Chapter Eight
AUDREY’S FEVER HAD broken a few hours ago, and now she slept peacefully as Killion watched from a nearby chair. Her skin was pale and she looked about fifteen as she lay there with her dark hair spread over the snow-white pillow, dark lashes draping the heavy circles under her eyes. He’d barely left her side over the last two days except to scope out supplies, make sure there wasn’t any indication of where they were or whom this place belonged to. He didn’t want any blowback from this operation if Audrey Lockhart turned out to be the assassin he’d initially suspected.
It was nighttime with the moon silvery bright in the navy sky. He stared through a picture window where the orb was reflected in the calm Caribbean ocean.
The place was paradise. Perfection. Tranquil, indolent, and rich. The house was built into a hillside on the leeward side of an island about a mile wide by two miles long. It had its own beach, its own helipad and according to all sources of information he’d located and removed, belonged to someone called Haley Cramer, one of Alex Parker’s partners in his exclusive security business.
The house had running water, electricity from solar panels, and an emergency back-up generator. The pantry was full and the freezers well stocked with everything from milk to steak. The main deck had a fantastic sunset view Killion hadn’t yet been able to enjoy.
It was Nim’s Island on steroids.
He went and grabbed a fresh T-shirt from his duffel. His gear was here in the same room because that had been the easiest way to nurse her and also get some rest. Thinking about it, she was the first woman he’d slept with in over a decade. It had felt surprisingly good to hold someone in his arms. Of course, she’d been comatose.
His usual encounters with the opposite sex—outside work—were more of the hit and run variety. It was for their own good. He was upfront about what he wanted, some fun, a little downtime, and no expectations beyond some naked tangoing of whatever variety the woman preferred. He didn’t have a normal job. He didn’t have a normal life. Nor could he advertise his trade to excuse his bad behavior. His life was a series of secrets stacked upon secrets like a thousand cobwebs, each layer intricate and discrete. Build enough lies and eventually even you forgot where you came from—and it was better that way. It protected the few people in the world he cared about.
He yawned widely. Logan and Noah had helped him carry Audrey and their gear up a series of steep steps from the helipad. Killion and Audrey were stranded on the island until someone arrived in a chopper or they flagged down a passing boat. Great for privacy, not so great in an emergency, as he’d discovered about a day too late.
Still, he was pretty sure she was over the worst. She looked like she’d probably survive. Not that it mattered. She was just a suspect. A “detainee” until he said otherwise. His hands clenched into fists. He eyed the sweet bow of her lips and reminded himself not to get played, else he might find himself drinking arsenic with his next cup of joe.
Exhausted, he rested his eyes for a moment.
When his body jolted awake in the leather recliner hours later, the room was bathed in weak golden sunlight. He didn’t know what had woken him until he glanced at the bed and found a pair of violet-blue eyes staring straight at him. He’d never seen eyes that color before, like some sort of exotic flower.
“Hey. You’re awake.” Relief flooded his veins.
“Patrick.” Audrey’s voice was scratchy, her smile pale and tired. She touched her forehead. “I feel like I went ten rounds in a UFC cage.”
His lips kicked into a grin. “Me, too.”
A line cut between her brows. “You’ve been looking after me?”
Killion nodded.
“Just you?” She glanced around in confusion and then down at the clothes she was wearing. Her eyes widened as they cut back to his.
“Just me. And, yep, I’ve seen you naked—thank you. I did not close my eyes, but I did behave as a perfect gentleman even though there were no witnesses.” He crossed a finger over his heart. If errant thoughts had entered his mind it wasn’t his fault. It was biology. If anyone understood that it would be Audrey. “Hey, we even slept together, but you managed to control yourself.”
She nodded, looking more resigned than unhappy, then glanced around the huge bedroom with the flowing net drapes that opened out onto a wide deck.
“Where are we?” She blinked as if trying to focus. He’d forgotten she usually wore reading glasses. He knew from his research she was a little long-sighted—just enough to look cute when she squinted.
“Somewhere safe.” He leaned over and put his hand on her forehead as he’d done countless times over the last few days. This time she pulled away and her eyes dilated—definitely back in control of her faculties.
He felt a pang of unexpected loss. Idiot.
