Deception Island

“Gone to a better place than the shit hole they came from.”

“I’m sorry.” What a way to die.

“I doubt that.” He grabbed her wrists and yanked them behind her.

“Ow!”

“I do not trust you to cooperate.” He deftly tied a rope around her wrists, tighter than handcuffs and just as unyielding.

“I can see trust is going to be an issue between us.”

The odds were better now, one-on-one, but he was right—if it came down to a battle of force, he’d steamroller her. He was iron strong, icy calm. Military, probably—and proper military, not some amateur militia. Wasn’t capitaine French for captain? A battle of wits might be a more even fight.

He moved swiftly to her feet and bound them, then secured her to a railing, disturbingly practiced at restraining a human being. Could some foreign military be behind this? Was it a declaration of war, a political statement? Instinct told her he was lying about doing it for the money. He moved to the bow, surprisingly catlike for a man of his build. Definitely military.

“You have a satellite phone on the yacht? A laptop? GPS? Weapons?”

“If I had weapons would I be sitting here like this? But, yeah, sat phone, laptop, GPS. Knock yourself out.”

“Where are they? Tell me everything I need to grab so we can take them.”

We? A tense edge had crept into his voice. Should she answer? Her options numbered roughly zero. Besides, when she escaped she’d need the sat phone to make a rescue call. She gave him a rundown.

“What else should I pack for you?”

“Sorry?”

“What else do you want to take? You know I’m kidnapping you, yes?”

“I’d figured.”

“You’ll need some dry clothes. Ah, I’ll grab everything.”

“ChapStick,” she said, automatically. Two men just got eaten by sharks and you’re asking for ChapStick?

He paused. “This is some kind of lipstick?”

“Yeah, because that’s the first thing I’d think about when I’m getting kidnapped.” She jammed her salt-scoured lips together. Shut up. He’d expect her to be hysterical, not snarky. “Forget it. Get clothes, whatever. Why am I giving packing orders to a pirate? Or are you technically a terrorist?”

The inch of brown skin visible beside his eyes crinkled. Was he smiling? This had to be the most surreal night of her life. “Go with pirate.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“You’ll see. There’ll be no escape for either of us until your father pays.”

Either of us?

He checked her bindings, jumped from the bow onto the yacht’s stern and disappeared from her limited view. Agile as well as strong—a formidable opponent. His calmness chilled her as much as his strength. A sharp mind was more dangerous than a muscular body, and he evidently had both.

She shifted. Something pressed into her thigh. The knife.

This wasn’t over.

* * *

Rafe crept over the deck and dropped into the cabin. Feigning imbalance, he smashed his shoulder into the interior webcam, knocking it to the floor and stomping on the debris. Gabriel would be watching the heiress’s webcast. No need to let on that Rafe was taking all the equipment he could prize off the boat, now he was no longer guarded. Let him believe that once Rafe and the woman were stranded on the honeymoon island, they had no way to communicate with the world.

He snatched up a large backpack and tipped out the contents. He had a couple of hours at most before rescuers arrived, and he’d already lost a good half hour securing her.

He shoved in an armful of clothes, with more force than necessary. Two more Lost Boys gone tonight, their blood on his hands as much as Gabriel’s. He exhaled heavily. He’d seen too many of their kind meet death too early. Boys who grew up with no one to give a damn about them and died with no one to mourn them.

But Gabriel had survived, somehow. The aid workers must have lied about him dying in the firefight at Odeskia, to prevent Rafe running back in to find his only friend. Rafe narrowed his eyes. No use blaming them. They’d given him a chance to claw his humanity back after five years as a killing machine. Given the same mercy, Gabriel might also have become a different man.

He pulled a network of cords from the walls and shoved them in the bag. The woman had been more effort than he’d bargained for. Where did a society princess learn to scrap like that? That was dirty street fighting, not some rich girl’s martial arts hobby. And she was far prettier than the photos and videos he’d studied—a raw, strong natural beauty, not some delicate doll.

