Relative Strangers (9 page)

Ryan crashed into her from behind, taking her down in a full-body tackle.

The crushing weight of his body drove the air from her lungs, and she lay beneath him, stunned and breathless. The edges of her vision wavered in and out. The damp, spongy ground beneath her cheek smelled musty. All around her it was too warm—the air, the ground, the man on top of her— but the heat couldn't ward off the chill that crept through her.

Ryan scrambled off her, afraid he may have hurt her but more frightened by what would happen to them both if the brutes from the beach found them. He caught her arm, pulled her up. "Get up."

"You bastard!" She twisted, took a swing at him, and narrowly missed landing a solid punch.

He seized her wrists, clamped them together and secured them with the white cotton handkerchief he'd offered her less than an hour before when she'd been sick. He felt like a jerk, but he didn't have time to fight with her. "You've got a choice. Either stay here and let those assholes get their hands on you or come with me."

He didn't wait for her response. He just started off at a fast clip toward the car, his fingers gripping the handkerchief that bound her hands. She kept pace with him, and he took that as her answer.

Back in the Jag, she sat in silence, staring straight ahead while he did a U-turn and gunned the engine. When he'd put several miles between them and the beach, he glanced side-ways at his captive. Tears were streaming unchecked down her cheeks. "You don't know what that gunshot was about,"

he said. "It could have been a warning shot."

"Did they look like the kind of people who are going to just let her go now?"

He didn't know what to say. She was right. Dayle would have to serve some kind of purpose for them to keep her alive. Now that he had broken off contact with them and had no way of reaching them to negotiate further . . . He stopped himself. Damn it, he refused to feel guilty for something he had no control over. "She wouldn't be in this mess if it hadn't been for you," he said in a low voice.

Closing her eyes tight, Meg bit into her bottom lip.

At the marina, she gave him no trouble getting back on the yacht, though he sensed she was waiting for the right moment.

That moment came when he turned from securing the dinghy. One second his gun had been tucked in his waistband, and the next it was in her tied hands, cocked and pointed at his chest. Not allowing her the opportunity to feel triumph, he kicked the weapon out of her hands. He saw the pain register in her eyes a moment after he had her on the deck, her bound wrists pinned above her head. "That was stupid," he said, his lips inches from hers.

She glared at him with hatred, scalding tears rolling back into her hair. "She was my best friend." A dry sob escaped before she could choke it back, and she fought the wave behind it.

Taken aback by the raw emotion, he loosened his grip on her.

She jerked her hands free and shoved at him. "Get off!"

As he sat back on his heels, she rolled onto her side, drawing her knees up to her chest.

Rubbing his hands over his face, he tried to block out the sobs she muted with clenched fists. He'd thought he could handle it. He'd thought his rage at Beau's senseless death would carry him through, make him ruthless enough to get the revenge he wanted. But he hadn't counted on this woman whose claims of innocence were becoming ever more con-vincing. He hadn't counted on more people getting killed . . . innocent people. He had taken on an entire organi-zation, and he was just one man.

But damn it, he hadn't known what the hell else to do.

Chapter 1

After only one day at Holly's, Margot decided that she had to go. Staying put for too long was foolish. In fact, she may have already endangered her only friend.

Rising from the sofa she'd slept on, she saw on the VCR clock that it was nine in the morning. A glance outside told her it was snowing. Margot didn't relish the thought of hitch-hiking in frigid, snowy weather and considered asking Holly for a ride. But that would mean saying good-bye, something she liked even less than hitchhiking in the winter. Of course, there was Holly's brand-new red Mustang parked out front.

She paused while folding a blanket and sat on the sofa's arm.

A new car would get her somewhere fast, and it was safer than hitching. She could swipe Holly's keys from her purse and be on her way. The chances of Holly immediately re-porting the car stolen were slim because Holly didn't have to get ready for work for another two hours. Those two hours would provide enough time for Margot to get to Milwaukee and trade the car for another one.

Or she could just ask.

Walking to Holly's bedroom door, she opened it a crack and peered in at her sleeping friend. No, she couldn't afford to ask. When it came to self-preservation, being polite wasn't part of the equation.

Margot took a shower and tried to figure out the easiest way to get the emeralds back to Beau's brother. Hiring a courier seemed the obvious choice. By the time anyone figured out who had sent them or from where, she'd be long gone.

To where?

She couldn't picture what came next, and she remembered another time when she hadn't been able to imagine what her future held. Then, no one had been chasing her but her own demons. She'd been sixteen, hitchhiking alone from Wisconsin to Florida, searching for someone she didn't really expect to find and too broke to even buy herself a cheeseburger. Slater Nielsen had been so nice when he had picked her up in his limousine along the Florida highway.

He smelled like heaven and wore expensive tailored clothing. Sipping a cognac, he offered her a soft drink and seemed genuinely interested in her story, edited as it was. After only three hours, he made her a proposition. All she had to do, he said, was learn a trade that he would teach her himself.

Her initial explosive denial prompted a belly laugh that turned his face bright red. He explained that he wasn't a pimp, that he would never ask her to earn a living by using her fabulous body. No, he said, he was interested in her brain.

Intrigued, Margot listened to what he had in mind.

Think of it as an education, he said. He would teach her about art and literature, music and theater. He would introduce her to wine and gourmet cooking, tutor her in politics, history, and economics. And he would teach her how to out-maneuver any security system ever designed.

She'd planned it all at that moment. She would work for him six months, long enough to save some money, then she would move on. It seemed simple, uncomplicated by emo-tional ties and unpaid debts. Slater made it easy.

The first year flew by, and surprisingly, she enjoyed Slater's game. She liked outsmarting people and security systems, delighted in the discovery that she was good at something besides being a bad girl. She had talent. She was smart. Slater had often said so.

