by Gail Barrett
“What is it?” he whispered, the foreboding he’d been fighting mushrooming into full-blown dread. What was wrong? Where was the danger? What the hell had made her so afraid?
Her gaze stayed stalled on the newcomers, every remaining scrap of color leaching from her face. “That man. The tall one on the left. That’s my brother, Sultan.”
Chapter 7
She’d just tumbled into a nightmare. Her worst fear, the situation she’d spent the past fifteen years trying to avoid had finally come to pass.
She was back in her family’s power.
Nadine stared at the man striding toward her on the runway, the absolute horror of her predicament sinking in. She hadn’t seen him since the day that she’d left home, pretending to head to the market, and fleeing for her life instead. But it was him. She could never forget the brother who had made her childhood hell.
She took in his powerful, planklike shoulders, the arrogance in his rapid strides. Sultan was older, of course, his waist and torso thicker, his jawline beginning to sag. As a boy, his handsome, teen-idol looks had masked his true nature, lending him a deceptive charm. But now... Now his black eyes blazed with cruelty. His lips formed a merciless slash. The years had stripped away all pretense of civility, revealing the sadistic man beneath.
His measured steps brought him closer. Pure panic took root inside her, triggering the desperate need to flee. Every survival instinct she possessed screamed at her to turn on her heels and run.
But there was nowhere to run. She couldn’t escape. Her captors would gun her down before she’d made it a dozen feet. And she knew that was what he wanted, what he thrived on—that outward display of fear. Sultan was worse than any animal. He was a predator who took pleasure in his prey’s terror, deriving a rush from the kill.
He came to a stop beside her. Summoning all her strength, she lifted her head, forcing herself to meet his gaze dead-on.
“Nadira.” A perverse kind of excitement rang in his voice. “Did you think we’d given up on you?”
She clamped her lips to keep from answering. Any response, no matter how innocuous, would provide him with an excuse to lash out.
He took another step toward her. She inhaled, his woodsy oud oil cologne assaulting her senses, a smell she’d long ago come to loathe. “I told you we’d find you if you tried to run,” he said. “I warned you that you couldn’t escape.”
Sweat trickled down her back. Her knees quivered badly as she battled to hold his gaze. But she was not going to buckle. No matter what he said, no matter how hard he tried to intimidate her, she was not going to reveal any fear. She was older now, stronger. She would not let him tyrannize her.
Irritation flickered in his eyes at her failure to respond. She knew it would fester inside him and fuel his hatred, making him more violent when he got her alone.
“I’ll deal with you later,” he warned, echoing her thoughts. He turned to the armed man at his side. “Take her to her quarters. I’ll show these men to theirs.”
The Hispanic man stepped forward. Short and powerfully built, he had dark olive skin, flat, unblinking eyes, a thick mustache and close-cropped hair. A snake tattoo writhed along his neck, adding to his menacing look. “This way,” he said, his English heavily accented.
She swallowed hard, everything inside her rebelling at the command. But unable to see an alternative, she followed him to a sedan with dark tinted windows, trying her hardest to appear unfazed. He opened the rear passenger door and jerked his head. “Get in.”
She took a step toward the car, but couldn’t resist glancing back at Rasheed. He stood with his arms folded across his chest, his dark eyes carefully shuttered, obscuring any inkling of his thoughts. A pang of betrayal knifed through her, disillusionment that he hadn’t helped.
But this wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t known Sultan would be waiting on the island. And what did she expect him to do? Pull out his gun and start shooting? Take on all these armed men alone? There was no way he could rescue her now. And unless he stayed in his undercover role, the men would kill him, too.
Besides, he’d warned her of the danger. She’d come here with her eyes wide-open. He hadn’t deceived her about the risks.
She climbed into the car. The guard slammed the door, locking her in. She stared straight out the tinted windshield, ice freezing inside her, knowing that nothing would save her now. She was at her brother’s mercy.
