Impossible Ransom
by Kathleen Mix
Copyright © 2016 by Kathleen Mix. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Chapter One
Saint Thomas, US Virgin Islands
Time to start his assignment and face his punishment.
Nick O’Shea climbed from the cab in the marina parking lot and stepped into a murky puddle. Water seeped into the Top-Siders he’d had out of storage for less than an hour, and he silently cursed. The cab pulled away, tires peppering his legs with mud.
No stranger to discomfort, Nick muttered a cynical, “Welcome back,” and resigned himself to soggy feet. He had to sleep before he keeled over. Right now, nothing else mattered. He slung his scarred knapsack over his shoulder and turned toward the docks. Low clouds shrouded the March sun. The odor of damp wood and the slap of waves on barnacled pilings made the normally bright marina seem as dismal as his mood.
He studied the deserted walkways. A squall had chased the boats’ crews under cover, and the lack of humanity sliced his emotions into equal parts disappointment and relief. After two hellish months dodging a cartel’s assassins in a bug-infested South American jungle, he could stand the sight of a few friendly faces. But he had never fit in with the crews before, and chitchat wasn’t what he needed.
Stiffening his spine, he shifted his gaze to D-dock and the Lady Elizabeth. A flurry of movement on the yacht’s aft deck caught his eye. A laser beam of sunshine cut through the clouds, and he squinted in the glare. A scuffle. Two against one. Valeria Ladd was smack in the center of the fray.
Val? What was she doing here?
His heart lurched, and his training kicked into high gear. Nick sprinted toward the yacht. He watched Val pick up a kayak paddle and swing. One of the men deflected her blow and grabbed for her arm. She scratched at her attacker’s eyes, then kicked at the other man’s shin. They both easily dodged away. Nick admired her effort to drive away the bigger men, but the little dynamo was destined to lose. He had to move faster.
His wet shoes squished and pounded on the dock planks. Val tossed a metallic object. A crash. The attacker she’d missed ducked and turned, and his gaze met Nick’s.
Nick raced up the boarding ramp, tossed his knapsack on deck, and raised a forearm to block a fist aimed at his left temple. Swinging with his right, he landed a blow to the man’s solar plexus. His gut churned at the thought of Val being hurt, and he glanced over to check on her.
She stomped her attacker’s foot, and he hopped away.
Nick dodged a head-butt, swung upward with his left fist, and connected with his opponent’s jaw.
Val threw a book and a water bottle.
“Take off!” the man dodging Val’s projectiles shouted to his cohort.
The attackers scuttled onto the dock and raced toward dry land like rats deserting an about-to-be-fumigated ship.
Val pushed past Nick, in hot pursuit. He shot out his arm and caught her around the waist. Pulling her squirming body back, he insisted, “Stay here.”
“Let go! I’ll get their license plate or see where they run.” She leaned her upper body forward, causing her backside to press against his crotch. Twisting and kicking backward at his shin, she raised her fist and called after her attackers, “Don’t come back.”
The two men disappeared behind a building, and she huffed and leaned fully against Nick. “Great. Thanks to you, they got away.”
Their bodies touched from hip to shoulder, and the two men faded from Nick’s mind. Despite his vow to never admit he wanted Val, his fingers slid an inch up her rib cage, and his body reacted to the softness of her feminine curves.
Val flinched as if she’d brushed a hot stove.
He ordered his fingers to freeze. Mortified at his physical reaction but reluctant to let go, he held her trim waist. Blood pumping hot and fast, he asked, “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, except for your…you’re…poking me in the back,” she said, making the words an insult. She grabbed his wrist and tugged.
He guessed she hated him as much as he’d imagined she would and allowed her to peel his arm away.
She turned to glower at him. Her long hair, the color of sweet butter, fluttered in the wind. The amber flecks in her brown eyes sparked with anger. Her chest heaved from the exertion of the scuffle. He stopped himself from scanning any lower. He didn’t need to see her shapely hips or legs. Her subtle curves and the tiny mewing sounds she made when he touched her in some special places were forever branded into his mind.
“What are you doing on the Lady Elizabeth?” he asked, snapping his gaze back up to her face and noticing her rub an angry red mark on her arm.
She gave him an isn’t-it-obvious look. “I’m the cook and crew, of course, the same as I was on theLady Anne. The fleet manager transferred me over here two days ago.” She paused, blinked, and then glanced away. “Are you back to take over as the Lady Elizabeth’s captain?”
His breath caught, and all he could do was nod. The one woman he most wanted to avoid had been assigned to live on the same boat as him, work the same charters, and be constantly near, acting as his crew.
