Kidnapped / I Got You Babe

by Jacqueline Diamond

  The door shuddered again as if someone was kicking it. The passengers must be getting restless. “Maybe you should hand the jewels through the door,” she said. “They might let you go if you do.”

  “Give up my loot?” Rita stared at her in disbelief. “I went to a lot of trouble to swipe it. They got a lot of nerve, wanting it back!”

  “I don’t see how Cha Cha’s going to be able to help you get away, then,” Melanie told her.

  “Ya better cross your fingers he does,” Rita said darkly. “Yer still my hostage. Come ta think of it, you oughta be locked up in the pantry.”

  “The pantry?” Small places didn’t panic Melanie, but neither was she overly fond of them.

  “Yeah.” Rita waved the gun. “I don’t wanna have to worry about ya sneaking around when my back is turned. Get in there!”

  Melanie could see there might be an advantage to absenting herself from the scene if the irate passengers broke in. “Okay.” She scraped back her chair, pocketed the butcher paper and went into the pantry.

  There was no lock on the door but she could hear Rita piling things in front of it. In the darkness, Melanie felt along the wall. Her fingers encountered a light switch, and she flicked it on.

  The pantry formed an L leading back into foodcrammed depths. The aisle was wide enough to turn around in, and, judging by the assortment of jars, tins and packages, she didn’t have to worry about starving.

  But she would rather not stick around long enough to need another meal. And so, when Melanie rounded the corner of the L and a cord brushed her cheek, she did the logical thing.

  She opened the trapdoor and made her way up the ladder.

  ATTIC EXPLORATION was not one of Hal’s fields of expertise. Having lived most of his life in apartments, he had been deprived of the experience as a boy, and had never had a chance to compensate until now.

  Unfortunately, Drop Dead’s attic was not the smoothfloored extravaganza of children’s fantasies. There were no steamer trunks to open and no widow’s walks revealing dramatic vistas.

  Except for a small platform bordering the trapdoor, there was scarcely even a floor, only narrow beams running between fat insulation pads. The attic stretched a considerable distance, but it was so low-roofed that Hal had to crouch.

  Rain clapped overhead, as if someone were beating a drum next to his ear. In the stuffy air, his body temperature soared as he crawled toward the kitchen.

  But he didn’t care about physical discomfort. He had to reach Melanie before she got hurt.

  What was it about a pair of uptilted, olive green eyes that made them suddenly more vital to him than any other pair of eyes in the world? Why did the mere thought of her smile set his heart thudding?

  In the past fifteen years, Hal had removed half a dozen people from the world. He had never missed any of them and, knowing their pasts, doubted that anyone else had, either.

  Not only that, but he also didn’t miss any of his ex-wives. Or former girlfriends, especially the one who shot him through the shoulder.

  But the thought of anything happening to Melanie was intolerable. So firm was his determination that Hal managed not to cough when dust tickled his throat, and not to curse as, crawling on hands and knees, he slipped and mashed a sensitive portion of his anatomy against the beam.

  From a distance, he could hear people talking in the dining room, their words blurring into gibberish. Then he heard something else, a scritching noise that came from right here in the attic.

  He paused to listen. Not scritching, he decided, but rustling, and it was moving from the kitchen area toward the dining room.

  Passing a support post, he saw a shaft of light define a rectangular opening. Someone had indeed entered the attic.

  If it were Rita, why would she be traveling toward the dining room instead of in some safer direction? Besides, he couldn’t imagine the unathletic Ms. Samovar moving with such stealth. Altering course, Hal went in pursuit of the new arrival.

  MELANIE WISHED her face didn’t keep breaking through spiderwebs. It made her wonder where the spiders were.

  She didn’t enjoy crawling along narrow boards, either. Her discomfort eased when she reminded herself that gymnasts performed leaps and flips atop beams no wider than this, although usually not with bongo drums beating directly above their heads.