Now the hard stuff began.
The key to a successful interrogation was to understand the emotional needs of the subject and to relieve the fear they felt when being questioned—not to increase it. He had to establish a rapport and figure out the motivation of the person he was questioning. A good interrogator made the subject want to tell him what he wanted to know.
So how did he get Audrey to want to tell him what he needed to know?
And what if she didn’t know anything?
She shifted uncomfortably. He’d been staring at her stupidly, trying to figure out a way to dig inside that brain of hers.
“Do you want to sit up?” he asked, stalling for time.
She nodded and he reached over, grabbed the pillow he’d been using and slipped it behind her upper back. Her hair brushed his hand—soft and tangled. He already knew he was going to miss the satiny texture of it as it sifted through his fingers, and he was going to have to compartmentalize those thoughts to get his job done.
“How’s your side feeling?” The stab wound had healed nicely, forming a thick scab over her skin. The two stitches had held up well and he’d kept it clean and dry.
“It’s a lot better than it was. Sore,” she admitted. “But not painful.”
“It healed okay, but you came down with a fever. You seem a lot better now.”
She nodded.
“So why did Hector Sanchez try to kill you?”
She shook her head. He passed her some water, suddenly aware of the sound of the air conditioner kicking on, and her small hands wrapping around the cup. Her nails were short, and she wore a gold signet ring on the pinkie of her right hand. Her cheeks hollowed out as she drank through the straw. She’d lost weight during her battle with the infection and there hadn’t been much of her to start with. He didn’t like it. Didn’t like the idea of her suffering, didn’t like how frail she looked. Even sitting up seemed to tire her.
He didn’t like that he didn’t like it.
“It must have something to do with the attack from the night before.” Her voice regained some of that huskiness he’d noticed during the talk she’d given on frogs. He’d forgotten the effect her slight Kentucky accent had on him.
“The one you reported to the cops?”
She nodded.
“No police report with your name on it was filed that night.”
“What?” Her surprise looked genuine. No micro expressions of deception.
“I checked,” he added.
“How?” She frowned.
He shrugged. “I asked around.”
“But why wouldn’t they file the report? I was with them for two hours.”
No record of that either.
Her confusion turned to anger. Righteous indignation rising to the surface with every breath. “The caretaker warned me the cops might not take me seriously.”
“Can you remember the detectives’ names?”
Her lips were dry and cracked as she pinched them together. He passed her the salve he’d already applied several times and she took it with a cautious expression. “Thank you.”
He avoided looking at her mouth when she put it on. Obviously he was suffering from whatever the reverse of Stockholm syndrome was, where the captor felt sympathy for their captive. His subjects were usually stinky, ugly, hairy guys, much easier to detach from, but he hadn’t rescued and repeatedly saved them from death, nor bathed with them naked—thank God. Maybe this was a biological thing—his wiggly DNA wanting a chance to divide and conquer.
As long as he recognized the issues he could deal with them, and use them to his advantage.
She frowned as she struggled to remember. “One guy was called Ortez, he gave me a card which is in my purse in the lab.”
Or more likely in evidence—or destroyed—but he didn’t tell her that. Interestingly a detective called Patrice Ortez had been on duty that night, alongside a guy called Diego Torres. Alex Parker had gotten the names of all the detectives working in the area, now he’d hopefully be able to pull the right phone records. Apparently it wasn’t as easy as it sounded—and it sure as hell wasn’t legal.
Audrey didn’t know about her dead student yet and he wasn’t about to enlighten her. He was saving that information for when he might need leverage, or to knock her emotionally off balance. Yep, he was a real prince.
He crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair. “Like I said, nothing was filed. There is no report.”
“I don’t know if they’re corrupt or incompetent.” She put the glass on the bedside table. “I should get to an American police station immediately and tell them exactly what happened. Can you call someone for me?”
“No.” He let his eyes get hard. It was time to get down to brass tacks while she was still weak from her illness and vulnerable from the uncertainty of her situation. “Time for the truth, Audrey. I know who you are.”
She blinked twice. “I didn’t realize who I was was ever in question.” Her tired features pinched further. “I want to make a phone call and talk to someone official.” She pushed the bedclothes off and swung her legs carefully over the edge of the bed.
