No, no…kidnappers demanded ransom from others, not the victim. Peter had money. Not tons of it, but he was certainly one of the affluent. Because of their deep friendship, Peter would surely pay to keep her from being—Don’t think of it!
Murdered…
“Oh, God!”
The little breath of a prayer escaped and she fell into sheer panic once again, whimpering and tugging furiously at the ropes. All she managed to do was tighten the knots and chafe her flesh until it was raw.
“Oh, God!” she repeated, panting and lying still. Her wriggling had brought the blanket up to her nose; she was going to sneeze.
Why?
The question came back to haunt her again. There was a lot of money in south Florida. Tons of really rich people lived here. Why not abduct a banker’s daughter, or a plastic surgeon’s wife? Why her? Peter would pay for her, yes, but Peter just wasn’t worth that much!
And who the hell was the green-eyed Cuban? Or Colombian, or whatever he was?
Involuntarily she moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue and squirmed uncomfortably. Panic was zooming in again. The young, intense, dark-haired man had been the one to shoot up the dock and throw the burlap over her. Then everything had been a blur; her strongest memory was of a motor screeching through the night, stopping long enough for her to hear a furious volley of Spanish, then starting up again. And then someone had touched her, and naturally she had tried to escape. The dark-eyed man had first imprisoned her. But once she had been freed from the burlap it had been that same rude, green-eyed man who had imprisoned her a second time. Rude! He was much more than rude! He was brutal. He’d slapped her, subdued her, kissed her—and knocked her out. And the other man had been saying something about Peter being her husband and the scruffy Latin being her lover!
“Oh, God!”
It seemed to be absolutely all she could think of to whisper, but then, the Almighty was surely the only one who could banish her absolute confusion and growing terror.
Once again panic, a sizzling sensation inside of her that grew and swelled and overwhelmed, seemed to be taking charge. She struggled some more and realized sickly that, once again, all she achieved was a greater misery. The knots grew tighter, and the coarse hem of the blanket tickled her nose.
She blew at it, trying to force it beneath her chin. Tears welled in her eyes, and she decided firmly that she wasn’t going to cry.
And then she wondered why not. There was a group of crazy Latins outside who were intending to murder her—or worse. She’d already been mauled and bruised, and she didn’t understand any of it, and she just very well might wind up shot, so why the hell shouldn’t she cry?
For one minute she suddenly lay very, very still, her memory going back…back.
If it had been three years ago she wouldn’t have cared in the least. They could have done anything, and she simply wouldn’t have cared. She could remember standing over the coffins, Paul’s and the baby’s, and hurting so badly that she yearned to be dead, too, to be going with them, wherever that might be. She could even remember the thought; take me, God. Take me, too. There is nothing left for me, nothing at all….
She’d cried then. Cried until there were no more tears, cried until she’d been numb, the only thought in her mind that it was so unfair. But of course, no one on earth could explain why life cold be so horribly unfair, and in time, still baffled, she’d had to learn acceptance, because the only alternative was insanity.
Peter had been there for her.
Crushed and nearly broken himself, he had still been there for her. Peter, her parents, her brother. But despite her love for her own family, Peter had been the one who somehow gave her the greatest comfort. Perhaps because his loss had been as keen: his only son, his only grandchild.
Huge burning tears were forming behind her eyes. She blinked furiously, trying to think of Peter. He was so strong, so moral. He’d never wavered under fire; he always did what he thought was right. He always went by principle. She wasn’t going to cry, and she wasn’t going to break. Somehow, no matter what happened to her, she would rise above these people.
She tensed, aware that someone had come below. Twisting, she could see that she was in the stern of the old sailboat. Another bunk, identical to the one she lay on, was straight across from her, and two small closets at the end of the bunks stood at the stern. There was a slatted wooden door just past her head; her entire space of confinement couldn’t have been much more than fifty square feet.
