by Jo Leigh
“My mother had died a long time ago, and my father did his best to keep Charlie out of trouble. He got sick—my dad, I mean—and he made me promise I’d take care of Charlie. I gave him my word, and that’s not something I take lightly.
“It was all right because I spent so much time overseas. You know I was in intelligence work, but you don’t know why I left the service. It was Charlie, one more time. He stole a briefcase from a fellow officer’s car. He was caught and he went to jail, but because of me they didn’t charge him with treason. I couldn’t stay in the service after that.”
He wasn’t sure, but he thought she’d leaned a little more his way. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if she was listening or, if she was, whether she believed any part of his story. The only concrete change he saw was that she wasn’t struggling quite so hard to breathe.
“You feeling a little better? I can get you some water.”
She shook her head, and he wondered if she was saying no to the water or to feeling better.
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Why should I believe you?” Her voice was low, a monotone of bleak expectation.
“There’s no reason at all. I had planned on telling you about Charlie, but honestly I wasn’t sure when. I didn’t expect you to have a minute of sympathy for my situation, but I didn’t want you to hate me so much that you wouldn’t accept my help.”
“You made love to me.”
“Oh, God. That’s what I was most afraid of. I didn’t have ulterior motives—no, that’s not true. There was a hope that, after, you could get some rest. But the motivation for kissing you, that’s been around for a long time. I’m not sorry we did it, only that I wasn’t smart enough to know the best way to handle this situation. You’ve been doing so great. Your attacks have been less frequent and less severe, and if you can keep that up until we’re safe, then it’ll change your life.”
“When did you know?”
“That Charlie was behind this?”
She nodded.
“When I followed you here. When I looked into the saloon I saw him. A few seconds later I was knocked out.”
She turned her head to look at him. At least she had a little more color. “The fifty million, heading off for the Caymans…it’s too much to believe.”
He nodded. “I know some things about Ed Martini. There’s a reason we’re on this boat. Once he’d gotten the ransom from your father…”
“He’d have killed me.”
Michael nodded.
“I imagine he’ll kill me after I sign the papers at the bank. The question is, will he kill you?”
“He won’t kill either of us. I told him about the bank to stall for time. I had to make the prize big enough, so I told him fifty million. I had to make it far enough away that he’d have to take on fuel and supplies.”
“They knocked you out last night when they should have killed you.”
“Because they think I’m the only one who can get you to sign the papers.”
She shook her head a little, and her eyes welled with tears. “You tell a good story, Michael. But then, that was your job, wasn’t it? Telling stories to manipulate people?”
“That’s right.”
“So how can I know? How can I possibly believe what you’ve told me?”
“I don’t know. I do know that I’m going to resign as soon as I have you back safely.”
“I wish I hadn’t heard him,” she said. “It was so much better.”
“You would have found out. It was inevitable. Ironically, I’d planned on telling you right after your shower.”
“Michael,” she said, whispering, “why does it bother me more that you made love to me than that you had me kidnapped?”
He wiped his face with his hand, wishing like hell he could tell her at least one thing that would convince her that he wasn’t lying. “It’s because you doubt yourself. How attractive you are. How smart and funny.”
“Oh, don’t. Don’t do that to me. It’s hard enough.”
“Is there anything I could say that would help?”
“I know that I can’t trust anything you’ve said or will say. I might have a panic disorder, but I’ve been well trained about con men. I’ve got that fifty million. And my father, he’s got so much more.”
Her color was back and her cheeks looked flushed. She wasn’t gasping for breath any longer. Her panic had diminished as her anger had grown, which was good. She needed to be angry.
“I imagine you’ve seen your share of gigolos.”
“Some of the best. That’s why—”
“Why what?”
“I can’t have this conversation.” She stood up and took a deep breath. “I can’t be in this room with you.”
He was the breathless one now. Why had he thought the truth would be enough? It rarely was, and if he were Tate, he wouldn’t have bought it, either. He just hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted a miracle. “I understand.” He looked up at her. “Unfortunately there’s nowhere for me to go.”
She looked behind her, at the door. “You can go be with your brother.”
“Uh, no. Martini already let me know that if I didn’t get you to sign the papers, he’d kill Charlie first.”
“Why should I care?”
“Because he said he’d kill you second.”
SARA WAS GOING TO lose it. They’d heard nothing, absolutely nothing, and William had delivered the ransom hours and hours ago.
She’d paced all six thousand square feet of Tate’s place. She’d tried to comfort William, but he was in-consolable. Believed his daughter was dead. Believed Michael had been behind the kidnapping. There were security people all over the place, all his phones had been forwarded to Tate’s main line. And they’d heard nothing, not a word.
What concerned her most was William having a heart attack. She’d called his personal physician to be here until this was resolved, and the doctor should be arriving any minute. She went to the fridge again and took out a head of lettuce. It wasn’t her usual kind of snack, but it was here and she had to stuff something in her mouth. She broke the lettuce up into chunks and put it in a colander to drain.
“Is there something I can make you?”
