A Matter of Circumstance, Page 2

  Of all things he noticed that her toenails were filed and manicured and glazed in a deep wine red. For some reason that irritated him. Maybe he realized he’d half killed himself over some mercenary socialite.

  “Why did we take her?” one of the fishermen whined.

  “She’s twice as good as the old man! Hey, if he wants her back, he’ll see that my father is set free!” Garcia proclaimed.

  “So who the hell is this guy?” the second fisherman asked.

  Sean, blinking furiously, more to clear his head than his eyes, pushed himself up to his elbows. If the stinking motor would just stop! He would need his wits to get out of this one. In the last few minutes the sun had decided to make a sharp fall. The boat was carrying no lights. Everything seemed to be a haze of darkness: the sea joining the sky, the men seated in the motorboat nothing more than macabre silhouettes. There weren’t even any stars out. He was grateful that there didn’t seem to be any other boats out, either.

  He felt, though, that all the men were staring at him. Especially Garcia, who was seated next to the bundled, struggling figure in burlap.

  Her toes crashed into his nose when he tried to elbow himself into a better position.

  “Me llamo Miguel Ramiro,” he began, yelling above the motor, but just as he started screeching, the motor was cut.

  “Cállate!” Garcia snapped. Shut up.

  Sean heard the water lapping against the side of the boat, then a woman’s shout from nearby, and Garcia’s quick answer. They came alongside a much bigger vessel, some kind of motorized, two-masted sailboat. A ladder was dropped down; Garcia motioned the two fishermen up first, then turned to stare down at Sean. Despite the poor light Sean could see the dark, wary glitter in his eyes.

  “Who are you?”

  “Miguel Ramiro.”

  “And who is Miguel Ramiro?”

  The woman—Mrs. Blayne—could blow the whole thing in a matter of seconds, but he had to come up with something. He damn well couldn’t introduce himself as a cop. He inclined his head toward the burlap. “She is mine,” he replied in Spanish.

  Garcia arched a dark brow, then leveled the gun at Sean. “Then you take her up the ladder—and then explain yourself.”

  Sean struggled to his feet between the wooden seats. He bent over the burlap, trying to figure out just where to grab her. He obviously made a mistake, because his hand encountered something nicely rounded, and the bundle let out an outraged shriek and began twisting and squirming all over again.

  “Stop it!” he snapped in English. A recognizable piece of anatomy swung toward him, and in sudden exasperation he gave it a firm swat. Her outraged cry reached him again, and he tried to murmur convincingly, “It is Miguel. I am with you, my darling.”

  Garcia’s brow arched higher; Sean figured he couldn’t press his luck too far and decided it didn’t matter in the least right now which part of her anatomy he came in contact with. He reached down, gripped her body and tossed her over his shoulder, wincing as she came in contact with a sore spot, right where he had hit the deck to avoid the gunfire.

  “Up the ladder,” Garcia said.

  Sean nodded and started up. His squirming burden almost sent him catapulting back down.

  For Garcia’s benefit he swore heatedly in Spanish, then added contritely in English, “My love, please! It is me, Miguel!”

  Her reply was inarticulate, but Sean knew what she was saying: who the hell was Miguel?

  Maybe he would be better off if she remained wrapped in burlap for a while. He probably wouldn’t have to carry this thing off for too long. Harry and Todd had been on the docks. Search boats and helicopters would be out soon.

  Yeah, but the coastline was a maze of islands and shoals and shallows and roots…. The mangroves, the islets, the Everglades…. They had sheltered many a criminal throughout the years.

  He couldn’t think about it that way. He just had to play the whole thing moment by moment.

  Starting now.

  He crawled over the starboard side of the sailboat to find four people already studying him in the light of a single bulb projecting from the enclosure over the hull. There was a short, graying woman, plump and showing traces of past beauty, and a younger woman, somewhere in her early twenties, with huge almond eyes and a wealth of ink-dark hair. Then the two fishermen. They must have seen him on the dock all day, just as he had seen them. Well, he would just have to make that work to his advantage. They were both in their late twenties or early thirties, jeaned and sneakered, and dark. One wore a mustache; the other was slimmer and as wary as Garcia himself.