Two people were somewhere beyond that door. At least two people, laughing and talking in Spanish. She strained to make out the words, but they spoke too quickly.
Why the hell hadn’t she paid more attention to Spanish in school? Why? Because the teacher had been a horrible nasty woman whom everyone in the entire school had thought was creepy. She’d had the most awful way of pointing her finger and saying, “;ibRepitan, por favor!” in a sickeningly sweet voice, and no one had paid her the least attention.
Irrelevant! Totally irrelevant right now! She’d been hearing Spanish all her life; surely she could comprehend something of what was being said, she insisted to herself.
She did. At long last she did.
Cerveza.
Someone was asking someone else if he wanted a beer. Great! That bit of genius would surely help her vastly!
But then she stopped worrying about her comprehension or lack thereof. Foootsteps were approaching the door. Her muscles cramped with tension from head to toe, and panic sizzled through her once again.
She was helpless, absolutely helpless. Trussed like a pig on its way to the slaughterhouse. Totally, horribly vulnerable.
The door opened; she thought about closing her eyes, but too late.
One of the men ducked as he stepped through the door. He straightened too soon, cracked his head and swore beneath his breath. He turned to her and she found herself staring into his eyes.
Green eyes. Bright, startlingly…tense as they stared into hers.
He glanced over his shoulder quickly, then moved to kneel down beside her.
“Mrs. Blayne.”
He said it in English, and she couldn’t detect any hint of an accent.
“Mrs. Blayne, are you all right? Juan was assigned to watch me all night. I couldn’t get back to you. Maybe he trusts me now. I’m not sure. This is important, please listen.”
He was reaching toward her.
She couldn’t help herself; she let out a small scream. Oh, God, what was going on? Who was he? How on earth could he be on her side when he seemed to be just like them?
The young man with the dark eyes suddenly appeared in the doorway, laughing, saying something about amor.
“Amor?” Mandy shook her head. Lover! “N—”
A hand clamped down over her mouth, stifling her words, stealing her breath. He twisted his head toward the man at the door and laughed, too, and when he spoke next there was an accent in his words.
“Amigo, you got a gag anywhere?”
The dark-eyed man chuckled and responded in Spanish, then turned away. Then the green-eyed stranger leaned his furious face so close to hers that she felt the whisper of his breath and the blaze of his body heat.
“Damn it! The next time I try to say something, you shut up and listen!”
There was no accent at all this time…
He straightened and slowly drew his hand away. Still terrified, and completely baffled, Mandy stared up at him in silence.
“Good,” he murmured grimly. “Now—”
“Who the hell—” she began, then froze. He was leaning toward her again, tangling his fingers in the hair at her nape, bringing his mouth to hers….
The dark-eyed man was at the door again, she realized, staring at her. And at him. At the green-eyed stranger.
Who was kissing her again. Pressing his mouth to hers urgently, feverishly, heatedly. Stealing away any words she might have spoken.
CHAPTER 3
Cerveza…
He tasted of beer, and though she stiffened and tried to twist away, she was in that horrible position of helplessness, chin caught by his powerful hand, mouth overpowered by his.
But beyond the terror, beyond the fury, beyond that awful helplessness, the kiss wasn’t that bad.
Wasn’t that bad!
Oh, Lord, she was getting hysterical. This was insane; she was going insane already. So much for inner strength. Not that bad! It was wretched; it was humiliating!
And it could get much, much worse, she reminded herself, and that was her last thought, because suddenly all the little sensations seemed to overwhelm her, and she felt as if she was nothing but burning kinetic energy. She felt the rasp of his bearded cheek and the warm texture of his lips, the moistness that seemed like lava, and the taut muscles of his chest, crushed hard against her breast. She felt the whisper of his breath and thought ridiculously that he smelled rather nice, and that the slight taste of beer wasn’t so awful, either, and really, she could live through this, because what other choice did she have?
The man in the doorway chuckled again, saying something and addressing the green-eyed man as Miguel.
