A Perilous Eden (17 page)

He could turn his back on her, but she was still there.

He could feel her warmth, and he could breathe her perfume. He knew that he could turn over again and she would be there.

It was going to be a very long night.

And the days that stretched ahead would be even longer.

8

June 16

T
he explosive sound of the door bursting open brought Amber instantly from the deep sleep she had finally fallen into. Panicked, she jerked up, and even as she did so, Michael's arms came around her, pulling the blanket over her naked shoulders and breasts and bearing her back to the bed. She opened her mouth to scream in protest, but she fell silent when she saw the tall, dark man in the doorway.

Michael was swearing at him in Arabic.

The man was as distinctive as Michael in appearance. His eyes were as dark as the night, but alive with fire and fury. His complexion was olive, his facial structure striking, and yet there was such cruelty in the curve of his mouth and in his eyes that she found herself shivering in his presence. She didn't think he had been topside when she had been dragged up last night. She didn't think she would have forgotten him.

And there seemed to be open warfare between him and Michael. One snapped out something; the other replied. She felt the tension and fury and heat in Michael's body. If she wasn't there—or if there weren't others aboard the boat, perhaps—she was certain they would have leaped at one another like a pair of competing tigers.

And if they did …

Dear God, she didn't want to fall into that man's hands. From the way he gestured at her, she knew she was the cause of their current argument.

And God help her, as much as she despised Michael for what he had done, for what he was, she didn't want to fall to his enemy.

Dark, burning eyes fell on her. Then the door slammed, and the silence that ensued was almost painful.

Michael's arms were still around her, covering her with the blanket. She flinched away from him as far as she could, her body against the paneling.

Michael lay flat, pressing his temples between his hands. “Oh, God,” he groaned. “So that's the way it's going to be.” He didn't glance her way; he just stared at the ceiling and sighed, and he seemed so weary that a curious quiver touched her heart. He was a traitor, a monster, she reminded herself. And she would fight him until she died.

He spoke harshly to her then. “Amber, you're playing with fire here. I'm warning you, I'm threatening you, I'm doing everything in my power to make you understand. Listen to me, pay attention to me—it's your only chance.”

She didn't move. She wanted to burst into tears and claw at him, but she didn't move. She swallowed hard. “Who was that?” she demanded.

“Khazar Abdul. Ali Abdul's son.”

She felt a quaking inside again. Ali Abdul was well-known; the newspapers had written about him a dozen times.

They had also written articles on his son. Khazar was crazy, in her opinion. He had no respect for life. He would kill without blinking an eye; he would send his own men into suicidal situations and assure himself that he had given them their entrance into heaven.

Michael rose on one elbow and faced her. In the close confines of the bunk she could feel the warmth emanating from his body. “I told him that he had no right to interrupt my privacy. His argument is that I have no right to privacy. Unless you want to get to know Khazar and his Latin friends very, very well, you need to lie low, Miss Larkspur, and stay behind me every second. Is that clear?”

She didn't reply; she couldn't. Words caught in her throat, a silent scream close behind. She had been falling in love with him despite all his warnings, and now she could not believe, could not accept, what he was.

He didn't wait for an answer. He swung his feet over the side of the bed and reached for his clothing. He dressed, ignoring her, then turned to her. “Get something on. And don't make a move. Unless one of them comes for you. Then you can scream like hell.”

“I can't get dressed,” she snapped out. “You destroyed my gown last night.”

“Oh, yes. Then I'd hug that blanket tight for the time being if I were you.”

He exited the cabin. She laid her head down and felt the dampness of tears as they trickled down her cheeks. They were still at sea, she realized after a moment. She could feel the movement of the boat.

After several moments she roused herself and realized that she could don her underwear, if nothing else. She did so, then pulled the blanket around her shoulders again. Desperately she looked around the cabin for something that resembled a weapon, should she need one, but she couldn't find anything that might help her. Michael had very carefully picked up his gun, and there was nothing else around.

