by Brynn Kelly
Should she come clean to him? She jammed her fingers into her hair. What would that achieve, besides making him even more worried about his son—and furious at her? He might seem honorable, but he was also trained to kill, and they were on opposite sides of this. She hadn’t had much experience of fathers who loved their children, but Jack was evidently one of them. What would he do for that love?
She’d thought she was in love, once, and she would have done anything Jasper asked. She had, in fact—which had launched the chain of events that were likely to end with her death on this false Eden, wherever the hell it was. And even if Jack didn’t kill her, someone else from the gang behind the kidnapping likely would.
Keep it together. For now, at least, her identity was safe, going by the media coverage. It wasn’t over yet. And she was getting somewhere in her strategy. She’d seen Jack’s desire, she’d felt his anger as she’d related the story of her father, she’d sensed his competing urges. Just how far was she prepared to take this?
She’d done plenty more shameful things to survive. He’d said it himself: we are enemies, whether we want to be or not. One more con, and never again. There had to be a better life waiting on the other side of this—she just needed to figure out how to get there, alive. She owed him nothing—less than nothing.
She dragged her fingers through her scalp to her neck, unleashing the smell of coconut, a carefree scent at odds with the danger her life was in. Man, this would be so much easier if she despised him. Trouble was, she was beginning to admire more about him than just that goddamn Renaissance statue of a body.
She of all people should know that falling for the wrong man left a woman vulnerable. Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to mine information from him. When he’d let slip the danger his son was in, she’d had to shut down her urge to reach out to him, to remind herself that she was playing a dangerous role and he was her adversary, no matter how much pain he was in. She’d always had a weakness for another underdog—growing up, on the streets, in prison. Top dogs, not so much.
Could she outright seduce him, to turn him from enemy to ally? That’s what Jasper would tell her to do. If she’d learned one thing from him—the hard way ultimately—it was survival at any cost.
She sure wouldn’t have to fake her desire for Jack. Pretending to him that she felt something would be easy. Pretending to herself that she didn’t? That was a whole other story.
* * *
For Rafe, the afternoon passed painfully. Without a weapon to constantly clean and maintain, his fingers itched to be busy. He dragged a Windsurfer out of the shed, but there wasn’t enough of a breeze to even get it out onto the lagoon.
Every time Laura came near he backed off and zipped his damn mouth, replying to her attempts at conversation in grunts. He couldn’t risk giving anything else away. When she tired of bugging him and went out snorkeling in her bikini he made it a personal challenge to look anywhere but at her, to shut down any thoughts that weren’t directly related to Theo’s survival. Even when she lay on a mat on the grass two meters away and smoothed sunscreen all over her body he managed not to look. Eventually she got bored, found a fishing line and reeled in a couple of good-sized yellow snapper, while he stole a look at the internet. No word from Flynn. Not prepared to trust her with the knife, he did the filleting.
After an age, the sun began to drop. Bats glided overheard and squawked and fought in the coconut palms. He grilled up the fish and they ate at opposite ends of the picnic table in silence, both facing the darkening lagoon. Even then, his peripheral vision and battle-honed hearing gave him hell, feeding his brain unwanted information about the graceful way she folded and unfolded her legs, the slap of her hand on taut skin as she chased away mosquitoes, her frustrated sighs at his reticence. His every nerve seemed to buzz at her slightest move, his every muscle tensed at her slightest sound, sweat sprang to his chest at every waft of that damn shampoo.
It was as if denying himself the pleasure of looking at her cranked up the reaction—overreaction—of other senses. But at least he wasn’t betraying any more secrets. The important thing was to keep Theo locked away. Au combat, tu agis sans passion. In combat, you act without passion. This had become a combat of sorts, if only inside his body and mind.
He downed the last forkful of fish, wishing they had more, and stood, abruptly, to clear the plates. She rose at the same time and reached for the same plate. He found his gaze impaled on hers. Under the warm light of sunset, her skin glowed. He could swear more freckles had sprung up across her face than when he’d last looked. His resolve failed him, his eyes drinking her in. He stood caught in her magnetism like an imbecile.