  Below and ahead, she could hear people talking in the dining room. Melanie had a facility for sorting words out of mumbling, and despite the rain she was able to make out “Cha Cha,” “key” and “go get.” It sounded promising.

  Then she saw the flashlight beam. Someone had joined her in the attic.

  Her first thought was, Rita. The newcomer, however, was off to one side, not behind her.

  Melanie squinted. Unfortunately, the light hit her directly in the retinas.

  Deciding not to wait around for bad news, she kept moving toward the dining room. There was most likely another trapdoor there; if not, she would have to risk putting a foot through the ceiling. She could at least make her presence known before this intruder reached her.

  Easing forward, Melanie started to put her weight on the next beam. It groaned ominously, a noise all but covered by a burst of rain.

  As she weighed her options, she realized that the newcomer had made more rapid progress than expected. “Melanie!” The low, gruff voice sent prickles down her spine.

  Hal. He’d come to save her.

  Or had he come in search of Rita? A fist squeezed in Melanie’s chest.

  “You ratsoid!” she hissed as she backed away.

  Hal prowled toward her at a right angle, approaching until she could smell his smoky masculinity. “Why do you call me a rat?” Hurt edged his voice.

  “You and Rita!” she replied in a stage whisper. “You were planning to marry her, weren’t you? All you offered me was a lousy contract!”

  He ducked his head. It was a gesture full of boyish appeal, and also had the effect of ruffling his thick brown hair so that she ached to run her fingers through it. Gangsters, Melanie reflected sharply, were not meant to be so cute.

  “It is not as it seems,” he said. “I was attempting to protect you.”

  “From who?”

  “From me.”

  “By keeping me as your tootsie?”

  “Tootsie?” His chiseled features reflected surprise.

  “Isn’t that what you thugs call a mistress?”

  “We are not thugs,” he answered coolly, “and I do not regard you as a mistress. I consider you a beautiful and sensual woman who would not wish to be kept on a leash.”

  “That’s why you didn’t ask me to marry you?”

  He hesitated. “It is more complicated than that” The Iceman sighed. “I am willing to be flexible on the subject of wedding bells. However, I must know if you still do not wish to have children.”

  Although she was reconsidering her views on the subject, Melanie preferred not to say so. After all, she did not even know if she could have children, and if that was all Hal wanted, where would it leave her if she couldn’t?

  The only possible justification for marriage was true love, and true love does not alter when it infertility finds. “Who knows?” she said.

  “Yes,” muttered Hal in uncharacteristic confusion. “Who knows?”

  A large, warm hand closed over hers. Tendrils of fire curled through Melanie’s body as she remembered in intense visceral detail how it felt to remove this man’s clothes and be swept away by him.

  His face came within inches of hers, holding her fixed within his spell. His hard mouth angled onto hers, and her lips parted, and they came together where rafter joined to rafter.

  Melanie knew in an instant that she wished to perform the ultimate act of gymnastics on a beam, and that the man she wished to perform it with was Hal. Only a few laws of physics stood between them, and surely those could be dispensed with for special occasions.

  Directly beneath them, she became aware of the chattering coalescing at on
e point, as if people were gathering at the entrance to the kitchen. Idly, she wondered if the passengers were going to break in and capture Rita.

  Thank goodness for the closed pantry door. Even after the kitchen was raided, it would take a while for anyone to discover where Melanie had gone. Knowing Hal’s lightning proclivities, the two of them should have earned their gold medal before then.

  Carefully but swiftly, Hal twisted until he lay flat on his back atop his perch, and lifted Melanie onto him. She landed on a support of tightly packed muscle and iron male readiness. Balance was a tricky matter, but she had always yearned to walk a high wire.

  Until now, however, she had given no thought to the partner with whom she would walk that wire. She could not deny how strongly she felt attracted to Hal, the only man of her acquaintance who would even consider making love in such a situation.

  Strong hands caressed her breasts through her sweater. Her entire body poised for action as she bent to kiss his waiting mouth.

  Something jolted the beam. Once, twice. Melanie grabbed for a handhold, but the only thing she found was Hal, who was in turn grasping the wood beneath him.

