by Jo Leigh
“Who are you?”
“You don’t need to know that,” he said. “Move back, Jazz.”
The small man let her go and got off the bed. Now she could see the tall man more clearly, and he reminded her of the men in her father’s club, pampered and false, as if they’d used every trick in the book to stay the hand of time.
“What’s your father’s phone number, Tate?”
“I won’t tell you.”
“Yes, you will. The only question is how much Jazz will hurt you until you do.”
The panic started again and she felt a scream building in her throat.
“Just tell us. It will be so much easier.”
“You’ll kill me if I tell you.”
“I’ll kill you if you don’t.”
“Go ahead.”
“Oh, no. That’s not how we play the game.” He nodded at Jazz.
The small man smiled wider, his glee apparent at the anticipation of her pain. He reached over her head and took her hand in his. He pulled it, hard, and the scream grew as it felt as if he were tearing her wrist apart.
She kicked and found that her legs were no long tied together. It didn’t matter, though. She couldn’t reach anything or stop the tearing. All she could do was scream and thrash, her free arm as useless as her legs.
“Give us the number, Tate. This is only the beginning. He’d like nothing more than to ruin that hand of yours forever. He’ll cut it through the artery. He will. Then he’ll have to stop the bleeding, and the only way he knows to do that is to cauterize it. You know what that is, don’t you?”
The image of her flesh burning made her gag, but there was nothing in her stomach. Maybe she should tell them. Then they’d kill her and it would be over. That was better, wasn’t it?
The big man sighed loudly. “Again,” he said as if he were asking Jazz to change the channel.
Tate closed her eyes as Jazz reached for her hand. The pain took her breath and, with it, her strength. She knew what they wanted from her father, and just like all those years ago, they would win.
“All right,” she said, her voice nothing more than a whisper. “Stop. Please.”
Jazz let her go, but it didn’t help much. The pain shot up her arm and wrapped around her chest. Was it really just today that she’d been picking out shirts at Prada? That she had daydreamed about Michael looking at her with pride?
“Well?”
She wiped the tears from her cheeks with her free hand, wishing for a miracle, knowing none would come. “212…”
MICHAEL MADE IT TO the pier without the police showing up. Nothing mattered now but getting to Tate. It was too easy to imagine her in serious trouble, the kind that didn’t clear up with a cup of tea and a good night’s sleep.
His gun in his hand, he moved toward the yacht, the Pretty Kitty, and tried not to make any noise. If the yacht owner was at all security-conscious, Michael had already set off the alarm. Nothing he could do about that except prepare. He had to remember to ask questions first, which wasn’t his usual MO.
Brody might be an ass, but that wasn’t against the law in New York. If Michael killed him, it would be bad. On the other hand, if Brody tried anything stupid, a bullet in the kneecap might just show him the error of his ways.
He made it to the stern, jumped over the gunwale and got a peek at the main saloon. It was just as luxurious as he’d supposed, nicer than his apartment. Up three stairs was the wheelhouse, but there was no one there, either. Everyone, it seemed, was behind doors.
He kept moving alongside the boat, keeping as low a profile as possible. There was a porthole just ahead, slightly higher than his crouch. Making sure he kept quieter than the water, he made his way there and looked inside.
Tate wasn’t there. Neither was Brody. But he did know the man sitting at the small table, his beefy hand holding on to a beer bottle.
Charlie.
It didn’t compute. What the hell was his brother doing on a boat in Sands Point?
Michael stood, not caring at the moment if Charlie saw him. Unfortunately he didn’t hear the footsteps on the dock until one second before the butt of the gun smashed into his temple.
WHEN TATE WOKE, HER first thought was that death hurt like a son of a bitch, and that filled her with such anger she cried out. Only then did it occur to her that she hadn’t been killed. That her pain meant that she’d passed out again.
Her heart sank as she realized the ordeal wasn’t over. That they were waiting to kill her when she was fully conscious and able to experience everything as it happened.
