In the Enemy's Arms

by Marilyn Pappano

  Her palms went damp, and her heart stuttered to a stop before breaking into a gallop.

  Oh, God, someone else was inside the house!

  * * *

  The ringtone was an Eric Clapton song, about a man on the run, trying to avoid getting swept away by a river of tears. Of course, a woman was his downfall; so often they were, though Justin Seavers had had better luck at avoiding that fate than most guys he knew.

  There was no special meaning to the ringtone, though. He’d known Cate would call; the song had been on his phone; it was a thoughtless choice. It didn’t mean he’d ever cared—would ever care—enough to run from Cate, and it sure as hell didn’t mean she could save him. He wasn’t of the opinion that he actually needed saving, at least not anymore.

  He silenced the phone as he reached the hall, then stepped through the office doorway. She was standing there, posture rigid, fingers clenched tightly around her cell phone. She was ten inches shorter than him, enough to make him feel like the big, strong protector or, more likely, the overlarge clumsy oaf.

  When she recognized him, relief flashed across her face, quickly replaced with the cool, disdainful look she usually reserved just for him. “You,” she breathed, letting the tension, or most of it, ease from her body.

  Justin leaned against the doorjamb, one ankle crossing the other. “What’s up, doc?”

  Straightening her spine, she managed to appear an inch or so taller. “Where’s Trent? Susanna? Why did all the volunteers leave? What’s going on here?”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “Don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know? Trent said—”

  “When did you talk to him?”

  She blinked, unaccustomed to being interrupted. She might be delicate in size and stature and, according to Trent, sweeter than sugar most of the time, but she was probably the most book-smart person Justin had ever known, and she was accustomed to being in charge. People didn’t interrupt Dr. Cate Calloway, head of emergency medicine at the Copper Lake Hospital and part-time instructor of trauma management at her alma mater.

  “A week ago. Maybe ten days. I called to let him know I’d shipped some supplies and to see if they needed anything else.”

  “How did he seem?”

  She blinked again. “Like Trent. He was on another call. He said if Susanna thought of something, she’d give me a call. If not, they’d see me today.”

  “And neither of them called you?”

  The effort to stop from rolling her eyes was visible in the tension in her jaw. “No. Otherwise, I would have said that was the last time I talked to him—” She drew a breath. “What are you doing here?”

  He shrugged again. Annoying her had always come easily to him. All he had to do was breathe. Hippocratic oath or not, he was pretty sure if someone hauled him into her E.R. on the verge of death, she’d be tempted to shove him over.

  “I thought I’d see how the diving is this fall.”

  “Then why aren’t you on a boat out in the ocean?”

  “My dive buddy’s taken some time off. What’s in the boxes out there?”

  “Medical supplies, toiletries, books, clothes.”

  “Any drugs?”

  The disdain increased fractionally. “Antibiotics, antihistamines, some nonnarcotic pain relievers. Nothing special. Why are you really here? Trent said if anything happened—” She raised her hand when he started to interrupt again. “He wrote in a note that if anything happened, I should call you, and now here you are. How convenient. Why you? Why not the police, his parents, the foundation?”

  Ignoring her questions, he finally moved away from the door and into the room. It seemed to shrink by half, putting him closer to her than he’d been in a very long time. “What note?”

  The corners of her mouth pinching, she took the few steps to the bulletin board and pulled off the photo from a dive trip three years ago. He barely glanced at it but turned it over to read the note on the back. Looking up again, he cocked his brow. “You two arranged a secret message system involving this photo of me?”

  Her mouth pinched even more, as if she’d sucked the sourest of limes. “Of course not. He just knew…I usually…pick up the picture at least once…when I’m here.” Her face tinged with a blush, and she was not an attractive blusher.

  Everything else about her, though…straight brown hair, blunt cut, in a braid today, blue eyes, a mouth to match the sweet nature he’d been told she possessed, great legs, nice body. He’d think she had chosen beach-casual for travel, in brown shorts that showed no curves, a tan tank top that clung to every curve and flat sandals with straps, but she always dressed for comfort. Trent joked that was why she’d gone into medicine in the first place. What could be cozier than wearing scrubs all the time?

