Heather Graham (18 page)

Or should she hide? Simply hide and ride it out and try to get the slip that proved that he had been involved with every date and time.

He was on the last step when she slipped back into the cabin, quietly closing the door behind her. The paper was on the floor where it had fallen. Brittany grasped it and slipped it into the pocket of her denim skirt and then held still, listening, the frying pan gripped so tightly in her fingers that they ached with the pressure.

She gasped softly because she realized that he was coming down the hallway. The cabin was so small …

She opened the wardrobe and realized that she would never fit within it. There was a door at the rear of the cabin, she dashed for it and discovered that it was the head. Small—but large enough to shelter her.

She closed that door just as she heard the outer one opening.

Her breathing seemed ridiculously harsh and loud; she could have even sworn that her heartbeat was thunder, that it could be heard above the hum of the motor.

She waited, waited and waited, so tense.

And then finally, she heard the outer door open and close. She leaned against the head door, feeling ill, wondering desperately just what she should do. If she attempted to stop him, she would probably fail. She would find herself in danger—and what proof she had against him would be wrested from her.

But could she do nothing? Could she let him take to the seas and ravage some innocent ship?

El Drago didn’t hurt people; he didn’t kill them. He only stole from them. Rosa had even said that he was a gentleman. But of course, Rosa was in on it with him. She had helped El Drago clean out Ian’s boat.

The head was stifling. So hot and close that she couldn’t breathe. She had to come out. Perhaps she could reason more easily with more air.

Brittany twisted the knob as silently as she could and started out, then froze.

He was waiting for her. Casually leaned against the desk, arms crossed. Eyes shimmering a cool silver and cutting into her.

Instinct and blind panic prevailed. He started toward her and she swung out with her frying pan.

He was too quick; he caught her wrist and though she struggled, his grip upon her wrist was so tight that she cried out at last, releasing her weapon.

“Brittany—”

“Get your hands off me!” she shrieked. “Let me go. Oh, my God, I hate you, I can’t believe—”

“Brittany! It isn’t what you think!”

She could feel him. Feel him hot and towering over her. The muscles in his chest, in his arms, hard and steeled and powerful against her. She felt his subtle scent surround and invade her and she feared that she would pass out.

She had loved him—loved him desperately. Touched him and explored and learned by her hands. She knew the physique that held her prisoner now so achingly well …

“Oh, God!”

She struggled in panic and fury against him and he grimly tried to subdue her and talk at the same time.

“Brittany, I’m telling you that you don’t—”

“You’re El Drago! Don’t deny it!”

“Yes, I am, but—”

“You bastard! All this time! You were going to help me! I had to watch out for Ian, I had to watch out for Joshua, I was supposed to trust you, I was—oh, God!”

“Brittany, I didn’t—”

“You’re El Drago, and you’re an embezzler—and a murderer!”

“Damn it—”

“I have the proof!”

She wrenched against him with such a great fury that she took him by surprise and freed herself, then wished fervently that she hadn’t spoken. She had never seen him look more grim, more hostile.

More cold or ruthless.

He backed away from her slightly. She thought of bolting for the door, but knew that he would stop her. And if he didn’t, his accomplice would be above on deck …

They couldn’t be that far from shore yet. If she could escape, she could swim to freedom.

“Where’s the proof?” he asked her softly.

She shook her head.

He smiled, but she didn’t like the cast of that smile. It was bitter and mocking. He didn’t come toward her. He just stared at her. “You told me that you loved me.”

“I was a fool, wasn’t I? I played into your hands so easily!”

“Love means trust, Brittany.”

She started to laugh. “You are El Drago! You just told me so!”

“It isn’t what it seems. Now, what proof are you talking about?”

It was now or never. She bolted for the door and threw it open and raced down the hallway. He followed, right on her heels. She made it up the steps just ahead of him.

The man turned from the wheel. It was Juan. Brittany stared at him; he stared at her with stunned surprise.

Thankfully, he was so surprised that she was able to race past him to the starboard rail, leap upon it, pose—and dive.

The sea was dark; pitch dark. As black as ink as she submerged deep, stroked desperately, and swam as far as her lungs would carry her, beneath the surface.

