by Jo Leigh
If it wasn’t for his usefulness in controlling the brother, he’d toss the bastard over right now.
“We’ll be docked by three,” Jazz said, folding his little phone and putting it in his pocket. “I’ve lined up a shopper to put together the stuff for the woman. Pauly’s got the food being delivered at five. We’ll be ready to take off by ten o’clock, latest.”
“Good job. Did you tell Pauly I wanted those limes?”
“Absolutely, boss. He knows how much you like that key lime pie.”
“Good. That’s the pleasure of traveling without a woman—nobody to nag me about my damn cholesterol. She don’t know what my cholesterol is. She just wants to control me, you know?”
“Yeah, I know. That’s why I don’t hook up for longer than a weekend. So is this Cayman Islands like Aruba?”
“I was only there once. But, yeah, it’s like Aruba. Only with more banks. And more businesses. Lot of businesses.”
Jazz raised his eyebrows. “They do off-track?”
“I don’t know, Jazz. It’s something to look into once we get the dough.”
Jazz, always on his feet, so much energy, so much going on in that bizzaro brain. The opposite of Charlie, who couldn’t string two sentences together, who thought of nothing but himself, nothing but what he wanted that second. Like a five-year-old, that one. It made Ed wonder which of the brothers was adopted. Had to be one of them.
“Charlie,” Jazz said, poking the listing slob on his shoulder. “Go to the cabin, would ya? You’re making me lose my appetite.”
“Fuck you, Jazz.”
Jazz had his weapon out in two seconds. “What’s that?”
“Nothing, nothing.” He lurched toward the edge of the banquette and stumbled to his feet. “I thought you were someone else.”
“Well, get the hell out of here before I throw you overboard.”
Ed watched Charlie until he was out of the saloon.
“We have to keep him, boss?” Jazz asked. “I can make the brother behave. I can make the bitch behave. Trust me.”
Ed shook his head. “No, I don’t think you can. Those two, they’ve got some strength, okay? We need Charlie. Just until I’m off the boat with the woman. You can stay behind and watch the brothers kill each other.”
“That,” Jazz said, smiling, “I’d pay a nickel for.”
HOW LONG HAD THE dark scared her? It felt as if it had been her whole life. The dark held secrets and bad things, terror and helplessness. Only, she didn’t feel scared. Well, not that kind of scared. She was with Michael and they were going to make love. Finally, at the edge of her life when she wasn’t sure about the next sunrise or the next five minutes, she was sure about him.
Her hands found the bottom of her shirt and she pulled it over her head.
The room wasn’t pitch-black. In fact, she could see him standing at the foot of the bed. Not his expression, not the small details, but enough. So she was pretty sure he could see her, too. He knew she was undressing and why.
As she moved to undo the clasp of her bra, Michael seemed to snap out of whatever had held him so still, directly into fourth gear. Before she’d gotten the bra off, he was down to his shorts. She couldn’t make out the pattern in the dark, which was a blessing.
She tossed her bra to the floor, her blush coming back in spades. But this was her brave life, and she wasn’t going to let her shyness stop her. In fact…
She climbed off the bed to stand in front of Michael. It was tempting to tell him to turn on the light—but, no, she wasn’t that brave. Not yet. But she did continue to take off her clothes. Every last stitch.
And there they were.
He had the physique of a Greek athlete, which wasn’t a shock, considering how serious he was about his workouts. She felt very soft and flabby in comparison. She should have worked harder at her Pilates, that’s what.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.
“Me?”
He laughed softly as he stepped closer. “Yes, you. You’re incredibly beautiful. I like seeing you with your guard down. Without those suits you like so much.”
“I like them because they blend in. They make me disappear.”
“I know.” He stepped closer, so close she could feel his body heat. “I like you like this. Naked. Vulnerable.”
She did feel vulnerable. Too much so. She started to cover her breasts, but then he touched her. One hand on her waist, cool, broad, and the side of his other hand lifting her chin.
