Relative Strangers

by Joyce Lamb

  Jake "The Bloodhound" Calhoun's lips parted in a wide grin, showing crooked, tobacco-stained teeth, his breath reeking of cigarettes. "Hey, Mags. Long time no see."

  Ryan sat in his car and stared at the Illinois license plate on the practical, silver Honda Civic. It was parked in front of a small house on stilts, on Fort Myers Beach. It seemed like days since he had followed her and her friend here from the airport.

  In his hand, he clutched the keys he had demanded she give him the night before to keep her from using them as a weapon. The first key he tried admitted him into a sparsely decorated living room that looked as if it had been left in a hurry. Luggage and a purse lay just inside the door, mail and another purse cluttering a desk nearby.

  He circled the room, taking it in. The sofa was new and looked comfortable. Several newspapers and magazines were stacked next to the desk, as if saved for later reading.

  A Victorian dollhouse sat on an antique table in one corner. On the floor under the table was a wooden crate, MOMS KRAFT BOCKS stenciled in black letters on its side. It contained small cans of paint, miniature furniture, and tiny rolls of carpeting and wallpaper. The dollhouse was evidently a work in progress.

  A bookcase packed with books and pictures demanded a closer look, and in some of the pictures he recognized the woman who had his stomach in knots. In one, she wore scuba gear and stood next to the woman she had called Dayle. In another, she was younger and grinning, an arm propped on the shoulder of the same friend.

  Ryan picked up the frame and stared hard at the image. In the background was an older-model Jaguar. Taupe, she had called it.

  "Damn," he said under his breath.

  Putting the picture back, he turned to survey the room. His gaze landed on the purse by the baggage. Feeling like a thief, he opened it and withdrew the wallet. The driver's license inside identified Dayle Richmond of Arlington Heights, Illinois. Further inspection turned up a lawyer's ID.

  The other purse yielded another driver's license and a Fort Myers newspaper ID, both showing pictures of a woman identified as Meg Grant.

  Pulling out his cell phone, Ryan punched in some numbers. When he got an answer, he said, "Special Agent Sam Loomis, please."

  Jake Calhoun gentled his grip, and Margot gulped air into her starved lungs as his gaze dropped down her naked body. She was wet from her shower and shivering, and he nodded in appreciation. "Nice, Mags. Real nice."

  She tried to jerk away from him, but his fingers tightened on her throat like a vice. She bit back the urge to scream, thinking of Holly sleeping in the next room. Please, still be sleeping. But she'd known Jake for years, knew how he worked. He would have scoured the apartment before cornering her, would have eliminated any potential witnesses.

  But maybe there was a chance. Maybe Jake had gone straight for her, bypassing her friend.

  Still grinning, Jake said, "Got something to show you."

  He dragged her forward out of the tub, and she winced as her shins knocked hard against the porcelain lip. He pushed her out into the hall, one arm locked around her neck, the other around her waist.

  The first thing that struck her was the bright red handprint on the wall. A trail of blood, as if someone who was bleeding had been dragged down the hall, led into the bedroom. Fuck.

  Jake walked her forward into Holly's bedroom, and Margot was helpless to stop him as despair welled inside her. She knew that smell. Coppery and sweet.

  Her friend was lying in a pool of blood on the floor next to the bed, and Margot gagged. Holly hadn't screamed. Margot was sure she would have heard her if she had. I'm sorry, Holly. Jesus, I'm sorry.

  "See that?" Jake whispered near Margot's ear. "That's what happens when you underestimate our boss. You'd think you would have learned that lesson the first time."

  Hot tears blurred her vision as he levered her against a wall. Jake's grinning face blocked her view of Holly's body. "Aw, Mags, you're not going to cry, are you?"

  She concentrated on breathing, on getting the rage, and grief, under control. She wasn't in any position now to try to overpower him.

  Jake didn't seem to notice her struggle as he trailed his hand over her bare breast. "Much as I hate to pass up this golden opportunity, we don't have much time. You're going to get dressed and meet me in the kitchen. I've already been all over this place, and there's no easy way out. So don't even bother to try a back window. Got it?"

