Relative Strangers (8 page)

"I don't suppose you could just shut up."

"Look, I'm a reporter. My name is Meg Grant. Call the newspaper in Fort Myers and ask them."

"You have the number handy, I presume."

"Call Directory Assistance if you don't trust me."

He cast her a sidelong glance, eyebrow arched.
"If I
don't trust you?"

"You know what I mean."

"Take a right at the stop sign," he said.

Downshifting for the turn, she cursed under her breath when the gears ground. "I haven't driven a stick in a while."

"Seems to me you're driving this car with some familiarity."

He'd tested her, and apparently she'd failed. "This was your brother's car?"

"He often let his women use it."

"My father had a Jag. He taught me how to drive it." It had been one of the few times that father and daughter had connected. She had enjoyed driving the expensive car, and he had adored that she appreciated, for once, something his money had bought.

Ryan was impressed with how easily she lied. "What color?"

"Taupe. Well, that's what Mother called it. It looked light brown to me."

"Nice touch." "What?"

"The mother thing. That's a very nice touch," Ryan repeated.

"I'm not lying."

"Sure." He glared straight ahead, wondering how far she

could take the lie before giving herself away. "What year?"

"79."

"Where is it now?"

Meg coasted to a stop. "Which way?"

Ryan glanced at her, saw her swallow. For the first time, he noticed the stress lines etched on either side of her nose. "Straight. What happened to the car?"

"You're testing me," Meg said.

"So what if I am?"

"So maybe I don't like it."

"So maybe you don't have a choice," he said. "You're the one insisting that I've got the wrong woman. I happen to think that I don't. Prove it."

She drew in a slow breath and prayed that her voice wouldn't shake. "It was totaled."

He interpreted the tremor in her voice as fear of being caught in the tall tale. "Daddy's little girl wrecked the precious Jag?"

Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the steering wheel. "No, a drunk driver wrecked the car," she said. "Am I still going straight?"

"I'll tell you when to turn." She looked genuinely distressed, and Ryan marveled at her acting ability. "When?"

"When what?"

"When did the drunk driver wreck the Jag? Make it good, now."

"You son of a bitch."

He leaned closer to her. "Excuse me?"

Meg swerved onto the shoulder and jammed on the brakes. She had her seat belt unbuckled and the car door open before he grabbed her arm.

"Where do you think you're going?"

She yanked away and would have taken a swing at him if there'd been room in the car, or if that had been her goal at the moment. As it was, she just had to get out. Now.

She stumbled, catching herself against the rear end as her knees almost buckled, and threw up in the weeds. She heard the passenger door open and close, then felt his presence at her side. She kept her eyes closed. To her humiliation, her stomach convulsed again.

Exhausted, she pulled off the baseball cap and shoved the hair back from her face as she gulped in air. The sun felt hot on the top of her head, and the humidity made it difficult to take a deep, cleansing breath.

Ryan offered her a white handkerchief with the initials RK embroidered in one corner.

"You're kidding, right?" she said. Afraid she was going to be sick again, she hung her head, grateful for the protective curtain of hair.

Feeling like an idiot, Ryan shoved the handkerchief back into his jeans. She was so white and shaken that he thought she might faint. But he kept his distance, certain she would deck him if he tried to touch her. Besides, he didn't want to. This was just another attempt to win his sympathy, to get her claws into him so she could fool him the way she had Beau. "Okay now?"

She raised her head and might have laughed at his concern, no matter how feigned, if she hadn't felt so sick. "I'm peachy. Thanks for asking."

There was not a breath of color in her face, but he was de-termined not to give an inch. "Get in the car."

Meg considered running, but only dense, swampy land stretched for miles in most directions. Not one car had whizzed by while she had embarrassed herself in the weeds.

He grasped her arm. "In the car. Now."

She tried to jerk away from him, but getting sick had left her weak and trembling. She didn't have the strength to do anything but jam the White Sox cap back on her head and return to her place behind the wheel.

As she steered the car onto the road, Ryan cranked up the air-conditioning. "The air will help you feel better," he said.

He was right. Her pulse calmed, and though perspiration still beaded her upper lip, her stomach settled.

They rode in silence, Ryan tapping the tips of his fingers on one knee. She was convincing. Could even the most consummate actress pretend to be violently ill? Yes, he decided, a very talented one could fake just about anything. Even love.

And those goons had called her by name, he reminded himself. They had looked right into her face and recognized her as Margot. He had the right woman, damn it.

Leaning forward, he reached between his feet and pulled the gun from under the seat. At her sharp intake of breath, he glanced over to see her gaze fixed on the weapon as if she had never seen one before. "Pull over," he said.

She obeyed, then watched him load the gun as if he'd never handled one before. "You don't know what the hell you're doing with that thing, do you?"

Reaching over, he yanked the car keys out of the ignition. "Shut up and get out of the car."

She didn't move as she considered their surroundings. They had not passed another vehicle since she had pulled over to be sick. The secluded area was the perfect place to commit a crime. No witnesses but a couple of large banyan trees, several dozen royal palms and pine trees, and plenty of marshy-looking, weedy land.

"I'm not going to tell you again." He opened his door and stepped out.

Meg thought about defying him. She wasn't stupid, after all, and had no intention of walking right into whatever he had planned. Then he came around to her side of the Jag and gave an impatient wave with the gun. Something dark and dangerous in his face compelled her to get out. The damp air closed around her like a loose, wet cloak.

He gestured for her to precede him onto a trail leading into the dense foliage. She could smell the salt of the Gulf.

"Does this place have an address? I'll need it for the police report," she said over her shoulder.