“And so very brave,” he said.
She looked into his eyes, cursing the dark now. “I’m working on it.”
“You’re doing great,” he said. Just before he kissed her.
She melted against him. His lips, his tongue, the pressure of his hand on the back of her head…it was all perfect. He made her wet and eager and braver still.
She put her hand on his stomach then, kissed him back as she went lower and lower until she felt the small patch of hair down there. A second later he bumped her wrist. She smiled around his tongue as it happened again. Someone wanted attention. Badly.
He moaned, and that’s all the push she needed. She touched his cock. Warm, hard, thick and so very, very anxious. He pulsed in her hand. Strained as she stroked him.
He threw his head back for a second with a long groan, then pulled her to the bed. Before she knew what had happened, she was lying down, her head on the pillow, with Michael at her side, pulling her into his arms, into his kiss.
His leg went between hers, his thigh up to the junction, where he pressed against her. She had no choice but to move, to ride him as he touched her breast, sucked her tongue. They went on like that for long, languorous moments. A gasp or a moan the only break in the accompaniment of their breathing. It was heaven, but it was also not quite enough.
She squeezed his cock, then let go, afraid she’d gone too far.
Michael sat up so quickly she gasped, and he gripped her shoulders tightly. When his mouth was a scant inch from her own, he said, “I can’t stand it. I’m just not that strong.”
His kiss was searing, melting her brain and stealing her breath. His body felt hard and hot.
Another man touching her with his fierceness would have made her cry out, struggle to break free, but she wanted Michael’s possessiveness. A part of her wanted to see bruises, proof, in whatever tomorrow she was granted.
He moaned and she could taste his desire painted on her tongue. The sound of his rough breathing, all through his flaring nostrils, was like sex itself. Even the pulse of his chest against hers made her think of nothing so sweet as making love but of something far more primal. That’s what she wanted from him.
William Baxter’s troubled daughter. The one who was always pale and frail and didn’t know what to do with her hands.
She knew now.
Trembling, still matching him breath for breath, she touched his skin, rubbed him, kneaded his flesh. There was so little give it disappointed her for a moment, but then she remembered it was Michael, not some soft man. He had muscles, big ones—not that you could see from across the room, but when you got close, when he moved—
He pushed her down to the bed, to the blue-and-white checked bedspread. His knee went between hers once more, but this time it was completely different. This time he didn’t ask, he took.
Before her cry had subsided, he pulled her hands up above her head. With his broad left hand he captured both her wrists.
She stared at him as he loomed over her, a willing captive. “What are you doing to me?”
“I don’t want you to forget this. If we die tomorrow, you’ll remember this in your next life. In all your lifetimes.”
He held her gaze as his mouth opened into a silent roar and he plunged inside her.
He filled her completely, but that wasn’t why she wept. The tears were from somewhere very deep, something always longed for, and finally, finally…
He kissed her again, and it was brutal until it wasn’t. Unti
l he caressed her lips with his own, until there was no space between his breath and hers.
He was as deeply inside her as he could be. Michael was part of her. She would have shared her blood with him, her bones, but she didn’t need to because he was right there. Right there.
MICHAEL, BURIED IN wet heat, didn’t really understand what was happening to him. He’d wanted to make this special for her. He’d wanted to be careful, gentle.
Shit. He hoped he wasn’t screwing it up, because there was no way he was gonna stop now.
He’d never been a patient man, not when it came to sex. Most of the time, he was on his way from one danger to another, so he’d mastered the art of the sentimental goodbye. Better to leave them wanting more, right?
But this…Tate was another thing altogether. He’d been with more beautiful women. Certainly tougher women. She was vulnerable in a way that made him vulnerable, too.
He kissed her, wanting the thoughts to stop. She was so responsive. Just listening to her could have made him come. He had to hold back, to not hurt her, but his resolve lasted seconds. And when he did hurt her, she pushed him for more.
