by Jo Leigh
But as of this afternoon her universe had changed. She wasn’t sure if she would remember one thing she’d learned from any of her classes or if she’d just pass out again the moment the door opened, but she was going to move forward under the assumption that in this universe she kicked ass.
The first thing to do was to move her legs, stretch the muscles. It was vital that she had control over every part of her that still worked. One hand, two legs and a brain. With luck, she’d get in at least a few licks before they tossed her into the ocean.
“WHY SHOULD I BELIEVE you?”
Michael wished they’d undo the rope that was cutting him across the chest. Of course, if they did, the first thing he’d have to do was kill his brother.
Goddamn Charlie. He must have gotten into the safe when Michael had gone to his bedroom to change shirts. There was no other explanation, and for that, for this, whatever deal he’d made with his father, deathbed or no, he was through with Charlie. Assuming they both weren’t killed in the next five minutes. “You should believe me because you’re here. You think Charlie could have put this together?” He laughed and he wasn’t the least bit sorry to see the look of hurt in Charlie’s eyes.
“Speaking of being here, how did you find us?”
“I got that one covered, boss,” Jazz said, holding up Michael’s GPS.
“That’s great, Jazz. What’s he tracking?”
“The woman.”
Ed Martini, who Michael deduced the tan gentleman to be, sighed. “What on the woman is he tracking?”
“Oh, crap.”
“Want to share, Mr. Caulfield?”
He debated lying, but all they had to do was bring the GPS in proximity to Tate’s purse and it was all over. “Her purse. It’s wired.”
“Jazz, ask Danny to come up, would you? Then have him take Miss Baxter’s purse and dump it somewhere in New Jersey.”
“Sure thing, boss.”
Ed turned back to Michael. “I still don’t see how you’d convince her to give you that number. You’d have to kill me and pretty much everyone I knew to convince me.”
He looked back at Ed, willing himself not to move, not to do what his training had ingrained in him: escape. “Tate Baxter has been rich her whole life. The kind of rich that alters her perception of money. I think fifty million dollars is one hell of a lot. But when you’ve got over a hundred billion dollars in assets…”
Jazz whistled. “I knew she was loaded—”
“Look up the Baxter Corporation online,” Michael said. “Look William Baxter up in the Forbes 500. He’s the third wealthiest man in the United States, and that doesn’t include his numbered accounts.”
Michael forced himself to relax and to keep his mouth shut. The ball had been lobbed over the net, and he had to see whether they were going to put it in play.
He wished he’d thought of something smarter, something that would get them both off this boat tonight, but it wasn’t a terrible plan. Ed Martini was a bookie, one of the biggest on the East Coast. He was a man who liked to play the odds. The potential of a ninety percent profit would appeal to the gambler in him.
What did he have to lose by checking it out? Michael knew Ed wasn’t about to forget the five million. No one seemed to be in a huge rush to get it, so they either hadn’t called in the ransom yet or they must have given William some time to gather the cash. Michael’s whole objective was to buy time.
Eventually the circumstances for victory would come his way. This was the kind of thing he’d trained for all his adult life, and these guys? They knew nothing but the brute fundamentals. He’d win and he’d get Tate out of this in one piece. If they believed him right now.
“Yeah, that’s all swell, but the five million, we don’t need her for that. And there’s no guarantee—”
“She’s crazy about him, Ed,” Charlie said. “You threaten to hurt Mikey and she’ll do anything you want.”
Ed barely gave Charlie a glance. “It seems like a lot of trouble.”
“Not so much trouble,” Michael said, “not fifty million dollars’ worth. Completely untraceable.”
“But if she signs over the money, she can just as easily blow the whistle.”
Michael smiled at Jazz. “I don’t see how, unless she can communicate from the other side.”
Jazz’s thin eyebrows came down as he frowned.
While Michael waited for him to comprende, he took a moment to think about a particularly juicy way he would kill the man when the time came.
“Oh. The other side. I get it.”
“Once you know the account is legit and you make the transfer, there’s no way anyone’s going to trace the transaction. Not if you put the money back into the same bank under your name.”
Ed chuckled just as the hatch opened at the front of the saloon. A bald guy came up the stairs. He stopped there and pulled a big tray filled with food up from the hold. Then another. Following the second tray there came a man in a white chef’s coat.
Michael turned his attention back to the bald guy. He was older than Michael by at least a couple of years, but, shit, he was in great shape. Michael would need to bring a weapon along to kill that one.
Evidently he was Danny. The one who was going to lose the GPS tracker. Jazz made him wait as he went into the berth at the inside of the saloon. He came out again holding the Coach bag. Before he handed it to Danny, he took the cash out of Tate’s wallet and her wristwatch.
Michael changed his mind. He would kill Jazz with a dull fish knife instead.
The chef was nothing. A chef. If this was everyone who would be on the boat, he could manage. There was only one guy who truly scared him and that was Jazz. Michael knew the type—he enjoyed his job. The more people he could hurt, the better.
The discussion was over, at least for now. As the chef and baldy set up the table for Ed’s dinner, Ed finished his beer, then told Jazz to cut him loose.