He lifted a hand and ran his fingers through his hair, trying to hide his frustration and act normal. “Is your arm hurt?”
“No. It’s fine.” She stopped rubbing and lifted her chin.
“What was that scuffle about?” he asked, clenching his teeth.
Her indrawn breath lifted her breasts under her red uniform shirt. She crossed her arms, and her voice was as cold as the Arctic in January. “They must have thought the boat was empty and decided to steal some gear. When I came on deck and saw them climbing aboard, I guess they panicked. They rushed me, and I reacted.”
Tension zapped between them, and Nick shifted his stance. He averted his eyes and analyzed the wreckage on the deck. Broken boat gear was easier to deal with than Val and the mess he’d made of his life.
The seat cushions were in disarray, and a winch handle lay on deck beneath a deep gash in the teak dining table. Forward of the table, still dripping oil from its perch on the binnacle, the remnants of the ship’s compass sat shattered. The crash he’d heard while running had been its death knell.
She followed his gaze to the compass. “I’ll pay for it,” she said with less bluster.
“Have you finished paying for the outboard motor you drowned?” His attention was drawn magnetically back to her finely sculpted face, her beautiful wide lips, her delicately arched brows.
She stiffened. “That’s paid up. This is the first thing I’ve broken in two months.”
He shook his head. “Brisbin won’t be happy.”
As if on cue, Nick’s cell phone buzzed. The caller ID listed Neal Brisbin, their common boss. Brisbin was the founder and leader of the covert security group, Brisbin’s Rangers, for which Nick worked. He also owned the charter company, Airlandsea Unlimited, that employed Val and served as a convenient cover for the Rangers. Rather than sit idle between assignments, Rangers rotated as temporary yacht captains and worked Airlandsea’s sailboat charters in the Virgin Islands.
Nick met Val’s eyes, passing a silent message as he spoke into the phone. “Here.”
“You’re on time. That’s a good start.”
He shifted his gaze toward the outer bay and the horizon. “Yes, sir.”
“You have three lay days before the next charter guests arrive,” Brisbin said. “Stay out of trouble and do some maintenance, maybe spruce up the varnish.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Remember why you’re there. One more stupid stunt and you’re out on your ass.”
Nick clenched his teeth and swallowed his anger. Ever since he’d joined the top-secret Brisbin’s Rangers, his job had been his sole reason to live. Telling himself he was balancing the score sometimes helped dull his pain.
But he’d screwed up on his last assignment, and he wouldn’t offer an explanation. Trying to justify his actions would make him look vulnerable. He had no excuse other than he’d been thinking, what if the woman were Val? And regardless of anything he said, he’d still be on probation and cooling his heels in the charter fleet, waiting for Brisbin to decide he’d been punished enough and put him back on the active list. He shook off the galling memories. “Yes, sir.”
Brisbin’s voice was sharp. “No fraternizing, either. Understood?”
Shit. No wonder the hammer had come down so hard. Brisbin had found out about his night with Val. Her transfer to the Lady Elizabeth was a test, and the message was: demonstrate self-control. If they ended up in bed again, he could kiss his job good-bye.
He curled his free hand into a fist and shoved it deep in his pocket. “Understood.”
“You need anything?” The tone was a complete reversal, friendly, almost paternal. The sudden appearance of the tranquil side of a multifaceted man.
Nick started to say no, then his gaze landed on the compass. “I slipped coming aboard and my knapsack hit the binnacle. The compass shattered.”
Brisbin’s tone was almost a chuckle. “I hope Val’s propensity for breaking gear hasn’t become contagious.”
From the corner of his eye, Nick saw Val shaking her head and pointing a finger at her chest, indicating she wanted to take the blame. He turned away, refusing to acknowledge her protest. He was the temporary captain of the Lady Elizabeth. When he led his team on a covert mission, whatever happened was his responsibility. The same applied here. End of story. “No, sir. Just a freak accident.”
“Okay. Expect a replacement in a couple days. I’ll have it sent with your uniforms.”
The line went dead just as Val snatched the phone from his hand.
She raised the phone to her ear and said, “Excuse me, sir…” then, “dammit.”
Nick reclaimed his phone, slipping it from her grasp.
“Let me have it so I can call him,” she said, standing close enough that the scent of her strawberry shampoo stirred a well of memories and momentarily numbed his brain. “I broke the compass, and I’ll take the blame.”
He shook his head to banish a sudden fantasy of Val lying beneath him as well as to disagree. “You could get fired.”
“That’s my business. No one asked you to barge in and start taking control.”
“I’m the captain. That’s my job.”
She planted her hands on her hips. “Your job is to maintain this boat and sail the next group of charterers to all the pretty islands. Not butt into my life.”