They would be gone by tomorrow, heading out across the ocean to the Caymans. His glorious plan hadn’t turned out so well. Nothing had. Except this.
He’d never felt more of a failure—and he’d never experienced a triumph like being inside her.
He lifted his head, took in great, deep breaths, pumped into her until his arms shook. And then he reached between them, sliding his right hand down her belly until his fingers found her clit.
He watched her as he shifted his position, thrusting and rubbing her at the same time.
God, it was amazing. There was just enough light. Her eyes weren’t closed, but they weren’t focused, not on him anyway. Her mouth had opened as she’d arched her neck. It was stunning. He licked the sweat off her temple because he couldn’t lick where he wanted.
Her head thrashed, banging against the wall as he kept up an unrelenting pace, but he knew it was going to end soon. He could feel the tightness in his balls, his muscles tensing beyond endurance.
He had to choose: finger or cock. Cock won.
He pulled his hand out, captured her wrists again, and when he felt her heels on his hips, he goddamn exploded. The top of his head came off, the backs of his eyelids burst with colors, and she just kept squeezing him, her internal muscles sucking the life force out of him.
It seemed to go on forever. When he was finally dry, when there was nothing, not even breath left in him, he opened his eyes.
She was staring up at him with those wide blue eyes. With her auburn hair plastered against her skin, her cheeks blotchy and red. He couldn’t imagine anything more beautiful. Not even close.
Too soon, his arms gave out and he had to crash beside her. She didn’t speak; neither did he, but the sound in the room was loud enough to scare the fishes. Both of them gasping for air, cursing the world that made them need it.
“Holy cow,” she whispered finally.
He grinned. “Yeah, that’s just what I was gonna say.”
She slugged him in the hip. It was a lackadaisical sock with only half a fist. But good for her. He doubted he could have done better.
“Sleep now,” he said.
“Uh-huh.”
“Tomorrow we’ll figure out how to live through this.”
“Okay,” she said, and even in her breathlessness, her doubt came through.
He rallied himself to his side, so his hand rested on her belly and his gaze on her eyes. “You think I want this to be over?” he said. “You think I’m not going to fight for you?”
She blinked. Then she smiled. “Not anymore.”
14
IT HAD BEEN DAYS—five days—since the kidnappers had disappeared with William Baxter’s money and Tate. Sara, who’d never had a sister but had always had Tate, was sitting in her friend’s bedroom, staring at the trompe l’oeil window on the wall. Through the painted window she could see a sandy beach, a brilliant ocean and a sky dotted with cotton clouds. It was so real that Sara thought if she moved closer, she would feel the breeze on her face.
But it, like the chances that Tate was still alive, was an illusion. There was a lot of trompe l’oeil throughout the penthouse, designed specifically to make the occupant feel as though she were living in an expansive world. The artist had done a superb job, but now Sara wondered if these fake paintings had been one more wall that had trapped Tate in her mental prison.
It wasn’t fair. None of it was. That she should have been kidnapped at all, that she’d lived so much of her life in terror, that her cousin had been murdered in such a horrible way. Sara ached for Tate, but she also ached for William, who’d done so much to foster Tate’s fear.
He’d aged ten years in these last few days. He couldn’t sleep, wouldn’t take the tranquilizers his doctor had prescribed and barely ate. Sara had taken a leave of absence from her job to be with him. To wait. But for how long?
Was Michael dead, too? Or was he, as William thought, one of the guilty?
Two days ago, she’d taken the bull by the horns. Despite her belief in Michael’s team, she’d called the authorities. The FBI had swooped in, but they hadn’t found much. She’d tried to believe them when they said they’d find Tate.
Sara stood up, knowing she had to go into the other room, face William as he waited another day by the phone. She had to keep things upbeat, if not for his sake then for her own.
She missed her best friend.
“ARE YOU SURE THIS is a good idea?” Charlie asked, trying not to sound too desperate. Jazz liked it when he could hurt people, and even though no one was gonna be beat up or anything, it was gonna be ugly.