  When she failed to indicate that she did, he gripped wet hair and yanked her head back. "Got it?" he repeated.

  She glared at him through narrowed eyes, making a silent promise to make him pay for what he'd done to Holly. Somehow. Some way. "Yes."

  He let go. "Good. Get moving."

  Chapter 8

  Meg raised her head, and her stiffened neck muscles protested. Pushing damp hair back from her face with her tied hands, she listened carefully. She had heard a thump from above. Had Ryan returned?

  As if in answer, the cabin door slammed open. The man who had held a gun to Dayle's temple several hours before stepped inside. The leathery skin around his eyes wrinkled as he grinned. "Mags," he said. "Good to see you again."

  Heart slamming against her ribs, Meg shifted to her knees and rose to her feet, conscious of how his gaze fixed on her bound hands.

  "Were you a bad girl, Mags?"

  She swallowed hard, cleared her throat, and was able to take a breath only when he lifted his gaze back to hers. "What did you do with Dayle?"

  He gave a shrug. "What do you think? Your buddy didn't want to make a deal. It's not like we have time to be lugging her around while we track you down."

  She forced herself not to lunge at him, her muscles twitching with the effort. "Is she dead?"

  "You know the rules, Mags."

  "I'm not Mags. And that's not an answer."

  His grin broadened. "Way to go, dropping Kama's name like that. I was able to track down his home address in no time." He looked around, whistling. "And I must say, nice digs."

  "I said I'm not Mags."

  He stood between her and the door, nodding as if enjoying the game. "Okay. Who are you?"

  "Meg Grant. I'm a reporter with the Fort Myers newspaper."

  He kept nodding. "Okay."

  "I don't know anyone named Margot."

  "You must think I'm stupid, Mags. I mean, really stupid."

  "I'm telling the truth."

  "Sure you are." The tip of his tongue toyed with his upper

  lip.

  What she saw in his eyes frightened her into action. Feinting right, Meg dove left when he reacted. She got past him and charged for the door, but he caught her heel with the toe of his boot and swept her feet out from under her.

  She went down hard on one hip, unable to break the fall with her tied hands, and rolled onto her back. Her feet slipped on the polished floor, and before she could find traction, he was on her, all grasping hands and sharp elbows. He smelled of sweat and alcohol.

  Meg fought blindly, pounding at his head with her clasped hands. She thought for an instant that she might be gaining some leverage, then his fingers clamped around her throat and shut off her air.

  She gagged as black spots snatched away the edges of her vision. Oh, Jesus, this is it. She was going to die, and no one would ever know what had happened to her or why.

  Then he was lifted away.

  She rolled onto her side and gasped for the air that slashed at her throat. She saw Ryan punch her assailant and ram him against the wall. His body started to buckle, but Ryan grabbed him by the collar with one hand and slammed a fist into his face before letting him drop.

  A man wearing a dark suit charged into the compartment as Ryan braced a knee on the fallen man's throat and prepared to deliver another blow. The man in the suit drew a gun and ordered Ryan to back off twice before Ryan let the guy go and stood.

  Ryan glanced over his shoulder at Meg, and his stomach rolled when he saw her curled in a ball, hugging bound wrists to her breasts. Something inside him
had snapped when he had seen the son of a bitch choking her. "Are you all right?" he asked in a hoarse voice.

  Meg didn't acknowledge him, her jittery gaze fixed on the guy in the suit as he flashed a badge at her. FBI. Thank God.

  The agent flipped out handcuffs, snapped them on her attacker, and hauled him to his feet.

  Ryan moved toward Meg, holding out a hand to help her up. "Are you okay?"

  She shrank back. "No!" She pressed shaking fingers to her throat. She couldn't think straight, couldn't stop trembling. Every move he made seemed like a threat.

  Ryan shoved both hands through his hair. Jesus, she'd almost been killed. He'd left her helpless and tied up, an easy victim.

  Another man, this one older and beefy, entered the cabin, flashing an FBI badge. "Special Agent Sam Loomis," he said, helping Meg up.

  She swayed, but Loomis steadied her, and she thrust her hands toward him. "Please, untie me."

