An Act of Love (6 page)

Late Thursday afternoon Linda came tearing into the
apartment at twice her normal speed and handed Randy a small velvet
box. "This is for helping with the apartment," she said. "I don't know
what I would have done without you."

Randy opened up the box. Inside, nestled in navy satin,
was a delicately filigreed gold cross. "It's beautiful, Lin," she said.
"But you didn't have to…"

"I wanted to. Do you like it?"

"I love it." Randy, deeply touched, hooked the chain
around her neck. "Is it an antique?"

Linda nodded. "I found it in a shop in Boston. I spent
most of the day looking." She gave Randy a quick hug and then ran off
to the bathroom, calling over her shoulder, "Roger will be here in less
than an hour. I need to wash my hair. I can't keep him waiting."

Up till now, keeping a date waiting had never troubled
Linda in the least. Randy went off to the bedroom to change, thinking
that her sister must be totally smitten with the man.

When the doorbell rang Linda and Randy were standing in
the kitchen, sharing a glass of wine. Randy waited while Linda answered
the door, but apparently there was no lingering hello kiss, because
Linda came back almost immediately with a smiling, dark-haired man in
tow. He was about average height and a little stocky, but extremely
attractive in a tough, New York City sort of way. Only the lines around
his eyes and mouth revealed his age, which Randy guessed was close to
forty. Unlike Linda's first two husbands, he didn't look like the type
of man anyone could push around.

They shook hands, silently taking each other's measure.
"The likeness is incredible," Roger finally stated, "considering the
four-year age difference." He frowned, looking a bit puzzled. "Are you
sure we haven't run into each other, Randy? Lin mentioned that you're
an actress. Maybe you tried out for one of my films?"

Randy hadn't, but she knew why Roger thought so. "You
probably recognize me from the commercial I did—Sweetheart
Diapers. Except I was twenty pounds heavier then and looked like a
whale."

Linda rolled her eyes. "You looked a
little
plump." Turning to Roger, she added, "Randy's appetite is a family
legend. That
might be
the reason why she's been
on a diet for fourteen years." She held up her hand to forestall the
obvious comment. "Don't even ask why she's so thin now. It's personal."

The comment made Randy uncomfortable, but Roger tactfully
changed the subject to his latest movie and started to usher them out
to the car. They had dinner at a Boston restaurant, and with each
course Randy was more impressed with the man. As Linda had mentioned,
Roger Bennett was divorced, and his two teenaged children lived with
their mother during the summer and stayed with him during the school
year. Randy liked his steady, confident style and the way that he
gently put Linda in her place when she tried to wheedle him into making
a change in his itinerary to suit some sudden whim of hers. He was
perfectly charming to Randy, asking about her acting experience and
telling her that if she ever changed her mind about working for C
& D all she had to do was knock on his door and he'd introduce
her to all the right people. Of whom he was one, of course.

She felt so thoroughly at ease with him that later, over
after-dinner drinks in the living room, she found herself asking him if
he knew Sean Raley.

He was quicker than she'd expected him to be. "I've met
him," he said. "Is he the one who cost you those twenty-odd pounds?"

Randy admitted that he was, and could have hugged Roger
for his tactful, matter-of-fact response. "You aren't the first and you
won't be the last, Randy. Raley has enough charm and sex appeal to have
turned some of the most sensible heads in Hollywood, so don't let it
bother you. I hear he's up for the lead in a new series, by the way.
But no big loss to you—he's too busy loving himself to love
anyone else."

Roger spent the night on the sofabed in the guest room. He
and Linda planned to get an early start the next morning because Roger
had several appointments to keep, but unfortunately for Linda she
overslept. While Randy made Roger breakfast Linda hurriedly dressed and
packed, dumping out her purse to exchange it for a chic imported
handbag, throwing clothing into her suitcase, grabbing her cosmetics
and toiletries and dumping them into a carry-all. When Randy came into
the bedroom and noticed her harried sister surrounded by total chaos
she shook her head in amazement.

"I told you, I can't keep Roger waiting," Linda said
breathlessly. "He'll leave without me."

