by Lori Wilde
His lips vibrated against hers and he breathed her name. “Marlie.”
No name had ever sounded so sexy. Marlie, Marlie, Marlie. Hers was not a euphonic name. The hard M followed by the harsh R and ending with the girlish “lee” sound caused phonetic disharmony. But the way Joel said her name, with his slight southern drawl, it sounded like the ocean breathing. “Maaalee.”
She moaned quietly and he swallowed up the resonant hum of her, like a man too long in the desert drinking his fill of ice water.
Desperately, she wished they were in private, in a bedroom, far from traffic and prying eyes. She wanted him to tumble her onto a soft mattress, rip her clothes off, and dive into her deep. She ached to feel the hard thrust of his shaft as her body closed around his.
Marlie’s need was a runaway horse. Out of control. Disorderly. Unbridled.
Turmoil. She was in turmoil. Her emotions flailed giddily. Excitement warred with guilt and passion and sadness and glee. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry. She felt too free.
Help!
She jerked her head back, pulling away, struggling to breathe and grab hold of some shred of sanity. Joel’s arms were still wrapped around her, his eyes clouded and heavy. The motion was slight, hardly noticeable, but his lips were trembling.
She wasn’t the only one totally blown away. Eddies of embarrassment and sexual hunger washed over her, warring waves of boldness and timidity.
“Joel . . .” What was she going to say? That she was sorry? But she had nothing to apologize for. He had kissed her.
She reached out, not knowing what she intended to do, but got caught up in the crazy push-pull battle inside her.
But Joel raised an arm, blocking her hand, and latched his eyes on to hers.
He was breathing hard and he did not speak. He didn’t have to speak. She could read the message in his eyes loud and clear.
Come any closer, touch me again, and I will have no choice but to take you right here, right now, the rest of the world be damned.
The resulting thrill that raced through her body was so powerful that she almost had an orgasm right there on the spot.
Behind them car horns honked.
“The drawbridge is up,” he croaked in a gravelly voice and then fell back against the passenger seat.
Angelina wanted to take credit for the stunned expression on his face. Marlie’s ego wanted to believe her kiss had rendered him weak and senseless.
But when she saw the dark red bloodstain blooming on the front of his garish Hawaiian shirt, her heart stopped.
CHAPTER NINE
The man wore a black ski mask and mirrored sunglasses. Penelope had no idea how he could see to drive in the darkness.
In his lap lay a pistol.
He hadn’t spoken a word to Penelope since he’d kidnapped her. She sat huddled beside him on the front seat of his four-wheel-drive Army jeep circa 1960, afraid to ask questions, terrified of his answers. Her hands were bound in front of her with a soft fiber rope.
He drove south down the long, lonely stretch of beach of North Padre Island, away from her home, away from Marlie. Gone were the restaurants and the stores. Gone were the hotels and the condos. Gone were other cars and people. They were on government land now. On the National Seashore Preserve, in the middle of nowhere. The sky above was as vast and deep as the Gulf of Mexico stretching out to their left.
Misgiving filled her. Her heart was pounding, and she felt slightly sick to her stomach. She’d spent half her life expecting something like this, but as the years had passed she’d grown complacent. Thinking surely that if the dastardly people Daniel had been about to expose just before his death had wanted to kill her, they already would have done so.
Why was it happening now, fifteen years after the fact? She knew nothing about what had happened in Iraq during Desert Storm. Daniel had refused to tell her what was going on, refused to put her and Marlie in harm’s way by giving her dangerous knowledge.
Penelope had no idea what this man wanted or where he was taking her. But even though she could not have put it into words, she knew this was the most significant event of her life. More important than her wedding day or her daughter’s birth or the night she’d learned Daniel had been shot down in cold blood aboard the USS Gilcrest by his best friend Gus Hunter and that his body had fallen overboard and been lost at sea.
Mile after mile slipped away, the silence growing longer, louder, tenser until Penelope thought she would scream.