It took every ounce of self-control to force himself to sprawl back in his chair and let her struggle. “Knock yourself out.”
As she placed her toes on the sheepskin rug she tugged the T-shirt as low as it would go—mid-thigh. Her legs wobbled as she pushed to her feet and staggered to the doorway that led to the deck. The fresh sea breeze swept through the room and cleared out the scent of the sickroom, but the effort was obviously too much for her. She sagged against the doorframe as she looked outside. “Where are we?”
He moved to stand behind her. She swayed and he scooped her up when she would have collapsed to the floor. She grabbed onto his shirt, fingers curling tight over his heart.
“Just tell me who you work for and I’ll get us both out of here.” Up close her eyes were almost lavender. The fire in them told him exactly what she thought of answering his questions when he wouldn’t answer any of hers, but she surprised him.
“I work for the U of L and hold adjunct status at the university in Bogota. My boss is the head of department, Professor Paula Renault. Now I’ve told you what you wanted to know. Get me out of here.”
Killion shook his head and carried her out onto the deck and spun them in a slow circle. “See this?” She clutched his shirt tighter, holding on as if dizzy. “There’s no one here except us. There’s no one to talk to except me, and we’re not going anywhere until you tell me the truth about who you work for.” The sky was so blue and the sun so strong Audrey tucked her face into his chest, and he hated how the action affected him. His voice grew softer. “I’m all for hanging out until you tell me who hired you. But you aren’t fooling me. I know what you did. I know who you killed, and I don’t mean good old Hector. So let’s cut to the chase and get this over with.”
Her mouth dropped open as she looked up at him.
“Hey, I’m not judging you.” He tilted his head and gave her his best smile.
“You know who I killed but you’re not judging me?” She gaped, then took a swipe at his cheek with her open hand.
He easily avoided the blow, and laughed. Mistake. She started to struggle, so he gripped her tighter and returned to the bedroom. He laid her down carefully on the crumpled sheets and leaned over her, staring deep into those indignant eyes.
“I mean it when I say we’re not going anywhere until I get the truth.”
She opened her mouth to say something and then stopped, biting her lip in a way that flipped his small brain to the “on” position. No doubt about it, he needed to burn off a little steam in the sex department.
She frowned thoughtfully, as if replaying something in her mind. “Spook.”
Uh-oh.
He blanked his features.
“Someone said you were a government spook.”
Something a good operative would never call another on. He straightened. “You’re mistaken.”
“No, I’m not. It was that other guy. The big Brit.” Her eyes grew huge. “He thought I was asleep. You’re not a tourist at all, are you? You’re a spook. A CIA agent.” She said it like it was akin to being a child molester. Her pupils flared and she shrank back against the pillows. “What do you want with me? Why have you kidnapped me? I’m a frog biologist, for God’s sake.”
Boom.
She’d been awake ten minutes and he’d already lost control of this interrogation. Never underestimate smart people. Rather than screw it up further by trying to regain the upper hand, he turned on his heel and left. He didn’t bother locking up. There was nowhere for Dr. Audrey Lockhart to go.
* * *
AUDREY LAY IN bed with her heart hammering like a hamster on a red-hot wheel. This wasn’t a rescue. This was a kidnapping.
As soon as “Patrick” left, Audrey rushed to her feet and headed for the garden doors. She was wearing nothing except a long T-shirt, but if she flashed the neighbors while trying to escape she didn’t really care. She had to get away.
Her wound was healing, but she was careful not to jar it as she staggered out onto the balcony. The sun reflected off the surface of the topaz ocean so brightly tears stung her eyes. The house was perched near the top of a steep hillside covered in dense forest. She looked around frantically. There wasn’t another house in sight, nor were there any people visible. She thought about shouting for help but didn’t want to attract the wrong sort of attention until she knew exactly what she was dealing with.
A wave of wooziness flowed over her and she clutched the railing until it passed. The heat sapped her meager strength and even this short walk to the balcony left her tired and breathless. The deck didn’t lead anywhere. There were no steps and nowhere to go unless she wanted to climb thirty feet down a sheer rock face.
Not today. Not any day for that matter.
Surely, if she went out the front door there would be a road and she could flag someone down for help?