At last “Miguel” drew away from her, but those green eyes remained on hers, as bright as gems, sparkling out a warning so potent that it might have been written on the air.
He kept staring at her as he answered the other man. What he said she didn’t know, she just kept staring back into those green eyes, wishing with all her heart that she was free, not trussed and tied here so ignominiously. Wishing that she could reach up, wrench out a thatch of that ebony hair and punch him through a wall!
And then she was afraid all over again. Deeply afraid. Because every man on the sailboat could come in at any time and do anything to her, and all she would be able to do in turn was fight until her wrists bled from the cruel chafing of the rope.
She averted her eyes from his at last and suddenly realized that it was day. Ugly old curtains were pulled over the tiny portholes, but light was filtering in nevertheless.
She’d slept here the night through, and of all the ridiculous things, while her life hung in the balance, she was suddenly and desperately the recipient of nature’s call. They were still prattling away, so she burst out in interruption, “I have to go to the bathroom.”
They both stopped speaking and stared at her.
“;ibBaño!” she snapped. “I have to…go!”
Then they both stared at each other and started laughing again. Miguel said something; the other man, addressed as Julio, shrugged, then turned away.
She cringed as Miguel pushed aside her hips with his own so he could sit and lean over her. He gave a disgusted oath, granted her another sizzling glance and moved on to his objective: freeing one of her wrists.
She breathed a little more easily, closed her eyes and prayed for strength, and said carefully, “Who are you?”
He glanced back toward the door quickly, then whispered, “For God’s sake, trust me! Go along with me!”
Julio was back; she couldn’t say anything more. Actually, she could have, because she didn’t trust Miguel in the least, but somehow she chose not to.
He kept working on her wrist. She gazed past his broad bare shoulder to Julio. “Señora Blayne,” he told her, “we really do not wish to hurt you. If you can behave, you will be well. Miguel says he can handle you—”
She couldn’t help but interrupt. “Oh, he does, does he?” she asked, flashing Miguel a glance of pure loathing.
“And for your sake, señora, I hope he speaks the truth.”
Her right hand fell free. Miguel clutched it, inhaling with concern at the rope burns there. She tried to snatch it from him, but he held tight, warning her with his eyes once again.
She clenched her teeth against the tears that threatened. He started to free her other hand. When her left wrist was released he moved to her feet. Rubbing her wrists, she turned her head defiantly to stare at Julio.
“Why are you doing this? You’re mistaken if you think that Peter Blayne is a wealthy man. He isn’t. If you’re asking a huge ransom for my return you won’t get it.”
“Señora, we do not want money. Money, bah, what is that? A man wants money, it is easy. He works for it.”
A new fear settled over her; they didn’t want money! Then…
Julio suddenly pounded his heart. “Freedom! You will be our ticket to freedom!”
“But…”
Her feet were free. Miguel was standing above her again, taking her hands.
“Let me go! I can stand by myself.”
He looked as if he were going to argue with her, but he didn’t. He released her, and she swung her long bare legs over the bunk and attempted to stand in a huff.
She keeled over instantly, right into his arms. And she felt those hated hands encircle her waist, holding her steady.
“Damn you!” She tried to slap him, but he ducked, and she cried out when he caught her wrists. They were so sore!
Julio laughed. “You and Miguel had better make up, señora. Oh, you needn’t worry—or pretend. We will say nothing to the senator about your affair. He might not think an unfaithful wife worth much.”
“I’m not—”
“You said you had to go to the head!” Miguel snapped, his English heavily accented again.
She was certain that this ordeal had cost her her mind.
He muttered something to Julio in Spanish, then reached for her arm and wrenched her to her feet. Julio moved out of the way, and Miguel led her roughly through the little door and three feet down a narrow hallway to another door.
“The head!” he snapped, shoving her in.
Face flaming, she slammed the door.
And then she didn’t even have to go anymore. She pressed her palms to her temples, dizzy, nauseated—and scared. He’d said she should trust him. How the hell could she, and who was he, anyway?
