Jack wanted to throw up. This couldn’t be happening, not twice in two days. They’d survived this madman yesterday, and damned well, too. He was supposed to be gone forever, off to spend the millions he’d embezzled.

Flushed with fear, Gen stood trembling in Brogan’s grip, her eyes huge behind the lenses of Jack’s glasses. She still couldn’t see who had her.

“And I so hoped you were dead, Brogan,” Jack said, to clue her in.

“Nick?” Gen sounded terrified, and Jack didn’t blame her one damned bit. This was the stuff nightmares were made of.

“I had hoped the same thing about you two,” Brogan said. “But here you are, anyway, so I’ll have to kill you again, apparently.”

“Nick, why are you here?” Gen’s eyes were wide, as if she was in shock.

“There’s always a snake in paradise,” Jack said. He hated hearing Brogan’s first name coming out of Gen’s mouth, hated thinking about the plans she’d had for the slimeball. Once his nausea passed, rage moved in. Even without his glasses, he was sure he’d be able to find the exact spot on Brogan’s throat where his thumbs needed to go. Choking him to death would be easy, and oh so satisfying.

“I’m not any happier to see you two than you are to see me,” Brogan said. “I was hoping you were a couple of bird-watchers, somebody who would have a boat. Somebody with food and water.”

Jack thought of the small amount of water and the five guavas in the suitcase. There was no reason for Brogan to think they had anything to eat or drink, and Jack planned to keep it that way as long as possible. “Sounds like somebody ruined your little party.”

“Stupid assholes are probably circling one of the other islands and wondering why I’m not there. They have the brains of termites.”

“It’s so hard to get good help these days.” Although Jack’s dearest wish was to rush the guy and grab the gun, he couldn’t guarantee Gen wouldn’t get shot in the process. He remembered what it felt like to have a gun barrel shoved against his temple. He didn’t want to make any moves that would scare her even more.

Brogan nodded toward the suitcase. “I see you still have that dorky suitcase. How in hell did you make it out alive, let alone save that ridiculous suitcase? You couldn’t possibly have landed the plane.”

“Ha! Jack did land the plane.” Gen’s fire seemed to be returning. “And then he saved my suitcase. And don’t you dare insult my luggage, you murdering, lying—”

“Oh, you can’t call me a murderer yet, Genevieve.” Brogan tightened his arm around her neck. “You’re both still alive. But I’ll be taking care of that detail shortly. I just need a little more time.”

“Time isn’t going to help,” Jack said. “Your whole program has been shit-canned, and you know it. You can’t leave behind a couple of dead bodies with bullets in them that could be traced to you.”

“I always knew you were a genius, but I’m no slouch myself. I figured that one out, which is why you’re both still breathing the cool salty air.”

“You’re looking a little ragged around the edges, Brogan.” Jack’s vision might be blurry, but he could see that the guy’s presentation had taken a hit. His Italian shoes were gone, probably kicked off during his swim to shore. He must have deep-sixed his jacket for the same reason, because it wasn’t in evidence, either. His imported silk shirt and slacks were ripped and stained.

Brogan stiffened. “Nothing that a few days in Fiji won’t cure.”

Jack detected a little bit of belligerence, a crack in Brogan’s layer of suave confidence. Gen might be right about this grooming thing affecting how people thought of you, because Jack had trouble believing that Brogan, looking the way he did, would end up on a beach in Fiji sipping an umbrella drink.

Without the advantage of Gen’s sunscreen, the guy’s face was all blotchy except for a few bristly patches of hair. Apparently Brogan couldn’t grow much of a beard. The previously GQ-worthy babe magnet resembled something the cat had dragged in. By comparison, Jack felt like a stud.

While this pleased him no end, he decided not to make any more remarks about Brogan’s appearance. The maniac’s vanity might override his logic and Jack would end up with a bullet in his brain because he was sporting a better look.

“Tell you what,” Brogan said. “Let’s move this little party down to the beach, so I’ll be able to see if and when those two morons show up. Farley, you first. If you try anything, Genevieve becomes one dead secretary. Disposing of the body is a problem, but not a huge problem, so don’t test me.”

