Carrie put the safety on, locking it into place as she started across the Sea Circus grounds.
She had to be up and alert and at the marina by six in the morning. By the time she got to her car, drove to the gate, punched in her security code, opened the gate, drove her car out, closed the car, restarted the alarm system and drove all the way home to her little apartment on the other side of town, she’d stand a chance at getting four solid hours of sleep.
Four wasn’t too bad, she thought as she cut across the lawn next to the main aquarium tank. She’d be able to nap tomorrow afternoon, maybe take the boat back out and just let it drift. She’d close her eyes in the soft sunshine and work on her tan….
Carrie froze. Was that the sound of laughter that had floated across the sandy grounds, or had it been some lonely seabird, or the sound of the surf?
Listening hard, Carrie heard it again. Laughter. Laughter, followed by a stream of rapid-fire Spanish, then a plaintive voice, complaining clearly in English, “Yo, man, talk American, wouldja?”
Teenagers on the beach, she decided. No one could have gotten onto the Sea Circus grounds without triggering the alarm system. And even if they had somehow managed to get in without setting off all the bells and whistles and bright flashing lights, the fail-safe silent alarm would ring down at police headquarters, and a patrol car would be out in a matter of minutes.
Carrie rounded the corner of the main aquarium tank, heading to her parked car.
And came face-to-face with a group of men.
Good Lord! How the hell had they gotten in?
The scientist that she was, quickly assessed the facts.
There were four of them—that she could see anyway—and they were not teenagers. They were grown men in their mid-twenties. Several of them may have been even older.
The take-no-bull Montana rancher’s daughter that she’d been for the first eighteen years of her life planted her feet firmly on the ground and cradled the rifle in her arms, making sure they could see it clearly.
“I believe you gentlemen are trespassing,” she said coolly. “I suggest you allow me to escort you off Sea Circus property before the police arrive.”
One of the men wore a red bandanna tied around his head. On closer examination, he looked to be in his late thirties, with deep-set eyes and gaunt, hollow cheekbones. He merely smiled at her words.
“But we’re not ready to leave,” he said with a thick Cuban accent.
Another of the men had a nose ring the size of a quarter. He was tall, taller than the rest of them by a good six inches, and he towered over Carrie. He had greasy blond hair pulled back into a messy ponytail at his nape. He kept his eyes carefully hidden behind a pair of mirrored sunglasses despite the fact that it was the middle of the night.
A third man was standing slightly to the left of Bandanna. He had short red hair in a crew cut and a face that still bore the scars of teenage acne. He was wearing a faded Nirvana T-shirt and a pair of cutoff jeans that revealed a pair of skinny legs. “Yeah, baby,” he said, leering at her. “Iceman wants to look at the fishies.”
“Then he should come back tomorrow,” Carrie said tartly, “when Sea Circus is open to the general public.”
“We ain’t the general public,” Nose Ring sneered.
The men seemed undaunted by the rifle she was holding. They moved slowly, spreading out around her, and Carrie realized in another few seconds she’d be completely surrounded. She slipped the safety off the rifle and took several steps backward until her shoulder blades hit the rough concrete of the main aquarium building. Better to have a wall behind her than God-knows-who and his even uglier brother.
In one quick movement, she hoisted the solid barrel of the rifle to her shoulder and cocked the trigger, closing one eye and squinting to aim directly at Bandanna—the man who was clearly the leader. At this proximity, shooting the tranquilizer dart at his head would probably kill him. The dart would shatter the bones in his skull, then penetrate his brain. He’d be tranquilized—permanently.
Bandanna seemed to realize this, too, and he gave a brief command in Spanish.
“Back off,” another man translated, a man who had been standing slightly out of Carrie’s sight, in the shadows behind Bandanna.
Carrie glanced in his direction.
He was the only one of the four who looked as if he might actually be nice to stand downwind of. He was more than average height—which meant that he stood a good nine inches taller than Carrie—and his clothes were pure American Urban. Despite the heat, he was wearing a black leather biker’s jacket over a white T-shirt, and a pair of faded blue jeans that fitted him like a second skin. Snakeskin cowboy boots with pointy toes and silver-chained boot bracelets added the final touch.