Watching her eyes flare with indignation, he wouldn’t have been surprised to see smoke puff out her ears. But he was as determined to shoulder the responsibility as she was adamant that he shouldn’t. “It’s taken care of.”
“No, it’s not. I’m telling him the truth the first chance I get.”
Stuffing his phone deep into the front pocket of his jeans where he was sure she would never go, he was thankful she had privacy issues with cell phones and didn’t have one of her own.
His head swam in a wave of bone-deep dizziness. He rubbed the heels of his hands on his scratchy eyes. Waiting for the extraction team, sitting through hours of debriefing, and staying alert on a long flight home had him dead on his feet. The sixty hours without sleep were catching up with him, blurring the edges of his vision. Talk would have to wait.
“Sorry I can’t stay and argue,” he said. “I’m bushed.” He picked up his knapsack and headed below, leaving her standing in the cockpit with the newly returned sunlight sparkling in her hair. As he thought of the torture of spending the next month on the Lady Elizabeth with Val lying in bed in the crew quarters on the other side of his cabin wall, worry rushed through his bloodstream. One more mistake and he’d lose his job.
He forced a light tone to camouflage his inner turmoil and called over his shoulder, “I’ll be in my cave grabbing a few winks.”
He made his way to the bow and the starboard side captain’s cabin, stripped off his clothes, and collapsed on the berth.
…
Val stood ramrod straight and stared at the empty companionway. Nick O’Shea. In the as-gorgeous-as-she-remembered flesh. Damn. What was she supposed to do now?
He’d charmed her at the Airlandsea Christmas party, broken the rules repeatedly to see her again, pretended to care until she’d foolishly believed she was falling in love, and manipulated her until she ended up in his bed. Then wham-bam, he was gone. He’d disappeared without even a thank-you ma’am, never bothering to say good-bye. Now, after six months without as much as a fifteen-cent postcard, suddenly here he was, walking back into her life, working on the same yacht. Damn. Damn. Damn. Why couldn’t he at least have been assigned to another boat?
She sighed. Mr. Brisbin had good reasons to want Nick captaining the Lady Elizabeth again. The luxurious seventy-foot sailboat was the queen of the crewed-charter fleet. Mr. Brisbin had named the boat after his mother, and he made no secret of the fact that she was his favorite. The varnish was due for a touch-up coat, and Nick was a whiz with a varnish brush. With him back aboard, the yacht’s brightwork would be gleaming in no time. Her gaze fell to the broken compass and gear-littered deck. Unlike her, Nick was good with his hands, neat, disciplined, and resourceful.
She pictured his dark hair, almost-onyx eyes, and stern mouth. Sadness pooled in her chest. He was gorgeous and strong and a jack-of-all-trades. Just looking at his powerful physique and chiseled features always made her blood flow faster and her world seem brighter. Too bad he was a low-down louse.
Pondering a barrage of questions, she picked up the cockpit cushions and replaced them on the seats. Her mind flew back to the magical night she’d met Nick. She paused with a cushion crushed to her chest. He’d been working part-time on the Lady Elizabeth, healing from a nasty thigh wound—a puncture wound he’d claimed he got hitting a fence while riding a bicycle. She couldn’t put her finger on why, but his story hadn’t rung true, and she’d suspected the wound had been caused by a bullet.
She chewed her bottom lip. Within a month of starting her job, she’d noticed Mr. Brisbin’s yacht captains seemed to spend a lot of time away, assigned to some other business. Whatever the other business was, she had the impression it involved something other than a safe, fun segment of the tourism industry.
Was something that happened in his other job the reason why Nick was back? Was he healing again? She clenched her teeth. Not her concern. He hadn’t looked to be in pain.
She furrowed her brow. He was the stoic type. He’d probably rather die than show he had feelings or human failings.
Forget it. He fought off those men with ease. If he has a wound, it isn’t serious. He didn’t care about the pain he’d caused her when he left, so why should she care about him?
Where had he been for the last six months? Was whatever he’d been doing dangerous? Legal? Where would he go next? Somewhere he’d be killed?
She fisted her hands. Screw him. They were not a couple and never would be. She didn’t give a damn where he’d been, where he went next, or what he did. Her job was to cook and serve meals, occasionally help with the sail handling or docking, and keep the boat clean and tidy. And right now, the cockpit was a mess.
She stomped to the galley to get a broom and a roll of paper towels, muttering to herself, “I will not have anything to do with Nick. I won’t be that stupid again.”
As she swept up the broken glass and sopped up the spilled compass oil, she recalled how he’d taken the blame for the broken gear and pressed her lips into a tight line. The last thing she wanted was another bossy man trying to run her life.
