type of killing this size of firepower was used for was assassination.
Just like the mayor of Montavi two years ago. The loyal monarchist leader of southwestern Korosol’s largest city had been taken out by a sniper’s bullet like this one. Cade’s gut tightened a painful notch as he remembered working behind the scenes on that mess. They’d traced the shooting back to the Korosolan Democratic Front. It was their last act of rebellion before King Easton had negotiated a settlement and returned peace to his kingdom.
The KDF had turned over the shooter as part of the agreement.
Or had they turned over a martyr, instead?
Who the hell was Tony Costa?
I’ she okay? Cade replayed the man’s voice in his head, trying to connect that distinctly slurred, resonant tone with a tangible memory. Tony Costa. The name just didn’t gel.
Cade squeezed his eyes shut and tuned his hearing inward to the memories of missions past. Ge’ me outta here. Now.
The knot in his gut twisted a bit tighter.
A voice on the radio. A routine retrieval job for his covert ops unit in Central America. Five men in. Six men out. Only there’d been no one at the rendezvous site. Certainly no snowy-haired man. Nothing.
Nothing but a few spent shells that indicated their pickup had shot his own way out of trouble and left them stranded in unfriendly territory. A gun for hire who’d mumbled his words and disappeared without a trace. The wild-goose chase had twisted his stomach into knots then. But he’d gotten his men out. Not all in one piece, perhaps, but he’d gotten them out.
His gut screamed at him now.
“Sonny.”
The recognition hit him with all the finesse of a sledgehammer, but Cade was already at the door, about a mile and a half away from where he n
eeded to be. Now. Yesterday. Before a professional sharpshooter with the code name Sonny found their house. And Ellie.
Or rather, Princess Lucia. What other target of any value was camped out in the backwoods of northwest Connecticut?
Pocketing the rifle cartridge, Cade dashed out of the cabin into the night. The cool rain pelting his face couldn’t erase the crawling sense of dread that warned him the white-haired fisherman armed to the teeth was all part of Winston Rademacher’s self-proclaimed backup plan.
And that innocent Ellie Standish was about to pay the price for her kidnappers’ mistakes.
THE PERVASIVE SOUND of the spring thunderstorm outside muffled the scrape of the bolt sliding out of the lock at the top of the stairs. But when the rectangle of light from above hit the wall in front of her, Ellie knew she had company. She quickly left the broken-down furnace where she’d worked her fingers raw trying to pry loose the old nameplate, and slipped down inside the sleeping bag. With her eyes open, she waited for her visitor to announce himself.
But whoever it was, he had stopped at the top of the stairs. He hovered like a ghost in the doorway, standing too far away for her to recognize his silhouette. She was a lump in the shadows, soundless herself unless she moved the chain. A chill crept along her skin, leaving goose bumps in its wake. Was somebody watching her?
“Hello?” she whispered, when the creepy, watchful silence had finally stretched her nerves to the limit. “Who’s there?”
The ghost’s smell reached her nose the instant before he spoke. Stale smoke and spilled beer.
“Hi, sugar. It’s me.” Something hard like a gavel clunked against the top step, and Ellie jumped in her skin. Jerome reeled into view, balancing himself on the walking stick he had carved from a sturdy tree branch and hopping down one step at a time in an awkward descent.
Oh, God. This wasn’t good. Not good at all. Ellie’s breath gathered in her chest, then whooshed out in a flare of uncontrolled panic. She scrambled to her feet and moved behind the stool, putting the only blockade available to her between them.
“What do you want?” she demanded, turning her fear into the sound of defiant anger.
Jerome’s stick hit the concrete with the force of judgment as he stepped into the lantern’s circle of light.
“You see what you did to me, sugar?”
She dropped her gaze from the bleary hatred in his eyes to his injured leg. His pant leg had been slit up past the knee and gaped open to reveal the purplish black swelling of skin above his wrapped ankle. The same discoloration extended to the swollen nubs of his toes.
Good, she thought, with a strengthening burst of irreverent satisfaction. Her escape attempt hadn’t been all for naught. She’d taken a bit of retribution for the pain they’d caused her.
She’d also made one very dangerous enemy.
Ellie adjusted her glasses at her temples and tucked her hair behind her ears. Maybe she’d be smarter to try a less-confrontational survival strategy. Pulling her chin from its regal angle, she did what Ellie Standish did best. As loathsome as Jerome might be, she could see the man was in serious pain. And she was very good at taking care of people who were hurting.
“You really should have left your boot on,” she suggested. “It would have helped control the swelling. As it is, you should keep that ankle elevated and pack it in ice. Do you have any ice upstairs? I could make an ice pack for you.”
“I don’t want any damn ice pack.” He hobbled forward a step and Ellie flinched. Jerome spied the movement and laughed at her. It was a sick, slimy sound that coated her skin with a whole new set of chill bumps. “But I can think of other ways you can make it up to me.”
He lurched forward, step after relentless step.
Ellie backed away. She could certainly outrun the man, but not with a cuff of stainless steel locked around her ankle.