“Take him into the cabin and cuff him next to his girlfriend.”
Michael didn’t show his relief. All he cared about now was making sure Tate was okay.
WILLIAM BAXTER STOOD in his upstairs closet, staring at the shelves of his safe. He’d never given much thought to the heft and weight of five million dollars, but he did so now. He knew, because it was important to know such things, that one million dollars in one hundred dollar bills weighed twenty-two pounds. Therefore, five million dollars would weigh one hundred and ten pounds. He needed a vessel, something he could fit into a public trash Dumpster, something that wouldn’t look suspicious to someone passing by, something that would hold one hundred and ten pounds of hundred-dollar bills. It was a serious matter. One, if he got it wrong, that could mean his daughter’s death.
His eyes closed as he tried to regain his bearings. He kept remembering the phone call. The electronically altered voice.
Your daughter is ours. Bring five million in unmarked hundreds to the Central Park carousel. At two-thirty this morning put the cash in the Dumpster with the red X. No police. No tracking chip or dye packs. You deliver the money by yourself. One thing goes wrong, Tate is dead.
He had to get a grip on himself. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for his daughter, including giving these people his money. If only he could believe that following the instructions to the letter would be enough.
He knew only too well that if a man was capable of kidnapping, he was capable of murder.
It occurred to him that the vessel he was desperately searching for had been so obvious, if he hadn’t been this close to tears. He would use an old gym bag. There were a couple downstairs.
But to go downstairs would telegraph that something was wrong. The last thing he needed was for the staff to gossip. Any oblique reference at all could be enough to cause damage.
He would have to call Stafford, his majordomo. Just as he stepped out of the closet, his intercom buzzed. His heart leaped in his chest, but he made it to the phone. “Yes?”
“Sara Lessing returning
your call, sir.”
“Yes. And, Stafford, please come to my room and bring one of those old gym bags from the storage room. Discreetly.”
“Sir.”
William pressed the lit phone line. “Sara.”
“Hi, Mr. Baxter. Is something wrong?”
“Is Tate with you?”
“Uh, no.”
“Would you happen to know where she is?”
“She didn’t say anything to me about having plans.”
“I see,” he said, sitting down before his knees gave out. He hadn’t realized how much stock he’d put in the idea that Tate was simply with her friend and this was all a prank.
“Mr. Baxter, have you tried her cell?”
“Yes. I have.”
“What about Michael? Or Elizabeth? They’d know.”
“Mr. Caulfield is also not available by phone, and Elizabeth suggested Tate was with him.”
“Oh. Wait.”
“Yes?”
“Okay, nothing’s wrong. Not really. Except…well, I wasn’t supposed to tell you….”
“Sara, please—”
“Of course. I’m sorry. Tate is participating in this, well, sort of stunt.”
“Pardon me?”
As William listened to Tate’s best friend outline the lunatic plan, every part of him wanted her words to be true. He hadn’t wept since his wife died twenty-two years ago, but he wept now, knowing that the silly plan to fake Tate’s kidnapping had gone so horribly wrong.
“Sir?”
“Thank you, Sara. I appreciate your explanation. However…”
“Yes?”
“An hour ago I received a ransom call.”
Sara didn’t say anything for a long time. “Michael is with her. He’ll make sure she’s safe. I know he went after her. He was against the whole idea.”
“Was he?”
“Oh, God.”
“I have to go. Needless to say, if you hear—”
“Of course. And if there’s anything—”
“I’ll call you.” He hung up, and only then did Stafford enter the room, carrying a large black gym bag.
“Is this fine, sir?”
It was perfect. All five million dollars fit inside with just enough room to zip it closed. He had several hours to kill until the drop-off. Plenty of time to imagine the hell Tate was in.
THE DOOR OPENED AND all Tate’s bravado vanished. Before she could even see who had opened it, she was hit by a massive panic episode. Heart, lungs, legs, brain…all the things she had counted on were no longer under her control. The fear had her tight and the room dimmed.
“Tate.”
She opened her mouth, but his name wouldn’t come.
“Tate, look at me.”
The side of the bed dipped, and she felt his cool fingers on the side of her face. The tunnel vision, which blocked out so much, softened and let her see who it was. “Michael.”
He smiled. He wasn’t wearing his sunglasses, either, so she could see his eyes. “You’re hurt.”
“It’s okay. You found me.”
“I did.”
“Thank you. I was so scared. I was sure…Is my father here?”
His smile sank and the light in his eyes went out. “Oh, Christ, Tate, I’m sorry. I can’t take you home. Not yet.”
“What?”
“Lover boy here is joining the party.”
Tate looked just past Michael. The small man was there, leering at her as if her heartbreak was better than cable.
“I’m sorry. I followed you, but when I got to the boat, they found me.”
“It’s all right,” she said, even though she could hardly understand. It was Michael, and he was supposed to save her.
He leaned down close. “Don’t fret,” he whispered. “I’ll get you out of this. I promise.”
“Come on, my dinner’s getting cold.”