Didn’t they get it? She’d given them her father’s phone number, and by now he probably knew she’d been kidnapped and was already gathering up the cash he’d need for her ransom. She wondered how much they were asking, but it really didn’t matter. Her father would give them his last cent if he thought he could save her.
But he knew, just as she did, that paying the ransom meant nothing. She would never get off this boat alive. It made perfect sense, now that she thought about it, for them to bring her to a boat. All they had to do was weight her down and toss her overboard. She’d never be found.
She shifted on the bed. Not only was the pain in her wrist getting scary but most of her arm was numb. She was thirsty, too. Normally she drank eight glasses of water a day, but today—was it still Friday?—she hadn’t. Which was probably good, because it didn’t look as though they were going to give her a bathroom break anytime soon.
She used her free hand to pull the small pillow farther down, which seemed to help the pressure on her wrist. Oddly her heart wasn’t beating terribly fast, and she was breathing mostly in the normal range. Even her thoughts were coherent. So, what, now that she was certain she was going to die, the panic was gone?
That made her angrier still. What was this all about? She’d been paralyzed by panic for most of her life and now she got all Zen about death? Oh, come on.
She wished she could have one more talk with Dr. Bay. First she’d tell her that her kidnapping idea? Not so bright. That her friend Jerry Brody had played them all for the fools they were. Except for Michael.
Michael hadn’t liked this from the start. He was the only one who’d told her she was in danger. Of course, he always thought she was in danger. That was simply how he saw it.
But he didn’t only see evil. There was a part of him that yearned for peace—that much she knew for sure. The books he loved, the music he listened to…they were all filled with hope. Yes, even some of the Russians made a case for love and kindness.
She remembered the time he’d told her his favorite piece of music. She’d had to weasel it out of him, and it was the only time she’d ever seen him blush. At first he’d insisted that it was “Highway to Hell.” But she’d wheedled him into his true confession. His favorite song was “Clair de Lune” by Debussy. It was one of her favorites, too, but when she’d asked him why he was embarrassed, he’d said it was girlie music. That had really made her laugh. Girlie music.
How was it possible she was smiling? On the verge of death, and still the thought of Michael made her smile.
Of course, the real Michael, the 24-7 Michael, probably wasn’t close to the man she’d created in her head. Her Michael was, she had to admit, too perfect. The real Michael would never have met her expectations. He couldn’t have. So it was probably good for her to die now, before she’d gotten brave enough to pursue him. Before the disillusionment. Right?
She wiped her eyes, then her wet hand on the bedspread. It wouldn’t have hurt her feelings if they could have slept together. Just once. He would have still been her dream man, but she’d have had one night of experiencing his body for real. God, how many nights had she gone to sleep imagining what it would be like with him? How it would have felt to have Michael fill her, take her. More than that, kiss her.
She hardly knew kissing. Graydon—the only guy she’d ever had sex with—had stunk at it. He practically swallowed her. No finesse, no joy. She’d hated
the taste of him, the way she’d had to wipe her mouth. But she’d always known kissing could be wonderful. How, she wasn’t sure. Probably all the books she’d read. All the romantic movies. If that many people seemed to like it so much, there had to be something more to it.
Well, it wouldn’t do her any good to think about that now. The best she could do was try and go out with some dignity. And pray that her father would survive the ordeal.
IT DIDN’T MATTER A damn to Ed Martini whether he threw two bodies or three overboard. All he wanted was to get the ransom money and get the hell out of town. At least until Sheila, that skinny bitch, stopped hawkin’ him about her goddamn alimony. He’d thought about throwing her overboard, and while the idea made him happy, the police would be all over him in a heartbeat. Sheila’d made sure of that.
So he’d take the five million and go for a holiday. Maybe St. Thomas or even just the Keys. When he felt like it, he’d come back. Give the bitch her money. What would he care if he’d already covered his assets?