“Hello?” she said, waving her palm in front of his face.
He flinched and returned focus to stacking plates. She laid a firm hand on his wrist.
“You cooked, I’ll clean,” she said.
He extricated his hand, and didn’t make the mistake of meeting her eye again. “I’ll have a swim. Don’t answer the door to any pirates.”
“Depends how polite they are.”
She stacked a pile of plates on her arm like a seasoned waitress, as she had earlier that afternoon. Where did a woman who was accustomed to being waited on learn to do that? No doubt she’d hosted her share of elite parties, but surely it’d be the staff cleaning up? He added it to the tally of surprising discoveries about her, then tried to forget it, along with everything else about her that wouldn’t let his brain be still.
Eventually, the sky turned a deep metallic blue. Evidently giving up on him, Laura retired into the villa, leaving him to settle in the hammock. The day had been too leisurely. Sleep only came easily when he’d pushed himself to the point of physical exhaustion. One run and two swims were not enough to settle the humming of his body, to exorcise the awareness of her. Tomorrow he’d have to triple his run, quadruple the swim. He had to keep the dark thoughts out.
He hadn’t realized he’d fallen asleep until he woke, his instinct on red alert. Noise drifted in from the lagoon—clinking, low voices. He slid from the hammock and slipped off the veranda into the shadows. Gabriel’s men, already? Had the ransom been paid?
The full moon lit the outlines of men creeping along the jetty. Behind them floated the pirate boat from earlier in the day. They must have crept in under oar. Putain de merde!
Chapter 10
Rafe had to get Laura out of the villa. They’d see him if he went in the front door, possibly open fire—the easiest person to rob was a dead one. Unless kidnap was their plan. And no one was kidnapping his hostage. He backed around to the brushwood fence encircling the outdoor bathroom, scaled a timber post and dropped noiselessly, knees bent. Inside, he pulled aside the mosquito net and held his palm over her mouth. Her eyes flicked open, her fist shot up to his jaw. He caught it.
“Pirates. Let’s go.”
She started, blinked.
“Shoes, quick. You’ll need to run.” He handed over her running shoes and grabbed the flashlight, his mind whirring.
Out the back, he hoisted her over the fence. She landed with a soft thud. A second later, he followed and pulled her into the shadow of a tree.
“There are five of them,” she whispered. “I see guns.”
“Five against one. A fair fight.”
“Five against two.”
“This is not your battle, princess—but I could use a diversion, if you’re up for it.”
“Of course.”
“Take this.” He placed the flashlight in her hand. “Don’t turn it on yet. Go halfway up to the cliff and make a noise—a gasp, a scream—like you’ve slipped and hurt yourself. Shine the flashlight around, then turn it off and keep running. Count to two hundred and find somewhere to hide. Somewhere good. Don’t leave tracks, like you did last night. And stay there until I come.”
“What will you do
, take on all five?”
“Just the guy with the AK.”
Her mouth fell open.
“Soon as I get that, I’m in charge. But I want you to split them up. And be careful. It’s in my best interests to keep you alive.”
“Mine, too.”
“If they get you, don’t struggle and they won’t kill you yet—you’re too valuable. Worst-case scenario: try to tell them who you are, if they understand English.”
“Yet. Nice. Got it.” She frowned. “Be careful.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Like you said, I’d get lonely.” She scurried off into the darkness behind the villa.
He welcomed the surge of adrenaline in his veins. The men trudged up the sand, not bothering to hide, having evidently established from their afternoon’s recon that there were no guards. One AK, plus one handgun, maybe two, between them. In seconds they’d be at the villa. He’d have to isolate them and take them out one by one, by hand if necessary.
