Deception Island

“I’ll take that as a no,” he said, huskily.

“Let me go.”

“Sure. We can’t lie here all night. But know that you can’t overpower me. Run and I’ll catch you, fight and I’ll win. You are coming with me tonight.”

“Why are you doing this?”

He paused. “Money. What else?” His tone was flat with bitterness. “Cooperate, and no harm will come to you. You have no choice but to trust me.”

Trust him? She’d never met a man she could trust and wasn’t about to start with a pirate. He released his grip, though his muscles remained tense. She coasted down his body and sat up. He sprang to his feet, towering over her. Just what was she up against? The balaclava shaded dark eyes. A tight black T-shirt outlined the taut chest she’d landed on. No wonder his stomach was impenetrable—even in the moonlight she could count the ridges of his six-pack. His sleeves cut across biceps that looked sculpted from granite. How the hell would she escape that?

“What happened to your friends?” she said.

“Gone to a better place than the shit hole they came from.”

“I’m sorry.” What a way to die.

“I doubt that.” He grabbed her wrists and yanked them behind her.

“Ow!”

“I do not trust you to cooperate.” He deftly tied a rope around her wrists, tighter than handcuffs and just as unyielding.

“I can see trust is going to be an issue between us.”

The odds were better now, one-on-one, but he was right—if it came down to a battle of force, he’d steamroller her. He was iron strong, icy calm. Military, probably—and proper military, not some amateur militia. Wasn’t capitaine French for captain? A battle of wits might be a more even fight.

He moved swiftly to her feet and bound them, then secured her to a railing, disturbingly practiced at restraining a human being. Could some foreign military be behind this? Was it a declaration of war, a political statement? Instinct told her he was lying about doing it for the money. He moved to the bow, surprisingly catlike for a man of his build. Definitely military.

“You have a satellite phone on the yacht? A laptop? GPS? Weapons?”

“If I had weapons would I be sitting here like this? But, yeah, sat phone, laptop, GPS. Knock yourself out.”

“Where are they? Tell me everything I need to grab so we can take them.”

We? A tense edge had crept into his voice. Should she answer? Her options numbered roughly zero. Besides, when she escaped she’d need the sat phone to make a rescue call. She gave him a rundown.

“What else should I pack for you?”

“Sorry?”

“What else do you want to take? You know I’m kidnapping you, yes?”

“I’d figured.”

“You’ll need some dry clothes. Ah, I’ll grab everything.”

“ChapStick,” she said, automatically. Two men just got eaten by sharks and you’re asking for ChapStick?

He paused. “This is some kind of lipstick?”

“Yeah, because that’s the first thing I’d think about when I’m getting kidnapped.” She jammed her salt-scoured lips together. Shut up. He’d expect her to be hysterical, not snarky. “Forget it. Get clothes, whatever. Why am I giving packing orders to a pirate? Or are you technically a terrorist?”

The inch of brown skin visible beside his eyes crinkled. Was he smiling? This had to be the most surreal night of her life. “Go with pirate.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“You’ll see. There’ll be no escape for either of us until your father pays.”

Either of us?

He checked her bindings, jumped from the bow onto the yacht’s stern and disappeared from her limited view. Agile as well as strong—a formidable opponent. His calmness chilled her as much as his strength. A sharp mind was more dangerous than a muscular body, and he evidently had both.

She shifted. Something pressed into her thigh. The knife.

This wasn’t over.

* * *

Rafe crept over the deck and dropped into the cabin. Feigning imbalance, he smashed his shoulder into the interior webcam, knocking it to the floor and stomping on the debris. Gabriel would be watching the heiress’s webcast. No need to let on that Rafe was taking all the equipment he could prize off the boat, now he was no longer guarded. Let him believe that once Rafe and the woman were stranded on the honeymoon island, they had no way to communicate with the world.

He snatched up a large backpack and tipped out the contents. He had a couple of hours at most before rescuers arrived, and he’d already lost a good half hour securing her.

He shoved in an armful of clothes, with more force than necessary. Two more Lost Boys gone tonight, their blood on his hands as much as Gabriel’s. He exhaled heavily. He’d seen too many of their kind meet death too early. Boys who grew up with no one to give a damn about them and died with no one to mourn them.

But Gabriel had survived, somehow. The aid workers must have lied about him dying in the firefight at Odeskia, to prevent Rafe running back in to find his only friend. Rafe narrowed his eyes. No use blaming them. They’d given him a chance to claw his humanity back after five years as a killing machine. Given the same mercy, Gabriel might also have become a different man.

He pulled a network of cords from the walls and shoved them in the bag. The woman had been more effort than he’d bargained for. Where did a society princess learn to scrap like that? That was dirty street fighting, not some rich girl’s martial arts hobby. And she was far prettier than the photos and videos he’d studied—a raw, strong natural beauty, not some delicate doll.

He scoffed. What had he expected? Only a fool underestimated his quarry. She’d survived three months alone at sea. And even someone as vain as Laura Hyland wouldn’t wear lipstick and stilettos on a solo sailing trip.

