Eaton worked at his desk, ignoring her. Like the other times she’d been in here, she couldn’t decide whether to be offended or relieved that he didn’t see her as a threat.
Straightening, she came around to view the canvas from several paces away. Glancing between the photo and the canvas, she looked for a way to leave a clue that she’d painted this one under duress.
The only option that would possibly escape Eaton’s notice was the foliage that wouldn’t be found in Hawaii. She could leave in that live oak branch under the tropical canopy. And it really wouldn’t matter unless Eaton sold the painting.
She studied the picture, creased and worn at the edges from being in his wallet.
Despite his blustering, he’d never sell this painting of his daughter.
She returned to the canvas and picked up her brush, determined to bring the girl’s eyes to life before either the cuffs or reality paralyzed her. She’d stepped back again, almost satisfied when an outburst erupted from the other end of the building. The screech and scrape of metal dragging against metal hurt her ears.
Eaton was on his feet and out of the room in an instant. Was he having Mark tortured in the cage today?
Her eyes darted to Eaton’s abandoned desk and then to the camera at the opposite corner from her easel. If Eaton was broadcasting the camera feed, someone was likely monitoring it.
Did she dare try to send out an SOS? After everything Mark had endured, she had to take the chance.
Another shout sounded from the direction of the cage room and she set aside her paint and brushes and scurried to the desk. She had no idea what she was looking for, only that she needed to find something helpful. He’d always kept the bulletin board behind his desk covered when she’d been in here. She pushed aside the rolling chalkboard and stepped back, aghast.
He had pictures of the Riley family organized almost like a police investigator, with facts and links and comments about each of the five siblings and Hank too.
Although it sure looked as if he’d hoped to kill Matt and Grace Ann, he’d clearly moved on when they survived, focused now on Mark. Beneath Mark’s official navy headshot was a long list of potential attacks.
Disconcerting—fine, terrifying—but nothing she could use right now.
She reached for the bulletin board, intending to hold it up for a camera. It was secured to the metal wall. On an oath, she carefully untacked the plans for Mark and held them up to the camera, praying only Eaton monitored the broadcast. Since he was gone, she might stand a chance of this information getting through to the proper authorities.
Once the bulletin board was restored to its previous condition, she turned to the computer.
There had to be a way to send out a distress call of some sort.
Eaton, despite the bare bones set up, hadn’t slacked on security for his laptop. She quickly discovered the device was password-protected and she had no idea what the code might be. She couldn’t even see what he’d been working on before the noises drew him away.
Outside the door, voices were raised in anger. She could hear Quick-Punch Kid—the name Mark had given to one of the men—Eaton and Mark himself. If he was vocal, he couldn’t be hurt too badly. It wasn’t much comfort. She used the precious opening to search each of the drawers in Eaton’s desk.
The voices swelled and she turned, caught in the harsh, cold gaze of Muscle. “What are you doing?” he asked.
His tone was too reasonable as he closed the door behind him. Locked it.
A fear bigger than anything she’d experienced so far gripped her joints as he advanced on her. She couldn’t even stand up. So much for being an asset to Mark’s escape plans. She was about to die.
A tear rolled down her cheek. She’d wrecked everything, doomed them both, since Mark was too honorable to leave her behind. Oh, she’d blown it.
“Stand up,” Muscle ordered.
She managed it, barely.
“How did you get out of the cuffs?”
“Eaton took them off so I…” Survival instinct kicking in, she edged around the far end of the desk. “So I could paint without them.” His eyes tracked her like a predator. She froze. The desk wasn’t enough of a barrier and they both knew it.
“You’re not painting.”
“No.” Her chin came up. Cowering only gave him more power. And pleasure. She could see the malicious intent in his gaze. “I needed more paint color. Your boss keeps the supplies there.”
He shoved the desk aside and lunged for her and she darted for the area where she’d been painting. Maybe he’d think twice about damaging the canvas Eaton had commissioned.
