Relative Strangers (5 page)

"But he isn't the type we usually go after. I don't imagine his business dealings are as dirty as what we're used to."

"He's told you about his business dealings?"

"Not specifically," she said.

"Am I paying you to imagine, Margot?"

There was a note in his voice that she couldn't identify. Suspicion? Jealousy? Impatience?

Three months after that conversation, Beau Kama proposed marriage. He said that working ninety hours a week was no longer satisfying. He said he realized that there was more to life than his career. He wanted to cut back on work, settle down, start a family. And he wanted to do that with her.

The next day, Margot went to Slater and said she wanted out.

"You're quitting?" he had asked, and she'd nodded. None of the rage she expected showed in his face or eyes, but she knew him too well to be relieved. "What about your responsibilities?" he asked.

"What do you mean?"

"You have a job to do, Margot."

"Slater, you don't understand. I'm going to marry him."

"I heard." His voice was as smooth as steel. "But you have a job to do."

"You're not going to let me quit, is that what you're saying?"

"I don't allow an employee to quit in the middle of a job."

An employee.
That had stung, but she brushed away the hurt, focused only on being with Beau. "What if I finish the job?"

"Fine." His face gave away nothing.

"Fine? That's it?"

"What more do you want, Margot? I'll ask you to stay if you want me to."

"I love him, Slater."

"Maybe you do." The ghost of a smile curved his lips. "Is that all?"

She nodded, her heart thundering in her chest.

"Congratulations, Margot. I hope you and Mr. Kama are happy together."

He had left the room without looking back, and she had watched him go, fear and excitement see-sawing through her. He was letting her go. She couldn't believe it. Perhaps deep down, considering the years she had watched Slater operate, she had known it was too good to be true.

Tumbling back into the present, Margot shuddered and hugged herself harder. Faint nausea churned, and she closed the door, no longer interested in freezing to death. She wasn't ready to face hell just yet.

Rummaging through the cupboards turned up some coffee and bread for toast. The dirty dishes had piled up, and she was down to the last clean coffee cup. In it was the small suede pouch that held eleven marquise-cut emeralds, each about the size of a dime. They were the reason Beau was dead, the prize Slater had sent her to steal nine months ago. Except there were eleven, not twelve, as Slater had told her.

Margot didn't know what to do with the stones. She thought about them every day, feeling their presence in the tiny cabin, eleven shimmering reminders that she'd betrayed the only man she had ever loved. They were unfinished business.

Yet she didn't know how to finish it. She couldn't return them. No doubt, Slater's henchmen were gunning for her, along with the police. Even her altered appearance wasn't enough protection. She needed an ally, someone who could return the emeralds for her.

Someone she could trust.

And only one person came to mind.

Chapter 4

Meg tried to blink the room into focus. She sensed she was alone but couldn't be sure. The floor rolled under her, and she braced herself on sand-caked hands. As wood creaked and water sloshed, she realized she was on a boat. A very close, warm boat, she thought, pushing hair damp with perspiration back from her forehead.

Cursing herself for losing consciousness, she got to her feet. Pain flashed through one shoulder and knee, and she took a moment to rest and look around. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark, revealing the outline of a lamp on the other side of the room. She limped over and switched it on.

She'd thought she might be on a fishing boat, but this was far more impressive. She didn't know much about boats but was certain this classified as a yacht.

The room was small, maybe ten feet square, with a low ceiling and doors with rounded corners at each end. Drawing a calming breath, she fought down the claustrophobia that threatened to grab her by the throat.

Storage cabinets ran low along one wall, a narrow bed against another. A fire extinguisher hung by one of the doors. A lamp, a digital clock, and a cell phone sat on a storage cabinet that met the right side of the bed.

It was nine. Had it been less than two hours since she and Dayle had stepped out to pick up their pizza? Or was it morning? Could a day, or more, have passed?

Dayle.

Her heart pounded with fear for her friend as she remem-bered hearing Dayle's scream. She hoped that if Dayle wasn't talking to the cops at this moment, she was at least nearby, perhaps on the other side of one of these doors.

Footsteps overhead brought her head up, and she looked around for a weapon. As the steps stopped outside the door to her right, she yanked the fire extinguisher out of its bracket and pressed against the wall behind the door.

Hinges squeaked and a broad back appeared. Meg swung the extinguisher with all of her strength and struck his shoulder hard. He grunted, dropping what he was carrying, and whirled toward her.

Meg gaped at him. "You."

Mr. Armani winced and rolled his shoulder to test it. "Ah, shit. That hurt."

He looked different in jeans and a white T-shirt. No longer corporate, but not a hood. He lacked the greasiness of a thug—and the manners. At the moment, he seemed more concerned about his shoulder than punishing her for hitting him.

Meg gauged the distance to the door he had just opened. He stood between it and her. She hefted the extinguisher, prepared to clock him again, and calculated the odds of making a break for it.

He eyed her as she brandished the tank like a fat, red base-ball bat. Long curls of hair had escaped from her ponytail, and sweat plastered them to the sides of her neck. Her arms were tan and taut, her muscles flexing in anticipation of his next move. Even pale with fear, she was a striking woman.

"Put it down," he said, trying to sound unimpressed even though he was acutely aware of the damage that metal canister could do to his head.

"Like hell." She raised her chin a notch, daring him to make a move toward her.

He kicked the door shut behind him and smiled.

A rock of apprehension lodged in her throat, and she resisted the sudden desperate need to retreat. There was only a wall behind her anyway. If he planned to kill or rape her, backing away wouldn't help.