She finished packing just as Roger poked his head in the
door. Linda gave Randy a quick kiss and then picked up her cases.
"Thanks again, Randy. Call me when you're back in New York." To Randy's
surprise, Roger ignored her outstretched hand in favor of her cheek.
"I've enjoyed meeting you," he said as he kissed her goodbye. "When you
get back to New York I may give your father some competition for your
services."

With Linda gone, Randy showered and then dressed, putting
on shorts and a tee shirt. She was still wearing the gold cross, which
she slipped inside the shirt. She spent the morning straightening up
the house, especially the disaster-hit bedroom. Discarded clothing was
strewn all over and Linda's everyday purse was still on the floor, its
former contents scattered beneath clothing or under the bed. As Randy
picked up the pieces, she noticed that Linda had taken her change purse
but left behind her leather credit card case, which also contained her
driver's license. Randy tossed the case and Linda's brush into the
purse along with an extra pair of sunglasses, two pens, miscellaneous
cosmetics and some loose money, and left it on the bed.

At lunchtime she fixed herself a sandwich and iced tea and
was putting the dishes into the dishwasher when the doorbell rang.
Obviously the dinette set, she thought.

She opened the door to see a tall, solidly-built man with
wavy brown hair and dark brown eyes standing before her. He was dressed
in dark gray slacks and a striped charcoal and white shirt, and carried
a clipboard. He didn't look like a furniture mover to Randy, but she
nonetheless asked politely, "You've come with the table and chairs?"

Something about him made her uncomfortable. Perhaps it was
the fine scar running down his right cheek, or the hard look in his
eyes, but his answer was ordinary enough. "No. I have a telegram for
Mrs. Linda Franck." He held out the clipboard.

Randy knew only that Linda was on her way up the coast of
Massachusetts, but told herself that the sensible thing to do was to
sign for the telegram, open it up and see if it were urgent enough to
bother tracking down her sister. No doubt Roger's office would have
some idea of his whereabouts.

She took the pen the man held out, only half-aware that
he'd entered the apartment and closed the door behind him. She was
absorbed in wondering about the telegram as she scrawled Linda's name
in the space provided and then reached for the envelope the man was
holding. The last thing she remembered thinking was that he looked no
more like a messenger than a furniture mover. A hand came up, held
something over her face, and she collapsed onto the floor.

Randy woke up feeling dry-mouthed and confused. It took
her a few moments to realize that someone had strapped her into a seat
on a small airplane, but then she jerked her head up and looked to her
left at the pilot—the man with the alleged "telegram".
Although she was frightened, she was not so panicked that she didn't
notice how attractive he was. He had a cleft chin, moody brown eyes and
blond streaks in his brown hair. The scar on his cheek didn't detract
from his looks; on the contrary, when taken together with his slightly
irregular nose, it gave his handsome face an intimidating, macho
overtone. Randy wondered how many fights he'd gotten into in his time,
and shuddered.

Any thoughts she might have had about doing something
foolish vanished with her quick inspection of him. Not only did he look
as tough as reinforced concrete, he was big—several inches
over six feet and probably close to two hundred pounds. At the moment
he was smiling a thin-lipped, amused smile at Randy, as if he found her
frightened scrutiny of him highly satisfying.

She remembered collapsing near the front door of the
apartment. Obviously the man thought she was Linda, but it made no
difference. If he'd kidnapped her for ransom one sister was as good as
the other. The smooth operation had all the earmarks of a professional
job, and Randy tried to find something positive about that. If he did
this kind of thing for a living, he wouldn't be stupid enough to risk a
murder charge.

Some small part of her was detached enough to admire her
acting ability when she forced down her fear and said coolly, "How long
is it going to take you to reach my father and get your money?"

He lazed back in his seat. "I'm in no particular hurry,
Mrs. Franck." His gaze dropped to her sandaled feet and traveled up her
body, lingering on her breasts before continuing to her pale face and
tangled hair, where it remained. She'd been wearing shorts and a tee
shirt when she answered the door, but now she was dressed in blue jeans
and a knit blouse. The blouse was Linda's, and clingingly revealing,
especially since Randy hadn't bothered with a bra that morning.