He was quicker than he looked and she found herself knocked face-first to the stained floor. She struggled to breathe and he easily flipped her to her back, pinning her under his massive body. The eager, sinister gleam in his eyes was enough to vaporize her moment of bravado. He flexed his pelvis and his evident erection made her stomach cramp.
This couldn’t be happening. Could. Not. Recalling her self-defense classes, she aimed her forehead at his nose, missing when he moved out of reach. “You’ve got spirit.” He chuckled. “I like that.”
She resisted with every fiber of her being as he pushed her arms overhead. He clasped both her wrists in one unbreakable grip. The pose thrust her breasts higher. Wanting to squirm, she held as still as possible, unwilling to give him an ounce of satisfaction.
“You’re hurting my hands.”
“Don’t care about your hands,” Muscle said.
“You should.” Eaton’s voice carried a clear threat.
Relief coursed through her. Salvation shouldn’t wear Eaton’s face, but she’d take it. The moment Muscle released her, Charlotte scurried out of his reach, back to the easel.
The respite didn’t last. “What did she do?”
Muscle pulled himself to his full height. “Found her snooping around your desk.”
“I was looking for more paint. To capture your daughter’s eye color,” she spit out, glaring at Muscle. “I told him that.” She knew he could contradict her, but she relished planting doubt about him in Eaton’s mind.
Eaton’s dark eyes shifted to her. “I take it you were planning to punish her?”
Muscle stood tall, lips compressed, apparently smart enough not to answer that question.
“Go be useful and guard the dock,” Eaton ordered.
Muscle’s chin dipped once in the affirmative and he hustled out of the office, a little cowed in Charlotte’s view.
As Eaton made way for the bigger man, Charlotte saw Quick-Punch Kid holding Mark, his handsome face a fixed blank mask.
“I’ll kill you,” Mark vowed, as Muscle walked by him.
“You’re nothing but a little fish without your team.” Muscle made a barking seal sound and then he was gone.
A chill slid down her back as Mark’s gaze collided with hers.
Eaton walked over and slapped the cuffs on to her wrists. “Finish.”
He turned on his heel, escorting Mark away with the other guard’s help, and she feared she’d ruined everything.
* * *
Mark’s fury wouldn’t subside. Charlotte’s face had been so pale, her blue eyes huge with fear, her hair a tangle from the scuffle. He prowled his cage, mentally tearing Muscle limb from limb. He could practically hear the man’s dying breath.
Charlotte must hate him by now. He was the only reason she’d been swept into this mess. His failure to outmaneuver the guards had given Muscle the opening to take advantage of her.
She’d been attacked, nearly raped, and he’d done nothing about it. All because Muscle was right—Mark couldn’t get out of here without his team.
Patricia would get no argument from him now. He was as wrong for Charlotte as a man could be.
He couldn’t get the scene out of his head. She’d
been on the floor, utterly helpless beneath a man oozing violent intentions. He wouldn’t ask forgiveness, but he’d feel marginally better once she told him she was okay, assuming she would even speak to him.
Mark dropped to the floor and started doing push-ups to burn off the sense of failure.
She would. Charlotte had a temper, but she didn’t harbor grudges. Growing up, she’d always been willing to overlook his less-than-stellar moments. Hopefully that tendency would apply to this most recent error that ended with her pinned under a nasty excuse for a man.
She must have talked her way out of the handcuffs and used the opportunity to search Eaton’s desk. She deserved a medal for that alone. Mark couldn’t wait to learn if she’d found anything, unless Eaton kept them apart tonight.
He’d been so close to breaking out, taking advantage of just the smaller guard, when Eaton had stormed in to help Quick-Punch Kid subdue him.
Mark heard the bolt slide back on the door and popped to his feet. Please let this be Charlotte. He waited at the front of his cage, eager for a good look at her, a chance to see her accept his apology.
