Forbidden Captor

by Julie Miller

  Bryce scrubbed his hand across his jaw, damning his body’s interest and his conscience’s concern over her. He’d been in this medieval island hell for over a week now. He should be concentrating on nothing else but finding a means to escape, or a way to contact his colleagues at Big Sky Bounty Hunters in Montana so they could mount a rescue.

  But no, he stood in the gloom of a cell made a little more bearable by the unexpected kindness of a single lightbulb, and inhaled the sweet, womanly smells that still clung to his hand from where he’d touched her.

  “Son of a bitch.” Tasiya wasn’t the only thing he’d touched.

  The sentimental aura vanished. Bryce blew out a disgusted sigh and called himself every sorry name in the book. He’d had his hand on her keys…the keys to his freedom. Forget about trying to communicate and using her as a messenger. If he’d been thinking straight—if he’d been thinking with his head instead of other, more easily distracted parts of his anatomy—he’d have snatched them off her wrist.

  But no, he was a dope with a soft spot who’d let an opportunity to escape slip through his fingers. Literally.

  With no one to blame but himself for the sentence of another night in this cell, he returned to his tedious work at the window. Tasiya Belov better get interested in conversing with one of the other men.

  Because he was gettin’ a mite too interested in these late-night chats himself.

  Chapter Five

  “Mr. Fowler, you gotta hear this!”

  Tasiya dodged out of the way as Ike rushed past her into Boone Fowler’s office. Wearing headphones, wires and antennae, the short, squatty man reminded her of a trained chimp who’d been readied for a launch into outer space.

  But Tasiya didn’t laugh at the humorous picture Ike made as he set up an old military-emblemed box loaded with buttons and knobs on the edge of the desk. She hadn’t allowed herself the luxury of laughter since her father had been taken hostage. And the only time she’d given in to so much as a smile had been late at night in the farthest corner of Boone Fowler’s pirate-prison-turned-militia-camp. In the private shadows, where a quiet, battered man spoke in funny phrases, and where the kindness of his eyes offered a respite from the trials of her day.

  As always, in the four days that had passed since the night she’d changed the lightbulb, when her thoughts turned to Bryce Martin, she felt combative urges of dread and anticipation.

  She was saddened that he’d been so horribly disfigured, and a little afraid of whatever unknown events had scarred him so. He was hurt and cold and hungry, and she could do so little to help him. More than that, she felt guilty because she had to lie. He’d been so endearingly sweet, trying to carry on a real conversation with her, hinting at a grandmother he loved and an appreciation for simple pleasures. Even when she’d felt stupid and frustrated, not comprehending his American slang, he hadn’t given up on trying to communicate with her.

  But then everything had taken a personal turn. He wanted reasons why she was here, truths that could only get her or her father killed. She couldn’t tell him about her double life as a slave and a spy. She couldn’t be his friend. He couldn’t be her confessor. Those desires were too dangerous to even contemplate.

  But as much as she needed to keep her distance from that formidable strength, as much as she feared that his odd, deep-pitched voice could trick her into revealing more than she should, as much as she knew that trusting the wrong man—trusting any man—could be fatal, Tasiya still wanted to get closer to him.

  Tightening her fists around the broom in her hands, she swept the dirt out of the cracks beside the office door. But she couldn’t sweep aside the uncomfortable realization she’d made about herself.

  When Bryce Martin had reached beyond the confines of his cell and touched her, she’d been startled. For a moment, that had been Dimitri Mostek’s hand on her. Or Marcus Smith’s. She’d been repulsed. Afraid.

  But then the difference in his touch had registered. The surprising restraint of all that muscle power binding her wrist had stunned her. She’d known the oddest sensation of comfort. His grip, though unbreakable, had been as gentle as the cool refuge in his wintry eyes.

  Tasiya closed her eyes and breathed deeply, remembering how she’d felt something seductive in the casual stroke of his thumb against her pulse. For a few brief moments, Tasiya Belov had been a real woman—with thoughts, choices, freedom, desire. And she’d wanted nothing more than to squeeze her way through those bars and be wrapped up by all of Bryce Martin—to sink into his warmth, to be surrounded by his strength, to be shielded by the deep understanding of life, danger and hardship that branded his skin.