“Hey, I’m a computer geek, not a hero.” Jack stepped onto the sand and gave Gen a reassuring glance as he moved past her.

“I’ve been counting on that,” Brogan said. “Which is why I can’t figure out how you landed the—hold on. You’ve flown simulations, haven’t you, you son of a bitch!”

“He was wonderful,” Gen said. “He kept his head and saved our lives.”

“Temporarily,” Brogan said.

“I was lucky that I didn’t kill us both in that plane.” As much as Jack enjoyed having Gen sing his praises, he didn’t want Brogan to think of him as a threat. The chances of catching Brogan off guard were better that way.

“It was more than luck,” Gen said. “I don’t know many folks who could have done what Jack did. He was cool as a lemonade jug floating in the crick.”

“I was a basket case,” Jack said. “It’s a miracle I held onto the controls.”

“So it’s Jack now, is it?” Brogan said, a sneer in his voice.

“All my friends call me that.”

“Not that I ever heard. How interesting. And, Genevieve, you’re sounding like a little hillbilly! I always wondered if you were what you pretended to be. Seems a little of the polish has worn off.”

“I’d rather be a hillbilly than a slimy excuse for a—”

“Now, now.” Brogan tightened his grip on her neck. “Better watch yourself, little girl. I’m sure Jack doesn’t want you dead any sooner than necessary. I have the feeling you two have become much better acquainted since I last saw you.”

Now there was a subject Jack really didn’t want to get into. “Are you kidding, Brogan? Do you think a good-looking chick like Gen would have anything to do with a nerd like me?”

“Good point. I suppose she’s grateful that you saved her life, but not that grateful. Right, Genevieve, sweetheart?”

“A man like Jack is a darn sight preferable to a toad-sucker like you.”

“Well, damn.” Brogan’s laugh had a crazy edge to it. “I guess this means the offer of a blow job has been rescinded.”

Gen made a noise low in her throat.

Jack was afraid she might let her temper get the better of her, so he decided to change the subject. “What kind of boat do your pickup guys have?”

“Why, you gonna help me keep a lookout? How Christian of you.”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re stranded on this island, too,” Jack said. “Getting picked up by a couple of stupid bad guys is better than not getting picked up at all.”

“Or so you think. Okay, what the hell. They have an old beat-up trawler, dirty white with green trim. I thought a fishing boat would be less conspicuous, and they looked like they could use the money.”

“And they had the conscience of a cockroach, just like you,” Gen said.

“Well, I guess the romance is definitely over between us,” Brogan said. “Okay, we’re close enough to the waterline now. Genevieve and I will sit on this lava rock and make ourselves comfy.”

Jack tried to think of some way he could get Brogan to point the gun away from Gen. He came up blank.

“Farley, you stay right there and open the suitcase so I can find out if there’s anything useful in there.”

“There’s not a blessed thing in there that you’d want,” Gen said.

“There must be something of value, Daisy Mae, or you wouldn’t have asked Lil Abner to haul it all the way from the other side of the island.”

“Maybe we happen to like this suitcase,” Jack said.

“Well, that figures with a couple of losers like you. And I have to tell you, Farley, that wearing it like an oversized purse does nothing for the castaway look you have going.”

Oh, what a great opening for a slam. Jack had to really control himself. He wished Gen could get a gander at her former dreamboat, but Brogan kept a tight arm around her neck and the gun right up against her temple.

“Dump the stuff on the sand, Farley.”

Jack lifted the cord over his head, held the suitcase against one hip, and snapped it open, all the while trying to think what he might do with the contents to get the edge on Brogan. He could throw a guava at the guy, but that would just make a mess and might get Gen shot. The curling iron was a better weapon. Gen had insisted on packing it, even with the cord cut off. To leave it, according to her, would have been littering.

If Jack was thinking of throwing something, he had to factor in his aim, which would be lousy considering Gen was wearing his glasses. He’d have to get close enough to jab Brogan in the eye, but that wasn’t likely, and there was still the problem of Brogan firing the gun.