One thing was for certain, she wasn’t sitting around for the insane government agent to come back with more of his ridiculous accusations. She went to the bedroom door and peeked out along the corridor toward a living room with hardwood floors. The house was constructed with beautiful clean lines of pale wood and white-washed walls and if it wasn’t for the fact she was being held captive when she should have been at work, she might have paused to admire the architecture of this tropical paradise.
“Patrick” wasn’t anywhere to be seen. If he was a spook—and there had been no reason to lie as they’d thought she was unconscious at the time—she doubted Patrick was his real name. It felt wrong not even knowing his name when he held her life in his hands, but even more disorienting was not knowing where on the planet she was being held. She didn’t even know what day it was. Did her parents know she was missing? She hoped not. Her mother would freak. Her mom and dad were already run ragged keeping Sienna from going off the rails and looking after their grandson. It wasn’t fair to put them through anything else.
Using the wall for support, she made her way to an airy open-plan living room and staggered past a large center island that marked off the kitchen. It was empty, thank goodness. There were huge seascapes on the walls, but no personal pictures anywhere. Was this a rental cottage? She couldn’t imagine it was a CIA safe house, but if it was, it certainly explained her taxes.
Her head started to pound. What was she doing here? She had a busy schedule, experiments to run. Students to teach. Frogs to care for. Things like this didn’t happen to her—then she remembered her friend, Rebecca. They’d been walking home from a club one night and a mugging had turned into murder when their attacker had pulled a gun.
So things like this did happen to her.
Maybe she was jinxed.
A cell phone sat on the living room coffee table and she snatched it up, turning it on and finding to her amazement it actually had a signal. A toilet flushed somewhere in the house. The sound spurred her into motion.
She was out of breath and sweating by the time she reached the front door. The elaborate electronic lock surprised her, but the door opened easily. She eased the solid oak door quietly closed behind her and dialed nine-one-one. The call rang endlessly and she gave up and dialed her parents instead. She looked out at a thick canopy of trees and frowned in confusion. No road. No vehicle. Not even a bicycle to borrow. Where was this place?
Her call again went unanswered.
She tried their cells. Maybe her parents were at the police station filling out forms about their missing daughter. Maybe they were printing flyers or posting on social media requesting help in finding her. Frustrated, she hung up and dialed Devon. If anyone had the wherewithal to track her whereabouts it was her ex, or his and Rebecca’s father, Gabriel, who was very fond of her.
Again the call rang endlessly, seeming to echo incessantly over the fiber optics network of the world.
A steep path led down toward the beach. Even looking at it sucked the energy from her marrow, then she remembered she wasn’t a guest here, she wasn’t on vacation. Instead, she was the prisoner of a delusional, if handsome, lunatic. She took a step forward and found herself once again swept up into strong arms. With her free hand she grabbed onto his shirt for balance, recognizing his scent before she even saw his face.
He plucked the cell out of her fingers and pocketed the phone. “For the love of Christ, you’ve been awake fifteen minutes and you’re already a giant pain in my ass.”
She fought to get out of his grip, but she had no strength left. Patrick had about seventy pounds of muscle mass on her, plus he hadn’t almost died from a fever.
“You’re going to hurt yourself and put your recovery back another week. I’ve already wasted enough time trying to keep you alive,” he bit out.
The callousness of that comment hurt. “I didn’t plan to get stabbed.”
He strode through the house and dumped her on the bed. She lay there too exhausted to move. Tears pricked her eyes and she turned away, not wanting him to see her so vulnerable. She’d been kidnapped by a rogue agent who’d mistakenly thought she’d killed someone—which should have been laughable except here she was being held captive in a strange house at an unknown location. He’d been watching her. Following her. Stalking her. How else had he been on hand to “save” her? Sure, he’d nursed her for days and probably saved her life, but who knew what else he’d done when she’d been unconscious. A rush of revulsion shot through her. She adjusted her shirt to cover more of her thighs.
His eyes narrowed as if reading her thoughts, a touch of temper spiking those cool depths.
“Just tell me who hired you, Doc, and I’ll arrange transportation back to the mainland ASAP. Getting you out of my hair will be a pleasure, believe me.”