"It'd be in your best interest to drop it," he said, taking a step toward her.

Meg stood firm, but her knees began to tremble. "It'd be in
your
best interest not to come any closer."

He took another step, tensed to fall back if she swung. His shoe bumped something on the floor and they both looked down at the small blue plastic bucket on its side. Several ice cubes were scattered across the floor.

She stared at them in confusion. He'd been carrying a bucket of ice?

He lunged.

She swung the extinguisher up, aiming for his chin.

He jerked back, and the tank whooshed past his face. Catching it on the back swing, he wrenched it away from her.

She dropped against the wall and ducked her head, hands up and eyes closed.
I'm dead.

The makeshift weapon dangling from one hand, Ryan stared at the woman crouched at his feet, her body tensed for a blow. That surprised him. It also made him angry. He had never struck a woman and couldn't imagine a situation in which he would. But this woman didn't know that, didn't know him. And God, when he'd first seen her, laughing with her friend at the airport as if nothing had happened three months ago, hadn't he wanted to hurt her? Hadn't he wanted to make her pay for Beau's death? Because she hadn't. Obviously, it hadn't devastated her the way it had him.

Clenching his jaw, he turned away.

When she heard him move, Meg opened her eyes to see him putting the extinguisher back in its bracket. She broke for the door. Her injured knee slowed her down, but she reached it and fumbled with the handle, swearing when her fingers slipped across the smooth metal.

He was on her in a heartbeat. Whirling her around, he shoved her against the door, curled his fingers into the front of her tank top, and leaned into her. "If you want to play rough, we'll play rough," he growled. "It's up to you."

A good portion of his body was flush against hers, and she felt what could have been the butt of a gun jammed into the waistband of his jeans.
Oh, Jesus, a gun.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"I want you to behave. Don't make me force you."

She tried to stare him down, but his gaze bore into hers without wavering. He leaned on her windpipe, pressing her head back. The bump she had sustained earlier sent a sharp ache through her temples. "I'll behave," she said, as if she had a choice.

He backed off, hoping she didn't notice the tremor in his hands. He was beginning to think he had overestimated his ability to intimidate this woman. The expected tears and pleas, the promises to give him whatever he wanted hadn't materialized.

He held out a hand. "Give me your keys."

She gave him a blank look. "Why?"

He snapped his fingers. "Just give them to me." He'd felt them in her pocket when they were thigh to thigh, and he wasn't going to risk losing an eye if she tried to use them as a weapon.

Pulling out her key ring, she dropped it in his palm. He shoved it into his pocket without breaking their locked gazes. "Sit."

Meg, who didn't think her jelly legs could have supported her much longer anyway, slid down the wall until she sat on the floor. A half-dozen aches protested, but they were nothing compared with the anxiety she felt about Dayle. "What happened to my friend?"

"They took her."

Shit.
"Who are 'they'?"

He smirked as he bent to pick up the spilled ice cubes. "As if you don't know."

"I
don't
know. What do they want? What do
you
want?"

"Please," he said.

"Look, I don't know what the hell's going on here, but you and your buddies have made a huge mistake." As she spoke, she got to her feet. "Where did they take her?"

He straightened, holding the ice bucket in one hand. "Sit down."

"Just answer me. What do you want from me?"

"Sit," he said.

"No, damn it. Answer me."

"You're getting on my nerves." He took a menacing step toward her.

Meg cringed inwardly but refused to back down. "What are you going to do? Hit me again?"

"I didn't hit you the first time, but I'll knock you flat if you push me."

Her gaze dropped down the length of his body, taking in the sinewy muscles beneath his shirt and jeans. He wasn't a muscleman, but he was strong and agile, steely. She didn't doubt for an instant that he could do major damage with one punch, but she also sensed that he had no intention of harming her. He'd had plenty of opportunity to rape her when she was unconscious. And he could have beat her senseless with the fire extinguisher after she slammed him with it—he'd looked angry enough. Yet he had done none of these things—he hadn't even restrained her in any way.

But she sat as he'd ordered, her back against the wall. If she didn't relent, he might decide he could handle her better bound and gagged. And that would diminish her chances of escaping.

His lips were set in a straight line as he plunked the bucket on the bed. Taking a towel from a cabinet along the wall, he made an ice pack and handed it down to her. "For your head."

She hesitated. Now he wanted to treat her injuries? She accepted the towel and weighed its prospects as a weapon. It wouldn't serve as well as the fire extinguisher, but then, that hadn't proved all that effective. She glanced around for something better as he started another ice pack. The cell phone sat on the table next to the bed, a few feet away.

His movements were swift and jerky as his annoyance grew. "I saved your ass, lady," he said. "For that, I think I de-serve better than a fire extinguisher bashed into my back. The only thing that saved me from getting my butt kicked was that the bigger one went after your friend. By the time I got there, the other one was all over you."

He gave the ends of the towel a twist and shoved it at her. His diamond-hard gaze dropped to her lips and then to the left, softening. She was going to have one hell of a bruise along her jaw where Goon Number One had punched her. For a moment, he wished he'd had the presence of mind at the time to beat the guy bloody. But then he wondered why he should give a damn what happened to her. She didn't seem to give a damn what had happened to Beau.

"Put that on your jaw." He turned his back.

Meg scrambled to her knees, seized the phone, fumbled for the power button, and jabbed a finger at nine-one-one.

He faced her. "What are you doing?"