Every possible move Jack could make carried that danger. He could toss the beach towel over Brogan’s head, but Brogan could still shoot Gen.

“Dump the damned suitcase, Farley!”

“There’s a small bottle of water,” Jack said. “It could get br—”

“Water? Shit, leave the rest of it right there and bring the water. And don’t try anything, or I’ll shoot your girlfriend.”

“She’s not my—”

“Bring me the fucking water!”

Jack pulled out the shampoo bottle with water in it and dropped the suitcase to the sand. Then he started toward Gen and Brogan.

“Hold it.”

Jack stopped walking.

“This is damned inconvenient,” Brogan said. “If I let go of Little Miss Muffet to drink the water, one of you is liable to get some stupid idea of escaping. But I have to have that water.” He sighed. “Leave it right there and go take that ridiculous cord off the suitcase.”

Jack put the water down and started back to the suitcase.

“And make it snappy, or I’ll just shoot Genevieve and reduce my problems by half.”

Jack ripped the cord out, making the holes in the suitcase even bigger. He hated to, but he completely believed that Brogan would shoot that gun without hesitation. According to what Jack had read on the subject, sociopaths didn’t much care what happened to the people who got in their way. With the cord in his hand, he turned back to Gen and Brogan. “Now what?”

“You’re going to walk over here nice and easy, and hand the cord to our Playmate of the Month. Then you’re going to lie down with your back to her while she ties you up. If you make even one suspicious move, she’s history.”

Jack did as he was told. He tried to communicate some hope to Gen as he handed her the cord, but at this point he couldn’t figure out how to get around the damned gun. Moving slowly, he lay down in the warm, gritty sand, his back to them.

Brogan directed the operation, instructing Gen to tie Jack’s hands behind his back and then loop the cord around his right ankle, so he was trussed up like a calf in a rodeo. She did a good job, because Brogan had threatened to shoot her if she didn’t. He felt the quiver of her hands each time she touched him. He wished this was a game they were playing, like last time. But this was no game. So much for catching Brogan off guard.

“Okay, now, sweet peach,” Brogan said when she was done. “I want you to go get the water and bring it to me. I’ll have the gun pointed at the back of your hero’s head the whole time, so keep that in mind.”

His cheek resting on the sand, the barrel of the gun pressing against the base of his brain, Jack had a fuzzy view of Gen’s legs as she walked to the water bottle, picked it up, and came back.

“Take the top off,” Brogan told her.

Jack was getting very thirsty himself, so when he heard Brogan gulping the water, he groaned softly.

“Don’t drink it all!” Gen said. “Then we—you disgusting nightcrawler! You drank every blessed drop!”

“Kiss my ass,” Brogan said. “Now go get the suitcase and dump it over here so I can see what else is in there.”

Once again Jack watched as Gen walked across the sand, hefted the suitcase, and walked back. When she dumped it, a guava rolled past his nose and lay three inches from his mouth.

“Guavas, huh?” Brogan said. “How thoughtful. Let’s see, in order to eat one, I’ll need to have both of you tied up.” He paused. “Genevieve, be a good little secretary and take off Farley’s belt.”

Gen walked around in front of Jack and knelt down on the sand. “You okay?” she murmured as she fumbled with his belt.

He thought of the last time she’d unbuckled that belt. “Yeah. You?”

“Yeah. I—”

“Shut the hell up!” Brogan said. “And, by the way, how come there aren’t any clothes in this suitcase?”

“We used them to make an X on top of the lava plateau,” Gen said.

“Goddammit! You people are way too much trouble. Now I have to worry about going up there and taking that apart. All I need is for some Coast Guard helicopter to spot that.” Brogan sounded frazzled.

A frazzled bad guy could be a good thing or a bad thing, in Jack’s estimation. He might get careless, but he might get an itchy trigger finger. It could go either way.

Gen pulled his belt free of the loops. She didn’t seem quite as shaky, so he was hoping maybe she wasn’t so scared. Well, the gun was pressed against his head now, not hers. He’d rather have it that way, although if Brogan killed him, there would be no one to watch out for Gen.