Ed looked over at the guy tied in the chair. He didn’t recognize him, although something about him seemed familiar. Probably one of Sheila’s hired detectives. Bitch.
“What’s your problem?”
Ed turned to see Jazz poking Charlie in the shoulder. Charlie looked like he was gonna have a heart attack on the spot.
“What’s your problem?” Jazz repeated.
“Nothin’. I’m just wondering when we can go get the ransom, you know?”
Jazz gave him another shot to the arm, but Charlie, he didn’t seem to be so worried about the ransom as he was about the guy in the chair.
Ed leaned back in his leather chair, thinking maybe in a few minutes he’d have the cook bring up some dinner. A nice piece of salmon, maybe. “Jazz, get the guy’s wallet.”
Jazz—the only one in his whole outfit he could trust completely—bent next to the passed-out guy and took his wallet from his back pocket. He opened it up. “Michael Caulfield.”
At the sound of his name, the man in question moaned and lifted his head. It fell back to his chest, but he tried again, and this time he succeeded.
“Hey, Charlie,” Ed said. “You wanna explain to me why we have a man with your last name come to my boat with a gun in his hand?”
“I—I—”
“I’m the one that told him about Tate.”
Ed looked at the brother. Except for the blood seeping down the side of his face, he looked a lot smarter than Charlie. Of course, a potato was smarter than Charlie.
“You did, huh? What exactly did you tell Charlie?”
The brother sniffed, wincing at that small movement. “I told him she was worth millions. That she was planning this fake kidnapping, so nobody would be the wiser if he was the one who took her.”
“And you knew this because…?”
“I’m her bodyguard.”
Ed smiled. It was just what Charlie had told them. “So, great, you told him. And he told me. You both did good. But now I think you both don’t need to stick around.”
“Wait a minute,” Charlie said, his voice high and scared. “I’m supposed to help with the ransom, ain’t I? Isn’t that what you said? That I help with the ransom and then we’re square? I didn’t owe you five million dollars, Ed. I owed you hardly nothing compared to that. Tell him, Jazz.”
Jazz moved over to the big leather chair and crouched down beside his boss. “You know, I don’t care about the brother, but Charlie, we could still use him.”
Ed leaned to his side, keeping his voice as low as Jazz had. “For what?”
“After we kill the others, after we get the money, we make sure the cops start sniffin’ at Charlie. And before they catch him, he has an accident. And they don’t sniff any further.”
This was why Jazz got the big salary. He might look like your junkie cousin, but he was a smart spick. Always thinking. Ed gave him a slight nod, then turned to Charlie. “Relax. I was just kiddin’. Wasn’t I, Jazz?”
“Yep, just kiddin’.”
“About you, at least. I think you’ll agree that your brother has served his purpose.”
Charlie looked at his brother, then back at the two men. His eyes were wide, his nose was runny and he looked like he was gonna puke. “We don’t have to kill him. He told me all about this deal, you know? We wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for Mikey.”
“That’s true, Charlie,” Ed said, “but the man brought a gun into my home. That’s very disrespectful. I’m sure you can see that.”
“He didn’t mean nothin’ by it. I swear to God, Ed, he didn’t mean to offend.”
Ed sighed. “It’s too late for apologies.” He looked at his watch. It was almost eight-thirty. No wonder he was so hungry. He turned to his right and picked up the intercom that led to the galley. That’s where the cook was. And the pilot, too. “Pauly?”
He waited a few beats, and just when he was going to speak again he heard, “Yes, boss?”
“You got some dinner ready?”
“Ten minutes, boss. You want something special?”
“If you have a nice piece of salmon, that would be good.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And, Pauly, make enough for…” He looked at Charlie and wished he’d go wash his face. But he’d feed the stupid bastard. Jazz, too. And he had to feed the woman because they might need her between now and when they got the money. “Make enough for four of us, okay?”
“Yes, sir. Right away.”