  He fingered the picture before peeling off the Post-it and crumpling it. “So my picture interests you.”

  She snorted. “Puzzles would be a better word. I look at it and wonder how two men with all the advantages money can buy can grow up to become…well, you and Trent.”

  He was about to make some flippant reply when a sound outside caught his attention: the crunch of tires on gravel, the low rumble of an engine. Pocketing the picture, he stepped past her to the window, keeping to the side of the flimsy curtains, and lifted one edge just enough to see the black vehicle in the driveway. The first man out was tall, muscle-bound, and he gripped a stubby black pistol. There was no doubt in Justin’s mind that he worked for the Wallaces.

  Muttering a curse, he grabbed her arm on his way out of the room. “We’ve got company, and it’s sure as hell not a welcoming committee. Come on.”

  He expected resistance, but she dragged her feet only long enough to grab hold of her suitcase in the middle of the hallway. Yanking it up, she awkwardly shoved the handle in one-handed, then let him pull her down the hall to the back of the house. As they turned into the kitchen to reach the rear door, and the backpack he’d left there, a knock sounded heavily at the front door.

  When they reached the smaller door that led to what had long ago been servants’ quarters, he slung the pack over his shoulders, then eased the door open. The narrow strip of yard was empty, the path apparently clear to the small gate set in the rear wall.

  They would be hidden from view of the driveway for probably twenty feet; the remainder of the distance to the gate, they would be visible to anyone looking from the direction of the car. Best scenario, all the car’s occupants would be inside the house by then, none of them happening to look outside for a few seconds. More likely, someone remained at the car or had been sent to check the garage and the dorm, or both. Worst case, one of the men was already watching the gate, maybe from outside the property, out of sight until they burst into the alley, where his bike waited.

  But, he acknowledged as footsteps shuffled in the front hall, they couldn’t stay where they were.

  He slid out the door, holding it until Cate had followed, then carefully eased it shut. Taking her hand again, he walked close to the house, listening to sounds of at least two, maybe three, men inside, straining to hear any noise from outside.

  At the corner of the house, he glanced down. “Ready for a bit of fun, doc?”

  Her knuckles white on the handle of her bag, she swallowed hard and nodded. With a nod of his own, they left the safety of cover and ran for the rusty gate. Short legs like hers couldn’t run as fast as he could walk, but he kept a quick pace anyway, his hand on her upper arm half dragging, half carrying her along.

  When they reached the open gate without incident, he released her and tossed her the extra helmet he always carried. “Put that on.” He had his own helmet on in seconds, then used a bungee cord to fasten her bag to the backrest. She was still fumbling with the strap when he lifted her by the waist and hefted her onto the seat.

  “Hey!”

  “It’s not brain surgery, doc, and we’ve got to get out of here.”

  He swung his leg through the space left for him and s
tarted the engine. Glancing back to see if she was settled, he caught movement in his peripheral vision, then a gunshot cracked in the heavy air. The bullet passed between them, exploding into a cinder block across the alley, and every muscle in Justin’s body cramped.

  Revving the powerful engine, he released the clutch and the bike shot forward. Zero to 150 in ten seconds, the manufacturer claimed, and he was pretty sure he’d just demonstrated it. He drove like a demon through four blocks of alleys, barely slowing before rocketing across the streets, then made a hard turn on the next cross street. It was a broad thoroughfare that didn’t see much traffic, at least when he’d been on it, but it was also a risky place to speed, with police and military installations strung along its length.

  His destination was a short distance ahead: one right turn, then another, onto a jammed street that passed cruise ships, dive shops and hotels. Their speed diminished significantly—down to ten, maybe fifteen miles an hour, with all the cars, scooters and tourists. His nerves humming, he kept an eye on the traffic both ahead and behind until he passed under the pedestrian bridge. Just past it, he goosed the engine, cutting it too close crossing lanes in front of a ’70s-era VW Bug. He drove up the handicapped ramp, crossed the sidewalk and eased through an open gate.