But she had said something about some lip thing. He swept a bunch of bottles and tubes into the bag. His heart twisted. The last time he’d packed up a woman’s things was a year after Simone’s death, when he’d finally forced himself to clear her belongings out of their villa on Corsica. The coconut scent of her shampoo still haunted him. Later, he’d found Theo sitting by the garbage bin. The kid had unpacked every bottle and tube and lined them up along the tiled floor, like miniature tombstones.

He zipped up the bag. Thinking about his wife wouldn’t help his son. Phase one was complete. Phase two was to get the heiress to the plane, then to the island. Phase three was a week guarding her—alone, now. Going by tonight’s events, that was likely to be more bruising than he’d anticipated.

The thought of phase four made his hands move faster—return the heiress unharmed and get his son back. Would Gabriel keep his end of the bargain? Rafe’s jaw tightened. He’d better. For all his vices, the Gabriel whom Rafe had known had an unshakeable sense of honor toward the brotherhood of the Lost Boys. Hopefully he still did—and still considered Rafe a part of it.

A clicking noise filtered into the cabin. He tensed. Merde. The RIB’s motor was about to start.

* * *

Come on, you piece of crap. Holly turned the key over. Nothing. Surely it didn’t need the choke—it was still warm. She couldn’t risk flooding the motor.

The capitaine bolted up onto the deck of the yacht, her backpack in hand. With the bowline untethered, the swell pulled the drifting inflatable away. He’d have to swim for it. As long as she got the damn motor started they’d be swapping boats tonight. He crouched, swinging the bag onto his back. Weird. Was he giving up that easily?

She flinched, as a thought struck. The kill switch—she hadn’t checked for one. She fumbled around and found a coiled lanyard at her feet. She must have knocked it out, in the darkness. Her hand trembled as she felt around the console. Calm down. You can do this. There. She clipped the cord onto the switch and flicked it on. The capitaine sprang up and sprinted down the yacht toward her, arms pumping like a bionic man’s. Dang, was he going to jump for it? Her heartbeat quickened. She turned the key. The motor chugged to life. Relief surged through her veins.

She reversed the throttle, just as he leaped from the yacht. Adieu, Capitaine. His large shadow flew toward her. Clonk. His skull smacked into her forehead, hurling her backward. No way. She thumped onto the deck, pain radiating out from her spine and consuming her head. Her vision fuzzed out. What was he—Superman? He had her pinned, again, his face an inch away.

He rolled off her, panting, and touched a palm to his balaclava-clad forehead. Her eyes came back into focus, zeroing in on the knife as it rolled away. She dove for it. As her hand closed, he caught her arm and spun her. In a microsecond, he was astride her, clamping her torso between his thighs. He calmly plucked the weapon from her fingers.

“What did I tell you about running, princess?” He pulled off the balaclava and sucked in a breath. “And fighting?”

Holy crap. The moonlight bounced off sharp cheekbones, tanned skin that plunged into a strong jaw shaded by stubble, and a black buzz cut glistening with sweat. His dark eyes glittered with adrenaline and his huge chest heaved. As pirates went, Johnny Depp had nothing on the capitaine.

She shook her head—the only body part she could move. He’s kidnapping you, you moron. It was far too soon to get Oslo Syndrome, or Stockholm Syndrome, or whatever was the name for loopy people who fell for their captors. She’d evidently gone too long without a good-looking man in her life. Or not long enough.

His gaze strayed to the frayed remains of the rope he’d bound her with. “Merde,” he whispered, his full lips twisting into an impressed smile. That good-looking, and he spoke French?

Focus. How long until he figured out she was an imposter? And then what? Feed her to the sharks? He’d be better off taking the yacht—fat chance the senator would pay to save her neck, with his precious daughter lying low in luxury.

“I see we need to set ground rules, princess.”

“You can get off me, for a start.”

His knees tightened against her waist. “When I say we need to set ground rules, I mean I need to set ground rules. I gather this is how a kidnapping works—the kidnapper gives the instructions, the hostage follows them or suffers the consequences.”

He flicked open the knife and made a show of running his finger along the steel. The skin on the back of her neck crawled. She’d sharpened that blade just hours ago.

“You need me alive.”

“For now, yes.” He rested the blade against her ear, just lightly enough to avoid piercing the skin. “My job is to keep you alive until your father pays, but no one said anything about keeping you in one piece. That is your choice.”

Her mouth flooded with saliva, but she didn’t dare swallow. “Where are you taking me?”

“You’ll know when we’re there.” He ran his free hand around her waist and patted down her pockets. “Get up.”

He removed the blade and loosened the grip of his legs, giving her just enough leeway to wriggle away. He leaped to his feet, like the world’s largest gymnast. “You’re driving, princess.”

She pushed up to standing. She barely reached his bowling ball of a shoulder. Short of praying for a tsunami to tip him out of the boat, her options were limited. Forget coming clean. Then there’d be no reason to keep her in one piece. She had to play this out. Maybe on dry land she’d have more chance. “Aye, aye, Capitaine.”

His jaw tightened. So the title meant something to him? “We head northwest.”