  Below, the kitchen door rammed open. Not far off, the weakened beam gave a cataclysmic shudder.

  This section of attic began to sag. A sudden shift proved the final straw for the struggling Hal as he lost his grip on their support.

  With a half twist in a piked position, the two of them slid off the rafter and crashed through the insulation into the dining room below.

  9

  HAL WAS NOT entirely surprised to find himself plunging through space. He had been in freefall ever since he met Melanie Mulcahy.

  Could he seriously be considering marriage to a lady who had no discernible wealth of her own? A female who might not even wish to bless their union with children?

  Yet money scarcely mattered, when he had no intention of divorcing this woman. As for children, well, he would have to give that subject more thought after he hit the ground.

  Fortunately, he did not hit the ground. What he hit was Captain Yolo Bowers, who had become so relaxed under the effects of Rita’s spiked wine that he folded meekly on impact.

  Melanie, in turn, fell upon the first officer. He had spread his arms wide to emphasize his singing, and caught her with a force that brought him crunching to his knees, on the downbeat.

  By great good fortune, only a small section of ceiling rained down into the open doorway. The rest of the attic held. After making sure that no serious injuries had occurred, Hal turned his attention to the tableau at hand. Frozen in place at this unexpected arrival were a knot of passengers led by Cha Cha, Bone Crusher and the Swamp Fox.

  Only a few feet away, trapped in the kitchen, stood a defiant Rita Samovar. Her pearl-handled gun had been transferred to the custody of the purser.

  “We are pleased to learn that the hostage did not meet an unsavory end,” said the Swamp Fox. “That would have been another blot on Cha Cha’s record.”

  The usually perky money launderer hung his head. “I am sorry I conspired with this Jezebel,” he said. “The jewels will now be returned, and I have suffered the consequences of my misguided actions. The Jolly Roger was my greatest treasure, my dearest love, and she, this heartless, calculating wench…”

  “Hal,” said Rita meaningfully.

  He regarded her sternly. “Yes?”

  “Will you not assist me?” She tapped her foot against the linoleum. When he didn’t respond, her accent took a left turn. “Gimme some help here, Hal.”

  Disbelief stilled his tongue. The woman had used him, and endangered the lady he loved, and ruthlessly betrayed her own partner in crime by crashing his ship. Yet she expected Hal to leap to her aid?

  He felt Melanie’s gaze rake him. Everyone else was watching too.

  It was not Hal’s way to turn his back on a former friend, even one as faithless as Rita. On the other hand, she could scarcely expect to get away with her ill-gotten gains. “First return the jewels,” he said.

  Overripe lips pursed in displeasure. “Says who?”

  Hal met her glare with steely resolve. “If it is your intention to seek mercy, you must make restitution to those you have wronged.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed and her neck shortened, as if she were becoming a reptile. “I wouldn’t yammer about wrongin’ people, if I was you.”

  Did she refer to his decision not to eliminate Melanie?

  “You requested that I remove a certain person from your path, and I did.”

  “Yeah? Did I ask you to bring her here?”

  “That was my idea,” he conceded. “It seemed harmless at the time.”

  “You hear that?” Rita asked the assembly. “It was his idea. She don’t belong here.”

  “Yeah?” snarled Bone Crusher. “When a dame is built in a particular manner, we ain’t fussy about her bona fides.”

  “It has never been required that a gangster’s guest have a criminal record,” added the Swamp Fox.

  “She may not have one herself,” warned Rita, “but this tootsie can send ya right to the slammer.”

  With a gulp of dismay, Hal wondered if Melanie might be underage. But no; he had taken the precaution of confirming her identity via her driver’s license while she lay sprawled in the parking lot, and it gave her years as a healthy twenty-eight.

  “Miss Mulcahy is not jailbait.” Recalling a certain previous discussion, he added quickly, “She is not a tootsie, either.”