She stood, her toes not far from his face. Such nice toes. Everything about Gen was nice. The idea that something bad could happen to her made him sick to his stomach all over again.

“Come around here and loop the belt between his crossed hands,” Brogan said.

Gen and her nice toes walked away. Then Jack felt the belt slide over the spot where his wrists were bound with the curling iron cord.

“That’s right,” Brogan said. “Now put the belt through the buckle. Okay, now put both your hands through the loop.”

The warmth of Gen’s wrists touched his. Then came a sharp yank, and the belt tightened, pinning their wrists together. The belt leather snapped a couple more times, and Jack figured out that Brogan was weaving it in and out of the binding so it wouldn’t pull loose.

“Okay,” he said at last. The pressure of the gun barrel against Jack’s head eased and then was gone. “Now I can eat one of the damn guavas. But any funny moves from either of you, and I’ll just shoot you both. I could almost do it with one bullet, you being trussed up and cozy.”

Jack got to listen to Brogan slurping eagerly while the other guava remained almost within reach of his tongue. Gen was being forced to listen to Brogan eat, too, and she had to be just as hungry and thirsty as he was. Jack hated to admit it, but as her knight in shining armor, he sucked.

* * *

After they left Kauai bearing northwest, Matt took the helm. Lincoln’s inner radar was guiding them toward the Leewards, a string of islets, shoals, and reefs that were very tricky to navigate and could catch an experienced sailor unaware, let alone beginners like Annabelle or Lincoln. Matt’s gut was in a big old knot.

The optimist in him had wanted Lincoln’s radar to beam them to some lavish resort in Kauai where Nick and Genevieve were kicking back, drinking mai-tais. In this scenario the two lovers had convinced Jackson to be a pal and go along with their little game of hooky. Nick had bribed somebody at the airport to say the Rainbow Systems plane hadn’t landed there.

Although Matt would have been furious to discover all of that was true, he’d rather uncover that kind of hanky-panky than to be headed toward the most remote part of the island chain. Any plane that went down out there was in very serious trouble. Except for a couple of wildlife stations, the area was uninhabited until you got to Midway. Matt was no pilot, but he couldn’t believe there would be viable places to land until Midway, either. And that would put Nick more than a thousand miles in the wrong direction. Not possible.

This boat didn’t have that kind of range. Matt hadn’t said so, but he’d decided privately that they’d go as far as a small piece of land about three hours away, a place so small it barely qualified as an island. By then the light would be starting to fade, anyway. They could anchor there for the night, but then they were heading back. Enough was enough.

If Matt had been worried before, he felt dry-mouthed with terror now. He was afraid to ask either Annabelle or Lincoln if they still “knew" that Genevieve was alive. Even if she’d survived some kind of crash landing, she and the others would be stuck with no food, no water, no shelter of any kind. They could be injured and have no way to tend their injuries. The more Matt thought about it, the more scared he got.

Lincoln was still in the cockpit with his earphones on, doggedly listening to Harry Connick Jr. Annabelle had gone below to make them an early dinner that Matt couldn’t imagine being able to eat. While they’d taken on fuel in Kauai he’d treated them all to fast-food hamburgers while he’d tried to talk them into going back to Honolulu.

He’d had no luck selling that program. Lincoln had insisted they had to keep going this way. The kid had said it with such urgency that Matt finally had agreed, for the time being. If the plane was out here somewhere, time would be of the essence. Yet he couldn’t imagine how they’d ever find it, despite Lincoln’s radar.

Before Annabelle appeared in the cockpit, Matt could smell the coffee she was bringing him. He could fall in love with her because of her coffee alone. Theresa made bad coffee, partly because she didn’t drink it herself, so she didn’t know good from bad. Matt should have taken over the job, but he’d accepted the bad coffee the way he’d accepted all the other disappointments in his marriage.

Now that he was on his own he’d still been wimpy about his coffee, buying a bargain preground instead of pricey beans and a grinder. After tasting Annabelle’s coffee, he was ready to make the switch.

“Here you go.” Annabelle handed him a mugful of heaven.