  A cinder-block wall sheltered them from the street. He nosed the bike in until the front wheel met the wall, then killed the engine and climbed off. He removed his helmet first, and he ran his fingers through his hair before grinning weakly. “Hell. This time I’m gonna kill Trent.” He had to lean against the wall—his legs were that wobbly—and needed a couple deep breaths to fill his lungs again.

  Cate finally swung her leg over and eased to the ground. She was steadier than he, but why shouldn’t she be? She was an E.R. doctor. Life-and-death emergencies were part of her daily routine. Though not, he noted as her hands began to tremble, her own life or death. “Were those men police officers?”

  “Doubtful. If it had been cops shooting at us, we never would have made it this far.” Fairly certain his legs would hold him, he pushed away from the wall and unlashed her suitcase. “You have a swimsuit in there?”

  She blinked, the only indication of her surprise at the change of subject. “Of course. Why?”

  “Because we need to blend in, and in this part of town, most women are in swimsuits.” He gestured broadly to make his point. “Put it on.”

  Her eyes widened with good old-fashioned modesty. “Here?”

  He grinned. That might be fun—Cate Calloway stripping on a public street—but it wasn’t gonna happen in his lifetime. “There are bathrooms down at the dive shop. Come on.”

  Both a ramp and stairs led to the dive shop doors. Divers were gathered around the dock, checking their equipment, and the shop employees were in and out, wheeling air tanks, answering questions, giving advice before the afternoon dive boat headed out. He wished he had his own gear and could just join the crowd. Under the sea seemed the last place those men would look for them.

  Of course, the doc couldn’t dive, but she wasn’t his responsibility. He’d be more than happy to pay whatever it cost to get her back to the airport and on the next flight out, or put her on a cruise ship for the remainder of her vacation. Anything to not have to deal with her.

  But not dealing with her had never been that easy.

  Once inside the shop, he pointed out the bathroom, then approached the man at the counter. Mario glanced up, then did a double take. “I didn’t see your name down for this dive. How have you been?”

  “Good, except I’m not diving this time. I’m here with a…friend who hasn’t discovered the joys of scuba yet.”

  “She must be some…friend to keep you out of the water for long. Where is she? You got her hidden from the rest of us so we won’t try to steal her away?”

  “Bathroom. Listen, I just picked her up at the airport and was wondering if I could leave her stuff here while we have lunch.”

  Mario reached under the counter and produced a lock and a key. “Any empty basket you want.”

  “Thanks. Hey, and a T-shirt, too.” Justin accepted the key, shrugged off his backpack, then pulled his shirt over his head, replacing it with the blue one Mario picked. Divers Do It Deeply, the slogan proclaimed above a picture of a smiling mermaid. After paying for it, he faced the dock. “You’ve got a good crowd.”

  “Regulars. Louisiana. Argentina. The single divers’ group. You’ve probably gone out with all of them.”

  He probably had, which made him turn his attention back inside. He didn’t want anyone besides the dive shop employees to recognize him. Keeping a low profile was something he’d had to learn, and he needed it now especially.

  A couple of women came out of the bathroom wearing dive skins. They were solid women, in black Lycra that gave curves to their curves. Side by side, they completely blocked the view of the woman behind them until they angled off to the steps to the dock.

  She was slender, shapely, nice breasts, well-defined biceps, flat middle. Her shirt was white, sheer cotton, unbuttoned to reveal a bikini top in the vivid colors of a vintage Hawaiian shirt: red, blue, purple, slashes of orange and yellow. A squishy straw hat covered her head, its floppy brim concealing her face, but there was nothing much hidden by her blue shorts—short being the important word. The faded denim clung to her hips and butt and left plenty of leg exposed, all the way down to a pair of flip-flops and painted red toenails. On an island filled with sexy women, she was one to make people look twice.