Just as she sat down on the bunk, the door swung open. She jerked back, afraid of who it might be, then despised herself because she breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that it was Michael. He was as bad as the rest of them, she reminded herself, no matter how hard it was to accept that fact.

He had a bundle in his arms, and tossed it toward the bed. “It's a skirt and blouse.” She must have stared distastefully at the wrapped up garments, because he continued. “They're clean. They've never been touched. Jaime bought them for his sister last week in Mexico. Be grateful.”

“Be grateful that you kidnapped me and tore my own clothes off me?”

His teeth locked, and his eyes turned as cold as ice. “Be grateful that you're not running around naked, that you didn't spend the night with Khazar Abdul.” He started to turn. She must have gone a little mad, or perhaps something snapped inside her. She cried out and lunged at him with new fury, trying desperately to hurt him.

She couldn't. He quickly caught her wrists and dragged them beneath her back, and she was left staring at him, crushed against him. His eyes burned into hers, and his voice fell softly. “If you don't want to be touched, Miss Larkspur, don't throw yourself against me wearing scanty white lace.”

Color flooded her cheeks. “You are scum,” she told him.

He released her, shoving her toward the bunk, and left the cabin.

Amber quickly picked up the clothes he had given her: a white cotton blouse with pretty embroidery and a full blue skirt with the same embroidery along the hem.

It seemed ironic to her that a terrorist would have a sister and that, during his free time, he would shop for her.

The garments were new and clean, and she was glad to put them on, even if her fingers were trembling as she did so. When she was dressed she sat at the foot of the bed with her hands folded and tried to still the beating of her heart.

No one came. Exhausted, she stretched out on the bunk and closed her eyes. To her amazement, she slept. When she awoke, she was still alone. She stared at the wood-paneled ceiling of the small cabin, then looked toward the cruiser's curtained windows, sat up and pulled aside one of the small drapes to look out.

They were still on the water, but she thought that they might just have pulled away from some port, because there was a large land mass in the distance, and there were a number of pleasure boats near them, beautiful sailboats and smaller craft.

She wondered if she could break a window and scream. But no one would hear her, she knew.

Frustrated, she sat again on the bed. She could hear men talking topside, but she couldn't make out a single word they were saying.

She heard the soft tread of footsteps beyond the door and quickly tensed. Was it Michael, or was it someone else? Did it matter?

She shivered, wondering how the man could have turned out to be such a traitor. It felt as if her very heart had gone cold with the shock of it. Maybe he hadn't done it on purpose, but he had brought her into the hands of the Death Squad. She might very well die.

The door opened. This time it wasn't Michael; it was one of the dark-haired men from the night before. He carried a tray covered with a cloth napkin. The man watched her and flashed a lascivious, white-toothed smile, as he put the tray on the bed. “You eat.”

She didn't make a move. He touched her sleeve, and she jumped back. “Pretty, yes?”

She still didn't reply, and he shrugged. “I see you later.”

Then he, too, was gone.

There seemed to be a tight knot in Amber's stomach, but she pulled the napkin off the tray anyway. She should eat, she knew. If she was ever to have a chance of escape, she would need strength.

There was a cup of steaming coffee there, with bread and butter and something that looked like a
palomillo
steak, a thin Latin steak, and plantains. She touched the napkin that had lain over the food. It was white and spotless. She looked around the cabin. It, too, was very clean.

Ali Abdul was apparently a fastidious man.

She sipped the coffee, then cut the thin steak and bit into it. It was very good. She found that she could eat. In fact, she consumed everything on the plate.

Senator Daldrin was still aboard somewhere. She hoped that he had been fed, as well. Maybe, if she could get to him, she could find more courage. They could escape together.