The voice of reason whispered in her ear. Maybe it would be best to let him take the blame. She had to consider the consequences of getting fired. Working on Airlandsea’s yachts had given her the perfect place to hide. Where else would she be as autonomous, as inconspicuous, and free to live her own life?
She shrugged off her doubts and shook her hair back from her face. Whether it put her job at risk or not, she’d do the right thing: email Mr. Brisbin and tell him she’d broken the compass. She’d managed to stay below the radar for a year. She had no reason to believe anyone would find her now.
Val gathered the trash and her cleaning supplies and carried them below. At the bottom of the companionway ladder, she paused and gazed forward at the closed door to the captain’s cabin.
Okay, Nick was aboard. But just because he was working on the same boat didn’t mean she had to let him get close or upset her world. She would focus on building her future, do her job, and save her money to open her pastry shop. She’d come this far on her own. Nothing, and no one, was going to interfere with her plans.
…
Nick heard the galley door swing open and shut and guessed Val was gathering supplies to clean up the mess in the cockpit. He pictured her hair swinging slightly as she walked and the way she would nibble on her bottom lip as she concentrated on a task. He raised his forearm, rested it over his burning eyes, and ground his teeth in determination. He would take his punishment, protect his job, and stay away from her. He’d figure out exactly how tomorrow.
He had a comforting thought: his abrupt departure two days after they’d made love had successfully killed any affection she’d felt. She hated him and was probably as unhappy to see him as he was to see her. He didn’t have to worry about sweeping her into his arms and kissing her full, sensual lips in a moment of temptation. She’d gouge out his eyes if he tried.
He yawned, but the sleep he needed wouldn’t come. He stood, dug out his phone, and called the island police. When an officer came on the line, he gave his name and explained, “I’m the captain of a charter yacht docked at Pirate’s Rest. This afternoon, while my female crew member was aboard the boat alone, two men came aboard and attempted to rob us.”
He answered a few questions, giving Airlandsea as owner and describing the men, then told the officer he’d be aboard tomorrow if they needed more information.
After disconnecting the call, he flopped back down on his berth. His mind’s eye flashed on an image of Val lashing out at the would-be burglars. A ripple of doubt washed down his spine. They were gone, but the discomfort in his gut said they were far from the average twopenny thieves. And he trusted his gut, because ever since he’d been a teenager trying to protect his brother and sisters and survive on the mean city streets, the warnings sent up by his gut had usually been right.
…
The dream was tearing her insides apart. Her whole family—mother, father, two older brothers, and sister-in-law—was at the dining room table passing platters of food, talking and laughing, kissing and hugging. She stood outside a thick window, staring, desperately wanting to join them. Her father saw her and called, “Val, get in here.” But she couldn’t obey. Her heart broke as she took off. Running. Running. Running. Another window. Once again, she was outside, crying, gazing with longing at everyone she loved.
The yacht’s engine roared to life and jolted Val awake. She blinked at the glowing green numbers on her bedside clock. Ten minutes past midnight. She shook her head to banish the cobwebs of sleep and push away the heartbreaking images from her dream. What the hell is going on?
She wiped the tears from her cheeks, sat up, and frowned. Pulling on the white uniform shorts she’d removed before bed and slipping her red T-shirt over her head, she rushed from her cabin and climbed the companionway ladder. At deck level, she stopped, hands on her hips, and watched Nick release the stern line, step into the cockpit and behind the wheel, and then shift the yacht’s transmission into reverse.
“What in the world are you doing?” she said.
He paused for a split second, and his gaze traveled up and down her torso before coming to rest on her face. “We’re going to anchor out in the bay for the rest of the night. Your friends are back roaming around, and I don’t want another visit.”
“They came back?” The hairs rose on her nape. She’d been so distracted by Nick’s return, and the problems his closeness created, that she had hardly given the would-be robbers a second thought. How in the world had that happened?
The only explanation that came to mind was unsettling. The adrenaline rush of the scuffle had quickly transitioned to the heat and electricity of attraction, and the resulting overload must have short-circuited her brain. Now that her brain had recovered, she gave the earlier incident the attention she should have given it earlier. Was something going on that involved more than a simple attempted burglary? A ripple of apprehension brought gooseflesh to her bare arms. She turned and scanned the nearby docks and shoreline. “Where did you see them?”
“In the shadows on the left side of the marina office.”
She narrowed her eyes and searched for any sign of the men. “I don’t see anyone.”
“Put on my night-vision goggles. They’re on the seat by the companionway.”
She blinked. Frowned. “Night-vision goggles. Okay.”
