by Janet Dailey
The next morning the prospect of spending the day in her bedroom wasn’t at all appealing. If she was actually a prisoner, as it seemed she was, then there was no reason for her to be a willing prisoner. Besides, if there was more enlightening information to be obtained, it was unlikely she would learn it in the bedroom.
There was a determined light in her eyes as she emerged from her room. The germ of an idea was taking shape to confront her captor with the knowledge that she knew he was not Chris Andrews. Once he realized that she had seen through his guise, he might unwittingly provide her with some more information. The possibility put a spring to her step.
Rounding the arch into the living room, Samantha instantly spied the man seated at the desk, listening with glowering anger to the telephone at his ear. She stopped, alert to the violent impatience emanating from him. Whatever the person on the other end of the wire was saying, it was displeasing him greatly.
“Dammit, Reuben Gentry!” His voice rumbled across the room, widening Samantha’s eyes. “Don’t ever say I didn’t warn you. You’ll be sorry, very sorry.” There was a pause, then, “You’ll be hearing from me.”
On that ominous note, he slammed the receiver and rose from the chair, leashed anger evident in the uncoiling swiftness of his movements. Samantha swallowed, and swallowed again when the lightning fury of his gaze jolted to her. His nostrils flared slightly, as if scenting danger. She couldn’t deny overhearing the conversation. The best she could do was pretend she hadn’t caught the promise of revenge.
“Was that my father?” she asked, somehow succeeding in hiding the tremors of fear.
“Yes.”
Trying to maintain her pose of ignorance, Samantha strolled into the room. Her hands were trembling and she hooked her thumbs in the belt loops of her tight denims.
“When is he coming?” She tried to put just the right note of interest in her voice.
“He’s … been delayed for a couple more days.” Samantha hadn’t missed the infinitesimal pause in his answer. The penetrating gaze was difficult to meet, so she didn’t try and turned instead toward the dining room.
Knowing she had to make some reply to his answer, she sighed ruefully. “I’m going to be back to work before Reuben ever succeeds in getting away.” She quickly changed the subject. “Mmm, the coffee smells good this morning.”
He allowed the conversation to be diverted, but Samantha wasn’t certain she had fooled him. After hearing the telephone conversation, she didn’t confront him with the knowledge that she knew he wasn’t Chris Andrews.
It was slowly dawning on her that she just might be kidnapped. She had only his word that Reuben knew where she was.
In her mind, Samantha reran the short telephone conversation she had had with her father shortly after she had arrived on the island. First he had asked how she was, received her assurances that she was surviving (Samantha blanched at her choice of words in retrospect), then had tried to apologize for the delay. But she had interrupted him before he explained the delay.
She had glossed over his apology with the assertion that she knew he was doing everything he could. And there had been his blankness when she had referred to Chris. Finally Reuben had admonished her to do whatever Chris told her. And couldn’t her father’s preoccupied air have been caused by concern for her safety?
Nausea gripped her stomach at the way the pieces to the puzzle fitted so perfectly. Unwittingly she had probably interrupted a telephone call demanding ransom. By speaking to Reuben, she had proved to him that they were truly holding her captive. If at any time she had betrayed an ignorance of her status or had started to indicate her whereabouts, Chris had been right there, listening to every word, ready to rip the phone away at the slightest provocation.
How easy she had made it for them, Samantha thought dejectedly. The mere mention of her father’s name had persuaded her to come away with a perfect stranger. Not once had she questioned his credentials at the newspaper office. Beth had warned her to beware of him, but she hadn’t listened. Not Samantha Gentry — she knew it all.
The newspaper office! Another memory staggered her. The letter that had been left for Harry Lindsey had to have been a ransom note. And she had pointed out which office to leave it in. It was all so sickeningly obvious now, even to the new clothes that had been provided for her. She hadn’t been allowed to pack her own things because of the risk of being seen with Chris by more people and the delay it would have caused in leaving.
The drive here to Clayton, New York, the fast car that probably could have outdistanced any pursuer, his preoccupation at the restaurant constantly watching everyone coming in and out, the man waiting to take the car when they arrived and the young girl who had joined him at the corner and who would undoubtedly resemble Samantha at a distance, the boat waiting a few minutes out. It all made so much sense now.
If Beth or anyone had happened to see her leave in the car, the man and woman had probably driven it miles away from there before ditching it. And there hadn’t been a soul around the dock to see Samantha board the boat. She had even been ordered to wait in the shadows of a building until it had docked, then been sent below once off board. She had been a most cooperative kidnap victim.
The island was an ideal place to hold her. There weren’t any nosy neighbors to see her or that she could run to if she discovered what was happening. The river provided the walls to keep her captive. The boat tour of the islands had been to keep her entertained and not become suspicious of what was truly going on. They hadn’t stopped anywhere because they didn’t want to risk her being recognized. Possibly her picture was in the papers. The same supposition held true for the supply launch. Plus the fact that the island was only a stone’s throw from Canada and they could slip across the border to escape once the ransom had been paid. The ransom. The telephone call she had just overheard.