Her gaze darted to the furnace. The tarnished brass nameplate still held fast, but she’d managed to bend up the first two letters. It’d be sharp enough to stab a man—if she could lure him close enough and shove him onto the jagged point.
“You’re drunk.” Her accusation drowned in the conscienceless pit of his eyes.
“It numbs the pain.”
She’d walked herself to the end of the chain. Jerome hopped another step, but she dodged the clawing grasp of his fingers and edged closer to the furnace. He ran his tongue along the rim of his lips and straightened his leering smile into something grimly threatening before planting his stick and turning to follow her.
“My damn ankle could have busted. As it is, the sprain slows me down. But not so slow I can’t catch you.”
Instead of following her farther, he twisted the chain around the end of the stick and jerked, dragging Ellie several inches closer to him. She stumbled but stayed on her feet. He anchored the chain with the stick, keeping her within arm’s reach.
Ellie put up her hands, but Jerome powered past her scratching grasp and wrapped his fingers around the loose waistband of her pants. When he yanked, she fell forward into his chest. Her nose hit a wall of smoky wool. She gasped in shock, sucking in the gagging scent of the man himself.
Caution and strategy flew out of her head as panic rushed in. The canvas material of her pants caught and strained between her legs. He’d lifted her off her feet.
Ellie shoved hard. The instant her feet hit solid concrete again, she swung, smacking him across the face with such force that her palm went numb. As numb as the stunned expression on his puffy face.
“I swear to God, if you touch me, I’ll hurt you.”
While his cheeks paled, then flooded with splotchy color, Ellie realized his mask had vanished. The substitute chauffeur she’d once thought gallant wore a look of deadly intent now. She tried to scramble away when he released her, but knew she’d waited a split second too long.
His meaty hand connected with her cheek and knocked her to the floor. Ellie’s yelp of pain got lost in the ringing dizziness in her skull. Her glasses sailed across the room into oblivion, and though she knew she was moving her jaw from side to side, she couldn’t quite feel it. Her throbbing head echoed with the shrill sound of evil laughter.
And then he was on top of her. “Not before I hurt you. I don’t want you to be easy, sugar. That’s no fun.” The heavy stick clattered to the floor beside her and the buttons on her shirt popped loose. Ellie screamed. She couldn’t see his face, but she could feel his hands on her skin, crudely squeezing her breasts, then sliding down her stomach. “I’ve never done it with a princess before.”
Somehow Ellie didn’t think setting him straight on that score would matter right now.
Rage, pure and simple—from a woman who’d never experienced much beyond fear of failure—exploded inside her.
“You won’t tonight, either.”
Jerome’s hands slipped inside her pants and she kicked. Savagely. Repeatedly. Until her foot connected with the swollen stump of his ankle. Jerome gave an unholy shriek and cursed her to hell. He crumpled into a ball to protect his leg, and Ellie rolled from beneath him. As she turned onto her stomach, she dove for the walking stick and came up swinging.
CADE LEFT LENNY to search for signs of Tony Costa when he heard Ellie’s scream.
They didn’t know the truth yet. They hadn’t figured out that Ellie wasn’t the real princess.
He’d been so focused on the enemy next door that he’d forgotten the one living right under his nose. “El—” He caught his mistake just in time. “Lucia!”
Flying down the stairs three at a time, Cade flashed on the image of meek and mild Ellie swinging something like a baseball bat over her head and bringing it down on the stooped form of Jerome’s back. Her ripped shirt hung open. The red mark on her cheek bore the imprint of a man’s open hand.
The picture was clear.
His reaction to it was not.
A primal, predatory need to defend Ellie against Jerome’s vile attack surged through him, nearly overpowering his sense of
reason. But Ellie herself gave him the impetus he needed to hold on to rational thought.
When she heard him behind her, she whirled around and swung at him. Cade twisted and deflected the blow with his shoulder. As he came back around, he snagged her wrist. He glimpsed the wild-eyed fury inside her that made her strong. But he was stronger. With a press and a spin, the stick was on the floor and she was wrapped tightly against him, her back to his chest. He pinned her arms to her sides and held on until the last of her adrenaline was spent.
She sagged against his forearms, her deep gasps for air forcing him to loosen his hold. Steadying her with one arm cinched round her waist, he smoothed her hair and whispered some calming little nothings into her ear.
Jerome might be down, but he wasn’t out for the count.
“You bitch.”
Cade jerked to attention, along with Ellie.
Jerome had managed to crawl to his feet. The lecherous bastard limped forward, his outstretched knife aimed right for Ellie’s throat.
Cade shifted to the side and smashed Jerome’s jaw beneath his fist, driving the brute to his knees. The satisfying crunch only whet his appetite to do more damage. But his point had been made. Jerome stayed down.
He waited for the wounded man to raise his face and meet the stark warning in Cade’s eyes. “She’s mine. You keep your hands off her. From here on out, until this job is done, you’ll have to go through me to get to her.”
Jerome slid his toadlike gaze to Ellie. Cade felt the subtle shift in her posture, moving closer. He obliged her by spreading his fingers with a possessive claim at her hip.
Jerome noted that claim, too, before lifting his beady eyes to Cade. “Don’t tempt me, Sinjun.”