  “Should she be here, boss? This is business.”

  Blinking her eyes open at Ike’s accusatory question, Tasiya quickly resumed her be-neither-seen-nor-heard posture. She swept the dirt into a dust pan and dumped it into the trash beside the desk. Then, picking up the trash can and gathering her cleaning supplies, she hurried to the door, intending to slip out and leave them to their secrets.

  But Fowler snapped his fingers. “Foreigner. Wait.”

  Tasiya turned and dipped her chin, avoiding eye contact the way she’d learned he preferred after a week on Devil’s Fork Island. “Yes, sir?”

  He rose and circled his desk, crossing to take the trash can from her hand. “I want to inspect this before you leave, in case you’re trying to steal anything.”

  Tasiya’s feathers ruffled beneath her sweater. But she chewed the inside of her lip to keep her indignant response to herself. What could she possibly want to take away from this place? A rifle or pistol from the padlocked gun cabinet? Sure, she’d stand a real chance of breaking in and escaping against thirty armed militiamen. Was he worried she’d abscond with one of the hateful diatribes she’d seen him penning at his desk? Even if she wanted a souvenir, she couldn’t take it. She could barely move the furniture to sweep beneath it without his ever-watchful devil eyes boring holes of suspicion into her back.

  “I have taken nothing, sir,” she stated calmly. “I really should get to the kitchen to begin preparations for dinner.”

  “You’ll leave when I tell you to.”

  “Sir?” Ike urged. “The radio? It’s broadcasting now.”

  “Put it on speaker,” Fowler ordered. He stared down at her a few moments longer. “You can dust in here until I’m ready to dismiss you.”

  She’d done that before she’d swept. But she knew this was more about control than cleanliness. “As you wish.”

  “Exactly.”

  Leaving that word hanging in the air like the threat it was, Fowler carried the trash can back to his desk and had the gall to rifle through it. Inuring herself to the insult, Tasiya leaned her broom against the wall and pulled the dust rag from the pocket of her jeans. She went to work moving the heavy volumes of notebooks she now knew to be various maps from across the United States and dusted the clean shelf beneath them.

  In the center of the room, Ike peeled off his earphones and reconnected a couple of wires. “I picked this up off an FBI comm-link first. But it’s already on military bands, ham radio reports and Internet chatter. Network news will be picking it up soon.”

  Fowler grabbed a pencil and notepad to add to his copious notes. “Fill me in.”

  “News from Montana. Somebody tried to kidnap Veronika Petrov.”

  “Princess Veronika?” The name was out of Tasiya’s mouth before she could stop it. Fair-haired Veronika Petrov was the darling of the Lukinburg people, although the king’s daughter had been kept out of the spotlight, even presumably out of the country, for most of her life. “Is she all right?”

  Fowler glared Tasiya back to her dusting without an answer. He turned to Ike. “You said tried?”

  Tasiya moved the cloth across the books, but her attention was on Ike’s response. “Her bodyguard was killed. But it seems some guy came out of nowhere and busted it up. He shot one of the perps outside a restaurant in Bozeman. Apparently, this good Samari
tan stuffed her in his truck and took off even before the cops could get there.”

  Couldn’t the man in the truck be the real kidnapper? A backup plan? Why would anyone attack the princess in the first place? Veronika had nothing to do with her father’s politics back home, and nothing to do with her brother’s rebellion here in the States.

  From the corner of her eye, Tasiya saw Boone Fowler twisting the pencil between his fingers and thumb. “Let’s hear it.”

  Ike turned a knob and the room filled with the sporadic, staticky sound of two men having an official-sounding conversation.

  “…one man in custody. He’s not talking. Claiming diplomatic immunity.”

  “And the two DOS?”

  “We identified one man as her bodyguard. The other man dead on the scene fits the same description as our perp. Black hair, olive skin. No ID. But if he could talk, I bet he’d be spouting immunity in the same accent.”

  “So we think this is a Lukinburg plot?”