At last, several hours after he’d abducted her from her home, only minutes after her mysterious phone call, the man stopped the jeep. The sand dunes around them were thick and tall and eerily silent. He motioned for her to get out.
Penelope opened the door. It was dark and cold. She shivered in the chilly night air. She could see nothing but sand dune upon sand dune upon sand dune. No houses, no people, no signs of civilization.
He’s going to kill me. He’s going to gun me down in cold blood, and I’ll never see Marlie again.
But she would see her beloved Daniel at long last.
Joy, hot and unexpected, jumped in her chest. Oh, to be with Daniel!
And then a sense of complete serenity settled over her. All right then. If it was her time to die, then it was her time to die. She’d waited fifteen long years to be reunited with her husband. She would not mourn the loss of this life, even though she would miss her daughter something fierce.
“Go ahead,” she said, her voice clear and steady. “Shoot me. I’m prepared to die.”
But he did not shoot her.
Instead, he pulled a silk scarf from his pocket.
Oh, dear God, he was going to strangle her.
He stepped closer. She forced herself not to scream or beg for mercy, but she couldn’t help flinching when he draped the scarf over her head.
She would be brave. She would do Daniel proud. Penelope squared her shoulders and prepared for death.
“You’re bleeding,” Marlie said, stating what was now becoming quite obvious.
“Wow.” Joel gave her a wan grin. “She’s beautiful and amazingly astute too.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass.”
“It’s either that or pass out,” he said. “Take your pick.”
“What happened? How did you get hurt? How long have you been bleeding? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Please, don’t nag,” he said. “I’m not up for it.”
“That’s not nagging; that’s asking questions.”
He massaged his forehead with two fingers. His color was too pale, and he was beginning to ooze blood onto the seat. It must hurt like hell, no wonder he was so grumpy.
“Never mind,” she said. “Don’t answer. It’s not important.”
“I got nicked by a stray bullet,” he murmured.
“The hit man shot you?”
“He didn’t shoot me, he shot the side-view mirror of his Camaro, and it ricocheted off and grazed my side.”
“He shot up his own Camaro? You know, for a hired assassin this guy is really a crappy shot, but I’m grateful for it.”
“Where are we going?” Joel asked.
“I’m taking you to the hospital right now.” Marlie sped up, whipping the SUV from lane to lane, jockeying for a better position in traffic.
“Don’t panic, it’s just a flesh wound. I’ll be okay.”
“What are you? Some stalwart knight from a Monty Python skit?”
“I’m an ex-Navy SEAL. Believe me, I’ve had much worse than this.”
An ex-Navy SEAL?
Well, that explained the gun and the commanding way he’d thrown her over his shoulder and then busted out the window in her mother’s house to save her, and his arrogant attitude, cocky tilt and all. She felt as if he’d been lying to her somehow. He could have told her before now that he was a SEAL. Before she had started liking him, before he’d saved her life and gotten himself shot up over her.
“I knew it,” she muttered, her emotions a fist again
st her rib cage. “I told Angelina you were military, but she wouldn’t listen. I mean, who could mistake it? The haircut, the posture, the starched white dress shirt.”
“Angelina?”
Belatedly, Marlie realized she’d just referenced her alter ego to someone who didn’t know how much mental energy she spent with a fictional character. Instead of answering him she said, “An ex-Navy SEAL, huh?”
“I’m retired.”
“You retired from the SEALs and you’re only what? Thirty?”
“Thirty-one.”
“You didn’t retire. Not at your age. I’m a Navy brat. I know what SEALs are like. They’re tight. It’s a real brotherhood. Once you’re a SEAL, you don’t willingly leave. You got kicked out, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” he admitted. “I got kicked out.”
“What did you do? Funnel whiskey down someone’s throat?”
“Not exactly.” He gave her a wry smile, and she admired his ability to see humor in a black situation.
“You’re not going to tell me why, are you?”
“I don’t like to talk about it.”