Fear took a stranglehold on her throat. Had Reuben refused to pay the ransom? Oh, God, it was possible, she thought. She had once heard him remark that if no ransoms were paid, there might not be any more kidnappings, declaring it was a crime of barbaric cruelty. Or had he been bluffing to gain time, taking a chance that the authorities, which she knew he would have called in, might find her?
Chris — or whatever his name was — had said “You’ll be hearing from me.” He could have meant that he would be calling back about the ransom or that he would be sending a message via her dead body. They couldn’t very well let her go free, not when she could recognize them.
Her hands trembled and she quickly set the coffee mug on the table before she dropped it. Her gaze slid warily to the man seated across from her, only to drop to the table when she saw his inscrutable charcoal eyes watching her. How much of what she had been thinking had she revealed to him, she wondered in breathless panic.
“Are you all right? You look a bit peaked,” he observed smoothly.
“A headache — migraine,” Samantha lied glibly. “I’m prone to them the same as Reuben is.” She touched shaking fingers to her temple and smiled wanly. “Excuse me, I think I’ll go to my room and lie down for a while.”
“Can I get you anything?” He didn’t seem entirely convinced, the faint quirk of his brow dryly mocking.
“No, thanks, she replied, quickly making her exit before he could probe further.
Restlessly Samantha paced the room for nearly an hour. She tried to consider the situation rationally and ignore the terror lurking in the corners of her mind. Although the stranger, her abductor — she had stopped thinking of him as Chris, the name didn’t really fit him anyway — might be aware she suspected something funny was going on, he might not believe she had realized she was kidnapped. He probably still thought she was convinced he was Chris Andrews.
As his guest, she had to be permitted a certain latitude, though at the same time he was confident that she couldn’t escape the island. The question was how could she take advantage of the limited freedom she did have on the island?
The
re had to be something she could do herself other than simply wait. She couldn’t count on being released if the ransom was paid. Escape seemed impossible. Her only hope appeared to be being rescued. But how could she be rescued when no one knew where she was except the kidnappers?
A reporter was supposed to be resourceful, Samantha chided herself. There had to be some way she could get a message out without her abductors’ knowledge. The supply launch would probably not come again, so that was out. No passersby ever stopped at the island, which ruled out the possibility of passing a message to them.
Of course, she thought wryly, there was always the proverbial message stuffed in a bottle and tossed into the water, but the chance of anyone finding it in time would really be slim.
Frowning, she paused beside the window, staring out the panes at the green shadow of trees. What method of communication did that leave? The telephone! The clouds in her troubled brown eyes were dispelled by the light that suddenly brightened them.
Surely there was a way that she could persuade them to let her call her father for some innocent reason? Maybe during the conversation she could give Reuben a clue to where they were holding her. No, her cunning captor would see through the ruse and never permit any veiled message to be delivered.
Yet the telephone might still provide the means if she could use it without anyone listening in. That meant it had to be when no one was around. The middle of the night seemed an obvious choice, but Samantha discounted it. She remembered the night she had taken the midnight walk. No doubt someone was on watch all the time. Any night-time prowling stood a better chance of being discovered.
It had to be during the day when she was more or less free to roam the house and island at will. She would have to choose a time when all three of them were occupied. It was bold and brash, but infinitely more possible of success.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside her room. It could only mean someone was coming to check on her. Quickly Samantha flung herself on the bed, stretching out on her stomach and feigning sleep. Her heart was pounding like the roll of a snare drum as the door opened. Even though her eyes were closed, her senses recognized the identity of her intruder.
How many times in the past few days had his presence disturbed her sensually? Too many to count. Those mysteriously dark gray eyes were studying her now lying on the bed and she could feel the vague stirrings within. Samantha tried to breathe evenly, aware of his regard as surely as if he was touching her. Her stranger was dangerous in more ways than one.
When she thought she couldn’t keep up the pretense of sleep any longer, she heard the door close. Still she didn’t move, not immediately, not until she heard the quiet footsteps moving away from her door. Then she moved cautiously and began contemplating when she might stand the best chance of using the telephone.
At noon, it was Maggie who knocked on the door, coolly inquiring if Samantha would be having lunch. She maintained the excuse of a headache, hoping to lull them into not watching her so closely. When the housekeeper offered to bring her some broth, Samantha accepted, which maintained her pose of illness and provided nourishment for her empty stomach.
The door didn’t latch securely behind Maggie. A few minutes after she had left the cup of beef broth, it slowly swung open a few inches, and from the living room, Samantha could hear the stranger’s voice.
“I know she suspects something,” he stated in a grim, decisive voice. “We couldn’t hope to keep her completely in the dark. She’s much too clever for that.”
“But what are we going to do now?” came Tom’s gruff response.
“Keep her on the island until …”The rest of his sentence became indistinct as they evidently moved to another room.
At least, Samantha smiled in macabre humor, there was no immediate plan to dispose of her. It would give her precious time to try to bring about her own rescue.
The opportunity presented itself much sooner than she expected. Almost an hour had passed when she heard the low murmur of voices outside, those of Tom and her stranger. At this time, Samantha knew, Maggie would be in the kitchen clearing away the luncheon dishes. This was her chance, maybe her only chance.