  “Too soon to say. Aleksandr has a lot of enemies. Or it might be an attempt to silence the Crown Prince. Could be part of the nationalist movement—another one of those militia attacks.”

  “That son of a bitch.” Tasiya dared a look at the growing fury in Boone Fowler’s eyes. Was he condemning the authorities on the radio? The king? Prince Nikolai? “I would never use foreign trash to do our noble work.”

  “But that’s good PR, right, boss?” Ike gestured toward the radio. “I mean, they know who we are if they’re talking about us.”

  “Shut up.”

  From the radio came: “What about the guy who drove off with the princess?”

  “Montana plates and a general description are all we got. Tall. Blond. Knew how to use a gun. Far as we can tell he’s a local hero. Maybe an off-duty cop? We’re combing—”

  Fowler slammed a button on the radio, silencing the two men. “Local hero?” He crushed the pencil in his fist, spraying the shards across his desktop and the floor as he stalked across the room. “I’ll bet Cameron Murphy has something to do with this.”

  Tasiya’s attention quickly shifted gears. Cameron Murphy was the name on the memo that had ignited Fowler’s temper a few days ago. Why would the militia be interested in the kidnapping of a foreign princess? Why was Cameron Murphy’s name so upsetting to Boone Fowler?

  And why was that connection of such interest to Dimitri? Tasiya’s breathing went shallow with dread as she thought of her phone call to Minister Mostek tonight, and how he’d grill her when she told him about the radio report and Fowler’s reaction to it.

  Ike tenderly gathered his gear away from further abuse. “I thought Murphy was out of commission.”

  “He doesn’t work alone, you idiot. That’s why four of his men are in my…” Fowler’s voice trailed off in intensity, but he countered with the pinpoint attack of his cold, black eyes. “Foreigner.”

  Tasiya jumped at the snap of his voice. But she buried her trembling inside as she slowly turned to face him. “Yes, sir?”

  “Don’t pretend you weren’t eavesdropping. I dislike people who pretend to be stupid. But you know as well as I do that there is no way off this island. And if I thought there was any chance of you telling someone what you’ve heard around here, I’d be cutting out your tongue right now.” He strolled up to her and pulled out a long, thin pocketknife. With the press of a button, a sharp, skinny blade popped open in front of her eyes.

  Tasiya gasped and automatically retreated half a step before butting up against the bookshelf and discovering she had nowhere to go. Again he avoided touching her as if he found that contact as loathsome as she. But he had no qualms about twirling the knife blade into a tendril of her hair and playing with it so that it tickled her ear.

  “I will not say anything,” she lied, knowing Dimitri would be expecting her call.

  “Oh, but you will.” He flicked the knife from her hair and mimicked a slicing motion through the air in front of her throat before pointing it straight at the tip of her chin. “You’ll tell me everything you know about Veronika Petrov.”

  Tasiya clenched her fingers around the shelf behind her to keep them from shaking with fear or striking out in anger. There wasn’t much to tell about the princess. “She is a few years younger than me. Very beautiful in the pictures I’ve seen. Well liked in my country.”

  “Does she have any political enemies?”

  “I do not think so. King Aleksandr does not allow women to be involved in politics.”

  Fowler laughed, but the sound grated along Tasiya’s nerves. “Maybe the old bastard’s smarter than I thought. What about personal enemies? Does she have some famous boyfriend she’s dumped? She ever cause a scandal?”

  “I’ve only seen Princess Veronika a few times in my life, in official royal portraits. She does not make public appearances. Mostly, she has been away at school. In Paris, I believe.”

  The knife point wavered back and forth, slowly searching for a target. “She doesn’t like living at home?”

  Tasiya swallowed hard and tried to focus her hatred on the knife, instead of risking the impotent fury she longed to glare into Fowler’s eyes. “How would I know? I am a cook, not a confidante to the princess.”

  “Don’t get uppity with me, foreigner.” He pressed the knife into her chin and tilted her face up to his. “I don’t tolerate back talk from my men. I won’t tolerate it from you.”