And with every passing moment, her chance of survival was fading fast.
* * *
Nadine had never been the type to wait for help. She’d learned early on in her childhood that if she wanted to improve her circumstances, she had to do it herself. So why was she so desperate to see Rasheed?
Knowing she was acting ridiculous, she hung up her bath towel several hours later and combed out her freshly washed hair. It was futile to pin her hopes on some knight-in-shining-armor deliverance that would never come to pass. Even if he wanted to, Rasheed couldn’t come to her aid. He had to protect his mission—a mission far more vital than rescuing her.
And obsessing about him wouldn’t help. So what if he’d kissed her until her toes curled? So what if he’d turned out to be a good guy who wanted to bring her family down? Her brother’s presence on the island had destroyed their plans. She was utterly on her own now. No matter what Rasheed had originally intended, she had to get out of this mess herself.
Determined to focus, to figure out some kind of escape plan, she crossed the room to the window and stared out. But the irony of her surroundings hit her hard. For the past six weeks she’d been camping in the mountains, sleeping on the hard ground and bathing in frigid streams. Now she’d landed in the pinnacle of luxury—a private cottage complete with polished marble floors, a king-size bed with a plush duvet and a bathroom straight from a decorating magazine. It had a minibar filled with snacks, a closet crammed with designer clothes in various sizes and nearly every comfort she could possibly require.
Except for one—her freedom. The iron bars on the windows proved that.
Sighing, she gazed out the window at the dusky night. Palm trees curved along the flagstone walkway. Bougainvillea climbed a trellis across the courtyard, their petals fluttering in the eastward breeze. She was in one of a series of tiny guest cottages tucked behind the main residence, just yards from the pristine beach. Aside from the bars on the windows, armed guards acted as sentries, ensuring her captivity.
She collapsed into the nearest armchair, still trying to formulate a plan. But realistically, what could she do? She was locked in a room on an island, miles from the Colombian mainland in the middle of a shark-infested sea. Even if she could sneak out of her prison, even if she could evade the drug cartel members patrolling the grounds, how could she possibly escape? She could hardly swim to land.
No, any way she looked at it, she was trapped.
A tapping sound came from the door. Her heart skipped, then sprinted hard, the air in her throat turning to dust. Sultan. Oh, God. He must have come to confront her. But would he bother to knock?
She rose and crossed the room, the slap of her borrowed sandals on the marble floor tiles sounding like a death knell in the quiet room. Bracing herself, she swung open the door. But instead of her brother, a woman wearing a black burka waited outside, holding a tray of food. “Dinner,” she announced.
Nadine stared. The last person she’d expected to find on the drug cartel’s island was a woman dressed in full hijab. But something about the woman’s voice seemed familiar, prodding a memory she couldn’t quite conjure up.
She stepped back to let her in. “Thank you. Please put it on the table.” Still trying to place that voice, she followed her into the kitchenette.
The woman set down the tray and lifted her veil. Nadine gaped at her, struggling to contain her shock. “Leila?”
She ba
rely recognized her sister-in-law. Her complexion had turned sallow and pale. Her once-lustrous hair was lank and gray. Her cheeks were oddly flat and asymmetrical, the bone structure apparently diminished, thanks to repeated battering by her husband’s fists. And she’d suffered damage to her facial nerves, causing a palsylike droop to the left side, making her lips appear deformed.
At thirty-six, she was only four years older than Nadine. She looked more than double that age.
“Hello, sister.”
Nadine quickly inhaled, trying not to look aghast. But the change in her appearance made her reel. Leila had been a shy, pretty bride of twenty-one when she’d come to D.C. to marry Sultan. Within months, her reticence had turned to terror, her bruised body bearing the proof of his cruelty.
And now, fifteen years later...the years had aged her dreadfully, robbing her of her former beauty. Even her eyes looked dead, as if Sultan had beaten out every spark of life she’d once possessed.