Stealthily, she tiptoed out of her room, down the corridor and into the living room. Listening intently she could hear Maggie in the kitchen and the faint voices outside. Adrenaline pumped through her veins as she picked up the telephone and hurriedly dialed her father’s office number.
Her gaze darted apprehensively toward the kitchen as she waited for the telephone to be answered, winding a finger in the coiled cord. Exhilaration flashed through her when a woman’s voice came through the receiver.
“Reuben Gentry, please,” she requested in a whisper. “This is his daughter calling.”
“I’m sorry, but I can barely hear you. Would you please speak up?” the woman insisted.
Samantha gritted her teeth impatiently. “I can’t!” she hissed a little louder, silently cursing the wasted seconds. “This is Samantha Gentry, and I must talk to my father.”
“Did you say it was Mr. Gentry you wanted?” The frowning voice asked for clarification.
“Yes!”
“I’m sorry, he isn’t in right now. Can someone else help you?”
“Damn!” she muttered under her breath, rubbing a hand across her forehead. “Put me through to the security …”
The front doorknob was turning. She caught the movement out of the corner of her eye. Her stranger must be coming and she didn’t stand a chance of getting out of the living room unseen. The odds were he would see her with the telephone in hand before she could replace it. Her only hope was to leave a message.
Precious time was wasted in making the decision. The door was already opened and the stranger walking in when Samantha turned her concentration to the receiver mouthpiece.
“Tell my father,” she began in a loud, clear voice so the woman would have no trouble understanding what she said, “that I’m at —”
A large hand was pressing down the button on the telephone’s cradle, breaking the connection before Samantha could complete her message. Frustration and impotent anger glared from her eyes as she looked into the pair of hard gray ones. He pried the receiver from the death-grip of her fingers and replaced it.
“I’m sorry,” he said calmly, “I couldn’t let you do that.”
“You have no right to stop me!” Samantha flashed. “It was a private call. There was something I wanted to talk to Reuben about and I didn’t have a chance to speak to him this morning,” she defended herself with a lie. “I would have reimbursed you for the long-distance charges.”
“I’m sure you would have.” He towered beside her, an arm brushing her shoulder.
Inwardly Samantha was quaking, from fear and his disturbing nearness, but she boldly reached again for the telephone receiver. “Then there isn’t any reason for you to object if I call him.”
His hand clamped over her wrist, not allowing her to lift the receiver. “Sam, I’m not playing games,” he warned quietly.
“Aren’t you?” Her head jerked toward him, her brown eyes shimmering with defiance and rebellion. Temper threw caution to the winds. “You’ve been playing games with me ever since you walked into the newspaper office — first letting me believe you were Owen Bradley, then ly —” She bit into her lip, realizing she had virtually admitted that she knew he wasn’t Chris Andrews.
The narrowing of his gaze indicated that he had guessed what she had been about to say. Her heart skipped several beats under his piercing look. Samantha had gone too far to turn back. Her only hope was to brave it out without revealing how terrified she really was.
“I don’t know who you are, but you aren’t Chris Andrews,” she declared. “It was all a lie.”
“More or less,” he acknowledged with remorseless ease.
Spinning away from him in irritation, Samantha muttered, “I don’t suppose it would do any good to ask what your real name is?”
He hesitat
ed. “My name is Jonas —”
“Jonas!” Laughing derisively in disbelief, she pivoted back. Her hand sliced the air to cut the rest of his identification off. “Don’t bother with the rest. That isn’t your name, either.”
He slowly looked her up and down in a thoughtful manner then shook his head in unconcern. “Names aren’t all that important.”
“No,” she agreed bitterly. “A man’s character or his lack of it remains the same regardless of his name. Jonas is as good a choice as any. It’s certainly appropriate. I haven’t had anything but bad luck since I met you.”
“So you’ve decided I’m lacking in morals.” There was a glitter of harsh mockery in the eyes of the man who now called himself Jonas.
“You’ve proved that!” she retaliated. “Just how gullible do you think I am? How many times am I supposed to believe your lies? You’re keeping me a prisoner on this island. You won’t let me off and you won’t allow me to see anyone but you, Tom and Maggie. I’m not even permitted to phone my father. What story are you going to come up with to explain all that?”
“None.” The rugged bronze features were hardening into glacial ice. “I don’t think you would believe anything I tell you.”
“You can’t expect me to!” Samantha cried. A part of her had been wishing he would weave another believable story. She didn’t want him to be a kidnapper. “You’ve cried wolf so many times that it’s impossible! Oh, Chris — Jonas, whatever your name really is,” she sighed impatiently, “why can’t you let me leave a message for Reuben?”
She didn’t know why she asked that. She knew he would never agree to it. The humbling plea had been a gesture of desperation and tears welled in her brown eyes.
His hands settled on her shoulders as he gazed deeply into her eyes, his jaw clenched. “I can’t, Sam.”
The force of his magnetism and her own attraction to it nearly pulled Samantha into his arms. Instead she wrenched her shoulders away from his grip, hating the way her traitorous heart refused to listen to her mind.
