by Dana Marton
“You barely knew your mother.”
“My grandmother was one.”
“And you felt like you owed her carrying on the family tradition because she raised you.”
“Oh, that’s good. What are you, a shrink now?” She stood and hopped over the creek in two graceful steps, anger clear on her face. “Analyze this—have you ever thought about what you’re running from when you’re running from a serious relationship?”
“That’s ridiculous. I never ran from anything in my life.”
“Maybe you drive away, then. As fast as you can, around and around the racetrack. Except, you’re not getting anywhere.”
“I don’t want to get anywhere. I want to be at the racetrack. Have you even thought of where you’d really like to be?”
“Butt out of my life. It’s none of your business.”
“Where did I hear that before? That’s right, I think I’ve told you that a time or two.” Or a hundred.
“It’s not the same.” She looked thoroughly exasperated, which made her even more beautiful.
“Don’t like the tables turned?” He wasn’t seriously arguing with her, but would have liked to make her see his point, just for once.
“You’re impossible. I’m not talking about this.” She marched into the bushes on the other side, with one last murderous glance.
He’d hit a sore spot, apparently. Maybe she didn’t really want to be a matchmaker after all. Could have fooled him. She’d always seemed more than committed to her task.
“You know, you’re a complicated woman,” he called after her. Intriguing, too, but he wasn’t about to tell her that. Would sound too much like a compliment.
“All women are complicated,” she called back. “You just never took the time to get to know any of them.”
She was, of course, wrong about that. He paid plenty of attention to women. According to her and his mother, that was what had gotten him into trouble in the first place.
“Don’t go too far,” he called. He would give her enough time, in case she was doing her private business, then go after her.
He wanted to get back to their night shelter and bring some bottles over to the creek. And he wanted to get to higher ground, using the tree cover to see if he could spot the men who were after them. He had to find them, and somehow get ahold of a radio.
The babble of the creek drowned out most sounds around him. He was focused on the bushes she’d disappeared into. Hopefully, she hadn’t gotten so mad at him that she’d walked off. He didn’t want her to go, even beyond the fact that it was obviously not safe.
He wanted to keep talking with her, getting to know her better. He wanted to know what made her tick, what made her laugh, what made her blue eyes darken with passion. He couldn’t remember his mind ever having been this preoccupied with a woman.
Too preoccupied, perhaps.
Because, when the barrel of a gun came to rest against the back of his neck, it caught him unawares.
“Make any noise and I’ll blow your head off,” a man with an Hispanic accent said. “Get up.”
Lazlo got to his feet slowly. He couldn’t see his captor, but he could smell the man’s stale sweat.
“Now we’ll wait for your little friend,” the bastard announced.
Not a chance. Lazlo filled his lungs. “Don’t come back, Milda. Run!”
Then the man behind him smacked the pistol butt into the back of his head, and the pain shot down his spine, taking all the strength from his legs.
SHE RAN AS FAST as her legs would carry her, until her lungs threatened to collapse. Was someone still following her? She was breathing too hard, the blood rushing in her ears too loudly to hear anything. When she could go no farther, Milda hid under a thick bush, pulling her limbs in, curling up into a ball, hoping to avoid detection if anyone came this way. Someone had come after Lazlo’s warning. But it had been a while since she’d heard any branches snap behind her. She lay still, not caring about the bugs or the small lizard that checked her out, stared into her face before turning its shimmering green tail and skittering off.
She was shaking, gasping for air, sweat soaking her skin. Quiet. Don’t make a noise. Lazlo had been right. She was willing to admit that now. She would have willingly admitted anything, only to be back at home, or at least on the mainland. The island had been a terrible idea. She was never going to do anything like this, ever again.
A bird sang in a tree not far from her. She tried to focus on that instead of all her fears.
After a few interminably long minutes, her racing heart finally slowed. Her breathing was under control. Nobody came. She’d gotten away.
She closed her eyes for a split second, with pure relief, before the next thought hit her. She was alone in the forest. And she had no idea where she was. She’d run forward blindly, changing direction randomly, trying to lose the killer on her trail.
Lazlo would know which way to go. He always did. He seemed to have an innate sense of direction that she’d come to rely on. She relied on him for a number of things, to be fair. Strange for a man whom, for the longest time, she’d believed to be completely unreliable.
He was in the hands of his enemies.
If those men—assassins—she could barely even think the word—hated the royal family as much as he believed they did…
Pain streaked through her chest anew, and it had nothing to do with the way her lungs thirsted for air.
One thought circled her mind, one thought shrunk her stomach into a lead ball, one thought made her eyes burn so much that she had to squeeze them together.
It was entirely possible that they’d already killed him.
Chapter Seven
They had him tied up in Vincent’s tent. Lazlo knew this because Ben’s had been bloodstained, and this was clean, save for the dirt the three men had tracked in. They were outside at the moment, speaking Spanish, mixing in a lot of English words. Lazlo spoke fluent English, French, German and Italian, but he was unfamiliar with the language they were speaking. Add to that that they were keeping their voices down, and he was lucky to catch every tenth word, not enough to make sense of their conversation.