  Ryan watched the agent work out the knot he'd put in the handkerchief. She was shaking, and he noticed she kept her gaze on her wrists, as if Loomis couldn't free her fast enough. Stress had drawn her features taut.

  When the handkerchief fell away, Meg rubbed one wrist and then the other. Over, it was over. For her. "My friend is in trouble," she said to the agent, coughing as the words tore at her throat.

  Loomis said, "Turn and brace yourself, miss." Meg didn't move. "What?"

  "Brace yourself against the wall, miss. I need to frisk you." "Frisk me?" Surely she had misunderstood him. "Brace, please, miss."

  "You don't understand. My friend Dayle may be hurt or—"

  "Don't make me force you."

  Head spinning, she did as he said, hands flat on the wall. "Please. I can show you where she—" "You have the right to remain silent." She broke off, alarmed. "I'm being arrested?" He finished reading her her rights, then grasped her arms and angled them behind her. Cold steel encircled her wrists, followed by the zip of metal against metal.

  Bound again, she was caught between disbelief and rage. "What's the charge?"

  "For starters, grand theft and fleeing the scene of a crime."

  Chapter 9

  In the bathroom, Margot pulled on her jeans and the blouse with the homemade buttons. Her hands were shaking so hard, she had to stop and brace herself on the vanity. Taking deep breaths, she told herself she couldn't afford to fall apart. But Holly was dead, and it was her fault. She had led Jake right to her.

  Margot squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her jaw against the emotion. The shaking spread to her legs, and she sat on the edge of the tub. Lowering her head to her knees, she willed the tears back. If she let them come, they would never stop, and she couldn't let grief cloud her thinking, not if she was going to survive whatever Jake had in mind. Surviving was imperative if she was going to get the emeralds back to Beau's brother. And make Jake pay for killing her only friend.

  Forcing herself not to think, Margot finished dressing and left the bathroom. Guilt and rage almost overwhelmed her again when she saw that while she'd dressed, Jake had torn Holly's apartment apart. She found him in the kitchen, guarding the only way out of the apartment.

  His thinness always surprised her. His face was shaped like a triangle, his wide forehead narrowing down to hollow cheeks and a pointy chin. Thick black hair made his skin appear even paler than it was. He may have looked anorexic as he leaned against the sink, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, but he was strong and ruthless.

  Water tinged with pink spotted the floor at his feet, and Margot realized that he had washed Holly's blood from his hands here. Swallowing against a surge of nausea, she gave him a cold look. Striking out at him now would do her no good. The only way to play this man was to be cool.

  Jake looked her up and down and focused on her hair. "Nice 'do, Mags."

  "Fuck you, Jake."

  "Is that any way to talk to an old friend?" He dropped his cigarette on the tile floor and ground it under his heel. "See what I'm doing, Mags?"

  She refused to look down. "Yeah, message received loud and clear. Cut the shit, Jake. I know you're not going to kill me or you already would have. I'm guessing that means Slater wanted you to pick me up. So take me to him, collect your cash, and be on your slimy way."

  "I have something else in mind."

  She met his black eyes, and goose bumps raised on her arms. "If you defy him, he'll kill you," she said.

  "And how would he find out he's been defied? I'm thinking you're not the most trusted source these days."

  She resisted the urge to rip his face off. "What do you want, Jake?"

  "The Kama emeralds."

  Her breath stopped. That's what he'd been looking for when he'd ransacked the apartment.

  "I know you took them, and I know they belong to Slater," Jake said.

  "Like hell they do. They belong to . . . who they belong to." She thought of Beau and the bullet hole in his forehead. As if emeralds would do him any good now.

  "Don't want to make a deal?"

  "Why would I? So you can go back to Slater and ask for a better one than I gave you? Maybe I didn't take them."

  "I know you took 'em. I checked the safe after I offed your boyfriend."

  The blood drained from her head. "You?"

  "Nice shot, huh?"

  Margot charged him, fingers hooked for optimum damage. He caught her wrists and pivoted, shoving her back against the refrigerator. She fought hard, not caring what he might do to her, wanting to hurt him. But he was stronger, and she was weak, drained by desolation. When she stopped struggling, he didn't release her.