He picked up a rock, assessed its weight, then lined up another three. He stilled his breath and watched the men approach the villa. Three disappeared onto the veranda, out of sight. The locked door would buy him a few seconds. Another guy crept around the back, coming within a few feet of Rafe, a pistol barrel glinting in his hand. Motionless under his veil of darkness, Rafe let him pass and disappear around the corner. Save him for later. The guy with the AK stood isolated, five meters away. Rafe hefted the rock. Clonk. He went down like a tree, and was still. Rafe took a run-up and lobbed the second rock across the lawn. It crashed into a bush, short of its target. He waited. They didn’t seem to register the noise. He grabbed another, adjusted his angle and hurled it with more grunt. It clattered onto the shed’s iron roof. Quick words were exchanged, and one of the men who’d been on the veranda ran off in pursuit of the noise.
Crack. The remaining two men on the veranda had forced the door. With one guy around the back, two inside and one checking the shed, Rafe sprinted for the AK. He rolled the still-breathing gunner over, yanked the weapon from his arms and retreated into the darkness. Shouts rose up from inside. They’d discovered the empty bed.
Footfalls approached—the man who’d run past Rafe earlier, now responding to the calls from the villa. Rafe laid the gun down, let him pass, then tore after him, bare feet silent on the damp grass. He caught him from behind, planting one hand over his mouth, and jerked him back. Before the guy could register, he tore away the pistol and clocked him on the temple. The guy went limp. Rafe dragged him into the bushes. He had a rope strung around his waist. How thoughtful. In seconds he was trussed, gagged with his own shirt and frisked.
Rafe examined the guns. The AK-47 was ancient, dirty and empty. Just for show. The pistol was a Makarov, probably Cold War. These guys were on a budget. He cocked the hammer and pulled the slide back. A few rounds in the magazine. He released the slide and dropped the safety. The three remaining men assembled on the grass, whispering and gesturing all at once. One kicked their unconscious friend. Another pistol caught the moonlight.
Sheltering behind a palm trunk, Rafe lined up the biggest guy in the Makarov’s sights and pulled the trigger. A click echoed around the compound. Dead round? One of the men called out, scanning the darkness for their friend. Rafe pulled back the slide, ejected the round and took aim. Click. Putain. He hurled the piece-of-shit weapon, boomerang-style, and missed. He was back to using his hands. The guy called out again, panic flecking his voice.
A scream. Laura. Light flickered through the trees on the track above. Perfect timing. He scooted under the cover of the canopy toward the path, sprinted fifty meters and backed in behind a stand of bamboo, willing his pulse to slow.
He let the first two guys go ahead and disappear around a corner, including the guy with the other pistol—another Makarov, by the look of it. Laura had better be hiding. As the last man passed, Rafe sprang out, smashing an elbow into his face. The guy bounced back into a kung fu pose and flew like a bullet. His boot thumped into Rafe’s solar plexus and Rafe sank to his knees, his lungs suctioning air. Shit.
The guy backed up and flew into the air, a blur of shadows. A crack of fire burst through Rafe’s jaw. A punch, but it felt like a gunshot. The guy drew back his boot and drove it into Rafe’s kidneys. Waves of pain engulfed him, his vision prickling with black spots. He’d singled out the wrong opponent, hadn’t taken the time to size him up. Not a mistake he normally made.
And one mistake was all it usually took for things to go to hell.
* * *
Footsteps closed in on Holly—more than one pair. If they’d taken Jack out, she was done for. Sooner or later, they’d find her.
But she wasn’t helpless yet. Hide somewhere good, he’d said. And she would, just as soon as she unleashed her secret weapon. She maneuvered into position and stood on the path, waiting, her pummeling heart nearly drowning out the pulsing insect noise. No need to shake the flashlight around to make out she was running—her trembling hands took care of that. The footsteps neared. She gave another girly shriek. Baiting the trap. Sweat trickled down her back. She shivered, despite the throbbing heat.
Two figures rounded the corner. They saw her and shouted. She aimed the beam into their eyes, switched it off and sprinted, straining to make out the track. Damn, the flashlight had killed her night vision, too. An inhuman scream split the air behind her. Boom—the first guy had run into the spiderweb. He wailed like a prison siren. Hell, Jack wasn’t lying when he said those things caused pain.