To the next island? Could she escape and find a village, maybe track down an NGO? She needed to find a chink in this pirate’s well-muscled armor, and quickly.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Holly counted two dark figures waiting on a beach ahead of the inflatable. Dense beech forest soared into a charcoal sky pinpricked with stars. No lights, buildings or vehicles, but plenty of cover. Could she grab the backpack and run, get out a message via the sat phone before they caught up?

One of the figures waded knee-deep into the water. One yank of the wheel and she could take him out.

“Keep it straight, princess.”

The capitaine slid up beside her, his voice a warning rumble, his right hand coasting down her arm to enclose her hand as she steered. Her fingers twitched, his grip tightened. She willed her breath to settle—he wouldn’t always be watching her, guessing her next move. There would be a chance for escape.

“Put it in neutral and leave it running,” he said. “The sand drops off steeply.”

They eased into shore. The man held the bow while the capitaine hauled Holly’s backpack over his shoulder. Her forehead throbbed where he’d smacked into it. He stepped into the water and held out a hand. She ignored it and jumped, splashing into warm water up to her knees, her feet sinking into fine, sloping sand.

The capitaine spoke in clipped, urgent raps. Holly picked up a word: Michael. A couple of the prison inmates had spoken a language like that. Where had they been from? Ukraine?

She fought to keep upright without the rocking of the boat underfoot. She took a step, her sea legs heavy and graceless, as if gravity had doubled its force and was coming in sideways. No way would she be able to run. Her heart thunked. There went plan A. Three months ago she’d been seasick from the ocean’s incessant movement after so many years run aground in prison, now her body was freaked out by the absence of it. Great.

The capitaine pushed the inflatable off the sand as the man jumped in and shoved it into Reverse. One down. As the engine faded, the air filled with the screech of a zillion insects and God knew what else. Would she be kept here? Surely not. The island was only a few miles from her mooring—a long stretch of land, but narrow, as far as she could remember from the GPS. Rescuers wouldn’t have to look far. The tension under her ribs unwound a notch. Maybe this wasn’t such a professional operation, despite the capitaine’s commanding presence.

His hand closed around her upper arm, urging her forward. She shook him off, but the sand rose and fell under her like a tide, and she stumbled sideways. He caught her waist, swept his other arm under her legs and lifted her as if she were a child.

“Put me down.”

“It’ll be quicker this way—and I can keep an eye on you.”

The world swayed. She gripped his shoulder, beating down a surge of nausea. What choice did she have? The disorientation hadn’t been this bad after even the longest sailing trips she’d done as a teenager. But after six years of walking on concrete and baked dirt in a Californian prison, maybe her mind wasn’t as quick to adjust. And this was the first time she’d set foot on land since she’d been dropped onto the boat off the coast of San Francisco.

When the heiress had taken the helm to sail into Samoa, then Cairns, Darwin and Bali, Holly had been secretly stashed in Laura’s stateroom in one of the senator’s superyachts, surviving on military ration packs and banned from showing her face. There she’d waited for long days while the heiress flounced off on her one-woman environmental crusades—endangered Sumatran orangutans, rising sea levels, dying coral reefs... How long until Holly got her land legs back? Hours? Days?

The capitaine adjusted his grip and pulled her into him, one hand pressing into her thigh, the other firm around her waist. His warm, earthy scent coasted around her, like rain pounding dusty ground.

At least she was doing a good job of appearing to be a helpless society-page diva, however unintentional. She might as well save her strength, while sapping the capitaine’s. Even in darkness, the air was too hot and damp for sweat to evaporate.

A short, wiry man waited on the dry sand above the waterline, his head wrapped in a red bandanna. She might be able to take him down on a good day, even if she had no hope against the Spartan. But today wasn’t a good day. And he carried an assault rifle that was almost half his size. The capitaine spoke to him in the same language as before. The man dropped his beady black gaze to her wet T-shirt, smirking, and muttered something. The capitaine snapped out a sharp answer, tilting her slightly to turn her chest into his. Protecting her honor, or staking his claim? Either way, it worked—the man lifted his gaze and sneered at her captor instead.

They plunged down a sandy path winding through rain forest, the capitaine’s stride long and sure as he followed the man’s bobbing flashlight. Insects screamed like the world’s biggest electric drill, in surround sound. After half a mile the guy’s breath hadn’t even wavered with the effort of carrying her. Lines etched between his eyes hinted at inner tension, but outwardly he was as fit as he looked. She’d kept up her fitness in prison with endless, pointless jogging around the yard, but sailing had required a different strength. It had left her with toned arms and legs, but she hadn’t stretched them into a sustained sprint for years. Running from him—even when she got her land legs back—was looking like less of an option. She’d find another way to get quality time alone with the sat phone. Even Superman slept, occasionally.

Or did he?

The thick canopy gave way to a long narrow clearing. Moonlight reflected off a small plane. In the shadows, a dark figure waited. She pressed her lips together, tasting salt. How far could they fly in that—to Sumatra, Timor, Borneo, Australia? Right up to Singapore or Malaysia? Tens of thousands of islands, a gazillion square miles of jungle—even if a search was launched, rescuers had no chance of tracking them. Damn.

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