Running Hot

She stepped off the gangway and onto the sleek, twin-engine cabin cruiser, wondering why the cold despair was hitting her so hard. If there was one thing you learned fast when you were raised by the state, it was that ultimately you could depend only on yourself. The foster home system and the streets were the ultimate universities, awarding harsh degrees in the most basic kind of entrepreneurship. When you were on your own in the world, the laws of survival were simple. She had learned them well.

She thought her past had prepared her for any eventuality, including the possibility that the only man she had ever trusted might someday turn on her. She had been mistaken. Nothing could blunt the pain of this betrayal.

Martin emerged from the cabin. The dazzling Caribbean sunlight glinted off his mirrored glasses. He saw her and gave her his familiar charismatic smile.

“There you are,” he said, coming forward to take the computer case from her. “You’re late.” He glanced at the man in the white shirt and dark blue trousers coming up the gangway with her suitcase. “Weather problems?”

“No, sir.” Eric Schafer set down the small suitcase. “We landed on time. But there’s some kind of local holiday going on. The streets were jammed. You know how it is here on the island. Only one road from the airport and it goes straight through town. No way to avoid the traffic.”

Eric straightened and wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. His shirt, embroidered with the discreet logo of Crocker World, had been military-crisp that morning when he climbed into the cockpit of the small corporate jet in Miami. It was now badly wilted from the island heat.

“The Night and Day Festival,” Martin said. “I forgot about it. Big event down here. A combination of Mardi Gras and Halloween.”

He was lying, she thought. She watched the strange dark energy flash in his aura. It was all part of the plan to kill her. The festival would provide excellent cover for a murder. With so many strangers on the island, the local authorities would be too busy to notice if Mr. Crocker returned from his private island alone.

“Will there be anything else, sir?” Eric asked.

“Where’s Banner?”

“Left him back at the airport. He’s keeping an eye on the plane.”

“You two can take the jet back to Miami. No point both of you cooling your heels on this rock for an entire week. You’ve got wives and kids who will probably be very happy to see you. I’ve been keeping you guys busy these past few months.”

“Yes, sir. Thanks.”

Eric’s gratitude was real. Martin knew how to bind his people to him with a combination of generous salaries and benefits and his own natural charisma. She had often thought that he could have been a very successful cult leader. Instead, he had chosen a different career path.

He went up the short flight of teak steps to take the helm.

“Get the lines for me,” he called down to Eric.

“Sure thing, Mr. Crocker.” Eric crouched to uncoil the ropes that secured the powerful boat to the dock.

She wondered what he and the others on the staff would think when she disappeared. Martin had probably already prepared a convincing story for them. Something to do with falling overboard, perhaps. The currents around the island were notoriously tricky.

She felt the vibration beneath her feet as the boat’s engines started to churn. Eric gave her a friendly wave and dashed more sweat off his forehead.

There was no veiled look of masculine speculation in his expression, no sly wink or grin. When he got back to the airport he and his copilot, John Banner, would not make any comments about the boss going off with one of his girlfriends. No one on Martin’s staff had ever mistaken her for one of Martin’s many lovers. His women tended to be tall, willowy and blond. She was none of those things. She was just the hired help.

Officially she was Martin’s butler, the one person who traveled with him everywhere. She kept his life organized and oversaw the operation of his many residences. Most important, she supervised the entertaining of his friends, business associates and the occasional visiting politician, lobbyist or head of state.

She raised her hand in farewell to Eric and squeezed back tears. Regardless of what happened today, she knew that she would never see him again.

The boat slipped gracefully away from the dock, headed toward the entrance to the small harbor.

Like many who moved in the stratospheric circles inhabited by those of great wealth, Martin owned several houses and kept a number of apartments in various locales around the world. The Miami mansion was his main residence but the place he considered home was the small island he had purchased a few years ago. The only way to get to it was by boat. There was no landing strip, just a single dock.

Unlike his other residences, which were always maintained in a state of readiness, Martin kept no staff on the island. The house was much smaller and far more modest than his other dwellings. He considered the place his private retreat.

Once past the stone pillars that marked the harbor entrance, Martin revved the engines. The boat picked up speed, slicing eagerly through the turquoise blue water. He was busy at the wheel, not paying any attention to her as he concentrated on piloting the craft. She heightened her other senses and took another look at his aura. The dark energy was stronger now. He was getting jacked up.

The boat felt very small around her. There was nowhere to hide; nowhere to run.

She had known for days—weeks, if she was brutally honest with herself—that Martin was planning to get rid of her. She was even sure she knew why. Nevertheless, some small part of her had clung to the slender thread of denial, even as it unraveled. Maybe there was some logical explanation for the disturbing changes in his aura. Maybe the new darkness was the result of mental illness. As dreadful as that possibility would be, at least it would allow her the comfort of knowing that he was no longer in his right mind; that the real Martin would never plot her death.

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