  Garcia came up the ladder right behind Sean. They all stared at one another for a moment, then the older woman burst into a torrent of questions. What was going on here? Who was this man? Who was struggling in the sack? Where was Peter Blayne? Had they all gone loco?

  Then she burst into tears.

  Garcia took both her shoulders and held her against his chest. “Mama, Mama! It will be all right! We were wrong, you see. The senator was not on his boat. But his wife was—we’ve got his wife! And if he wants her back, we must get Papa back first. It’s better than the senator.”

  The woman looked dubiously at the sack that twisted over Sean’s shoulder, then pointed a finger in his direction. “Who is he?”

  “That,” Garcia said, rubbing his chin and looking keenly at Sean, “is something we’re still trying to figure out.”

  Sean sighed deeply and spoke in heavily accented English. “I told you, amigo—I am Miguel Ramiro. And I am in love with her.”

  Garcia started to laugh, and the fishermen laughed with him.

  “And she is in love with you, too, amigo?” Garcia asked skeptically.

  Sean gave them a sheepish look, then gritted his teeth, because the girl in the burlap was screeching something and twisting with greater fury. He smiled grimly and gave her a firm swat once again, which shut her up for several well-needed moments.

  “Sí, sí!” Sean cried passionately. He irritably muttered a few epithets in Spanish, then added, “But you know these Americanas! She’s fond of the hot Latin blood in private, but when we are in public I am not good enough to clean her shoes!”

  “She’s a senator’s wife and she’s having an affair with you?” Garcia said.

  “I told you—”

  “I believe it, Julio,” the younger woman suddenly interrupted him. Sean paused, gazing her way. She was looking him up and down with an obvious appreciation that was quite gratifying—he needed someone to believe him!

  “Maria, I did not ask you.”

  But Maria put her hand on Julio Garcia’s arm and gave him a sexy little smile, her almond eyes wide. “But I tell you, because I am a woman, too, yes?”

  “Yes, you are all woman, little one,” Julio said pleasantly to her, and she laughed delightedly.

  “Latin men make the best lovers, yes, Julio?” She giggled. “I see it all well! She is married to some dull old man, but who can live like that? So she finds Miguel—”

  “Sí! I was the gardener!” Sean said quickly.

  “And he is muy hombre!” Maria laughed. “So she calls him in on the side, but pretends, Oh, no! Never!”

  The fishermen started to laugh again, too. They were all grinning like the most amiable friends.

  Except that Garcia was leveling his gun at Sean’s chest.

  “Juan!” Garcia said. “Start her up. We leave the motorboat right where it is. We go to the cove where we intended. Mama, Maria, you go below. Now!”

  “But—” Maria began.

  “Now!” Garcia snapped, and Maria, with one last sultry grin for Sean, obeyed.

  Sean and Garcia stared at each other, both ignoring the grunts and oaths that came from the burlap bag.

  Sean heard the crank as the anchor was pulled in and felt the motion as the sailboat began to move.

  “Amigo,” Garcia said softly, “do you know what is going on here?”

  Sean shook his head vehemently and
lied. “I only know that she is mine. You took her, and I followed.”

  Garcia shrugged and stared at him a while longer.

  “I mean you no harm. I mean no man any harm. All I seek is freedom for my father.”

  Sean remained mute, thinking that this wasn’t the time to explain to an impassioned man that spraying a populated dock with bullets and kidnapping a young woman were not sound means to reach the end he sought.

  “I know nothing of your father. I am here for her.”

  “So stay with her. But if her husband does not produce my father…”

  “Then what?”

  “Then we shall see. Justice should be equal.” He waved the gun.

  “Your father is not dead,” Sean said.

  Garcia shrugged again, then smiled. “But you will be, and the woman, if you cause trouble.”

  Sean lowered his head. Where the hell was everyone? There didn’t seem to be another boat in the water; he hadn’t heard a single damned helicopter out searching….