As another year passed, she grew reluctant to leave the safe haven he provided. At the estate on his private island, he gave her a room of her own and let her decorate it as she pleased. When she turned eighteen, he bought her a car—a convertible with a stereo that would have made even the most jaded teen drool. At twenty-one, he presented her with diamonds and promises for the future.

They became lovers shortly after that, and she discovered that her fantasies about him had fallen far short of the reality. He had pleased her in ways she hadn't thought possible.

Never did she question what he asked of her professionally. She knew it was wrong, even though she liked it. Sometimes, she was ashamed that she was a professional thief. Yet it all somehow seemed justified. Slater's targets were carefully chosen. Not one of them, until Beau Kama, seemed undeserving of the crimes she committed against them. They were the kind of men who would have treated her like trash if they had happened upon her hitchhiking rather than Slater.

For twelve years, she enjoyed the thrill, the danger, the perks. Then Slater had sent her after Beau, and everything had changed.

Realizing she'd lingered in the shower too long, Margot shut off the water and swept aside the shower curtain. At the same moment, the door burst open and one of Slater Nielsen's most vicious hit men grabbed her by the throat and slammed her back against a wet tile wall.

Jake "The Bloodhound" Calhoun's lips parted in a wide grin, showing crooked, tobacco-stained teeth, his breath reeking of cigarettes. "Hey, Mags. Long time no see."

Ryan sat in his car and stared at the Illinois license plate on the practical, silver Honda Civic. It was parked in front of a small house on stilts, on Fort Myers Beach. It seemed like days since he had followed her and her friend here from the airport.

In his hand, he clutched the keys he had demanded she give him the night before to keep her from using them as a weapon. The first key he tried admitted him into a sparsely decorated living room that looked as if it had been left in a hurry. Luggage and a purse lay just inside the door, mail and another purse cluttering a desk nearby.

He circled the room, taking it in. The sofa was new and looked comfortable. Several newspapers and magazines were stacked next to the desk, as if saved for later reading.

A Victorian dollhouse sat on an antique table in one corner. On the floor under the table was a wooden crate, MOMS KRAFT BOCKS stenciled in black letters on its side. It contained small cans of paint, miniature furniture, and tiny rolls of carpeting and wallpaper. The dollhouse was evidently a work in progress.

A bookcase packed with books and pictures demanded a closer look, and in some of the pictures he recognized the woman who had his stomach in knots. In one, she wore scuba gear and stood next to the woman she had called Dayle. In another, she was younger and grinning, an arm propped on the shoulder of the same friend.

Ryan picked up the frame and stared hard at the image. In the background was an older-model Jaguar. Taupe, she had called it.

"Damn," he said under his breath.

Putting the picture back, he turned to survey the room. His gaze landed on the purse by the baggage. Feeling like a thief, he opened it and withdrew the wallet. The driver's license inside identified Dayle Richmond of Arlington Heights, Illinois. Further inspection turned up a lawyer's ID.

The other purse yielded another driver's license and a Fort Myers newspaper ID, both showing pictures of a woman identified as Meg Grant.

Pulling out his cell phone, Ryan punched in some numbers. When he got an answer, he said, "Special Agent Sam Loomis, please."

Jake Calhoun gentled his grip, and Margot gulped air into her starved lungs as his gaze dropped down her naked body. She was wet from her shower and shivering, and he nodded in appreciation. "Nice, Mags. Real nice."

She tried to jerk away from him, but his fingers tightened on her throat like a vice. She bit back the urge to scream, thinking of Holly sleeping in the next room.
Please, still be sleeping.
But she'd known Jake for years, knew how he worked. He would have scoured the apartment before cornering her, would have eliminated any potential witnesses.

But maybe there was a chance. Maybe Jake had gone straight for her, bypassing her friend.

Still grinning, Jake said, "Got something to show you."

He dragged her forward out of the tub, and she winced as her shins knocked hard against the porcelain lip. He pushed her out into the hall, one arm locked around her neck, the other around her waist.

The first thing that struck her was the bright red handprint on the wall. A trail of blood, as if someone who was bleeding had been dragged down the hall, led into the bedroom.
Fuck.

Jake walked her forward into Holly's bedroom, and Margot was helpless to stop him as despair welled inside her. She knew that smell. Coppery and sweet.

Her friend was lying in a pool of blood on the floor next to the bed, and Margot gagged. Holly hadn't screamed. Margot was sure she would have heard her if she had.
I'm sorry, Holly. Jesus, I'm sorry.

"See that?" Jake whispered near Margot's ear. "That's what happens when you underestimate our boss. You'd think you would have learned that lesson the first time."

Hot tears blurred her vision as he levered her against a wall. Jake's grinning face blocked her view of Holly's body. "Aw, Mags, you're not going to cry, are you?"

She concentrated on breathing, on getting the rage, and grief, under control. She wasn't in any position now to try to overpower him.

Jake didn't seem to notice her struggle as he trailed his hand over her bare breast. "Much as I hate to pass up this golden opportunity, we don't have much time. You're going to get dressed and meet me in the kitchen. I've already been all over this place, and there's no easy way out. So don't even bother to try a back window. Got it?"

When she failed to indicate that she did, he gripped wet hair and yanked her head back. "Got it?" he repeated.

She glared at him through narrowed eyes, making a silent promise to make him pay for what he'd done to Holly. Somehow. Some way. "Yes."

He let go. "Good. Get moving."

Chapter 8

Meg raised her head, and her stiffened neck muscles protested. Pushing damp hair back from her face with her tied hands, she listened carefully. She had heard a thump from above. Had Ryan returned?