He put the intercom down and nodded toward the small refrigerator in the bar.
Without a word, Jazz fetched him a beer. Opened it for him, put it down on a nice napkin on the little table next to the chair. Then Jazz turned on the TV that was mounted on the wall across from the table. There were four sets so Ed could watch a bunch of different games. He had to know where his money was coming from. That’s why it didn’t matter where this boat went—he could always be in touch with Ronnie at the office, via satellite. Ronnie, his eldest son, ran the day-to-day.
He took a big drink of the ice-cold brew, then waited for the burp. Once he was comfortable, he turned back to Jazz. “Kill him.”
Jazz grinned and got out his gun. It was a .45, a birthday present from his old man.
“I didn’t tell him everything,” Michael said.
“Don’t even try—”
“I didn’t tell Charlie about the real money.” The brother turned his head and looked at Ed. “The ransom is chicken feed. I know how to get fifty million. Tax-free. No one the wiser.”
“Fifty million?” Jazz slapped his head just where he’d hit him before.
The brother hissed, but he didn’t pass out.
“Hold on a minute, Jazz. Just what are you trying to tell me, Mr. Caulfield?”
The brother swallowed, blinked, then straightened his back. “The woman is worth ten times that. But the money I’m talking about is in a numbered account in the Cayman Islands. If you kill her now, you get five million. If you get her bank account number, fifty million gets transferred to your account. No questions. No taxes.”
“And what do you want from this little deal?”
“You think I want to babysit a spoiled brat for the rest of my life? I figure two hundred thousand in the Caymans? I’m a king.”
Ed leaned forward, his interest definitely piqued. “Mr. Caulfield, I realize you told us this information to save your life. But I must ask—now that you have told us, what do we need you for?”
“I’m the only one who can get you that account number.”
“And why would she do that for you?”
The brother smiled. “She’s in love with me.”
6
TATE TRIED TO FIGURE out how long it had been since they’d gotten her father’s phone number. She didn’t have her watch and she couldn’t remember if she’d left home without it this morning or if they’d taken it from her. It had been dark the first time she’d been conscious, and it was still dark, so that didn’t help.<
br />
She couldn’t see much from where she lay. There was the low ceiling and the little port window. Across from the bed was a dresser and a small vanity table with chair. Everything was bolted down, of course. There were no loose objects anywhere. The lights, she’d seen when they had come on, were recessed. There were no table lamps.
There was also a second door. They’d come in and out of the one kitty-corner from the berth. This one, she had come to believe, led to the head. Which she would really like to use. Soon.
She still couldn’t get over how calm she felt. Other, normal people probably wouldn’t consider this calm, not with her still-pounding heart and the numbness in her limbs. But given her circumstances? She was doing damn well. She wasn’t going to bet the farm that all her panic issues were resolved, but this was okay. This was survivable. Which was irony at its finest.
In between figuring out the second door and trying to hear if someone was coming, unwanted memories came to haunt her. The first kidnapping, not the second. The one that had cost her Lisa.
They’d been taken from Tate’s bedroom. Lisa, her best friend and cousin, had spent the night, which was something they did often. The two of them had been held in a basement for two days. Somehow, for reasons that had eluded her and made guilt a part of every single day, she’d escaped. Lisa hadn’t.
She froze again, listening hard. Nothing. She heard the lap of the waves against the boat, but even those were soft, barely audible. She heard her own breathing, too. But at least she could hear things over the pounding of her heart, which was an improvement.
She lifted her right leg, making sure to keep her cuffed arm as still as possible. It actually wasn’t that bad. She was able to move without screaming or trying to slash her own artery so she’d bleed out.
Then she lifted the left leg. It worked as well as the right.
One of the things she had done in college was work her body. Thank goodness that, in addition to yoga and Pilates to keep herself limber, she’d taken those self-defense classes. She’d learned to shoot and shoot well. She’d done those things to make her feel courageous, and none of them had worked worth a damn.