  Night had fallen. And the Atlantic was one hell of a big ocean!

  “Put her down.”

  Sean braced himself, then lowered her to the deck.

  “Get the hood off her,” Garcia continued.

  His captors had spoken Spanish to one another, and Sean had spoken Spanish to them, but he was certain that Julio Garcia’s English was completely fluent. Once she started to talk he could well be in serious trouble, despite his story.

  “The hood!” Garcia snapped.

  Sean hunched down and moved to take the burlap from her—a difficult procedure, because she was struggling so wildly. At last it came free, and she stared at him—glared at him—with eyes so wild they might have been those of a lioness, and her hair in such a tangle it could have been a massive tawny mane. She was pale, and those fascinating tawny eyes of hers were as wide as saucers, but she’d lost absolutely none of her fight. She stared at him and recognized him as the long-haired, unshaven, rude Cubano who had knocked her down just before this mess had begun.

  “You!” She hauled back and struck him hard on the chin.

  His eyes narrowed, and he thought quickly. No self-respecting man in his invented position would accept such behavior.

  He hauled off and slapped her back, bringing a startled gasp from her—and further fury. She tore at him, nails raking, fists flying. Grunting as her elbow caught his ribs and her nails his cheek, he managed to wrap his arms around her, bringing them both crashing down on the deck. Scrambling hastily, he straddled her, caught her wrists and pinned them.

  That didn’t calm her at all. She called him every name he’d ever heard and writhed beneath him.

  Garcia, still holding his gun, suddenly caused her to go quiet with his laughter. “Miguel,” he told Sean in Spanish. “You have yourself a tigress here. Maybe it is good you are along.”

  Sean saw that she was struggling to understand the words, but her knowledge of Spanish just wasn’t good enough. Then she started to scream again. “What the hell is going on here? I warn you, I will prosecute you to the full degree of the law! You’ll go to prison! Let me go this instant! What in God’s—”

  “Shut up!” Sean hissed at her. “I’m on your side!”

  Garcia crouched down beside them. She surely realized that she was in trouble, but if she hadn’t before, she must now, because Garcia leveled the gun at her temple.

  “Mother of God, but you’ve got a mouth!” he said in English. “Don’t threaten me. Think of your sins. If your husband doesn’t get my father out of that prison, you will die.” He grinned. “You and your lover will die together.”

  Her eyes reverted to Sean’s again, registering shock. “He’s not—”

  Sean didn’t really have any choice in the matter. His hands were occupied securing hers. He had to shut her up.

  He leaned down and kissed her.

  Her mouth had been open, and he came in contact with all the liquid warmth of her lips, exerting a certain pressure that he hoped would be a warning.

  She struggled anyway.

  He held his fingers so tightly around her wrists that she didn’t dare cry out. Garcia, chuckling again, rose.

  Sean tried to take that opportunity to warn her. He moved his lips just above hers and whispered, “Behave! Shut up and follow my lead. For God’s sake, the man has a gun and is upset enough to use the damn thing! I’m—”

  “Get off me!” she whispered vehemently in turn. “You…kidnapper!”

  “I’m not with them! I’m—”

  “Get off me!”

  “Shut up, then!”

  She clamped her lips together, staring at him with utter loathing. He sighed inwardly, wishing that he hadn’t bothered to stick with her. The hell with her. Let them shoot her!

  Then she was talking again, this time to Garcia. “Look, I still don’t get this. If you’ll just let me go now we’ll forget all about it. I promise. You can’t get any money through me. I just don’t have any. And as for him—”

  “Shush!” Sean interrupted, glaring at her. He wasn’t about to be shot and thrown to the sharks for his above-and-beyond-the-call-of-duty attempt to save her.

  She was going to try to interrupt him again. He tightened his hold on her, his eyes daring her to denounce him to Garcia. He tried to come up with his best and most abusive Spanish to keep Garcia entertained and drown her words.