Unfortunately, Quick-Punch Kid walked into the cage room alone. That was a shock since the last time Mark had nearly overpowered him. “I can’t decide if you’ve got an abundance of guts or a lack of brains,” Mark observed.
Quick-Punch Kid didn’t say a word. Eaton must have given him a lecture about being baited by the hostage.
“Tough getting a beatdown from the boss,” Mark said with sympathy. “Does he issue demerits? What hoops do you have to jump through before he trusts you with a gun again?”
A bottle of water and a plate of real food, spaghetti with red sauce and a big meatball, were shoved at him. Mark did his best not to fall on the bounty like a starving dog. Quick-Punch Kid would like that too much. Then he noticed the lack of utensils.
Points to Eaton for always finding a way to disappoint.
“Carb loading? Is the annual Criminal Island marathon tomorrow?”
“Something like that,” Quick-Punch Kid muttered. “Eat while you can, tough guy.”
Mark took a small bite of the meatball, half-worried the food was drugged. “Did someone take food to Charlotte?”
Quick-Punch Kid refused to answer.
Feeling no immediate ill effects, Mark sloppily scooped up some noodles with his fingers. “Where’s your pal?”
Quick-Punch Kid deliberately looked at the door.
Mark didn’t much care about the mess he was making. Red sauce wouldn’t be much different than the blood stains on his pants. His more immediate concern was whether or not he needed to save any of this for Charlotte.
“How’d you get roped into this gig?” he asked conversationally.
Quick-Punch Kid shook his head. “Just eat, man.”
“You were more than happy to take shots at me yesterday and the days before, verbal and otherwise. What changed? You look like someone gave you an ice-cream cone and then knocked it out of your hand.”
“Shut up, Riley, or I’m taking that food.”
“Come in here and try it,” Mark challenged.
On an exasperated sigh, Quick-Punch Kid walked out of the room. Mark slid the plate of food aside and though he would have drained the water, saved half of it as well, just in case.
The change in routine made him nervous. When Eaton was busy wearing him down, he couldn’t pester Charlotte. Today though he’d taken her to the office, left Mark alone and ordered Quick-Punch Kid to remove the plywood divider from between their cages. They’d be able to see each other now, if Eaton would just let her come back.
Mark had been worried all day that Eaton would knock her around and dump her in the cell, forcing Mark to witness the damage he’d inflicted. A form of torture that would be a thousand times worse than taking a beating. He stood up to pace, remembering too late he was too tall for the cage. Aggravated, he sat down and looped his hands over his drawn-up knees.
There was a solution here, a way out—he just had to find it before it was too late.
He’d work on Quick-Punch Kid for a start—try to wear him down. He was a weak link, and maybe Mark could get him to see he was better off on the Riley side of the equation. If even the smallest doubt led to the man hesitating before striking a blow or pulling a trigger, it was worth the effort.
He’d given Charlotte some fast and dirty advice on surviving in the wild when what she’d really needed was a crash course in self-defense. Although very few moves, unpracticed, would’ve been effective against a man the size of Muscle.
He had to get them out of here. He rolled to his back and kicked the corrugated wall. They were probably on a barrier island based on what Charlotte had seen. He didn’t hear voices or much activity once the men left this modified container. So they either returned to the boat or had a camp elsewhere. A camp made more sense. He hadn’t once heard sounds of any boat or plane bringing in supplies and Charlotte had implied the walk from the dock was lengthy.
Which meant a big enough island that escape was worth the risk.
Cameras or not, he used his hands and feet, working to bend or unravel the links of the fencing, until—finally—he heard the lock open. Eaton nudged Charlotte into the room ahead of him. She looked weary and desperately unhappy and she kept her gaze on the floor as Eaton marched her along to her cage.
Obediently, she stepped inside when their captor opened the door. He set a plastic carryout bag on the floor just inside the door and then closed and locked the cage.
She turned his way and did a double take when she saw him rather than the plywood barrier. The new visibility didn’t seem to please her.