  "Let me go," she ground out.

  "Not until we cut a deal, baby."

  "I'm not cutting a deal with you, asshole."

  He twisted a wrist in one hand until her eyes teared with pain. "Your options are limited, Margot," he said, as if discussing what to order on a pizza.

  She spat in his face.

  He released one wrist and backhanded her. She fell against the counter, stunned. His fingers bit cruelly into her cheeks as he forced her face up to his.

  "Listen to me real good, Mags. I'm the one in charge here, and you're going to do what I say or I'll kill you. I don't give a shit what you decide because I'm going to get my money whether I give you to Slater dead or alive. You follow me? He'd be just as tickled to have your corpse dropped on his doorstep as he would to have you still breathing."

  He let her go, and she slid to the floor. Pulling a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of his jacket, he lit two cigarettes and

  held one down near her head.

  She accepted it with a shaky hand and took a deep drag. It was as if she had sucked a tranquilizer into her lungs. As the calm settled over her, she thought about what he'd said. She didn't believe that Slater had put out a dead-or-alive contract on her. She had betrayed him twice—first by falling in love with another man and again by taking off with the emeralds. He would want to exact his revenge in person, while she was very much alive and able to experience every torture he inflicted. Jake was trying to intimidate her.

  "Are we making a deal or aren't we?" he asked.

  "What's the deal?"

  "Give me the emeralds, and I let you go."

  "How do I know you'll let me go?" she asked.

  "Guess you'll just have to trust me on that one, Mags." Hooking a hand under her arm, he hauled her up. "We got a deal?"

  She tasted blood where he'd split her lip. Making any kind of deal with him was dangerous, but what choice did she have?

  "I'm feeling a bit impatient, Mags."

  "Fine," she said.

  "Fine what?"

  "I'll take you to the emeralds."

  He arched an eyebrow, then pushed her against the counter.

  "What are you doing?" she demanded.

  He frisked her with rough hands, shoving his fingers into the pockets of her jeans, feeling carefully up and down her legs and arms. Snarling, he got in her face. "You don't have them on you?"

&nb
sp; "Hell, no. What am I, an idiot? I'm going to carry millions °f dollars' worth of jewels in my pocket? Jesus."

  "I don't believe you." He went for the buttons on her blouse.

  Margot batted his hands away. "What the hell are you doing?"

  "Open the blouse."

  "What?"

  "Do it or I'll do it for you."

  She began undoing buttons, her cheeks flaming with rage. She made it through four before he seized a wrist and dragged her to him so he could check the front of her bra.

  "What the hell is this?" He held up the object in question.

  "You've never seen a paper clip?"

  "Not on a bra. What's it for?"

  "It's for picking locks, you jerk."

  Releasing her with a grunt, he flicked the clip at her. "Where are the stones?"

  "I said I'll take you to them."

  "Don't fuck with me, Mags."

  There were tremors in her fingers as she affixed the paper clip to the fabric of her bra and buttoned her blouse. "Captiva."

  "If you're lying to me, I'll—"

  "They're on Beau's yacht, anchored in a marina off the island. I swear to God."

  He smiled. "You don't have a God."

  "You want to make a deal or what?"

  "You're telling me you dumped the emeralds on Kama's yacht before you left the state," he said.

  "Yes."

  "What were you trying to do? Unsteal 'em?"

  She raised her chin a defiant notch. "Maybe."

  "That's precious."

  "Bite me."

  He grinned. "Sure thing, and then we're going to Florida." Cocking his head to one side, he pretended to be glum. "You know, it's a shame that Slater's not going to get his hands on you. He's got a scheme in the works that'd knock your socks off."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Our buds Turner and Dillon are tracking down a sweet thing in Florida that looks a lot like you but ain't you."

  Margot's heart began to thud in her ears. "What?"

  " 'Course, the boss didn't bother to fill them in on the details. They think they're hauling your ass back to him just like I'm supposed to. Shit, I'd love to see how this plays out, but we just made us a deal."