He still didn’t have any idea, beyond guesses, who they were or how they’d gotten to the island. But as fiercely as they protected the place, they planned on leaving at some point. On the way here, he caught sight of a raft in the process of being constructed.
The good news was, they hadn’t caught Milda.
The bad news was, they knew she was out there somewhere. And there were three of them. Armed.
He needed to come up with a plan. But even as he tried to loosen his ropes, the one they called Roberto walked into the tent. He’d been able to glean their names as they talked to each other.
“Who are you?” he asked.
Lazlo kept his mouth shut. If these men were with the Freedom Council, they knew exactly who he was.
The man came closer and fingered his clothes, kicked his new hiking boots. His eyes were mean and calculating. “You’re a rich man. Give me your money and maybe I’ll let you leave the island.”
“I have no money.” He was speaking the truth. He’d left his wallet in his jacket, which was on the boat that had returned to the mainland.
“Where is your boat?”
“No boat.” Maybe the bastards weren’t with the Freedom Council, after all. That gave him hope. If the men were after money and not after his life, they might be willing to negotiate.
“How did you get here?” Roberto asked. “You came hunting? Hiking?”
“Hiking. We were dropped off.”
“Are you someone important?”
“Hardly.”
“You lie,” Roberto yelled, and kicked him in the side, this time more viciously.
Pain sliced through Lazlo’s ribs. He clenched his jaw tight.
“Your two friends were Valtrian royal security.” The man spat, missing Lazlo’s head.
“As I am.”
Ro
berto took in his clothes again and the gold watch on his wrist and gave an evil grin that would have done any silver-screen villain proud. “On closer look, I think you’re one of their damn princes.”
If he worked for the Freedom Council, he’d know for sure, Lazlo thought. And decided to gamble. “Then negotiate for my release. You have the radios. Make contact.”
The man’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. He must have been thinking the same thing, but now that Lazlo brought it up, the bastard looked like he was beginning to smell a trap.
Not as stupid as he looked, after all.
“I can’t do anything with money if I’m dead. The island would be too easily surrounded.” He swore in Spanish, his face twisting into a fierce scowl, as if he blamed Lazlo for everything.
“Let us go then. You have nothing to gain by hurting us. We mean you no harm.” He was talking to gain time. After seeing how these men had killed his guards, he had no illusions. The only reason he was still alive was because his apparent wealth and possible status had come as a surprise to Roberto, and it threw the man off temporarily.
The scowl disappeared from the guy’s face, replaced by another slow, chilling smile. “Does the name Miguel Santos mean anything to you?”
Lazlo raked his brain. “No. I don’t believe so.”
Roberto’s gaze turned frosty. “It will, before this is all over.” He turned and strode out of the tent.
But Lazlo called after him. “Wait. Who is Miguel?”
Roberto stopped and looked back, one hand on the tent flap. “My brother. He was killed in a Valtrian prison. He appealed to the royal family but was denied early release. One of your Valtrian bastards knifed him to death before he could have walked out of there.”
The man’s chest heaved with emotion, the muscles of his face tight, his gaze burning into Lazlo’s. “Before the sun comes up, Miguel will hear your screams in heaven.” He spat toward Lazlo, but missed again. “Before the sun comes up, mi amigo, you will pray for death.”
MILDA SPENT THE REST OF THE DAY under the bush where she’d collapsed, not daring to make any noise by moving, not even after hours had passed, and she was reasonably sure the men had gone. She was scared of everything around her, nearly startled out of her skin when a small animal—a mouse?—skittered across her leg.
But as night fell, she couldn’t stop thinking about Lazlo in those killers’ clutches. She pushed aside her fears and stole back to the creek, one careful step at a time. Nobody was there, everything was quiet.
She quenched her thirst and ignored her hunger. She couldn’t go back to their shelter for food. The Painted Rocks were down the hill, and she needed to go up, in the opposite direction. She felt guilty about the time she’d already wasted.
Going after a group of murderous outlaws seemed insane, but she had to find Lazlo, had to see if she could do anything to help him. She knew she wouldn’t be able to fight those men off, but if she could steal a radio while they were busy with Lazlo, at least she could call for help. The chances for dismal failure were astronomical, but she couldn’t leave Lazlo to his fate.
She started up the hillside in the cover of the trees, putting one foot in front of the other carefully, stopping frequently to listen. Her pulse went into overdrive every time a piece of fruit fell from a tree. A snake that slithered across her path nearly gave her a heart attack.
At least two hours passed before she reached the top of the hill, the point from where she could see most of the island…and the blinking embers of a small fire in the distance.
There they were, for love’s sake. She took a deep breath, relieved that seeking higher ground had been the right decision. Seeing the fire made her feel better about the mess they were in. Lazlo was alive—she felt more sure of that now. He was alive and she would find a way to save him.
She took off immediately, afraid that those embers would cool and she would lose direction. The moon came out from behind the clouds, and the silver light made her trek easier. For the moment, she was grateful for it, even knowing that, once she reached her destination, that light would be nothing but a hindrance, making it easier for the men to spot her approaching.