Marlie nodded. She could respect that. There were a lot of things she didn’t like to talk about either, and if she were the one with the gunshot wound, she’d be howling like a banshee.
By the time they reached the hospital in downtown Corpus, Joel had either fallen asleep or passed out. Marlie kept glancing at his chest to make sure he was still breathing, and every time she looked it seemed the bloodstain had spread a bit more.
She pulled up into the emergency bay. “Joel, we’re here.”
He didn’t answer.
Marlie reached over and shook his shoulder. “Wake up, we’re at the hospital.”
He groaned, but didn’t open his eyes.
“Come on, say something, smart-ass.”
His head lolled back against the seat.
Oh, no. Oh, crap. Oh, shit.
Marlie peeled off her seat belt, jumped from the SUV, and ran inside the emergency room entrance. Once she was through the door, she stopped, not knowing where to proceed to next.
Beyond the glass partition nurses ran to and fro, obviously working a major trauma. The front desk was empty; no receptionist or clerk greeted her. To her left lay the waiting area, crammed with people. Most sat in chairs looking miserable; a few were watching the television mounted on the wall in the corner. A bored security guard lounged against the wall, listlessly picking his teeth.
Marlie’s eyes drifted to the television screen. The news was on. She turned away, trying desperately to catch the gaze of a passing staff member, when from her peripheral vision she saw her picture flashed up on the television screen.
What the heck?
Hurriedly she shoved her way over to the TV, cocked her head, and strained to listen above the hum of voices and hospital noises.
“Marlie Montague is wanted for questioning in the arson investigation surrounding the fire that burned her mother’s North Padre Island cottage to the ground earlier this evening,” said the News 11 anchorman. “In the garage of that home, the police have just made a grisly discovery. We go to Evita Casteda live at the scene.”
Grisly discovery? What grisly discovery?
Marlie nudged aside a wino who reeked of urine, and stood on tiptoe for a better view of the television. The camera switched to an attractive Latina reporter standing in front of the burned-out remnants of her mother’s home. Yellow crime-scene tape secured the perimeter. Marlie’s blood curdled. To actually see the remains of the bungalow weakened her stomach and her knees.
“Mike,” Evita Casteda addressed the anchorman, “here’s what we’ve learned. The police have found a body in the ashes of the house owned by Penelope Montague.”
“Mom?” Marlie whimpered and bile rose to her throat.
No. It couldn’t be. Her hands shook and her skin turned as cold as a grave.
“The body is burned beyond recognition, but according to the medical examiner it does appear to be male. Cause of death is yet to be determined. We’ll keep you updated as new evidence arises. Back to you, Mike.”
It was a man’s body. It wasn’t her mother. She raised a trembling hand to her mouth.
The camera switched back to the newsroom. “Marlie Montague is the daughter of the infamous Desert Storm traitor, Daniel Montague, who was accused but never convicted of selling U.S. military missiles to the Iraqi terrorists during the first Gulf War. Montague claimed he’d been framed by someone in the upper echelon of the U.S. Navy, but Montague was shot and killed trying to escape custody before he could be tried for treason.”
The anchorman paused for effect, then quickly glanced down to check his notes.
“Montague’s daughter is now a comic book artist who writes about government conspiracies. Ms. Montague is no stranger to controversy. Last year she was maced by police during an arrest at a shrimp boat protest on Pier 51. The law enforcement authorities are not yet saying that Ms. Montague is a suspect, but she is considered a person of interest. Witnesses saw her fleeing the scene of the arson in the company of an unknown male companion.”
Marlie’s picture flashed up on the screen again.
Dear God, she was a suspect.
Tell her the truth. Tell her why you’re really here. The notion tapped illogically, an accusing intonation in Joel’s brain as he sat in the Durango, drifting in and out of sleep, slowly oozing blood.
It’s me, J. J. Hunter, the guy you had a crush on when you were five. I’m on your side. I want to help you. I want to protect you.