She tried to take deep breaths, and at last she felt that at least she wasn’t going to be sick. She noticed then that the facilities were quite clean, and managed to use them. The water that ran into the sink was sporadic, but clear and clean, and she splashed a lot of it over her face, thinking how good it was to rinse the salty stickiness away. She stared into the mirror over the sink and saw that her eyes were as wide as gold doubloons; her cheeks appeared far too pale beneath her tan.
Feeling dizzy again, she gripped the small sink. At last she opened her eyes and stared longingly out the circular porthole. The sailboat’s outer rail hid any view of the water, but she could see the sky, and it was a beautiful blue, with just a few puffs of cottonlike clouds.
What a glorious day! Monday. She should have been at work by now, joining her colleagues at the site. White-smocked and gloved, she should have been up to her wrists in dirt, seeking the treasures beneath it.
Where was help? The whole dock had been chaos. Surely the police had been called. Surely someone—everyone!—knew that she was missing by now. They would have known it as soon as she had been taken; there had been witnesses all over the place!
“Señora Blayne!”
Her name, snapped out in a feminine voice, was followed by a rough pounding at the door.
“What?” she yelled back.
“Open the door! I will give you a robe, and you can take a shower.”
Mandy gazed instantly at the tiny shower cubicle; the longing to feel clean was a strong one. She didn’t know how many hours they had been at sea. She had no idea of where she was, or what the chances were that she would ever get back to civilization alive. It just didn’t make any sense to turn down a shower.
Mandy threw open the door to find a young woman standing before her, a very young woman, somewhere between eighteen and twenty-one.
What she lacked in age, though, she made up for in manner. She was beautiful in an exotic way, with flashing dark eyes and a voluptuous figure, well defined in tight jeans and a red sweater, and with a head of richly curling, near-black hair.
She was shorter than Mandy’s five-feet-eight inches, which for some odd reason—she was clutching at straws!—made Mandy feel just a little bit better.
The Latin girl lifted her chin, eyeing Mandy regally, then stuffed something made of dull gray terry into Mandy’s hands.
“I am Maria. Here, take this. The bathing suit is not much covering, eh?” the girl said, and once again swept Mandy with a disdainful glare. She chuckled, displaying a fine set of small white teeth beneath her generous rose-tinted lips. “Not that you have much to cover!” She shook her head. “What Miguel sees in you…but then, maybe he has not had enough to distract him!”
Mandy was about to tell her that she really didn’t give a damn what Miguel saw in anyone. All she wanted to do was get away from the whole stinking lot of them. She decided to keep silent, though she wasn’t sure why, because she certainly didn’t trust Miguel.
“Thanks for the robe,” she said flatly, and closed the door, smiling bitterly as she heard the girl burst into an outraged spate of Spanish. Maria was no part of the power here, that much was obvious. She was nothing more than a young girl—uncertain, insecure, and perhaps idolizing the handsome well-built Miguel.
Mandy turned on the water; it came out cold, but she hadn’t been expecting anything better. Stepping beneath the weak spray even as she peeled away her bathing suit, she started shivering vehemently—and not from the cold. Fear swept through her again as she wondered just what was going on. Who was Miguel? Who was Julio? And, for that matter, just who the hell was Maria? And if they were after “freedom” instead of money, just how did they think she could supply it?
She swallowed convulsively and found a fairly new bar of soap. She let the water run over it as she stood there behind the strangely new pink plastic curtain in a state of something akin to numbness. She didn’t want to use anything of theirs, but she decided that the soap would be okay if she let the water rinse away layer after layer in a pool of suds.
And then suddenly she began to feel better—angrier, but better. She really did have to fight them; she couldn’t allow herself to be so victimized. Fight them…and use any means that she had. Maria’s very childlike insecurity was a weapon she must remember and use.
A Matter of Circumstance Page 3