  And she was headed to him.

  Good God, it was Cate, looking less like a doctor than he’d ever seen her, and he’d known her long before she became one. She stopped beside him, one hand clenched around the handle of the suitcase she’d been pulling behind, and waited silently.

  Mario gave a low whistle and grinned. “She might keep you out of the deep water, amigo, but be careful you don’t wind up in hot water.”

  Justin’s answering smile was more of a bared-teeth grimace. He was already in hot water. He just hoped Cate didn’t make it boil.

  Chapter 2

  Cate protested leaving her suitcase in the locked wire basket at the dive shop. She didn’t care if people stowed thousands of dollars’ worth of gear there on a daily basis. The items in that bag were all she had on the island with her. The stethoscope tucked into her medical bag in the suitcase was the best for picking up subtle heart sounds; it had been a med school graduation gift from her parents, and she wasn’t sure she could even hear anymore on lesser models. She didn’t wear much makeup, but what she wore would cost an arm and a leg to replace, and her favorite well-broken-in sneakers were in there, too. So was her Kindle, and the sunblock that would keep her from self-combusting under the tropical sun.

  “You can’t go around dragging a suitcase without drawing attention,” Justin said. He secured the lock, then hung the key on its cord over his neck and slid it under his shirt. “Have you eaten? I haven’t eaten. Let’s get some lunch. And a drink. Or three.”

  Scowling, Cate watched him saunter away before jogging to catch up. She grabbed his arm, slowing him enough to ease around in front of him and block his way at the base of the stairs. “Have you forgotten? Trent and Susanna have gone missing, La Casa is abandoned and someone shot at us!”

  That one was still giving her palpitations at odd moments. She’d treated more than her share of gunshot wounds, but never, ever had she imagined that she could come that close to being the target of one herself. She’d felt the bullet pass her face, had felt the spray of dust as it bit into the concrete wall.

  Justin was stubbornness in human form. “They’re not missing. They’re taking a break. They’re relaxing somewhere, sleeping off a big lunch, and now I need a big lunch. If you want to fast until they get back, feel free. You can keep me company while I eat.” Stepping around her, he started up the steep flight of stairs that led to the pedestrian bridge.

  “Lazy, spoiled, self-centered,” she mumbled, staying a few step
s behind him.

  They reached the bridge, and she broke off muttering. Ahead of them was a hotel, the grass lush-green, palm trees and flowers everywhere, the swimming pool glittering brightly next to a thatch-roofed restaurant. Behind them was the water, dotted with boats, the most amazing blue-green hue she’d ever seen. With the warm sun, the gentle breezes, the rustle of palm fronds and that incredible water, it was…

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Justin’s voice was low and coming from right behind her, resonant, as it usually was, with self-satisfaction. But in this case, she couldn’t hold it against him. “The mainland’s over there. See those buildings? That’s Playa del Carmen.” He pointed, his forearm resting on her shoulder, bringing with it the mixed fragrances of sunshine and cologne. He smelled as expensive as he looked and, touristy T-shirt aside, he did look expensive.

  And handsome, all golds and tans and browns, like some sort of tropical sun god.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, chastising herself, blaming him. She wasn’t a foolish romantic. She preferred substance over form. She’d had her heart broken once before by a man so exactly like him they could be twins, and she’d learned her lesson. She wouldn’t repeat the past.

  Besides, she didn’t even like the man, nor he her, and she was taking a self-imposed break from any kind of relationship, even with men she did like.

  “This isn’t your first trip to Cozumel, is it?”

  And there was a timely reminder of the man Justin Seavers was. “You know it isn’t. Trent and I came here on our honeymoon. We stayed at a hotel down there—” she pointed to the right “—all the way at the tip of the island, and he had a fling with not one but two women who worked there. I’m sure he told you all about it when we got home.”

  For an instant, she thought she saw regret on his face, but his features shuttered so quickly, she was sure she must have been mistaken. He shifted away, then began walking again. She felt vaguely…guilty as she followed him.