And Nadine knew with a soul-deep certainty that if she had submitted to her father’s dictates, if she’d gone through with the marriage he’d arranged, she would have ended up like Leila—broken, defeated, abused.
But why was Leila here? Her brother wasn’t the type to treat his wife to a tropical vacation. Perhaps he’d wanted a servant along, someone to tend to his comfort and carry out his commands.
“Leila! What a surprise.” She embraced her and gave her a kiss. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”
Leila smiled. Or at least, she tried to. One side of her mouth curved up, but the other stayed slack, turning the smile into a grimace instead.
“I’m having surgery. Didn’t you know?”
“Surgery?” Nadine frowned. “What kind? Are you sick?”
“No, nothing like that. There’s a famous plastic surgeon on the island. A world-renowned specialist.” She lifted her hands to her face. “He’s going to fix my cheeks and jaw.”
Nadine blinked, certain she hadn’t heard right. “A plastic surgeon? Here? Is there even a hospital?”
“Yes, of course. Sultan arranged it all.”
Staggered by her announcement, Nadine sank into the nearest chair. Her brother had brought Leila here for cosmetic surgery. But why? This story didn’t make any sense.
Not that there weren’t good plastic surgeons in South America, even great ones. Cosmetic surgery was widely accepted in the region, and top doctors were in high demand. And it was possible the drug cartel kept one on staff. But there were also plenty of top-notch surgeons in the United States. And cost couldn’t be an issue with the money her family had. So why come here, to this remote Caribbean island to have work done?
More likely her brother feared an arrest. Any American surgeon with half a brain would figure out the cause of Leila’s injuries and report him to the police. Of course Sultan would worry about himself.
“I’m not doing it out of vanity,” Leila added. “I would never do that. But my looks have faded.” She fixed her gaze on her clasped hands, a flush climbing up her sunken cheeks. “Sultan can barely tolerate being intimate with me when I have so many flaws. He insisted I have it done. And I want to please him.”
Nadine’s shock morphed into outrage. Her brother had battered his wife, causing permanent damage, and now demanded she have surgery to repair what he’d done? And all because he couldn’t stand to look at her?
“Don’t do it.”
Leila’s gaze shot up. “Why not?”
“You don’t owe him anything, Leila. Don’t subject yourself to surgery because of him.”
“But I want to. I want to please him.” She sounded mystified.
Nadine inhaled, struggling to calm herself. She wasn’t going to change Leila’s thinking. They’d been through this before, when she’d lived at home. Leila’s subservience was too ingrained. She’d been raised to defer to her husband, and years spent acquiescing to an abusive monster had reinforced that trait.
“What exactly is the doctor going to do?” she asked instead.
“Implants, I think. To give my cheeks a better shape.”
Nadine thought about that. Inserting implants wasn’t terribly risky if done right, but a lot could still go wrong. An infection could set in. A botched job could leave her even more deformed. And if the surgeon used counterfeit products, devices made from inferior materials, he could cause disfigurement or even death.
“Who’s the surgeon?”
“I don’t know. Sultan says he’s famous, though.”
But where had he trained? Who was the anesthesiologist? What kind of emergency equipment did the hospital have? “Tell me you at least had a physical and got cleared for surgery.”
Leila shook her head. “Sultan said I didn’t need one. He has arranged everything, and I trust his judgment.”
Right. Trust the abuser. More anger flared inside her, along with disgust. “When is the operation?”
“Tomorrow.”
“So soon?” She frowned. “Can’t you delay it for a day or two? At least give me a chance to check things out. I’m a doctor now. I can make sure everything’s okay.”
“There’s no need. I told you, Sultan has everything arranged. Now I have to go.” She dropped her veil over her face and turned away.
Nadine scrambled to her feet. “Wait. Don’t go yet. I wanted to ask you about my father.” Leila didn’t have any power in the family, and was loyal to her brother to boot. But she lived at the family compound. She’d seen visitors, deliveries, knew everyone’s schedules now....