She filed the question of why he would own them away for later, lifted the contraption to her eyes, and looked where he pointed. Just as he’d said, two men were lurking in the shadows. “Shouldn’t we call the police?”
“I called and requested a patrol car, but I’m not hanging around waiting for them to show. I need some shut-eye. Tied to the dock, we’re sitting ducks.”
“So you decided to move the boat in the middle of the night.”
“You can go back to bed. I can handle her alone.”
“Mr. Brisbin will be upset if he drives by in the morning and sees the boat’s not in her slip. You know how he worries about pirates.”
“I’ll call and leave him a voicemail.”
Val lowered the goggles and turned back to Nick. His stance shouted strength, confidence, and virility. He was shirtless. The hard muscles in his solid forearms rippled as he swung the big boat around and aimed the bow toward the channel. The tangled hair on his chest was incredibly masculine. His broad upper torso narrowed at his waist, where his jeans were zipped but unsnapped.
Realizing she wanted to run her fingertips across his tight abdomen, she swallowed the lump of awareness lodged in her throat and stiffened her shoulders. The less time she spent gawking at his body, the better. Rushing back below, she tossed over her shoulder, “Fine. Handle it yourself. Have a good time.”
…
Once the anchor was down and the boat secure, Nick took a last look around and went below to his cabin. He wished he could set the radar alarm as an extra precaution, but knew it would be more nuisance than help. The harbor was busy at all hours of the night with interisland ferries arriving and departing and commercial fishing vessels beginning or ending their day, plus the dozen or so nearby pleasure boats would be swinging on their anchors. Even set on the minimum quarter-of-a-mile range, the alarm would be going off constantly. He needed to sleep, and jumping up every few minutes to look around and reset the alarm would prevent him from getting any rest. The water would act like a castle’s moat, raising the level of difficulty and discouraging would-be criminals who were looking for an easy target. Hopefully, the boat’s distance from shore was deterrent enough.
Thirty seconds after his head hit his pillow, he slipped into a fitful sleep.
The noise on deck was slight, but as soon as Nick’s brain registered the creak, his senses jerked to instant alert. He had learned long ago that sleeping lightly could save a man’s life. Maintaining a constant state of readiness was often the only way to survive. He didn’t move a muscle as he questioned the source of the noise. Was Val having trouble sleeping? Had she gone out for some air like he had at midnight?
He strained to detect the next sound. If Val was wandering the boat in some flimsy nightshirt that would make him imagine things he had no business imagining, he should stay put. But what if it was someone else?
Moving in the dark, he slipped on his jeans, grabbed his Glock from his knapsack, and crept from his cabin. Another squeak came from above. His bare feet were silent on the cool wood floors. Tiny waves lapped against the hull, but he tuned them out and concentrated on the abnormal, straining to pinpoint the suspicious noises.
He approached the companionway ladder slowly, peering upward at the closed companionway door. Val would have left the door open behind her.
Someone who didn’t belong aboard was on deck.
Nick stopped. He couldn’t go out the door and into the cockpit without leaving himself vulnerable. He’d have to slip out the forward hatch, circle around and down the side deck, and hope to catch the intruder by surprise.
As he reversed direction and made his way down the main corridor in the pitch black, he heard what sounded like a footfall in the cockpit. He reached the hatch, cracked it open, and chinned himself to survey the forward deck. Nothing. He pushed the hatch open wide. Slipping his gun into his waistband to free both hands, he grasped the edge of the deck, and hoisted himself seven feet and through the two-foot-square opening.
He retrieved his gun, crouched, and scanned the foredeck. A damp, salty breeze blew off the sea behind him, and the boat rocked gently. But there was no sign of human movement. Staying low to avoid detection, he made his way to the starboard side deck where he’d be temporarily concealed by the cabin. Nerves taut, he crept aft.
Two men stood in the cockpit. A third knelt by a stern cleat, trying to fasten a line. Nick swore under his breath. Not good odds. Thankful for the sturdy feel of the Glock in his hand, he stood and ordered, “Nobody move.”
A voice behind him said, “Nice and easy, hand over the gun.”
Nick glanced over his shoulder. The business end of a .38 was six inches from his skull. He’d been beaten at his own game. Whoever these guys were, they were trained in covert ops, not your average street punks, and probably not boarding the boat simply to pilfer gear. Humoring them wasn’t an option. Outnumbered or not, he needed to act fast.
He jerked his elbow at his opponent’s weapon and dropped to the deck. Bone connected with metal. The gun flew from the man’s hand. Nick rolled and brought his Glock around to aim. He heard squeaking hinges and a gasp.
“Drop it right now, hero,” one of the men in the cockpit said. “Or she dies.”
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