“Who are you?”
“You don’t need to know that,” he said. “Move back, Jazz.”
The small man let her go and got off the bed. Now she could see the tall man more clearly, and he reminded her of the men in her father’s club, pampered and false, as if they’d used every trick in the book to stay the hand of time.
“What’s your father’s phone number, Tate?”
“I won’t tell you.”
“Yes, you will. The only question is how much Jazz will hurt you until you do.”
The panic started again and she felt a scream building in her throat.
“Just tell us. It will be so much easier.”
“You’ll kill me if I tell you.”
“I’ll kill you if you don’t.”
“Go ahead.”
“Oh, no. That’s not how we play the game.” He nodded at Jazz.
The small man smiled wider, his glee apparent at the anticipation of her pain. He reached over her head and took her hand in his. He pulled it, hard, and the scream grew as it felt as if he were tearing her wrist apart.
She kicked and found that her legs were no long tied together. It didn’t matter, though. She couldn’t reach anything or stop the tearing. All she could do was scream and thrash, her free arm as useless as her legs.
“Give us the number, Tate. This is only the beginning. He’d like nothing more than to ruin that hand of yours forever. He’ll cut it through the artery. He will. Then he’ll have to stop the bleeding, and the only way he knows to do that is to cauterize it. You know what that is, don’t you?”
The image of her flesh burning made her gag, but there was nothing in her stomach. Maybe she should tell them. Then they’d kill her and it would be over. That was better, wasn’t it?
The big man sighed loudly. “Again,” he said as if he were asking Jazz to change the channel.
Tate closed her eyes as Jazz reached for her hand. The pain took her breath and, with it, her strength. She knew what they wanted from her father, and just like all those years ago, they would win.
“All right,” she said, her voice nothing more than a whisper. “Stop. Please.”
Jazz let her go, but it didn’t help much. The pain shot up her arm and wrapped around her chest. Was it really just today that she’d been picking out shirts at Prada? That she had daydreamed about Michael looking at her with pride?
“Well?”
She wiped the tears from her cheeks with her free hand, wishing for a miracle, knowing none would come. “212…”
MICHAEL MADE IT TO the pier without the police showing up. Nothing mattered now but getting to Tate. It was too easy to imagine her in serious trouble, the kind that didn’t clear up with a cup of tea and a good night’s sleep.
His gun in his hand, he moved toward the yacht, the Pretty Kitty, and tried not to make any noise. If the yacht owner was at all security-conscious, Michael had already set off the alarm. Nothing he could do about that except prepare. He had to remember to ask questions first, which wasn’t his usual MO.
Brody might be an ass, but that wasn’t against the law in New York. If Michael killed him, it would be bad. On the other hand, if Brody tried anything stupid, a bullet in the kneecap might just show him the error of his ways.
He made it to the stern, jumped over the gunwale and got a peek at the main saloon. It was just as luxurious as he’d supposed, nicer than his apartment. Up three stairs was the wheelhouse, but there was no one there, either. Everyone, it seemed, was behind doors.
He kept moving alongside the boat, keeping as low a profile as possible. There was a porthole just ahead, slightly higher than his crouch. Making sure he kept quieter than the water, he made his way there and looked inside.
Tate wasn’t there. Neither was Brody. But he did know the man sitting at the small table, his beefy hand holding on to a beer bottle.
Charlie.
It didn’t compute. What the hell was his brother doing on a boat in Sands Point?
Michael stood, not caring at the moment if Charlie saw him. Unfortunately he didn’t hear the footsteps on the dock until one second before the butt of the gun smashed into his temple.
WHEN TATE WOKE, HER first thought was that death hurt like a son of a bitch, and that filled her with such anger she cried out. Only then did it occur to her that she hadn’t been killed. That her pain meant that she’d passed out again.
Her heart sank as she realized the ordeal wasn’t over. That they were waiting to kill her when she was fully conscious and able to experience everything as it happened.
Didn’t they get it? She’d given them her father’s phone number, and by now he probably knew she’d been kidnapped and was already gathering up the cash he’d need for her ransom. She wondered how much they were asking, but it really didn’t matter. Her father would give them his last cent if he thought he could save her.
But he knew, just as she did, that paying the ransom meant nothing. She would never get off this boat alive. It made perfect sense, now that she thought about it, for them to bring her to a boat. All they had to do was weight her down and toss her overboard. She’d never be found.
She shifted on the bed. Not only was the pain in her wrist getting scary but most of her arm was numb. She was thirsty, too. Normally she drank eight glasses of water a day, but today-was it still Friday?-she hadn’t. Which was probably good, because it didn’t look as though they were going to give her a bathroom break anytime soon.
She used her free hand to pull the small pillow farther down, which seemed to help the pressure on her wrist. Oddly her heart wasn’t beating terribly fast, and she was breathing mostly in the normal range. Even her thoughts were coherent. So, what, now that she was certain she was going to die, the panic was gone?
That made her angrier still. What was this all about? She’d been paralyzed by panic for most of her life and now she got all Zen about death? Oh, come on.
She wished she could have one more talk with Dr. Bay. First she’d tell her that her kidnapping idea? Not so bright. That her friend Jerry Brody had played them all for the fools they were. Except for Michael.
Michael hadn’t liked this from the start. He was the only one who’d told her she was in danger. Of course, he always thought she was in danger. That was simply how he saw it.
But he didn’t only see evil. There was a part of him that yearned for peace-that much she knew for sure. The books he loved, the music he listened to…they were all filled with hope. Yes, even some of the Russians made a case for love and kindness.
She remembered the time he’d told her his favorite piece of music. She’d had to weasel it out of him, and it was the only time she’d ever seen him blush. At first he’d insisted that it was “Highway to Hell.” But she’d wheedled him into his true confession. His favorite song was “Clair de Lune” by Debussy. It was one of her favorites, too, but when she’d asked him why he was embarrassed, he’d said it was girlie music. That had really made her laugh. Girlie music.
How was it possible she was smiling? On the verge of death, and still the thought of Michael made her smile.
Of course, the real Michael, the 24-7 Michael, probably wasn’t close to the man she’d created in her head. Her Michael was, she had to admit, too perfect. The real Michael would never have met her expectations. He couldn’t have. So it was probably good for her to die now, before she’d gotten brave enough to pursue him. Before the disillusionment. Right?
She wiped her eyes, then her wet hand on the bedspread. It wouldn’t have hurt her feelings if they could have slept together. Just once. He would have still been her dream man, but she’d have had one night of experiencing his body for real. God, how many nights had she gone to sleep imagining what it would be like with him? How it would have felt to have Michael fill her, take her. More than that, kiss her.