Her skirt was dragging her down. The weight of the denim was too much for a midnight swim. Brittany reached into the pocket for the all-important paper and prayed that it would survive the water. She slipped it beneath her bra strap and kicked away the denim.

And even then, she felt his arms. He’d found her.

It was a deadly game, a game they’d played once before. She could escape him. She could escape almost any hold in the water. But he could catch her. Again and again. Every time.

His grip came around her; she jackknifed downward and eluded him. But when she surfaced, gasping for air, he was there, just feet from her, treading water.

“Brittany! I did not swindle your aunt! I am El Drago, but you don’t understand. I’m not really a pirate—”

“Oh, no. That’s right. You’re Robin Hood. You really work for the Spanish police, right? Or is it the British?”

Sarcasm laced her voice and she wondered if she wasn’t crazy. If he did catch her now …

He was curiously silent, watching her. She pitched herself downward again, deep, and began to swim, desperate.

And then he caught her in a hold that she could not escape. His fingers wound tight into her hair. So tight that she tried to scream and gulped in water instead. He brought her to the surface. He used his hold upon her hair to drag her back to the ship. She was still coughing and panting and exhausted when Juan reached overboard, dragging her up while Flynn caught hold and crawled over the rail.

Juan didn’t pay the least bit of attention to her, except to cast her a sorry gaze. His anxious attention was entirely for Flynn.

“She’s right off the starboard bow. We’ve got to cut the lights.”

Flynn nodded, running his fingers quickly through his soaked hair, then reaching for the deck to grab Brittany’s hand.

“I’ll just see to our guest,” he said dryly.

He tried to pull her to her feet; when she kicked and flailed and clawed at him and with an oath of vast impatience, he simply reached down for her and threw her over his shoulder, balancing easily, even with her protesting weight, as he moved down the stairs.

He pushed her into the cabin. She backed away, aware that she was drenched and ill clad in her shirt and stockings and panties. He arched a brow while he cast his eyes over her with some amusement and then she screamed as he unbuckled his belt and whipped it away from his waistline.

Her scream didn’t divert him in the least. He stepped toward her and she put up a hand to ward him off, he caught it and slipped the belt around it, securing her other hand to tie with the first, and then looped the end around the post to the bunk. Shivering, miserable, Brittany tried hard to stare at him with dignity and loathing. He wouldn’t really hurt her. He wouldn’t hurt her, but she was afraid …

“You bastard. Rat bastard,” she spat out at him.

“I’m sorry that you see it that way,” he said softly. He touched her cheek and she tried to wrench away from him.

“Brittany,” he murmured softly. “I just don’t have time now. But I will take that proof.”

A little gasp escaped her. He reached into her bra and fumbled for the paper. Her flesh burned as she felt his touch. A touch that despite everything had become so a part of her that she shivered, hated herself, shivered again …

He smiled and saluted her.

“I’ll be back, Brittany,” he promised. “I really am sorry for the inconvenience, but you don’t want to listen, you don’t want to believe me.”

“Go to the devil, El Drago,” she snapped.

He watched her for a moment. She didn’t know what was in his eyes. Pain, disappointment? Something wistful, even …

But then he laughed at the horror in her expression and the sound was harsh.

“I will be back,” he promised her.

After tying a handkerchief over her mouth, he turned silently. And left her.

I
T WAS IMPOSSIBLE FOR
anyone to create such a binding knot with a leather belt; the more Brittany worked at it, the more she struggled, the more tightly she found herself held.

She worked feverishly, twisting her wrists, utilizing her teeth, and all to no avail. She thought she finally had a good bite upon a piece that would give when she was suddenly jolted hard against the bunk.

She paused, aware of a harsh, grinding sound. She realized that they had come alongside another boat.

At first she heard nothing. Then she heard shouts, an argument—and a woman’s tears.

El Drago had struck again, Brittany thought bitterly.

But the boat was still. She got a good hold upon the belt again with her eyeteeth. Tears came to her eyes and the leather threatened to gag her but she kept at it anyway. It seemed to be slipping at last. If she could wedge the loop free …

She halted, frozen, the loop in her mouth. Someone was coming to the powerboat. She heard first a heavy thud of footsteps, then she heard a woman’s shrill voice.

