Insects screamed like the world’s biggest electric drill, in surround sound. After half a mile the guy’s breath hadn’t even wavered with the effort of carrying her. Lines etched between his eyes hinted at inner tension, but outwardly he was as fit as he looked. She’d kept up her fitness in prison with endless, pointless jogging around the yard, but sailing had required a different strength. It had left her with toned arms and legs, but she hadn’t stretched them into a sustained sprint for years. Running from him—even when she got her land legs back—was looking like less of an option. She’d find another way to get quality time alone with the sat phone. Even Superman slept, occasionally.
Or did he?
The thick canopy gave way to a long narrow clearing. Moonlight reflected off a small plane. In the shadows, a dark figure waited. She pressed her lips together, tasting salt. How far could they fly in that—to Sumatra, Timor, Borneo, Australia? Right up to Singapore or Malaysia? Tens of thousands of islands, a gazillion square miles of jungle—even if a search was launched, rescuers had no chance of tracking them. Damn.
The capitaine lowered Holly to her feet, next to a heap of bags. The ground tilted, and she tipped onto hands and knees. Whoa. Their escort laughed. The capitaine barked orders, and he stuttered something and jogged off toward the plane.
“You’ll be okay in a few hours, princess.”
She rolled onto her back, gripping the rocking earth, swallowing bile. “You know I’m not royalty, right?”
He strode to the bags and hauled something out. “The daughter of the future American president? Closest I’ll get to a princess, princess.”
Correction: the furthest. He was Captain Calm again—the hint of tension erased from his face. She should have tried to chuck him out of the boat when she had the chance.
“You want to change out of those wet clothes?”
She shook her head. The dampness shielded her against the pulsing heat. And she wasn’t about to strip for him.
He held up a long-sleeved jumpsuit. “Time to suit up.”
“What do I need that for?”
He threw it to her, pulled her running shoes out of her backpack and dropped them on the ground. “Warmth, mostly. It’s cold up at 15,000 feet. And tie your shoelaces tight.” Why did his mouth twitch, as if he was hiding something? “Can you get it on by yourself, or do you need help?”
“I’ll be fine.” She snatched the jumpsuit. “As long as I don’t have to stand up.”
The suit was big enough for a gorilla. She wriggled it on while sitting on the ground as he pulled one on himself, followed by a harness. Were they going to clip themselves to the plane? He shouted something to his crew, then knelt beside her. “Don’t zip up your jumpsuit yet,” he hissed.
He hauled her backpack toward them, and pulled a rope and harness from his shoulder.
“No need to tie me up,” she said, lying back down. “I won’t be running anywhere.” Yet.
“It’s not for that.” He glanced at the plane and swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Nerves? “Sit up. Stay still and be quiet.”
She pushed herself up to sitting, her breath shallow. He knelt and slipped his hands down each side of her neck and along her shoulders, pushing the jumpsuit off again. Her face chilled. What the hell did he intend to do?
He fiddled around inside the backpack and pulled something out—her sweater, with the rectangular outline of her laptop and sat phone inside it. “I need you to carry this.” Placing it firmly on her chest, he looped a strap in a figure eight around her shoulders, holster-style, and tied it tight. He pulled the jumpsuit back up her shoulders and zipped it to her neck. Hands a blur, he jammed and zipped other bits of electronic equipment in her pockets, his gaze darting over her shoulder to the spot the men’s voices drifted from.
He didn’t want them to know what he was doing. Why? I need you to carry this, he’d said. Like he was asking a favor, like they were in this together. He pushed the harness under her legs. Lifting her hips, she let him slide it under her bottom and up over her back and waist, her body fizzing with awareness of his touch. Ridiculous. She sure had a talent for being attracted to the wrong man. Evidently her mind and body hadn’t learned a thing since Jasper had sucked her in when she was nineteen and spat her out four years later, right into the eager hands of the Feds. You’re sworn off men, remember?
She allowed the capitaine to pull her to her feet. The sat phone was hers—now she just needed a few minutes to fire it up and get out a message. He leaned in to adjust the harness and check the clips.
“I don’t get it. What’s the harness for?”
“Safety.” His forehead was etched with concentration as he yanked tight the straps on her shoulders.
The man who’d been waiting in the shadows sauntered up and spoke. He was nearly as big as the capitaine and wore a grubby pilot’s cap. The capitaine’s gaze flicked up to catch hers for a second, eyes hooded in warning, then he calmly turned, picked up her backpack and threaded it onto his chest. The man grabbed it and yabbered something, sharply. The capitaine shrugged and muttered a reply, pulling off the bag and unzipping it. He held it out in offering. The man reached in and pulled out a bottle of shampoo, then dug around thoroughly, emerging with a bra. He held it up and grinned a gap-toothed smile.
“Give that back, you pervert.” Holly stepped forward. The capitaine shot out an arm and she tumbled into it, forced to grab his shoulder to keep from falling.
“Easy, princess.” He yanked the bra from the man’s hands, stuffed it into the bag, zipped it and pulled it back onto his chest. He strode a few yards to a larger bag she hadn’t noticed—not the one he’d pulled the jumpsuits from—and lifted it onto his back, fiddling with clips and straps.
The pervert strolled toward Holly, thumbs tucked in his belt loops, buggy eyes checking her out like she was dessert. She shuffled backward, not trusting herself to take large steps. He pulled up inches from her, his breath stinking like fish oil, and reached for her hair. “Miss America,” he whispered, in a murky accent.
She ducked away, fighting to keep her balance. If he made a play for her, what could she do? She could hardly stand up straight, let alone defend herself.
Suddenly, he lurched sideways and sprawled onto the ground. He snapped out several words, anger flashing in his eyes. The capitaine stood over him, drawn up to full height, chest massive, jaw set, arm still outstretched from shoving him. Playing good cop, bad cop?
No—she’d been caught in that game enough times to know this was for real. He was protecting her, all right. Just what was the dynamic here?
The capitaine spoke, quiet and dangerous. The pervert’s eyes narrowed. He scrambled to his feet and spat on the ground, an inch from her foot, but maintained his distance. She exhaled. Thank God that wasn’t about to happen, at least.
The man unleashed a series of bitter words and held out his hand to the capitaine, palm up. The capitaine slapped a mobile phone into it. So that was why he was so keen on her equipment—he wasn’t allowed his own. Someone else had to be pulling the strings, leaving him to do the dirty work. Was