Michael spun away from her and stood up to Jazz. “Get that cuff off her now so I can clean her up. In case you’ve forgotten, you still need her. Then, when she’s clean and there’s a bandage on that wrist, you can bring in our dinner.”
For a moment it looked as if Jazz was going to shoot Michael, but then he burst out laughing. “Man, you got you some pair.”
“Whatever. Just get the cuffs off her.”
Her breathing grew more stable as each moment passed. Well, as long as she kept her gaze on Michael. He took her into the head to wash her wrist, but then he must have noticed her discomfort, because he left her there, closing the door behind him.
She trembled so violently it was difficult to do the most fundamental things, but she managed, and then Michael joined her again, washing her wrist as if she might break. Which, when she thought about it, was entirely possible.
“I know that has to sting like hell.”
“It’s okay. This is the best pain I’ve had since—”
“I let you down. I’m sorry.”
“You couldn’t have known. Brody has a great deal to answer for. He’s behind this, you know. He might not be here, but he’s the only one who knew about the plan, so it follows.”
He didn’t say anything, but she watched his lips narrow and become pale. Never, though, was his touch anything but gentle.
“Michael?”
“Yes?”
“Did they call my father?”
He turned off the small faucet and got her a towel from a silver bar on the wall near the enclosed shower. With the same care, he dried her. “Don’t touch that,” he said, nodding at the very red and raw flesh.
He looked in the cabinet above the sink, choosing a bottle of aspirin, then in another cupboard near the door he found a first-aid kit. “Let’s go sit. I want you to eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I don’t care. You need to eat. To be strong.”
She sighed. “No amount of food is going to help with that.”
“Let’s do this before our friend Jazz gets too antsy.”
She followed him to the bed, where she blushed like a fool as she climbed to the middle of the mattress. This was, for all its horror, a very intimate situation. She’d had her fantasies about Michael, but his actual touch, the scent of his skin, the closeness was something she hardly knew how to handle.
The good part was her awkwardness with Michael kept her from thinking about her own imminent death.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. Do I have to put that stuff on?”
He held up the antibiotic ointment. “This? It doesn’t hurt at all.”
“Promise?”
He nodded. “Promise.”
He was true to his word. It didn’t hurt. His touch did, but she didn’t mind. He’d clearly done this kind of thing before. Probably in the military. When it was a matter of life or death.
She was just about to question him about his medical training when Jazz walked in, gun out and aimed at Michael. Immediately behind him came a very large bald man carrying a tray.
“Where’s this supposed to go?” The bald man sounded as if he was from the Bahamas or Jamaica.
Jazz seemed stumped, so Michael took over, setting the tray on the dresser, then setting a napkin in her lap, along with a fork and a dinner plate.
He brought his own over, and when he sat down on the edge of the bed, Jazz said, “Hey.”
Michael looked up.
Jazz glanced from Michael’s food to the other room.
“Get your plate. You can eat in here and shoot us if we don’t pass the salt.”
Jazz didn’t think that was quite so funny. He walked over to Michael and pressed the barrel of the gun into the center of his forehead. “You wanna be careful there, buddy. There’s a big ocean out there and a lot of hungry fish.”
“Got it,” Michael said. “I apologize.”
“That’s better.”
Despite his anger, he did as Michael had suggested. He ate at the vanity, his gun within easy reach.
She did her best to ignor
e him as she ate. It was superb salmon. In fact, the whole meal was perfectly prepared, but it was still difficult to swallow.
She kept thinking about her father. About how scared he must be. Each time she started to slide to the bad place, she looked at Michael. It helped so very much.
7
CHARLIE WIPED HIS forehead, wishing like crazy he could get off this stinkin’ boat. He needed a fix and he needed it now, but Mikey was in there with that skinny chick, and Ed, he wasn’t feeling so generous.
He looked down at his plate, but there was no way he was gonna eat, even if it was all cooked by some fancy chef.
All he wanted was for them to get the ransom. Then he could leave and he wouldn’t owe Martini any more money. Nothing. In fact, with his cut, he’d be able to set himself up just fine. Screw Mikey. He should have helped him, that’s all. If he had helped, none of this would have happened. Goddamn, he’d promised Pop he’d help. Now they were both in it up to their necks.
“Charlie.”
He wiped his forehead again, this time with his napkin instead of his sleeve, then turned to face Ed. Jazz was in the other room with Mike and the skinny chick. So it was just him and Ed. “Yeah, Ed?”
“Charlie, why didn’t you tell me about the bank account in the Caymans?”
Shit, shit and more shit. He didn’t like answering questions. Especially when the wrong answer could get him killed. “I didn’t know.”
“Your brother didn’t tell you?”
“He told me about the kidnapping thing, right? About how she was paying somebody to snatch her. And he told me she was worth, you know, a lot of money. And that’s what he told me.”
“Nothing about the bank account.”
Charlie shook his head. “He doesn’t always tell me everything. He thinks he so damn smart and that I’m just his loser brother.”
“He never mentioned that he was going to follow you?”
“He might have. I don’t know. Maybe not.”
“Tell me more about him. Has he been her bodyguard for a long time?”
“Hell, no. Only about six months. Since he got out of the Army.”