“I’ll never forgive you, Flynn. Never! As long as I live. I’ll find you. I’ll—”

“Stop it, Elly. Just stop it.”

It was Flynn’s voice that time. Tired, resigned. Elly burst into tears. Brittany groaned as a swift knifing of agony seemed to shear through her. Flynn was comforting Elly, pulling her to his chest to muffle her sobs, probably smoothing back her soft blond hair …

Elly, Elly! she thought. In love with Ian who would never really love her in return, so accustomed to Flynn’s autocracy that when she recognizes him for the pirate that he is, he can still soothe and subdue her …

“Come on,” Flynn said softly.

Brittany heard their footsteps again. Flynn walked her by the door to the first cabin.

She heard a second door shut, then more footsteps. Footsteps that paused at her door, then moved on toward the ladder again.

Brittany closed her eyes and swallowed. He was holding Elly prisoner, too. If she could just slip the knot, she could free them both …

She started at it again with the determination of a beaver. Time seemed to tick away relentlessly, but she had heard nothing more than a continuation of Elly’s soft sobbing when she finally slipped the loop, wrenched and wriggled, and freed her hands. Then she undid the handkerchief about her mouth.

She gasped with relief and rubbed her wrists quickly, then hurried to the door. She opened it, and looked carefully in both directions, then hurried down the hall. The sobbing was coming from the second door. Brittany expected to find it locked; it was not. Poor Elly … Flynn didn’t even think of her as a danger. Just shut her up and get her out of the way.

“Elly!”

Brittany threw open the door. Elly was just sitting on the bunk. Her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed but she gulped and stopped crying and stared at Brittany wide-eyed when she heard her name called.

“Brittany!”

“Shh, Elly! He’ll know that I’m loose.”

Elly kept staring, then she started laughing a little ridiculously.

“You look like a wet burlesque dancer,” Elly told her.

“What difference does it make what I look like?” Brittany demanded impatiently. “We’ve got to stop him!”

“Wh-at?” Elly said, slowly, carefully.

“Who were you with? Ian?”

With a little jerk, Elly nodded.

“Flynn is still on the boat with him?”

Again, Elly nodded. Brittany bit uncertainly into her lower lip. “We’ve got to stop him.”

Elly suddenly flew to her feet, her eyes bright with elation. She threw her arms around Brittany. “Oh, yes! Come on, I know exactly what to do!”

“Wait, Elly, wait! He could be dangerous. I don’t know if he’s armed or not, he must have something to be able to get away with this all the time. We have to—”

“He’s got Ian handcuffed,” Elly said with a sniff. “He’s just going through the boat now. He won’t expect us, and I know where Ian’s gun is!”

Elly started out but Brittany grabbed her arm. “Elly, wait. What about Juan?”

“He’s tearing apart all of Ian’s crates, too. Come on, Brittany! We’ll stop him!”

Elly hurried down the hallway and Brittany followed her, still shushing her and warning her to be cautious. But Elly was right; there was no one topside on Flynn’s indigo pirate ship, nor was anyone above the deck on Ian’s sailing yacht beside it. The grappling hooks were all in place and they were easily able to hop from deck to deck. Elly was dressed for it in Topsiders and jeans. Brittany’s stockinged feet were less appropriate and Elly paused again to giggle at how ridiculous she looked which irritated Brittany no end. Was Elly too immature to realize the precariousness of their positions? Or even what all this meant? All she seemed to know was that Flynn was abusing her beloved Ian.

“This way!” Elly told Brittany—and this time she was the one to draw a finger to her lips for silence.

It was a dark night. Not even the stars were out. But the lights inside the yacht were ablaze when Elly led Brittany down a short flight of elegantly carpeted steps to the below deck. Here they didn’t enter a half-stocked galley, but an elegant salon with a warm wood card table and luxurious settees soldered hard to the teak paneling.

Elly tiptoed to the card table and pulled out one of the side drawers that should have contained poker chips. It held a small silver pistol instead.