  She must have put on suntan oil sometime during the day, because one of her hands slipped from his grasp, and she used it to lash out at him. His patience was growing thin. He was even beginning to wish that he had decided to practice law, as his mother had suggested. So far he’d been half drowned, thoroughly abused and was surely bloody and bruised from her flying fists and nails. This couldn’t go on much longer.

  What had happened to terrified victims?

  “Don’t touch me! Let me go! Get your filthy paws off me! You son of a bitch! Who the hell—”

  He had to do something before they both wound up shot and thrown back into the sea.

  She just wasn’t going to see reason. Sighing inwardly, Sean twisted her quickly to the side and brought the side of his hand down hard just at the base of her skull. With a little whimper she fell peacefully silent at last.

  * * *

  Mandy hadn’t panicked at the sound of gunfire; it had come too suddenly. Nor had she really panicked when the burlap had been thrown over her. That, also, had been too sudden. She hadn’t even really panicked when she found herself absurdly cast into battle with the rude, green-eyed, unshaven Latin hulk on deck.

  But when she returned to awareness in a narrow bunk below deck she did panic, because what brought her to awareness was the terrible feel of rope chafing against her wrists.

  She was tied to the headboard of the small bunk, tied so tightly that she couldn’t begin to move her arms.

  She almost screamed—almost—as a feeling of absolute helplessness overwhelmed her. Not only were her wrists tied, but her ankles, too. Someone had tossed a worn army blanket over her poorly clad figure, but it didn’t cover her feet, and adding insult to injury, she could see the cheap, filthy rope that was attached to the same type of panel posts framing the foot of the bunk. Someone knew how to tie knots—good knots.

  Oh, hell! Just like a Boy Scout! Did they have Boy Scouts in Cuba?

  She closed her eyes and tried to swallow the awful scream that hovered in her throat; she tried to reason, but reasoning seemed to give her little help.

  What the hell was going on?

  Facts, facts…Peter always warned her to look to the facts. Okay, fact: she had gone out this morning with a few students to study coral markings. Pleasant day, easy day. Peter had seen that a lunch had been catered. They’d done some work; they’d partied and picnicked, and absolutely nothing had been wrong in the least. Mark Griffen had given an excellent dissertation on the shark’s incredible survival from prehistory to the present, and Katie Langtree had found some exceptional examples of fossilized coral. Eas
y, fun, educational, pleasant…

  Her only responsibility—her one big worry for the day!—had been to see that the Flash Point was returned in good shape: galley clean, equipment hosed. And even that had seemed like a breeze, because the kids had vowed to do all the work, and they were a dependable group. They also knew they would never use the yacht again if she wasn’t returned shipshape.

  So…facts! They’d come in, they’d docked. Mark had started rinsing the deck; Katie and Sue had been at work in the galley; Henry Fisher had been covering the furled sails. Everything in A-B-C order. She had stepped off the Flash Point, seen that the kids were hard at work at their tasks, then started lazily down the dock, looking forward to a cold canned soda from the refreshment stand.

  Facts….

  Next thing she knew, she was out of breath and flat on her back, with a tall dark man standing over her and not paying the least attention to her—even though he had just knocked her down in the rudest fashion. She briefly pictured his face; unshaven; his hair a little long and near ebony in color; his nose as straight as a hawk’s; his skin sun-darkened to a glistening bronze. And against all that darkness his eyes had been the brightest, most shocking green. If she lived to be a hundred she would never forget the impact of those kelly green eyes against the bronze of his skin.

  Facts!

  She had said something to him, something about his rudeness. He had barely paid attention. She’d realized then that he must be Latin—Cuban, Colombian, Nicarauguan. Spanish speaking, as were so many of the area’s residents.

  English or Spanish speaking, no one had the right to be so rude!

  Rude! How the hell could she be worrying about rudeness right now! Fact: she was tied hand and foot to a bunk, and some wacko was running around with a gun. He’d already shot up half the docks; she could only pray he hadn’t killed someone.

  And she had been the target! Why? Why on earth would anyone kidnap her? She didn’t have any money to speak of. She did okay, but paying one’s electricity bill on time was tremendously different from coming up with hundreds of thousands of dollars to meet a ransom demand!