His hair was long and thick, curling down around and past his shoulders. He had wide, angular cheekbones that spoke as clearly of his Latin heritage as did his gentle Hispanic accent.
He was a handsome man. No, forget handsome. He wasn’t handsome. He was drop-dead gorgeous, Carrie realized as he stepped out into the light—but not because of his cheekbones or his shiny hair or his trim, muscular body.
It was his eyes.
Soft and black, his eyes were incredible—the color of the midnight sky—surrounded by a fringe of thick, dark, almost femininely long lashes. They held a gentle serenity, a quiet confidence, like that of a priest or a minister, that contradicted his macho leather-and-chains getup. But then that look shifted, and there was something else in his eyes, too—a glint of excitement, a flare of fire and power, a sense of very real danger. Part priest maybe, but also part devil.
This was not a man to mess with.
Holding Carrie’s gaze, he stepped in front of Bandanna, shielding the older man from her rifle. But he didn’t stop there. He kept going, slowly moving closer and closer to her.
“We were only cutting through. We will leave, but first you must give me the gun,” he said. He smiled at her, showing a set of white, perfect teeth, and added, “Please?”
“Pwetty pwease?” Crew-cut said, then laughed loudly. “Yo, Carlos, man, you forgot to say ‘Mother, may I.’”
Carlos. The man with the midnight eyes was named Carlos.
“Freeze, Carlos,” Carrie ordered him, training the gun on the center of his forehead.
But he just kept coming. “Give me the gun, miss,” he said again, “so that no one gets hurt.”
“You don’t want anyone to get hurt?” she asked, her anger making her sound breathless and afraid. “Then turn around right now and leave.”
Bandanna spoke again in Spanish.
“Iceman says we will,” Carlos said, translating. “But only when we are ready.” Was that genuine remorse that flashed in his eyes? Or was it amusement?
He was almost within an arm’s reach of her rifle. Carrie moved the barrel down slightly, so it was aimed steadily at his stomach. He smiled, and she knew he knew she didn’t have the nerve to kill him. But if he came any closer, she would pull the trigger. And God only knows how the human body would react to the fast-acting tranquilizer intended for a four-hundred-pound marine mammal.
“Take another step and I’ll shoot,” she warned him.
He stopped. And laughed. “You would, too, wouldn’t you?”
“Damn straight,” she said grimly.
“And then what?” Carlos asked his eyes glittering, reflecting the dim glow of the floodlights that lit the park grounds. “I fall.” He shrugged. “But there are three others. And I doubt that my friends will wait patiently while you reload your gun. No, if you shoot me, you will be in serious trouble. I cannot recommend it.”
“Let’s skip the trouble, shall we?” Carrie said. “Now, you boys just hop back over that fence and clear on out of here, and we’ll call it a night.”
“You sound like one of them thar Western movies,” Crew-cut said, mimicking and exaggerating Carrie’s drawl. “Like a cute little cowgirl.” He smiled, revealing a variety of cracked and broken teet
h. “Come on, baby, why don’t you show us your spurs and whips?”
Carrie glanced at Crew-cut for only a fraction of a second, but that was all it took to give Carlos an edge.
He moved, faster than she thought it was possible for a man of his size to move, quickly closing the gap between his hands and her gun.
She squeezed the trigger, but it was too late. He knocked the barrel of the gun up, and the dart shot harmlessly into the night sky.
The recoil caught her off-balance, and Carrie went down, hard, into the sandy dirt. She scrambled quickly to her feet, straining her ears for the sound of police sirens. But there was only silence.
Bandanna, Crew-cut and Nose Ring stood in a semi-circle around her, just watching. Carlos was looking at her gun, releasing the spent cartridge and making sure there wasn’t another round in the second barrel.
“She was gonna shoot ya, man,” Crew-cut said to Carlos.
Carlos just smiled serenely.