They were on an island? She tried not to give away her surprise or unease. “And what happens when I can’t tell you what you want to know?”
He stared at her with a hard expression. Nothing like the nice guy who’d slept in the chair beside her bed earlier. There was nothing nice in his expression and a little shiver of apprehension slipped down her spine as she realized this guy had total control over every aspect of her life.
The moisture in her mouth evaporated as her fear increased. “What are you going to do if I don’t tell you what you want to know?”
“Oh, you’ll tell me eventually.”
And despite his default laid-back persona, she believed him. This man was not some beach bum, surfer dude. The harsh set of his features told her he’d done things and seen things that would make her cover her eyes in horror. The trouble was she didn’t know the answers to the questions he posed.
She reached for her water but her hand was shaking too much to actually pick up the glass and she almost knocked it over. He grabbed it and held it to her lips. She reluctantly took a sip wondering why she trusted him on one level and thought he was dangerous on another.
The water eased her dry throat. His face was only inches from hers, so close she could see the white gold of his eyelashes. She pushed the cup away. “Are you really CIA?” He said nothing and she could read nothing from his expression. “Are you a spy?”
His lips tightened. “I’m not a spy.”
“So CIA, but not a spy. What do you do for them?” Her breath hitched as she remembered all the times the CIA had been on the news in the last few years. “Were you one of the people searching for Bin Laden? An analyst?”
He shook his head and put the cup on the side table. “It’s classified.”
She’d followed the hearings of the Senate committee and knew some of what the CIA had done in the name of democracy and freedom. “Oh, my God.” She sucked in a breath. “Did you torture detainees?”
His eyes were icy cold now and he didn’t answer. Shocker. Instead he said, “Just tell me who hired you and you won’t have to worry about any of that.”
She shivered, but refused to be cowed. “Are you going to waterboard me if I don’t tell you what you want to hear?”
A half smile played on his lips, a smile that hinted at knowledge, experience, and a measure of absurdity. “I already tried that in the shower. Didn’t work.”
Her eyes flashed to his in alarm. He’d showered with her?
“Hey, it wasn’t that bad. I kept my pants on. Although I admit to being naked in the bathtub because I ran out of dry clothes.” He was searching her face now as if looking for her sense of humor, but she was so beyond finding this situation funny.
“Who do you think I killed?” she asked. It sounded so ridiculous.
One cocky brow rose. “You mean apart from Hector Sanchez?”
Her hand flew to her mouth. She’d forgotten she had actually killed a man. Nausea roiled in her stomach. But Patrick was trying to rattle her, determined not to answer her questions even though he demanded she answer his. She’d killed a man while fighting for her life—it wasn’t the same as being a killer.
“Is your name really Patrick?”
“That’s classified.”
God, he was insufferable. “I need to know.”
“What part of classified don’t you understand?”
“And what part of decent human being don’t you understand?” she snapped back.
He flinched. A chink in the armor. A hole in the wall. It wasn’t much, but it proved he was at least human. She had to keep him on the defensive.
“You’re one of the people who tortured prisoners during the Iraq War, aren’t you? How’d that make you feel, Patrick? Like a big man?”
His lip curled. “How’d it make you feel lying safe and snug in your own bed while others sacrificed themselves for you? Easy to blame the foot soldiers when the smoke clears, isn’t it?”
“You can’t just ignore the law.”
He pointed his finger at her. “Trust me, I know more about the law than you’ve even begun to process.” A furious light shone in his eyes. “And if I deny ‘torturing detainees,’ who are you going to condemn next? The Counterintelligence Officers? The military interrogators? The drone pilots? Who gets the blame and who gets the credit?” He paced. “It was a shambles after 9/11. Utter chaos. We were all just doing our jobs with fuck-all guidance from back home except to make sure there was no imminent threat to the American Homeland. And in case you didn’t notice, we did a pretty bang up job of that at the time.”
She narrowed her gaze. “It doesn’t make it right.”
“It’s hard to play the game with one hand tied behind your back.”
“Tell that to the people you tortured.” Audrey believed in right and wrong. There was no moral ambiguity here.