She left the screaming man in her dust, but another pair of feet pounded the track behind her—not Jack’s stealthy tread. She upped her pace, ignoring the sting from her coral cut as she veered left and right around the twisting trail. A branch clawed her arm. She didn’t dare look behind. Her pulse thundered in her ears. Shit, this guy was fast. Too late to hide now.
He was so close she could hear him panting, though his breath wasn’t as strangled as hers. A stitch stabbed her side. Her foot caught on something, jerking her back. Crap. Her knee lurched to the side, white-hot with pain. She rebalanced but too late. Boof. A solid weight drove into her back, and she skidded onto the ground, dirt grating her cheek.
* * *
Rafe heaved for oxygen, getting only strawfuls. Kung Fu Pirate’s boot came in for the death hit. At the last second Rafe rolled, and the boot glanced off his side. More screaming, up ahead. What in hell were they doing to Laura? He had to get to her, push through the pain, push through this guy.
“Okay, okay.” On his knees, Rafe clutched his stomach with one hand and held up his other palm, cowering in apparent surrender, playing to the guy’s expectations. He wouldn’t be anticipating much of a fight from a honeymooner, and so far Rafe hadn’t given him cause to think he was anything but.
The guy spoke sharply, in an unfamiliar language. Rafe leaned back, groaning. The guy unfurled a rope, shouting to his friends. No chance of them hearing over the damn screaming. Laura. He had to get to Laura. He pushed himself to his feet, doubling over as if he were done. The guy whacked the back of Rafe’s neck with the rope. He pointed down the path, evidently planning to herd his hostage like cattle.
“Okay,” said Rafe, again. Still he didn’t move, making out like he was catching his breath, while he furtively checked his surroundings. The guy was evidently a trained fighter, but Rafe had two advantages—size and surprise. The guy pushed his shoulder.
Rafe spun and charged, driving him into a tree like a freight train. The impact shuddered through them. As the guy wheezed, Rafe dropped him and slammed both feet into the small of his back, his full 240 pounds thudding down on the lower spine. The guy grunted, clawing at the leaf litter. He released the rope. Rafe clamped the back of his opponent’s neck, pinning him like a flipped cockroach. He caught an arm, twisted the rope around it, yanked it back, caught the other one and knotted them. The scream
ing up the path invaded his head as he hog-tied the guy’s feet, using far more force on the rope than he had the previous night with Laura. He secured the rope to the tree. He didn’t give a damn if this bâtard was comfortable, as long as he couldn’t come after them.
He checked his knots and patted the guy down. No oversights tonight. The guy was clean. Rafe took off uphill. The screaming suddenly stopped. Shit. His world narrowed to the path ahead.
* * *
Holly lay pinned, pawing the earth for a weapon. Nothing but dirt and the snaking tree root that’d tripped her. The man lurched to his feet. The screaming had stopped. Had the other guy recovered? Would he be coming after her, too? She scrambled to her feet, palms out. He had a handgun pointed at her chest. She swallowed. He was about her height, but all sinewy muscle. There had to be a way out.
The goon spoke quickly, waving the gun to indicate she should walk ahead of him. She shrugged, as if she didn’t understand, letting her hands come to rest on her pockets. He shouted, jerking his head toward the path. When she didn’t move, he stepped closer, reaching out with his spare hand to coax her forward. His finger left the trigger.
She pulled the flashlight from her pocket and rammed it in his face. As his neck snapped back, she aimed a kick at his nuts. He caught her foot and twisted it, sending lightning up her leg. With a yelp, she hopped backward, wrenching out of his grip. Something slammed into her temple. The butt of the gun. Her legs wobbled, the world turning over like a wheel. She crumbled to the dirt, her injured knee twisting under her, the other stuck out in front. She began hyperventilating. Sort yourself out, woman. You can take this guy.
Click. He’d cocked the gun. He aimed it at her knee. Head spinning, she threw herself at his legs, collecting only air and earth. Something big and solid thumped down next to her, thwacking dirt into her eyes. The air exploded. Gunshot. She froze. No pain. She dared to look, blinking her vision clear.