Now what? Carrie was still breathing hard, trying to control the crazy hammering of her heart. The situation wasn’t looking very good. She was unarmed, in a deserted spot, in the middle of the night, with four scary-looking men. Could things get much worse?
Bandanna said something to Carlos in Spanish.
Carlos answered evenly.
Bandanna spoke again, gesturing toward Carrie.
Carlos smiled at Bandanna, smiled at Carrie and nodded his head. “Sí,” he said. That she understood. “Sí” meant yes. But yes what?
A police siren wailed faintly in the distance, and Carrie held her breath. But it was moving away from her, getting softer and softer until she couldn’t hear it anymore. Dammit, where were those police?
And still the conversation in Spanish went on.
Crew-cut finally exploded, voicing all of Carrie’s frustration, letting out a stream of foul language. “I’m feeling left out here,” he added. “If you guys aren’t discussing the balmy weather, then translate, for chrissake.”
“Iceman said he wants to see the dolphins now,” Carlos said, clearly tongue in cheek.
Nose Ring scowled. “Cut the crap, Carlos.”
“Time to go,” Carlos said evenly.
“What about her?” Crew-cut asked, pointing to Carrie with his chin. “We can’t just leave her here.”
“Sure you can,” Carrie lied. “You clear out of here, I’ll forget I ever saw you. No harm done, right?”
Carlos laughed, humor lighting his face.
“What?” Carrie said defensively. But she could tell from his eyes that he knew if they simply left her here, she’d run up to the office and call the police faster than they could sneeze.
“I’ll take care of her,” he said to Crew-cut. “You go with Iceman. I’ll catch up.”
Bandanna and Nose Ring were already walking away, heading for the other side of the park.
“No way, man,” Crew-cut said, his voice cracking. “Why do I want to go on ahead when you’re having all the fun?”
Carlos shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He turned to Carrie. “Do you have a car?” he asked.
Her blood felt icy cold despite the evening’s heat. Take care of her? How was Carlos going to “take care of” her? Still, she stuck out her chin. “Maybe.”
“Please give me the car keys.”
“I don’t have ’em,” she lied.
He leaned the rifle against the side of the aquarium and stepped toward her. “Give me the keys, please,” he said, “or I’ll have to take them from you.”
“And I’ll help,” Crew-cut said with an ugly smile.
Carrie crossed her arms. “You boys planning to steal my car now, too? Aren’t breaking-and-entering charges good enough for the lot of you?”
One arm. That’s all it took for Carlos to hold her while he quickly searched her pockets for her car keys. Both her arms were pinned and her face was pressed against the sweet-smelling leather of his jacket. If he hadn’t been wearing that jacket, she would’ve bitten him, but she didn’t even try, since all she would’ve gotten was a mouthful of cowhide. She pulled back her leg to kick him, but he found the keys in the front pocket of her shorts and let her go before her boot connected with his shin.
Carrie was gasping indignantly, but Carlos was unruffled.
“Thank you,” he said politely, as if she’d handed him the keys. He slipped them into his own pocket.
A strand of her long blond hair had come free from her ponytail, and she pushed it back off her face, looping it behind her ear. “I have three more payments on that car,” she said hotly. “If you think I’m just going to let you steal it—”
“No one’s going to steal your car,” Carlos told her.
“Wait a minute, man.” Crew-cut looked at Carrie. “What kind is it?”
Even Carlos looked exasperated. “Get lost, man,” he said to Crew-cut. “You’re cramping my style, you know?”
But Crew-cut didn’t budge. “If you get to have fun,” he said with a petulant set to his square jaw, “I get to watch.”
Watch? Watch what? The fear was back, fear for her personal safety, fear for her very life. But the fear brought a new wave of anger—anger that her father and brothers were going to be proven right. She couldn’t take care of herself. She had had no right to leave the safety of their isolated Montana ranch and move to a crime-riddled Florida city. Dammit, she could just imagine them saying “We told her so,” as they morosely gathered around to identify her body at the St. Simone morgue.