“Charlotte?”
She shook her head and sat down, her back to him, as she poked at the food in the bag.
“You should eat,” he said.
Her shoulders rose and fell. “Maybe later.”
“I saved some of mine for you, just in case.” He scooted closer, but she didn’t turn around. “We can eat together.”
He wanted to hold her and tell her it would be okay. She looked absolutely opposed to that sort of gesture, even if the fence hadn’t been in the way. His heart raced as he considered the reasons for her silence. Had they hurt her?
She’d never been so cool and distant with him. For as long as he could remember, she’d greeted him with warm, occasionally shy smiles. The girl had always been different enough to make him curious and open enough to let him talk. He was at a loss for how to help now that she shut him out.
Asking if she was okay seemed like a woefully inadequate and superfluous start. Clearly she wasn’t okay at all. In his mind, all he could see was her on the floor, upset and panicking with Muscle sprawled over her.
“Charlotte, I’m getting us out of here tonight,” he promised.
She paused in the act of taking foil off a steaming plate of spaghetti. Just when he thought she’d turn and talk with him, she went back to her food.
Eaton had given her utensils. He withheld comment and finished his food instead. As he drained the last of his water bottle, he took a good hard look at the fencing again.
Usually, when up against this kind of barrier, the team had bolt cutters. Once one link was clipped, it was easy to unravel. Nothing he could get his hands on in here was strong enough to unwind or cut through a link.
“What happened earlier?” She set aside her food and glanced at him over her shoulder. “Why was Eaton bringing you to the office?”
What lies had Eaton fed her? “I picked a fight with Quick-Punch Kid and almost got his gun.”
“You did?”
She sounded impressed. “You don’t have to sound so shocked,” he teased. “I’ve been telling you I have skills.”
“I’ve heard you,” she said, sounding thoroughly defeated now.
Why wouldn’t she look at him?
“Charlotte, I was going crazy in here. He’s never kept you that long. I heard the first scream and that was it. I almost got out. The idea of you suffering because—”
“I never screamed.” She rubbed at her wrists. “Eaton didn’t hurt me or touch me like that.”
A red haze fell over his vision. “How did he touch you?”
“To remove the cuffs, that’s all.”
She faced him, inched closer. He wanted to hold hands as they’d done on nights prior, but she stayed out of his reach. “Who screamed? I never heard anything like that.”
“I suppose that was my test today. He must have piped in a soundtrack that I assumed was you being tortured. I’m not sure if it backfired on him or me.”
He’d call it a win for getting under the guard’s skin, but he hadn’t made any progress on getting them out of here. “Charlotte, whatever happened, you can tell me about it.”
“What you saw wasn’t my best moment,” she said, massaging the palms of her hands. “I’m not very good at snooping. Can we leave it at that?”
“Over here,” he said, motioning for her to come back to the wall where her hand would fit through the gap in the fencing.
Her hand was so small in his and he was mindful of the pressure he applied to the tight spots along her fingers and particularly at the base of her thumb. She felt fragile. Precious. Muscle could have crushed her. “Did you sprain a wrist?” he asked, keeping his voice neutral.
“No. It’s just the hours with a brush in hand and no real break.”
“I know you were eager to sketch, but being forced to paint can’t be the same thing.”
“Yes and no. Creating is creating.” She flinched.
He bent his head and brushed his lips to the tender spot. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she said on a sigh. “It feels great.”
The compliment, delivered in her languid, almost mesmerized tone did things to his body that were a challenge to ignore. Instantly aroused, he barely managed to resist the urge to press a kiss to her palm and slide his tongue across her flesh to taste her. If—when—they got out of here, he could ask if she was interested in him that way. If she was willing to take on something that would have to be temporary. He hoped like hell she said yes, so he could discover other methods of drawing out that seductive sound.
Harlequin Romantic Suspense December 2020 Box Set Page 83