Aw, damn. He prayed that when she finally found out who he really was, she’d forgive him. Not only for lying to her, but for the past, for being a Hunter. For his father’s part in her father’s death.
His cell phone chirped and he answered it one-handed. “Yeah.” He tried to wet his dry lips with an even drier tongue.
“Bring her in.”
“What?”
“You deaf? Marlie Montague; bring her in.”
“Dobbs?” Feeling dazed, Joel shook his head.
“No, this is Howard Stern. Bring her in, Hunter. Now.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
“I want an answer.”
“Don’t question my authority, just obey the order.”
Joel was feeling testy. “I’m the one out here with my ass on the line, getting shot at and almost burned up in a house fire. I have a right to know what the hell is going on.”
“You got shot at? Who’s shooting at you?”
“Yeah. The guy who’s trying to execute Marlie Montague. Got any idea why, Dobbs?”
“Don’t let that mousy facade fool you, Hunter; she’s dangerous.”
“Sorry, Dobbs, I don’t know whose bullshit you’re spreading, but I don’t need my yard fertilized.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass. They found a body in the arson fire in Penelope Montague’s garage.”
“Penelope Montague?” His gut wrenched hard to think Marlie’s mother might have died in the fire.
“Nope. Take a wild guess.”
Joel grunted. “Why don’t you save me the minutes and just tell me.”
“Former government-contractor-turned-weapons-lobbyist Robert Herkle.”
“What was Robert Herkle doing in Penelope Montague’s garage?”
“That’s the sixty-four-billion-dollar question. But here’s the kicker. The police found a gas can they believe was used to start the blaze, and Marlie Montague’s fingerprints are all over it.”
“So? She used the gas can at her mother’s and the arsonist wore gloves. Dobbs, I’ve been watching her for two weeks. I was with her when she went to her mother’s house. Someone nailed the windows shut and we were trapped inside the house together when the fire started. There’s no way she ignited that blaze.”
“Before you rush to the woman’s defense, that’s not all.”
“Lay it on me.” The allegations were so bogus. Joel didn’t know who was be
hind these lies. He didn’t know if Dobbs was a mere puppet or if he was one of the investigators determined to railroad Marlie, but he wasn’t about to let them blame this on her.
“Just got the coroner’s report. The fire was set to cover up the fact Herkle had been shot with a gun once owned by Daniel Montague. If Marlie didn’t kill him, her mother certainly did, and since we have no idea where Mom is, it’s time to bring your girl in. Besides, if someone is bent on killing her, it’s better to have her in protective custody.”
“Not if you intend to bring her up on charges for a crime she didn’t commit.”
“The evidence will be what brings her up on charges, Hunter, not me.”
“I don’t feel good about this. There’s more you’re not telling me.”
“Yeah, and it’s top secret. Just bring her in.”
Joel thought about Marlie and her crazy conspiracy theories. He’d never believed that any of them could be true, but now, with his boss’s adamant attitude, he was starting to wonder if perhaps she really had stumbled onto something. Some weird things had been happening. Could the Navy brass really be involved? His sense of loyalty warred with his sense of justice.
And what about Marlie? If he didn’t stand by her now, what would happen to her? His protective instincts welled up inside him. She was the underdog. She needed him and he couldn’t turn his back on her, even if it meant turning his back on the Navy, even knowing that if she was wrong, if someone wasn’t trying to railroad her, then he would pay a high price.
He clenched his fist and made his decision to put everything on the line for her. “No.”
“What?”
“You heard me. I’m not bringing her in. Not when you’re already prejudiced against her.”
There were so many damned unanswered questions.
Where was Marlie’s mother? Why had Robert Herkle been in Penelope Montague’s garage? Who had killed him? Was it the same man who’d tried to assassinate Marlie? Had he also started the bungalow fire, or had that been someone else? And how did any of this tie in to Marlie?
Joel didn’t know, but he was determined to find out.
“I’m not bringing her in,” he told Dobbs again and hung up the phone.