The longer he stared at her the more uncomfortable she
became. She swallowed to moisten her throat, but it really didn't help.
"Please," she said, "may I have some water?"

"Sure. What do I get in return?"

There was no mistaking his meaning. The top three buttons
of Randy's blouse were unbuttoned and she protectively fastened two of
them, her eyes focused on her lap.

"If you want something from me you should try taking the
blouse off, not the other way around," the man drawled. "You're a
little flat-chested for my taste, but even so, I liked it the way I
fixed it. Unbutton it, Linda."

Randy looked out the window at the wooded terrain below.
Her throat was parched, her lips dry. She coughed a few times, only too
aware that the man was not going to give her a drink unless she did
what he wanted. Her hand was trembling as she unbuttoned the two
buttons.

Apparently satisfied, the man took a thermos out of a
leather satchel, opened it up and handed it to her. Randy took a long
drink, unhooking the confining shoulder harness in an effort to get
more comfortable, and then drank again. Her thirst quenched, she
silently held out the thermos to return it to him, but he ignored her
outstretched arm and got out of his seat to stand beside her. When he
reached out a hand to touch her hair she flinched, terrified. Every
vestige of self-control abruptly vanished. She dropped the thermos onto
the floor as she flung herself at him, kicking and clawing. Her
medium-long nails raked the side of his face, leaving three bloody
scratches in their wake.

Up until that point he'd merely defended himself against
Randy's attack, but when he lifted a hand to touch his face and looked
at the blood on his fingers his expression turned icy. Randy reeled
backward from the quick shove he gave her, lost her footing and fell
onto the floor. Cowering away from him, she put her hands over her face
and began to sob softly.

"Okay, just take it easy. If you kill me who's going to
land the plane?" Randy realized that he sounded rattled. "Are you
okay?" he asked.

Unable to answer, Randy took a deep breath, trying to stop
crying. The man took a few steps toward her, causing her to shrink back
and look up at him. "I'll knock you out if I have to," he said. "I'd
rather give you an injection than let you get hysterical."

Injections conjured up only one image in Randy's mind:
heroin addiction. Why else would he have a syringe, or know how to use
it? That was obviously why he needed money. "My father—he can
get you treatment," she said urgently. "I promise—nothing
will happen to you if you let me go."

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, a
handkerchief against his bleeding cheek, a puzzled look on his face.
"What are you talking about?" he asked.

"You're an addict. That's why you need the money. That's
how you know how to inject…"

Whatever reaction she might have anticipated, it certainly
didn't include an indulgently reproving grin. "I wouldn't shoot you up
with dope," he said. "I brought along a tranquilizer. I was in the
Peace Corps for eight months in Africa, as a medical technician."

Randy, now more confused than frightened, thought to
herself,
the Peace Corps
? It didn't make sense.
How did someone who was idealistic enough to serve in the Peace Corps
wind up kidnapping the daughter of a wealthy businessman?

He held out his hand to help her up, but she couldn't
bring herself to let him touch her. "Obviously I frightened you a lot
more than I meant to," he murmured. "I'm sorry about that." He reached
down to grasp her hand and, reassured by his apology, Randy allowed him
to help her up.

He nodded toward her seat. "Go sit down. I'm not going to
hurt you—not unless you try to scratch me again, that is."

Randy did as she was told, wondering if she could believe
him. He didn't seem at all menacing anymore, but someone who went
around kidnapping people was obviously very dangerous.

Water had spilled all over the floor when Randy dropped
the thermos, and now she watched in silence as the man took a soiled
rag out of a box in the back of the plane and began to mop things up.
When he was finished he sat back down in the pilot's seat and then
fished out a foil-wrapped towelette from his satchel. As he dabbed at
his face, wincing at the sting of the alcohol, she felt a stab of
remorse. She had to remind herself that he'd fully deserved the
scratches she'd given him.