  Rita smiled the smile of the self-satisfied. Or of those who have a spare weapon in their purse, possibly in the order of a nuclear bomb. “Hal, ya better help me out here. If ya know what’s good for ya.”

  “You keepin’ secrets from us, Iceman?” Bone Crusher’s mustache quivered menacingly.

  “That would not be wise,” said the Swamp Fox unnecessarily.

  “I? Secrets?” His mind raced. Exactly which of his secrets could Rita have uncovered? And what did they have to do with Melanie? “I have no secrets that involve this young lady.”

  “Maybe not,” said Rita triumphantly. “But what ya don’t know definitely can hurt ya.”

  Melanie, Hal noted, wore an expression of resignation on her lovely face. “I’ll spare you the suspense.” The woman of his dreams sighed. “She’s trying to tell you that I’m a reporter.”

  There was a painful pause.

  “Society reporter?” asked Cha Cha hopefully.

  “I’m afraid not,” she said. “I’m Melanie Mulcahy, freelance investigative reporter.”

  “Melanie Mulcahy?” said the woman passenger sans diamond necklace. “I’ve seen your byline in the World News in Brief!”

  “The what?” asked several people.

  “It’s something I found at my dentist’s office. Kind of a throwaway.”

  “You mean you write for a living?” asked Noreen Pushkoshky.

  “They pay five cents a word,” said Melanie. “You call that a living?”

  Hal could not speak. The full horror of what he had done broke over him in a storm surpassing the one outside.

  Melanie was a composer neither of poetry nor of press releases. She had mentioned South American rebels and hostages; who but a reporter would hide in a chicken coop to get a story? Why had he not questioned her further?

  He had erred massively.

  His feelings for Melanie, profound as they might be, were no longer his most immediate concern. Loyalty to his friends, to Grampa and his gang, was the law by which Hal lived.

  And he had betrayed them. Brought a snoop to their secret island and put them at risk of exposure. His betrayal ran far deeper than Grampa’s decision to exclude Hal from their summit meeting.

  For years, he had lived in a house of illusions, and now the entire structure might be undermined by one painful truth of which he had not even been aware.

  But Melanie had known. Melanie, the woman he loved, had taken advantage of him. Although it was not her fault that he had brought her t
o Paraiso, she had seized upon the opportunity to treat him as a chump.

  That was exactly what he felt like. A fool.

  “So,” he said to Melanie, “you care nothing for me. I am for you merely an object to be used in your pursuit of a headline.”

  Her mouth quivered, but she lifted her chin defiantly. “I didn’t ask you to bring me here.”

  “She did not ask you to bring her here,” repeated the Swamp Fox in a low voice.

  “I paid for my mistake!” cried Cha Cha. “What about him?”

  “A reporter? Really?” said the tall woman beside Noreen. “I’ve always wanted to write my autobiography. People tell me I’ve led such an interesting life. Do you ever collaborate?”

  “Only if there’s money in it,” said Melanie. “Mostly I prefer to work alone.”

  Hal understood now exactly how ridiculous he had made himself, offering to build a love nest for this newshawk. She possessed no mating urge beyond a passion for scoops, no fondness save for the next hot story.

  The realization hurt him deeply. He had begun to consider that perhaps his devotion to Grampa would never be returned and that he might be wise to begin realigning his loyalties. But to the outside world, as personified by Melanie, he could see that he remained nothing but an object of scorn.

  He had been raised in the world of gangsters. It was still the world where he belonged.

  “Mr. Iceman?” The Swamp Fox crooked an eyebrow. “It is your obligation to dispose of this problem. Otherwise, we will have to do it for you.”

  Angry as he felt, Hal could not leave Melanie to the untender mercies of his comrades. Ultimately it was his fault for bringing her here, and if his heart became damaged goods in the process, that was no one’s business but his own. “I take full responsibility,” he said.

  “For what?” demanded Melanie.

  “For—” A movement on the far side of the dining room drew his attention. The door opened to admit a breathless, red-faced Chet. “Is something wrong?”