tanned skin that plunged into a strong jaw shaded by stubble, and a black buzz cut glistening with sweat. His dark eyes glittered with adrenaline and his huge chest heaved. As pirates went, Johnny Depp had nothing on the capitaine.
She shook her head—the only body part she could move. He’s kidnapping you, you moron. It was far too soon to get Oslo Syndrome, or Stockholm Syndrome, or whatever was the name for loopy people who fell for their captors. She’d evidently gone too long without a good-looking man in her life. Or not long enough.
His gaze strayed to the frayed remains of the rope he’d bound her with. “Merde,” he whispered, his full lips twisting into an impressed smile. That good-looking, and he spoke French?
Focus. How long until he figured out she was an imposter? And then what? Feed her to the sharks? He’d be better off taking the yacht—fat chance the senator would pay to save her neck, with his precious daughter lying low in luxury.
“I see we need to set ground rules, princess.”
“You can get off me, for a start.”
His knees tightened against her waist. “When I say we need to set ground rules, I mean I need to set ground rules. I gather this is how a kidnapping works—the kidnapper gives the instructions, the hostage follows them or suffers the consequences.”
He flicked open the knife and made a show of running his finger along the steel. The skin on the back of her neck crawled. She’d sharpened that blade just hours ago.
“You need me alive.”
“For now, yes.” He rested the blade against her ear, just lightly enough to avoid piercing the skin. “My job is to keep you alive until your father pays, but no one said anything about keeping you in one piece. That is your choice.”
Her mouth flooded with saliva, but she didn’t dare swallow. “Where are you taking me?”
“You’ll know when we’re there.” He ran his free hand around her waist and patted down her pockets. “Get up.”
He removed the blade and loosened the grip of his legs, giving her just enough leeway to wriggle away. He leaped to his feet, like the world’s largest gymnast. “You’re driving, princess.”
She pushed up to standing. She barely reached his bowling ball of a shoulder. Short of praying for a tsunami to tip him out of the boat, her options were limited. Forget coming clean. Then there’d be no reason to keep her in one piece. She had to play this out. Maybe on dry land she’d have more chance. “Aye, aye, Capitaine.”
His jaw tightened. So the title meant something to him? “We head northwest.”
To the next island? Could she escape and find a village, maybe track down an NGO? She needed to find a chink in this pirate’s well-muscled armor, and quickly.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Holly counted two dark figures waiting on a beach ahead of the inflatable. Dense beech forest soared into a charcoal sky pinpricked with stars. No lights, buildings or vehicles, but plenty of cover. Could she grab the backpack and run, get out a message via the sat phone before they caught up?
One of the figures waded knee-deep into the water. One yank of the wheel and she could take him out.
“Keep it straight, princess.”
The capitaine slid up beside her, his voice a warning rumble, his right hand coasting down her arm to enclose her hand as she steered. Her fingers twitched, his grip tightened. She willed her breath to settle—he wouldn’t always be watching her, guessing her next move. There would be a chance for escape.
“Put it in neutral and leave it running,” he said. “The sand drops off steeply.”
They eased into shore. The man held the bow while the capitaine hauled Holly’s backpack over his shoulder. Her forehead throbbed where he’d smacked into it. He stepped into the water and held out a hand. She ignored it and jumped, splashing into warm water up to her knees, her feet sinking into fine, sloping sand.
The capitaine spoke in clipped, urgent raps. Holly picked up a word: Michael. A couple of the prison inmates had spoken a language like that. Where had they been from? Ukraine?
She fought to keep upright without the rocking of the boat underfoot. She took a step, her sea legs heavy and graceless, as if gravity had doubled its force and was coming in sideways. No way would she be able to run. Her heart thunked. There went plan A. Three months ago she’d been seasick from the ocean’s incessant movement after so many years run aground in prison, now her body was freaked out by the absence of it. Great.
The capitaine pushed the inflatable off the sand as the man jumped in and shoved it into Reverse. One down. As the engine faded, the air filled with the screech of a zillion insects and God knew what else. Would she be kept here? Surely not. The island was only a few miles from her mooring—a long stretch of land, but narrow, as far as she could remember from the GPS. Rescuers wouldn’t have to look far. The tension under her ribs unwound a notch. Maybe this wasn’t such a professional operation, despite the capitaine’s commanding presence.
His hand closed around her upper arm, urging her forward. She shook him off, but the sand rose and fell under her like a tide, and she stumbled sideways. He caught her waist, swept his other arm under her legs and lifted her as if she were a child.
“Put me down.”
“It’ll be quicker this way—and I can keep an eye on you.”
The world swayed. She gripped his shoulder, beating down a surge of nausea. What choice did she have? The disorientation hadn’t been this bad after even the longest sailing trips she’d done as a teenager. But after six years of walking on concrete and baked dirt in a Californian prison, maybe her mind wasn’t as quick to adjust. And this was the first time she’d set foot on land since she’d been dropped onto the boat off the coast of San Francisco.
When the heiress had taken the helm to sail into Samoa, then Cairns, Darwin and Bali, Holly had been secretly stashed in Laura’s stateroom in one of the senator’s superyachts, surviving on military ration packs and banned from showing her face. There she’d waited for long days while the heiress flounced off on her one-woman environmental crusades—endangered Sumatran orangutans, rising sea levels, dying coral reefs... How long until Holly got her land legs back? Hours? Days?
The capitaine adjusted his grip and pulled her into him, one hand pressing into her thigh, the other firm around her waist. His warm, earthy scent coasted around her, like rain pounding dusty ground.
At least she was doing a good job of appearing to be a helpless society-page diva, however unintentional. She might as well save her strength, while sapping the capitaine’s. Even in darkness, the air was too hot and damp for sweat to evaporate.
A short, wiry man waited on the dry sand above the waterline, his head wrapped in a red bandanna. She might be able to take him down on a good day, even if she had no hope against the Spartan. But today wasn’t a good day. And he carried an assault rifle that was almost half his size. The capitaine spoke to him in the same language as before. The man dropped his beady black gaze to her wet T-shirt, smirking, and muttered something. The capitaine snapped out a sharp answer, tilting her slightly to turn her chest into his. Protecting her honor, or staking his claim? Either way, it worked—the man lifted his gaze and sneered at her captor instead.
They