When she finished her food, she stood. She hadn't thought to try the door to the cabin. She did so, and found it unlocked. She stepped outside into the hallway. There was one man in the galley, at the sink. She looked in the opposite direction. There were other doors leading to other cabins. She kept an eye on the man in the galley and started checking out the other doors. She came upon an empty cabin, then another. It occurred to her that there was another stretch of cabins on the aft side of the helm. With a sinking heart she realized that Senator Daldrin was probably there.

She threw open a fourth door. On a bunk lay some kind of automatic weapon. She hesitated, then hurried toward it.

“No,
chica!
” a voice called out. She spun. It was the man who had been in the galley, the man who had brought her the food. She lunged for the gun. Too late. He was on top of her, his weight pushing her down on the gun. She shoved against him, and to keep her from grabbing the weapon, he had to let her go.

She leaped up, tore down the hall and up the flight of steps leading to the deck.

They were there. They were all there. One man at the helm, the others seated in deck chairs or lined up along the rail. They were casually dressed in jeans and shorts, T-shirts and casual cotton knits.

Even Ali Abdul was dressed in loose shorts and a cotton shirt, his head covered but his burnoose gone. He stared at her.

Michael stood at the prow, his feet wide apart, balancing against the waves.

She looked from him to Ali, then to Khazar. The man from below was calling out a warning.

There was nowhere to go. Michael was spinning around to look at her when the Hispanic man appeared, the automatic rifle in his hands.

Amber made a mad dash for a space at the railing and dove into the sea. She sank into the cool, salty water, then kicked hard and reached the surface. There was land to the west, she knew. How far away was it? Did she have a prayer of making it? She didn't dare look back. They were in a motor cruiser. They could follow her; they could track her down and shoot her, just like some fishermen shoot sharks.

She started to swim, but the skirt weighed her down, tangling between her legs. She paused, treading water, trying to strip off the skirt.

A scream escaped her. A man was swimming toward her, hard. Michael. She turned and started to swim desperately again, but he caught her by the hair, wrenching her toward him. She sputtered and choked as water filled her mouth. He ignored her, carelessly stroking toward the boat. He moved powerfully, and no matter how she tried to twist from his painful hold, she was dragged cleanly through the water, irrevocably closer to the boat.

When they reached the cruiser, hands reached down to pull her up, then to assist Michael. She fell, defeated, into a wet pool on the deck. Michael stood over her. She could see his bare feet and calves and the water that dripped along them. “Don't ever try that again!” he ordered her sharply.

Her head was down. Someone approached them. She heard a voice speak in lightly accented English. Ali Abdul.

“It doesn't matter now. We have come to the Island of the Damned.”

Amber looked up. They were indeed approaching an island. It seemed to be just off the mainland, small, yet its appearance could be deceptive. High mountains rose upon it, green and blue. It had apparently been formed by volcanic activity, and its appearance was similar to Jamaica.

The Island of the Damned. That was what Ali had called it.

And she was sure that that was what it would be for her. She had been brought to this secret place, and she was sure they would never let her leave it alive.

Everyone was silent as the boat slowed. They came closer and closer to the island, then slipped into a small channel between two tall walls of rock. Coral reefs were all around them. Amber could see the shoals beneath them. Only a seaman who knew the area well could possibly navigate here.

At long last they came to a cove with several docks, and the boat was maneuvered into a berth. There were other craft there, sailboats, motorboats, all different sizes and types. There were men on the docks, hosing down boats, cleaning fish. For a moment Amber felt her heart soar—there were other people on this island. Regular citizens. There might be hope.

But then one of the men saluted Ali as he stepped ashore with an agility rare for a man his age. Amber's heart sank to the pit of her stomach.

Michael's fingers tugged at her again. “Come on, Amber, we're here. The Island of the Damned.”

She struggled to her feet, and he pushed her toward the rail. He leaped onto the dock ahead of her, then reached and swung her down. Her wet shirt dripped onto the dock, then Michael pointed ahead of them. “Our home,” he said.

She looked in the direction he pointed, and chills seized her.