“Just take the damn tray, would you? Jesus, you’re such a whiny bitch.”
“I haven’t seen Mikey since—”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass. I’m busy.”
Charlie sighed, but only after his back was to Jazz. He was so sick of this boat he wanted to scream. They’d already gotten the ransom money, so why in hell hadn’t they just let him go? Why had Jazz given him that fix so he’d be out of it when they set out to sea?
He picked up the tray and headed to Mike’s cabin. The cups rattled, but he couldn’t help it. Mikey was gonna kill him, and Charlie already felt like crap. He knew there was some crack on board, but would they let him have any? Hell, no. They saw he wasn’t doing so good, so it was just pure mean that made them act so shitty. And after he’d made them rich! The bastards.
“Well?”
Charlie jumped at Jazz’s voice so close. He hadn’t heard the dude walking, let alone opening the cabin door. “Shit.”
“Do not piss me off, Charlie.”
With as much indignation as he could muster, Charlie walked past Jazz into Mikey’s cabin.
His brother stood up so fast he knocked an empty water glass off the bedside ledge. “What the hell?”
“Relax. I’m just bringing you something to eat.”
“Get out of here, Charlie.”
“I will. Just let me put this down.” He went to the vanity, and as he was depositing the tray, the door to the cabin shut. It was Jazz screwing with him, making it easy for Mikey to wail on him. He turned, fast, but Mike was already in his face.
“How many people are on board?” Mike asked, his voice low, threatening.
“How should I know?”
Mikey’s elbow bent and his arm went back. There was no mistaking the intent of his fist. “Count them.”
“All right, all right. Me, Jazz, Martini, the cook, the pilot guy and some kid that cleans up.”
“What are they planning?”
“You think I know? I shouldn’t even be here. They was supposed to let me out when we brought the money. They tricked me!”
“Gee, I feel real bad for you there, Charlie.”
“Look, I told ya—”
“I know exactly what you told me. And what you did. And what you’re g
onna do now.”
Charlie shook his head, trying to inch toward the door. “I gotta go. They catch me talking to you, it’s trouble all around.”
“Don’t you fucking move,” Mikey said, pressing his body closer. “You tell me right this minute how many weapons are on board.”
“I don’t know.”
“Charlie, I swear to God—”
“Mikey, I don’t know. On Ma’s grave, I don’t know. They keep me in the dark.”
“Then find out.”
Charlie was sweatin’ now. He could feel it dripping on his forehead, down his back. “I can’t, Mikey. Don’t ask me, ’cause I can’t. You know I can’t lie worth shit.”
“You managed to lie to me.”
“No, no I didn’t.”
“Find out, Charlie. Every single gun, rifle, harpoon, knife—you hear me? You find out and you get that information to me. If you try to pull something, I swear on Pa’s grave, I will hunt you down and I will hurt you worse than you could ever believe.”
“Yeah? Well, Martini will kill me. He’s already threatened to throw me overboard.”
His brother’s arm went back, and Charlie flinched, but the punch never came. When he opened his eyes, he saw the woman behind Mikey, touching his shoulder. Shit, he hadn’t even seen her when he walked in.
She looked different. Better. Pretty. No wonder Mikey liked his job so much. Must be sweet to get to work with a rich broad who looked like that.
“Get out, Charlie. Get out, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll get me what I want to know.”
“I’ll try. That’s all I can do.”
Mikey spun around and Charlie wasted no time getting the hell out of there. Back in the saloon, Jazz was smiling like he’d been to the circus.
“Have a nice visit?”
Charlie almost told him what for, but he didn’t. “No.”
“What does he want you to do?”
He shouldn’t say. Mikey was his brother, after all. His own blood. On the other hand, Martini had never liked him much. And Jazz? He was a goddamn psycho. “He wanted to know how many people were on board. How many guns.”