He scoffed. What had he expected? Only a fool underestimated his quarry. She’d survived three months alone at sea. And even someone as vain as Laura Hyland wouldn’t wear lipstick and stilettos on a solo sailing trip.

But she had said something about some lip thing. He swept a bunch of bottles and tubes into the bag. His heart twisted. The last time he’d packed up a woman’s things was a year after Simone’s death, when he’d finally forced himself to clear her belongings out of their villa on Corsica. The coconut scent of her shampoo still haunted him. Later, he’d found Theo sitting by the garbage bin. The kid had unpacked every bottle and tube and lined them up along the tiled floor, like miniature tombstones.

He zipped up the bag. Thinking about his wife wouldn’t help his son. Phase one was complete. Phase two was to get the heiress to the plane, then to the island. Phase three was a week guarding her—alone, now. Going by tonight’s events, that was likely to be more bruising than he’d anticipated.

The thought of phase four made his hands move faster—return the heiress unharmed and get his son back. Would Gabriel keep his end of the bargain? Rafe’s jaw tightened. He’d better. For all his vices, the Gabriel whom Rafe had known had an unshakeable sense of honor toward the brotherhood of the Lost Boys. Hopefully he still did—and still considered Rafe a part of it.

A clicking noise filtered into the cabin. He tensed. Merde. The RIB’s motor was about to start.

* * *

Come on, you piece of crap. Holly turned the key over. Nothing. Surely it didn’t need the choke—it was still warm. She couldn’t risk flooding the motor.

The capitaine bolted up onto the deck of the yacht, her backpack in hand. With the bowline untethered, the swell pulled the drifting inflatable away. He’d have to swim for it. As long as she got the damn motor started they’d be swapping boats tonight. He crouched, swinging the bag onto his back. Weird. Was he giving up that easily?

She flinched, as a thought struck. The kill switch—she hadn’t checked for one. She fumbled around and found a coiled lanyard at her feet. She must have knocked it out, in the darkness. Her hand trembled as she felt around the console. Calm down. You can do this. There. She clipped the cord onto the switch and flicked it on. The capitaine sprang up and sprinted down the yacht toward her, arms pumping like a bionic man’s. Dang, was he going to jump for it? Her heartbeat quickened. She turned the key. The motor chugged to life. Relief surged through her veins.

She reversed the throttle, just as he leaped from the yacht. Adieu, Capitaine. His large shadow flew toward her. Clonk. His skull smacked into her forehead, hurling her backward. No way. She thumped onto the deck, pain radiating out from her spine and consuming her head. Her vision fuzzed out. What was he—Superman? He had her pinned, again, his face an inch away.

He rolled off her, panting, and touched a palm to his balaclava-clad forehead. Her eyes came back into focus, zeroing in on the knife as it rolled away. She dove for it. As her hand closed, he caught her arm and spun her. In a microsecond, he was astride her, clamping her torso between his thighs. He calmly plucked the weapon from her fingers.

“What did I tell you about running, princess?” He pulled off the balaclava and sucked in a breath. “And fighting?”

Holy crap. The moonlight bounced off sharp cheekbones, tanned skin that plunged into a strong jaw shaded by stubble, and a black buzz cut glistening with sweat. His dark eyes glittered with adrenaline and his huge chest heaved. As pirates went, Johnny Depp had nothing on the capitaine.

She shook her head—the only body part she could move. He’s kidnapping you, you moron. It was far too soon to get Oslo Syndrome, or Stockholm Syndrome, or whatever was the name for loopy people who fell for their captors. She’d evidently gone too long without a good-looking man in her life. Or not long enough.

His gaze strayed to the frayed remains of the rope he’d bound her with. “Merde,” he whispered, his full lips twisting into an impressed smile. That good-looking, and he spoke French?

Focus. How long until he figured out she was an imposter? And then what? Feed her to the sharks? He’d be better off taking the yacht—fat chance the senator would pay to save her neck, with his precious daughter lying low in luxury.

“I see we need to set ground rules, princess.”