Ryan remained silent and tried to keep from admiring her body. Her jeans hugged the firm length of her thighs, the tight, rounded shape of her butt. He would have bet money that she was a runner. Then he chastised himself for letting the sight of her backside distract him. He had never been drawn to any of Beau's women, except on a superficial level. He would've had to be dead not to appreciate the blond-haired, blue-eyed goddesses Beau had escorted to the few social events he had grudgingly attended.

Maybe that was what was so disturbing about the woman shoving aside low-hanging branches just ahead of him. She was different. Beautiful, yes. But not in the supermodel, too-thin, that's-not-her-real-hair-color fashion. Her attractiveness was natural, unplanned.

And she was smart. He could see it in how she was studying the situation from every angle at every moment, working it in her head, trying to chart an escape. She hadn't given up, hadn't resigned herself to what was happening. She still believed that she would walk away from this unscathed. She was either a fighter or unwilling to accept that her game was over.

Meg paused where the trail forked. "Which way?" "Left."

They stepped out of the trees onto a beach littered with the pieces of millions of shells that had been pounded into debris by Gulf waves. Only yards from where they stood, those same, gentle waves caressed the shore.

They both stopped the moment their feet touched sand, and Meg's heart began to pound in her ears. "Dayle," she said under her breath.

Ryan curved his fingers around her elbow, not willing to take the chance that she would bolt.

Meg swallowed back the new sickness that bubbled into the back of her throat at the sight of her friend, the Gulf at her back, a gun aimed at her temple. Someone had hit her more than once—both eyes were surrounded by purple, swollen flesh. Blood had caked at one corner of her mouth and under her nose.

Meg flicked her gaze to the man who held the gun to Dayle's head and vowed revenge. She registered the dark po-nytail, square jaw and skin that was leathery brown. Two paces behind him stood another man, also with a gun. He had a military haircut, a scar stretching from one temple to the corner of his mouth, a wide, sunburned forehead, and thick, blond eyebrows. He had mean eyes that squinted against the sun.

"Drop it," Scar said, gesturing at the gun in Ryan's hand.

Ryan cocked the weapon instead.

Meg heard the hammer click as if it were right next to her ear, then realized that it was. He had leveled it at her head in much the same way the thug threatened Dayle. Meg didn't dare breathe, conscious of the dampness of Ryan's hand on her shoulder.

"Who's your new friend, Margot?" Leather asked.

How could he look right at her and not realize she was not Margot? But with a gun aimed at her best friend's head, she wasn't going to deny him what he wanted to know. "Says his name is Ryan Kama."

"Shut up," Ryan hissed near her ear, incredulous that she had given him up so easily. Anonymity had been his best weapon. They'd had no idea what he wanted with their boss. "Where's Nielsen?" he snapped.

Leather smiled. "I'm afraid he had other plans for the morning. If he'd known you were a Kama, he may have been willing to rearrange his calendar."

Too late, damn it.
Ryan's fingers tightened on Meg's shoulder, digging in. "Then I suggest you get him the hell out here
now."

Meg sought Dayle's eyes.
Are you okay?

Dayle nodded, then winced as Leather jammed the gun against her temple. Meg's chest tightened with rage and with fear for her friend. Dayle might not survive another night with these two. She had already been beaten or worse. Meg knew she had to do something. Anything. "Are you boys interested in a trade?"

Ryan stared at her in disbelief. What the hell was she doing? "No trades." He yanked her closer to him as if to show that she was his.

Meg kept her gaze on Leather. "Give her to him, and you can have me."

Nodding, Leather smiled, his tongue snaking over his lower lip, as if "you can have me" meant something really good to him. "Sure, Mags. Excellent."

Ryan felt a moment of panic as control was almost snatched from him. Clamping an arm around Meg's neck, he dragged her back against him. "No deal. Tell Nielsen he blew his chance to get his hands on her. She's mine, and I'm guessing she'll sing to the feds for all she's worth." He pointed the gun at her head. "No fast moves or the con artist here buys it."

Scar and Leather raised their hands in a gesture of submission.

Ryan backed toward the line of trees at the edge of the beach, bracing as Meg's struggles became frantic. "Don't leave her with them!" she cried. "You can't leave her with them! Dayle!"

He kept her in check as he edged backward, his main concern to get the hell away before someone shot him and swiped his only key to finding Beau's killers.

As he half-dragged, half-carried her from the trail into the dense woods, Meg kicked and bucked and tried to throw him off balance, her voice hoarse from calling Dayle's name.

"Shut up," he hissed. "You're going to get us both killed."

But her desperation only increased. Cramming the gun into the waistband of his jeans, he clamped his hand over her mouth, vaguely noticing that she had lost the baseball cap in her struggles.

At the car, he levered her against the passenger side, pinning her even as she continued to fight. "We can't leave her with them," she said. "Did you see what they already did to her? They'll kill her."

"You're nuts if you think I'm going back—"

A gunshot cut him off, and he let her go to whirl toward the sound. He hadn't noticed how noisy the wildlife had been. Now, he listened to the silence, straining his ears for the sounds of men crashing through the woods toward them.

There was nothing. Only dead quiet.

Meg slid to the ground, her back against the car, her face in her hands. "Oh, God. Dayle."

Ryan didn't waste a second. He hauled her up by the arm. "Get in the car."

She was limp, defeated. He grasped her by the arms, shook her. "Listen to me, damn you. You're going to get into the car, and we're going to get the fuck out of here."

Opening the door, he shoved her inside and slammed it shut. He ran to the other side as fast as he could, but it wasn't fast enough. Meg fumbled her door open, tumbled out of the car and dashed back into the woods, her only thought to get to Dayle.