Another hour passed before she reached them. The tent was set up next to a car-size rock that shielded it from the sea. That was why they’d been brave enough to light a fire, she realized. No passing boat could see it, especially with the stand of trees behind the rock providing even more thorough covering.
She waited carefully, looking for the slightest movement, listening for the smallest sound. They didn’t seem to have a guard waiting. Maybe they thought that, with Lazlo captured, they didn’t need one. They probably thought she was holed up somewhere, hiding. Which could work to her advantage.
She approached with as much care as she was capable of. The tent flap stood semiopen. One man slept inside. She couldn’t see a radio from her vantage point, and she didn’t dare move closer. At least not until she knew where the other one was.
There were two of them, she was pretty sure. She’d heard two when she’d been trapped with Lazlo beneath the rocks at the beach. They must have split up when they captured the prince. One had stayed with him and one had come after her. Thank God, she’d been able to find a good hiding place.
But where was he? And what did they do with their prisoner?
A low moan from the woods brought the answer as she rounded the tent. Her heart raced. She had no plan beyond finding them, but she was too scared to stop and think. And even if she did stop and come up with a plan before going farther, the best plan in the world wouldn’t save Lazlo if he was dead by the time she got there.
She crept in the direction of the sound, making sure she was always in cover—not an easy task, as the trees weren’t nearly thick enough here to hide her. Then she did see a man at last. Had to be one of the killers. She was so scared she could barely breathe as she watched him. Not stopping to make a plan or find some sort of a weapon seemed insanely stupid all of a sudden. But what experience did she have at something like this? She wasn’t a warrior, she was a marital consultant.
The man was alone. Had he been the one to moan? That made little sense. A minute passed before she realized that the odd-shaped tree that held the guy’s attention was a tree and a man. Her heart practically stopped beating.
Lazlo was tied, with his back against the trunk. His head hung forward and blood dripped from his forehead.
“NOT BAD,” Roberto admitted with grudging admiration. He had figured he would have the bastard broken long before now. Many he knew would have already begged for mercy.
He didn’t enjoy torture like some of his buddies, but he did it when necessary. He wasn’t doing this for his own sake. But if Miguel was watching from above, Roberto wanted his brother to know that he took his death seriously. Where he grew up, women showed their love for a lost one with grief and mourning. A man showed his love for a murdered family member or friend by exacting revenge.
And he was about to kill a prince for Miguel. Brotherly love didn’t get greater than that.
He was alone with the prince, not that he knew which one he was—there were four or five of them, he thought. José had gotten tired of the torture and had gone off to sleep. Marco was still out somewhere, looking for the woman.
Roberto drew back the stick he was holding and cracked the man across the shin again, careful not to break the prince’s leg. Not yet.
He didn’t want the man to go into shock and pass out. He wanted him conscious as long as possible while he beat him to death.
Like his little brother had been beaten and cut in that rat hole of a Valtrian prison. He dropped the stick and pulled the knife he’d gotten off the first man he’d killed on the island. Under other circumstances, he would have figured out a way to make money off the prince. Get the money, then shoot him. But the prince’s people would be all over the island if Roberto made contact. And Roberto already had the Italian police after him. The island was too small, with very few plac
es to hide. Bad location, bad timing. At least for a ransom gig. But he would have his revenge, and that in itself was worth something to him.
He had stayed alive this long because he knew the rules. And one of the rules was not to push his luck. Fate had dropped this man into his lap, bringing the revenge he’d so badly wanted right to his doorstep. Hell, the prince might as well have been gift-wrapped.
He planned on taking his sweet time opening this package.
THE VICIOUS CRACK at Lazlo’s leg nearly made Milda sick to her stomach. Then the man drew a knife and she felt all the blood leave her head. She blinked a few times and mentally shook herself. She had to act. Now. Or in the next minute, Lazlo would be dead.
She looked for a weapon of any kind, hoping for a heavy, fallen branch. A fist-size stone was the only thing she found. She didn’t dare throw it, didn’t trust her aim when she had only one chance and her arm was shaking. She inched forward in the cover of the bushes and, when she thought she was close enough, she lunged at the man.
And hit her aim. The stone connected solidly with the back of the bastard’s skull. She rolled away immediately, not wanting to get caught if she hadn’t succeeded in knocking him out. But she didn’t roll fast enough. Rough fingers closed around her ankle and yanked her back.
At least the man had been stunned enough by the blow to drop his knife. Milda saw it on the ground. Out of reach for the both of them.
The man kept her down with a hand splayed in the middle of her chest. She squirmed, but was no match for someone like him. With a roar, he raised the same stone she’d used.
She was a split second from having her skull smashed to pieces. She froze. She always froze when she was scared. She was a lover, not a fighter. She saw the stone come down as if in slow motion.
“Milda,” Lazlo called out weakly by the tree.
Hearing his voice gave her strength. She brought her knees up and kicked the man as hard as she could, right where it counted.
The bastard collapsed, then she kicked him in the temple and watched with satisfaction as he fell flat on his back. He stayed on the ground and his eyes rolled back in his head.