Sara jumped at Pilar’s voice. “No, thank you. If I have a bite of something decent, I’ll never stop. I’m going to chew lettuce.”
“I can fix a quick vinaigrette—”
“Thanks, Pilar, but I wasn’t kidding. I will never stop.”
“I understand. Food is oddly comforting.”
“Maybe you can fix something for Mr. Baxter.”
“He’s refused me several times.”
“You know, I think if you put a platter near him with bite-size treats, he’ll end up taking one, and that will lead to more.”
Pilar nodded. “I’ll do that. I’ve got twenty minutes until I have to take the casserole out for the staff.”
Sara sighed as she took the lettuce from under the running water. She let it drip, thinking about how incredible Pilar’s casseroles were, and put a chunk of the not-quite salad into her mouth. It tasted about as good as she’d expected.
“Michael didn’t do this,” Pilar said.
“I know.”
“Mr. Baxter doesn’t.”
“He needs someone to blame. This family has a history with kidnappings.”
Pilar went to the fridge and pulled out an array of goodies. She set up on one of the huge counters and started to prepare delectable treats without a glance at a cookbook. Huge fresh figs were sliced down the middle, then stuffed with a wedge of Gorgonzola cheese. Just looking at them made Sara feel way too sorry for herself.
It was the doorbell that saved her, and she hurried out, all thoughts of figs buried beneath her prayers. Unfortunately it was the doctor, not Tate.
The doctor. She made sure he sat with William, and despite the older man’s objections, he started an immediate checkup. “William, I’ll be back,” she said.
“Where
are you going?”
“To pay someone a visit.”
He looked at her, concerned.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. It won’t take me long. I’ll be back before you can blink.”
“Please.”
She strode toward the elevator, knowing this had to be done and knowing she was the right person to do it.
MICHAEL WAS RIGHT—there was nowhere for him to go. But she needed some time to think without looking at him. The only place was the head. She’d been so positive in there, what, fifteen minutes ago? Maybe she could find something to hang on to in there.
Without a word, she went back to the head and closed the door. It looked smaller, uglier. It didn’t matter because Michael wasn’t here.
Michael wasn’t there, either. Not the Michael she thought she knew. What was she supposed to believe? Everything had come together so easily. They had to have been aware of Elizabeth or they wouldn’t have put her out of commission so easily. They’d known exactly where she’d be. How, if Michael hadn’t told them?
She sat down on the toilet and willed herself—uselessly, it turned out—not to cry. The tears were heavy and hot, and her chest hurt as if she’d been kicked by a mule.
He’d set her up. There was no other conclusion she could come to, right? He’d been dismissed from the one job he’d loved and been forced to become a babysitter. It had to be humiliating. It only made sense to want revenge, and since he couldn’t get back at the Army, he could get even with her. The stupid rich chick who was a perfect mark. She was already crazy, it wouldn’t take much to immobilize her. Persuade her that he was on her side. That he would be her salvation. Of course she’d sign over her money if it meant saving her life, but it didn’t, did it? She would never be released. He would sneak about the boat, but he wouldn’t be successful because that wasn’t the plan. All he had to do was have her believe in him. Have her need him again.
The real tragedy? She wanted to. Desperately.
Last night had been incredible. Not just the sex but the fact that she hadn’t spent every single second trapped in a panic attack. She’d slept. She hadn’t had a nightmare.
It was better than anything she’d ever anticipated, better than she’d been even in imaginary scenarios.
More than that, Michael had been the safest of her safe places. She remembered the feelings that had coursed through her body as she’d pictured him in her mind. He’d been right there with her, but she’d never seen him more clearly than with her eyes closed.
Her heart was beating hard even now, just thinking about it. She’d liked him so much. Those talks in the car—those couldn’t have been faked. Wasn’t possible. He’d never known what they were going to talk about. He didn’t know what books she’d read, what movies she’d seen. So his reactions had been real. Honest.
God, what if he was telling her the truth?
She unrolled some tissue and blew her nose, then got some more and wiped her eyes. She wished she could talk to Sara. Sara would know. Sara would tell her the truth and she’d completely look out for her. Unlike Dr. Bay.
SARA FELT AMAZINGLY calm as she read the new issue of Vanity Fair. She’d never get tired of seeing George Clooney as the cover subject. Not ever. She’d seen him in person three times, and he was the single dreamiest man on earth. And, yes, she’d seen Mr. Pitt in person, too. Of course, if forced, she’d also go out with Brad, but her first choice would be George.
The door opened and Sara stood up. She’d had to wait longer than she’d hoped, but it was worth it. Or it would be in another minute.
She approached a well dressed woman. Very well-dressed. Her short, dark bob was perfect and so was her makeup. She lived the life, here on Park Avenue. “Dr. Bay? I’m Tate’s friend, Sara.”
She nodded. “Has there been any word?”
“No. None.”
“Oh, my God.”
“I do have one thing to tell you.”
“If I can be of any help, of course I will.”
“I think you’ve been about as helpful as you’re going to get.”
“Pardon me?”