Carlos took her gently by the arm, but she pulled free, glaring at him.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked.
He countered with a question. “Where’s your car parked?”
She didn’t answer, so he answered for her.
“Not in the parking lot outside the gate,” he said, “or I would have seen it there. It’s probably somewhere inside the fence, no?”
She stared at him silently. If he so much as touched her, she’d throw up on him. That’s what she’d always been told to do in the event of a sexual assault, right? It sure wouldn’t take much effort on her part. She was already feeling queasy.
“Are you going to walk?” Carlos said patiently, “or perhaps I should carry you?”
“Yo, Carlos, I’ll carry her,” Crew-cut volunteered.
“I’ll walk,” Carrie said quickly.
“Oh, man,” Crew-cut said, exaggerating his whine. “I don’t think she likes me.” He pretended to pout. “But, baby, you know, I like you….”
He reached out to touch her, and Carrie jerked back out of his grasp. “Don’t you come near me,” she said sharply, including Carlos in her glare.
What were her options here? She could stand passively by and wait to see what they were going to do with her. Or she could run. She could dart away into the shadows and hide. She could slip into the seal tank and swim to the covered hutch that could only be accessed underwater.
She glanced toward the seal tank. It was more than a hundred yards away. If she was smart, she’d run in the other direction first, lose these jerks in the shadows underneath the main aquarium bleachers, and then head back to the seal tank. Once she was under the water, they’d never find her. Not in a million years.
“Don’t even think about it,” Carlos murmured, as if he could read her mind.
“Think about what?” she asked innocently. And bolted toward the bleachers.
Seven steps. That’s all it took before Carlos tackled her, pulling her down onto the hard sand with him. He pinned her to the ground, her hands above her head, the full weight of his body pressing against her.
Carrie struggled to get away, struggled to bring her knee up to kick him, but she couldn’t move. Her heart was pounding and she was nearly blind with panic.
“Madre de Dios,” Carlos said. “You are a handful and a half, aren’t you?” He brought his mouth closer to her ear, lowering his voice. “Look, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m a—”
Carrie bit him between his sho
ulder and his neck, right through the white cotton of his T-shirt collar.
He swore sharply, and pulled away from her. She scrambled into a sitting position and tried to back away, but he grabbed her ankle with one hand. With the other he rubbed his neck.
“A biter, huh?” Crew-cut said, crouching down next to them. “Oh, baby, you can bite me anytime.”
Carrie was shaking uncontrollably, and she couldn’t stop the tears that had flooded her eyes. One spilled down her cheek and she wiped it fiercely away. She’d be damned if she was going to let these bastards see her cry.
Carlos muttered something in Spanish, pushing his hair out of his face. One dark, curly lock caught on his eyelashes, but he didn’t seem to notice. The priest look was back in his eyes, making his entire face seem warm and compassionate and full of remorse. Would he look at her that way after the devil took over again, after he’d forced himself on her?
Carrie spit at him, and he closed his eyes as the spittle hit him full in the face.
“Oh, gross,” Crew-cut exclaimed. “Slap her, man. Don’t let the bitch get away with that. Hell, I’ll slap her for you.”
“No, thank you.”
“Aw, come on—”
“I said, no.” Carlos kept his eyes closed until he’d wiped his face clean with his hand. When he opened his eyes again, Carrie could see no anger there—only patience. He smiled apologetically at Carrie. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“You’re telling her you’re sorry?” Crew-cut said. “She’s the one who should be apologizing.”
Carlos exchanged his hold on Carrie’s leg for a steady grip on her arm and got to his feet, pulling her up with him.
She tried to pull free, but he wouldn’t let go. “If I let you go, you’ll just run again,” he said, “so I’m not going to do it.”
“You’re hurting me,” Carrie said.
“Don’t pull, and I won’t have to hold you so tightly,” Carlos said.
He led her around the corner of the main aquarium, and there was her little sports car, bright red and very shiny, even in the dimly powered floodlights.
Nowhere to Run Page 24