“Thank you, Annabelle.” He said her name because he liked using it. You could smile and say her name at the same time. He’d never known an Annabelle before, and he couldn’t imagine the name suiting anyone else.

“You’re welcome.” She looked so serious. No smiles for her.

He’d tried not to communicate his concern, but she was no dummy. She had to know this was a desolate place for a crash landing.

He longed for some way to make her feel better. “You make the best coffee.”

“Thanks.” She handed Lincoln a can of Coke.

Maintaining his cool-guy slouch, he took it and thanked her.

Matt wondered if posture was another thing Annabelle had decided not to hassle the kid about. Every time Matt noticed the curve of Lincoln’s spine he fought the urge to tell him to sit up straight. That was probably another reason Annabelle didn’t date, so she wouldn’t have to deal with guys thinking they could step in and demonstrate their own brand of parenting.

“I’ll be back with the rest in a minute,” Annabelle said. “I made ham sandwiches so you could eat and drive at the same time.”

“Perfect.” Matt vowed he’d choke down that sandwich. Not eating it would let her know that worry had taken away his appetite. That could only upset her more.

While she was down in the galley getting the sandwiches, he sipped his coffee and allowed himself a small escape from reality. In his world, he’d have married someone like Annabelle the first time around, someone who cherished good coffee and understood kids. Then Matt would be sitting here with his son, Lincoln. His son of the wild and crazy hair and the gentle heart.

Genevieve didn’t fit into the picture very well, though.

Annabelle had admitted during lunch that she’d had Genevieve when she was fifteen. Matt had been raised not to get fifteen-year-olds pregnant. He’d always heard that teenage pregnancies screwed up everything and everybody, yet Annabelle and Genevieve seemed to be fine, so there went that theory.

This time as Annabelle climbed the steps to the cockpit, Matt smelled her perfume and got hard. Certainly inappropriate under the circumstances, and yet emotions were running high with all of them. Sexual urges could be closer to the surface now, at least for him, maybe even for her.

He glanced over at Lincoln, afraid that the kid would sense something and check out Matt’s fly. Having an adolescent around as a chaperone meant no public displays of lust. Knowing the adolescent could be psychic ruled out private lusting, too. Matt started reciting baseball statistics in his head and finally got his erection under control right before Annabelle approached with her plate of sandwiches.

“Can you manage a sandwich and your coffee?” she asked.

“Sure.” He set his mug into a cup holder and picked up a sandwich.

“Yikes!” Lincoln bolted upright. “What is that?”

Annabelle dropped the plate of sandwiches. “What, Lincoln? What?”

Heart pounding, Matt looked in the direction Lincoln was pointing.

“That big freakin’ bird! It looks like a seagull on steroids!”

Matt gazed up at the large gray and white bird gliding in the sky just ahead of them. Then he sank back against the seat and gulped for air. “It’s an albatross. They’re more common out here in the Leewards than back in Honolulu, so I guess you’ve never seen one before.”

“Lincoln, you got us all excited about a blessed bird?” Annabelle sounded all choked up. “I ruined this whole plate of sandwiches for a gol-danged bird?” Then she turned and ran down the steps.

Lincoln pulled off his earphones and looked miserable. “Aw, geez. I didn’t mean to—”

“Go after her.” Matt couldn’t leave the cockpit, couldn’t even slow the engine and let Lincoln take over.

“But I didn’t think she’d—”

“Go after her, damn it! She’s hanging on by a thread, and I think the thread just snapped. She needs somebody to hold her and tell her it’s gonna be okay. I can’t do it or we’re liable to end up on a reef somewhere with a hole in the side of this boat. So it’s up to you.”

“Right.” Looking shaken, Lincoln headed down the steps.

Left with sandwiches underfoot and an albatross flying ahead of the boat as if showing the way, Matt shivered as a chill ran down his spine.

He’d picked up the old superstition about albatrosses from his father and his father’s sailor friends. It wasn’t logical, and it wasn’t modern, but many old salts still thought of the big birds as the reincarnated souls of dead seamen. Matt had been indoctrinated early, and the sight of the bird always gave him the creeps. He wished to hell they hadn’t run across this one.