  Tasiya gnawed the inside of her lip to keep from crying out as she waited helplessly for the blade to break through the skin and draw her blood. But then, just as she closed her eyes to brace for the pain, he lifted the blade. Maybe Fowler had remembered Dimitri’s direct order to keep his “gift” in pristine condition, or perhaps he believed that just the threat of cutting her was intimidation enough.

  “Now. Answer the question. The UN claims that Lukinburg is a country worth saving. But if it’s really so hot, why doesn’t the princess go home where she’s safe?”

  Tasiya swallowed her fear and contempt and answered as evenly as she could. “King Aleksandr has been very vocal about his children choosing to remain in this country and defy his rule. I am not sure he would welcome them home.”

  “So you think she staged her own kidnapping? Maybe to get Daddy’s attention?”

  “I do not know.”

  “You think the king was trying to force her home since she wouldn’t go voluntarily?”

  “Again, I do not know.”

  “What do you know?” He snorted in disgust and flipped the blade back into the knife. “Don’t move.”

  Tasiya dared to do little more than breathe as Fowler strode back to the desk to pick up the notepad he’d tossed and to find a surviving pencil.

  He gave Ike a command while he scribbled something on the pad. “Find out everything you can about the kidnapping attempt. I need to know who’s behind it. Kidnapping the princess isn’t on my agenda. If somebody’s trying to interfere with my schedule or smear my name, I want to know about it. And get me an update on Cameron Murphy’s condition.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Go.” Fowler nodded toward the door. Ike wasted no time scooping up his gear and hurrying out in his waddling, bow-legged gait.

  “Foreigner.” He ripped the top page from the notepad and folded it in half. He held the paper out to her as he turned. “I want you to deliver a message to Marcus Smith for me.”

  Tasiya nodded. She tucked the note into her jeans and gathered her cleaning supplies, as anxious to be out of there as Ike had been. “Where will I find him?” she asked.

  Please don’t say his quarters. Marcus Smith was one of the few men who had his own private room at the compound. He’d invited her to visit more than once, but she’d always found an excuse to avoid spending any one-on-one time with the man. Groping hands in the mess hall she could grit her teeth and ignore because, with an audience, she knew he couldn’t completely disregard his boss’s order about keeping his hands to himself. But behind the privacy of a locked d
oor, she’d be on her own. And Tasiya knew she’d have no ally to help stop the lecherous brute then.

  “He’s working in the interrogation room. In the prison wing.” Fowler pointed toward her wrist. “Take your keys. You’ll find him.”

  Ponderosa, Montana

  TREVOR BLACKHAW SAT in the communication bunker hidden beneath the Big Sky Bounty Hunter headquarters building and listened to the impatient man on the phone.

  He swiped a weary hand through his long, black hair and couldn’t help thinking how wonderful Sierra’s fingers had been last night, tangled up in his hair and massaging his scalp before they drifted off to sleep in each other’s arms. But the past several days had allowed them little time to savor their recent engagement.

  He’d nearly lost her to the craziness surrounding Boone Fowler and the escaped prisoners, terrorist attacks and the unknown maniac behind it all whom they’d dubbed The Puppet Master. Trevor wasn’t going to lose anybody else he cared about. He was going to get his team out of wherever the hell Boone Fowler had taken them and keep fighting until his world was safe again for the woman he loved.

  However, this was a complication he hadn’t expected.

  Propping one boot up on the edge of the console, Trevor waited for a pause to reiterate his advice. “Joe, there’s nothing we can do right now. I talked it over with Murphy. We both agree that the best thing you can do is just lay low for a few days until we can figure out how the kidnapping attempt is related to the UN resolution to invade Lukinburg—or if there even is a connection.”

  He could well imagine Joseph Brown pacing circles around his beloved black pickup truck—or whatever vehicle he’d gotten to replace it by now so he couldn’t be found. “Whoa. You mean me and Princess Poor Little Rich Girl are going to be stuck alone together indefinitely? I’m a tracker, Blackhaw. Don’t you have someone better suited for bodyguard detail?”

  “You’re the one who saved her pretty ass.” Normally his colleague was all business, setting aside his emotions when it came to getting the job done and hauling in his bounty. But this evening Joe was so worked up that Trevor couldn’t resist the tease.