But Leila only hurried to the door. “I can’t talk now. I’ll see you tomorrow, after the surgery. I’ve already stayed too long.” She slipped through the door and left.
For a moment, Nadine stood motionless, replaying their conversation in her mind. Leila was undergoing cosmetic surgery at Sultan’s request. There was a plastic surgeon on the island, probably employed by the drug cartel. And Leila was submitting to the procedure in an effort to please her husband, willingly risking who-knew-what kind of dangers in a sick attempt to be a dutiful wife.
Still frowning, she crossed the room to the window and looked out. She caught sight of Leila scurrying down the path, her long, black robe flapping around her ankles, her identity fully concealed.
Her face burned, anger warring with disgust. She wasn’t sure what made her madder—a brainwashed woman like Leila or a culture that repressed women and tolerated abuse.
And if she’d ever needed proof about men’s penchant for violence, her sister-in-law provided it in spades. Nadine would never understand it. Nor could she fathom the thinking of victims like Leila, women brought up to believe the abuse was normal—or worse, that it was their fault. All she could do was mend the damage and help these misguided women regain some dignity in their downtrodden lives.
But she didn’t have time to help Leila. She had her own problems to deal with now. If she didn’t escape this island immediately, she would wind up dead.
But how could she forsake Leila? How could she abandon her sister-in-law to an unknown surgeon’s hands? It went against her nature to turn her back on a woman in need. At the very least she needed to check out the hospital and make sure the equipment was clean.
The hospital. Her mind raced. Leila had just provided her with the perfect excuse to leave her room. And on the way, she could scout the island and formulate a plan to escape.
Leaping into action, she returned to the dinner tray. She removed the metal cover, ignoring the tempting rice and seafood, along with a mouthwatering side dish of fried plantains. Instead, she zeroed in on the utensils—a butter knife and fork. Too dull.
She checked the minibar and came up empty, then scanned the rest of the room. Her gaze landed on a vase filled with tropical flowers, and she rushed over and picked it up. Taking it into the bathroom, she eyed the stone bathtub
with gilded feet, the troughlike vessel sink, the marble shower with its dizzying array of controls.
The tub. It would contain the damage best. Leaning over, she dropped the vase, and the glass shattered into jagged shards. She picked up a sliver and held her breath, then made a quick, shallow gash on her left arm. Hissing at the pain, she wrapped it in a hand towel and headed for the cottage door.
“I cut myself,” she told the guard outside. “The flower vase slipped and broke. I need to go to the hospital right away.” She held up her arm. Blood seeped through the towel, providing proof.
The guard frowned. “Close the door and stay inside. I’ll radio for an escort.”
“Hurry. I’m losing a lot of blood.”
Satisfied, she closed the door. Then she took a seat at the table. Still plotting her plan of action, she dug into her dinner and prepared to wait.
* * *
The knock came fifteen minutes later.
Swallowing the last bite of her dinner, she hurried over and opened the door. She caught sight of the tall man filling the door frame, and her breath came out in a rush. Rasheed. She gripped the door, a wild surge of emotions careening inside her, threatening to turn her knees to mush.
His hair was damp from a recent shower. He’d combed it back, and the dark strands grazed the collar of his clean black T-shirt, drawing her gaze to his corded throat. He’d shaved the beard stubble from his face, and she curled her hands, yearning to reach up and stroke the enticing smoothness of his tanned jaw. The faint woodsy aroma of his aftershave mingled with the fresh, soapy scent of his skin.
Her gaze drifted lower, over the jeans slung low on his hips to his battered hiking boots. He wore a shoulder holster over his T-shirt, emphasizing his flat belly and muscled chest. The gun added to his ruthless look.
Her eyes rose to his, the sensual heat in them a jolt to her nerves. And despite knowing that he couldn’t help her, that he had to stay in his abductor role, she suddenly felt less alone.