“There is no pardon for you. What kind of moron takes a girl who’s been absolutely traumatized by her own kidnapping and the death of her best friend and suggests she stage her own kidnapping? I mean, of all the idiotic, irresponsible—”
“Now you just wait a minute. I don’t know who you think you are, but my suggestions to my patient were completely legitimate and not in the least irresponsible.”
“What are you, insane? She’s been kidnapped. For real. And it’s entirely possible she won’t be coming back. Which will only mean one thing—they’ve killed her. You understand what she went through? Her worst fear in the world, and she had to live through it. She had to know she was going to die.” Sara wiped the tears from her face with the heel of her hand. “If Michael wasn’t with her…”
“I’m very sorry for what’s happened to Tate, but you must know that I bear no responsibility. This was purely a coincidence, a tragic one, but it had nothing to do—”
“Don’t you dare. Don’t you—” Sara turned, fury so great inside her that she thought she might burst or go crazy or…She pulled back, and when she swung it was with all her weight behind her. The crack was loud and the pain shot up her arm and hurt like the devil. But Dr. Bay, who wasn’t responsible, who had nothing to do with anything, had gone flying back into her pristine office with the fresh flowers and the expensive furniture. Her hand was on her cheek and she was crying. Finally.
“You’re just lucky it was me who came after you. If it had been Michael, you’d be dead.”
HE SAT ON THE BED, waiting. Remembering when he was a kid, when Charlie was really young and his mom was still alive. Charlie hadn’t been a screwup then. He’d just been a little kid, like every other little kid, and he’d been Michael’s responsibility, even back then. When anything went wrong with Charlie, his mother had given him this real disappointed look.
He still saw that look. Felt it. As fucked up as Charlie was, Michael was still responsible. Even now. With Tate in the bathroom. With Tate believing the worst. Still, the idea of walking into the saloon and shooting Charlie made him sick.
What if it came down to that? To choosing between Tate and Charlie? What then?
His first responsibility was to Tate. That was a fact and nothing would change it. He just didn’t like the idea of Charlie dying. Not because the stupid son of a bitch didn’t deserve it, but Michael had a deathbed promise hanging over his head, and even though he knew it was superstitious nonsense, it didn’t feel that way.
Charlie had crossed the line. If there was a way to save him, then Michael would—as long as it didn’t endanger Tate. If not, well, then he’d tell his father he was sorry when he joined him in hell.
Decision made, he went back to waiting. Worrying. Wishing. It wasn’t like him. He didn’t wish for the impossible. He never had. But when it came to Tate, he did a lot of things he’d never done before.
12
AFTER AN EXCRUCIATING night of no sleep, of remembering what it had been like to make love to him, of reliving the moment of betrayal over and over, Tate finally slept as the sky began to soften into day.
She woke, startled at the sound of the door slamming shut. There was Michael in his borrowed T-shirt and his chauffeur’s pants, holding a tray with food and coffee. At the sight, her stomach clenched, and she knew she wouldn’t be eating much. Of course, it didn’t matter, did it? Nothing did. She would die soon and this torment would be over. That’s all she wanted. In fact, maybe there was a way to speed things up. She’d have to think about that.
Michael put the tray on the dresser and turned to her. She wasted no time in slipping out of the bed. She no longer cared about the clean clothes problem or shaving her legs.
“Tate, we need to—”
She slammed the bathroom door closed behind her. By the time she’d washed her face, brushed her teeth and her hair, she’d realized
she couldn’t go out there. He would end up convincing her that he’d had her best interest at heart. That he wasn’t a thief, that he’d made love to her because he’d been attracted, or in love or some other fairy tale.
At least she could sit down. Of course, the john wasn’t exactly her idea of a great chair, but it was better than looking at him. Her real shame wasn’t that she’d been deceived but, that knowing she’d been deceived, she still wanted him.
That’s what made her sick. That’s what terrified her.
How could she want so badly to believe him? Why did she have to force herself out of the fantasy where they lived happily ever after? She truly did need a shrink. Not Dr. Bay, of course, but a good shrink.
She laughed as her chin dropped to her chest. Too late for shrinkage now. She wondered if they’d kill her first before they threw her in the water. That’s something she’d beg for, if she had to. The thought of drowning…
“Tate?” Michael’s voice came from directly outside the door. “Do you want some coffee? I can hand you a cup. You don’t have to come out.”
“No.” She waited, but he didn’t respond. She wished there was a peephole. It would have been so much better if she could know where he was.
She stood, whipped off her clothes and got under the shower, not taking the soap or the shampoo; she was there for the water. She’d always had her best ideas in the shower, and now would be a really good time for something brilliant to occur.
She laughed, inhaling water, then choking for a long, long time. Which was when she had the thought. She wasn’t sure it was brilliant—in fact, it was probably an excellent example of how she’d lost her mind—but there it was. And there it stayed. All day.
MICHAEL GLANCED OUT the porthole, not surprised to see the red sky of sunset. He hadn’t taken a drink or eaten a bite because he really hadn’t wanted to bother Tate in the bathroom, but things were getting a bit hairy.
