Full Exposure

The Greek piloted the speedboat and the Russian rode shotgun, with her and Dante trapped in the middle. As if they’d be moronic enough to dive headlong into the ocean with their hands tied behind their backs.

The Greek didn’t use the running lights. He either knew where they were going or was taking them farther out to sea to dump their bodies.

Wind whipped her hair as the hull chopped through surf. Shivering, she leaned into Dante. “Will they toss us overboard?” she whispered.

“I doubt it. They would have done it from the yacht and saved the effort.”

“You know I can’t swim. If you get a chance to escape, go. Save yourself.”

He angled his big frame to shield her from the wind. “I am not leaving you. And I will not let anything happen to you.”

“You don’t lack confidence, Signor Dante. I appreciate the encouragement, but unless you have blue spandex tights and a red cape stashed in your pocket, I don’t see how.”

It took a few seconds to translate. Then he threw back his head and laughed. His eyes sparkled and his teeth gleamed in his bearded face. Dazed, Ariana blinked at the impact of Dante’s unrestrained smile.

The Greek turned and scowled, and Dante lowered his voice.

“Don’t be so pessimistic, bella. Thanks to your cleverness, my ropes are weakened. I only need more time and a sharp object.”

“Which you won’t find in the middle of the Mediterranean.”

“We’re headed toward a destination. We wait. And watch.”

The Greek suddenly killed the motor.

“Shut up,” the Russian snarled. “No more talking.”

Ariana anxiously half turned as the beefy man stood, but he merely slid the oars into the oarlocks and reseated himself. His biceps knotted as he rowed.

She glanced up at Dante. Inscrutability shuttered his bruised face, but his forearms grazed hers as he fought his bonds. They had to be nearing their final destination. She fervently hoped he could break free.

Trembling with cold and apprehension, she huddled into the protection afforded by his body, and he moved closer. Though he had often appeared to ignore her over the past six weeks, in reality, he was acutely responsive to her body language. A survival skill when one conducted business with the mob.

Though their whispered conversation had been forbidden, the presence of his reassuring strength helped. The irony wasn’t lost on her. Soaking in his heat, she pressed against him, shoulder to firm shoulder, thigh to hard-muscled thigh.

She wasn’t convinced they were headed anywhere other than the bottom of the sea. If she succumbed to her rioting fear of how it might feel, how long it might take to drown, she’d start screaming like a banshee.

Think about something else. Anything.

She was freezing. Neither she nor Dante were dressed for nighttime on the open water. He had been wearing a long, weathered black Florentinian leather coat over his black T-shirt and black denims, but their captors must have stripped it from him before tying him up. She wore cargo pants with a long-sleeved shirt.

She jerked upright.

Oh. My. God. In the midst of the trauma, she’d forgotten. Was Dante’s coat the only thing their captors had confiscated? Muddled by terror, she hadn’t thought to check if her iPod and notebook were still in her hip pocket. Ariana twisted in frustration. She couldn’t tell. She’d taken the precaution of securing her iPod in a watertight case before accepting the job aboard Alexandra’s Dream and her notebook was in a sealed plastic bag.

The iPod hid Derek’s files, encrypted in ancient Greek, which she had spent months laboriously translating into the notebook. She’d had no idea cruise lines overlapped employee duties and that she’d be required to juggle many nonlibrary-related jobs. Duties aboard the cruise liner had kept her hopping. She’d spent every snippet of free time the past seven months decoding files. Only a long list of names and addresses, so far. Most dead ends. Finally, one had led her to the dealer in Naples. Her first break, thwarted by the Camorra.

When Dante had kidnapped her, she’d lost the use of her shipboard dictionary. Translating the complicated language had slowed to a painful crawl. She groaned. If Megaera’s cohorts had stolen her only clues to clearing her father’s name, her crusade was doomed.

Dante’s lips brushed her hair and his breath feathered into her ear. “Are you seasick?”

Not risking a reply, she shook her head. He had seen her scribbling in the notebook at the house, where she’d claimed to be writing stories to pass the time. Sometimes, she was telling the truth. She’d been writing them most of her life, and they’d been a familiar source of comfort during her captivity. Dante had requested she share them. She had politely declined. Their mistrust was mutual. He had searched her room when she was showering…and when he thought she was asleep. She’d thwarted him by keeping the iPod and notebook on her at all times and in sight when bathing.

“Are you in pain?”

She shook her head again, and his ebony brows lowered. “You’re lying.”

She hated deception…and she stank at it. “I’m fine.”

“Tell me.”

Even if she dared confide in him, what could he do? They were both victims of circumstance. Both helpless.

Not comforting.

“How are your bonds?” she whispered.

His mouth hardened. Naturally, he recognized bait and switch. He was a maestro at it. “I’m making progress.”

She peeked behind his back, and her throat constricted at the blood coating the rope. “It looks like all you’ve accomplished is further injuring yourself.”

Wounded male pride sharpened his features. Great. She’d hurt his feelings. After seven months at sea with a cultural grab bag of employees and passengers, she should be used to macho Mediterranean males.

Dante whispered fiercely, “Dio provvede.”

God will provide. Odd encouragement from a criminal. “God helps those who help themselves,” she whispered back.

“Exactly my point, Ariana. Keep the faith.”

She studied his striking profile. The man she’d thought a sullen mobster was a Gordian knot of intriguing contradictions.

The boat’s hull scraped land. The Greek leaped into the shallow water and dragged the craft onto a sliver of rocky beach carved out of a high cliff.

Their time had run out.

“Our hosts are not wearing guns,” Dante murmured. “Do as they say, and stay behind me, until I tell you otherwise.”

Ariana was too anxious to argue. He was the criminal expert.

Sandwiched between their two captors, she and Dante climbed awkwardly out of the boat. Coarse rock scrunched under her deck shoes as she trudged up the beach.

The Greek halted in front of a semicircle of craggy boulders spearing from the sand. “Sit.”

Dante uncharacteristically complied. Did he have a plan?

Please have a plan. She followed his lead and sat beside him.

Draped in the cold, black shroud of night, the hostile island appeared uninhabited. A cliff overshadowed the beach, bullying aside the moonlight. Waves pummeled the shore with white-capped fists.