“You think terrorists follow the Geneva Convention when they’re sawing off aid workers’ heads?” He leaned closer and she wanted to pull away but she held her ground. “You think they worry about being condemned for war crimes when they make women and young girls their sex slaves and rape them, repeatedly, until they’re either dead or pregnant? Those bastards deserve a bullet in the head at point-blank range for what they do, not a fucking lawyer.” The muscle flexing in his jaw mesmerized her, as did the masculine scent of his skin.
He drew back and lowered his voice. “You know the safest place for any terrorist? FBI or CIA custody. And they know it. They aren’t scared of us because we might ‘torture’ them.” He jammed his hand into his too long hair. “They’re laughing their fucking asses off because they know we can’t touch them, not the way we’d like to.”
“Unless you whisk them away to some Black Camp location.” She looked around pointedly.
He snorted. “You’re out of your mind, lady. This is nothing like a Black Camp. But keep up the denial and maybe you’ll get to see the real deal—and I’d strongly advise against that option.” He clamped his lips shut. He must have figured he’d said too much.
The sudden silence buzzed with anger. She’d rattled him, which had been her intent, but she liked him more for his honest reaction than for the annoyingly honed veneer of cynical amusement. Then his expression changed and his eyes drifted slowly over her body. She tugged the hem of the T-shirt lower.
She glared back, recognizing the predatory gleam in his eyes. “Touch me and I’ll scream,” she warned.
“Oh, you’ll scream all right.” His grin was sexy rather than threatening, which probably wasn’t the effect he was going for. Her nipples tightened and her breath caught with a shot of anticipation. No doubt about it, the guy looked like he knew his way around the pleasure spots of the female body. She hated herself for letting him get to her.
A flicker of self-satisfaction touched his lips, and she realized he’d purposely turned the tables on her once again.
“Is this how you normally get women into bed?” she muttered irritably.
“Trust me, it’s not something I usually have to work at.” His expression became one of supreme self-confidence. “Hey, don’t get me wrong. Under normal circumstances I’d do you.” Those blue eyes of his were boring into her again, trying to upset her and doing a hell of a job of it. “You’re female and not dead, and frankly I’m not that fussy. But I like my women willing and enthusiastic, and preferably not with a killer frog in their pocket.”
Killer frog? Was that his idea of a joke? Considering how Hector Sanchez had died it wasn’t funny. If she’d had the energy she’d have smacked him. “You’ve got some nerve, you know that? Why don’t you run along and poke bamboo under someone’s fingernails.”
“Good tip. Anything else you’d like to pass on?”
“I hate you.” She hugged her knees to her chest, but judging from the way his eyes widened and nostrils flared she’d flashed more than she’d intended. She glared. So what? He’d already seen her naked.
He looked at the ceiling and muttered, “If anyone is a professional torturer around here it would be you.”
She licked her lips nervously.
He watched her mouth and then met her gaze. “You can play the seduction game if you want, Aud. Despite what I said before I’m totally up for it. But it won’t change the outcome of our time together. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
She let out a choked laugh. She’d been stabbed, kidnapped, and comatose for days, and she was playing the seduction game? Seduction game? Was he out of his ever-loving mind? She looked like death. Her hair was a wild scraggly mess. She hadn’t brushed her teeth in days.
“I’m keeping you here until you tell me who hired you.” He went over and picked up a duffel bag she hadn’t noticed from the top of a chest of drawers. “You and me are stuck together until I get the information I need, and that’s true even if you force me to have sex with you.”
Her mouth dropped open.
He did not just say that.
He thought she was trying to seduce her way out of this? Who the hell was she supposed to be, Mata Hari? Red-hot rage surged through her like molten lava. She grabbed the water cup and threw it at him, but it was plastic and fell short. She was so angry her vision blurred and her jaw locked. In the past she’d never wished anyone ill but if he stuck around that could change.
His expression had regained its annoying arrogance and that told her he had her back exactly where he wanted her, acting on instinct, not logic. Not asking him the tough questions.
She took a calming breath. “You’re making a big mistake, Patrick. I’m an American citizen. People will be looking for me. My parents, the university I work for.”
He weighed her words for a moment. “They’ll look for a while. Then they’ll forget all about you. That’s the reality. Trust me, I know.”
He turned and left. This time she heard the lock turn.