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Authors: Joyce Lamb
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air will help you feel better," he said.
He was right. Her pulse calmed, and though perspiration still beaded her upper lip, her stomach settled.
They rode in silence, Ryan tapping the tips of his fingers on one knee. She was convincing. Could even the most consummate actress pretend to be violently ill? Yes, he decided, a very talented one could fake just about anything. Even love.
And those goons had called her by name, he reminded himself. They had looked right into her face and recognized her as Margot. He had the right woman, damn it.
Leaning forward, he reached between his feet and pulled the gun from under the seat. At her sharp intake of breath, he glanced over to see her gaze fixed on the weapon as if she had never seen one before. "Pull over," he said.
She obeyed, then watched him load the gun as if he'd never handled one before. "You don't know what the hell you're doing with that thing, do you?"
Reaching over, he yanked the car keys out of the ignition. "Shut up and get out of the car."
She didn't move as she considered their surroundings. They had not passed another vehicle since she had pulled over to be sick. The secluded area was the perfect place to commit a crime. No witnesses but a couple of large banyan trees, several dozen royal palms and pine trees, and plenty of marshy-looking, weedy land.
"I'm not going to tell you again." He opened his door and stepped out.
Meg thought about defying him. She wasn't stupid, after all, and had no intention of walking right into whatever he had planned. Then he came around to her side of the Jag and gave an impatient wave with the gun. Something dark and dangerous in his face compelled her to get out. The damp air closed around her like a loose, wet cloak.
He gestured for her to precede him onto a trail leading into the dense foliage. She could smell the salt of the Gulf.
"Does this place have an address? I'll need it for the police report," she said over her shoulder.
Ryan remained silent and tried to keep from admiring her body. Her jeans hugged the firm length of her thighs, the tight, rounded shape of her butt. He would have bet money that she was a runner. Then he chastised himself for letting the sight of her backside distract him. He had never been drawn to any of Beau's women, except on a superficial level. He would've had to be dead not to appreciate the blond-haired, blue-eyed goddesses Beau had escorted to the few social events he had grudgingly attended.
Maybe that was what was so disturbing about the woman shoving aside low-hanging branches just ahead of him. She was different. Beautiful, yes. But not in the supermodel, too-thin, that's-not-her-real-hair-color fashion. Her attractiveness was natural, unplanned.
And she was smart. He could see it in how she was studying the situation from every angle at every moment, working it in her head, trying to chart an escape. She hadn't given up, hadn't resigned herself to what was happening. She still believed that she would walk away from this unscathed. She was either a fighter or unwilling to accept that her game was over.
Meg paused where the trail forked. "Which way?" "Left."
They stepped out of the trees onto a beach littered with the pieces of millions of shells that had been pounded into debris by Gulf waves. Only yards from where they stood, those same, gentle waves caressed the shore.
They both stopped the moment their feet touched sand, and Meg's heart began to pound in her ears. "Dayle," she said under her breath.
Ryan curved his fingers around her elbow, not willing to take the chance that she would bolt.
Meg swallowed back the new sickness that bubbled into the back of her throat at the sight of her friend, the Gulf at her back, a gun aimed at her temple. Someone had hit her more than once—both eyes were surrounded by purple, swollen flesh. Blood had caked at one corner of her mouth and under her nose.
Meg flicked her gaze to the man who held the gun to Dayle's head and vowed
He was right. Her pulse calmed, and though perspiration still beaded her upper lip, her stomach settled.
They rode in silence, Ryan tapping the tips of his fingers on one knee. She was convincing. Could even the most consummate actress pretend to be violently ill? Yes, he decided, a very talented one could fake just about anything. Even love.
And those goons had called her by name, he reminded himself. They had looked right into her face and recognized her as Margot. He had the right woman, damn it.
Leaning forward, he reached between his feet and pulled the gun from under the seat. At her sharp intake of breath, he glanced over to see her gaze fixed on the weapon as if she had never seen one before. "Pull over," he said.
She obeyed, then watched him load the gun as if he'd never handled one before. "You don't know what the hell you're doing with that thing, do you?"
Reaching over, he yanked the car keys out of the ignition. "Shut up and get out of the car."
She didn't move as she considered their surroundings. They had not passed another vehicle since she had pulled over to be sick. The secluded area was the perfect place to commit a crime. No witnesses but a couple of large banyan trees, several dozen royal palms and pine trees, and plenty of marshy-looking, weedy land.
"I'm not going to tell you again." He opened his door and stepped out.
Meg thought about defying him. She wasn't stupid, after all, and had no intention of walking right into whatever he had planned. Then he came around to her side of the Jag and gave an impatient wave with the gun. Something dark and dangerous in his face compelled her to get out. The damp air closed around her like a loose, wet cloak.
He gestured for her to precede him onto a trail leading into the dense foliage. She could smell the salt of the Gulf.
"Does this place have an address? I'll need it for the police report," she said over her shoulder.
Ryan remained silent and tried to keep from admiring her body. Her jeans hugged the firm length of her thighs, the tight, rounded shape of her butt. He would have bet money that she was a runner. Then he chastised himself for letting the sight of her backside distract him. He had never been drawn to any of Beau's women, except on a superficial level. He would've had to be dead not to appreciate the blond-haired, blue-eyed goddesses Beau had escorted to the few social events he had grudgingly attended.
Maybe that was what was so disturbing about the woman shoving aside low-hanging branches just ahead of him. She was different. Beautiful, yes. But not in the supermodel, too-thin, that's-not-her-real-hair-color fashion. Her attractiveness was natural, unplanned.
And she was smart. He could see it in how she was studying the situation from every angle at every moment, working it in her head, trying to chart an escape. She hadn't given up, hadn't resigned herself to what was happening. She still believed that she would walk away from this unscathed. She was either a fighter or unwilling to accept that her game was over.
Meg paused where the trail forked. "Which way?" "Left."
They stepped out of the trees onto a beach littered with the pieces of millions of shells that had been pounded into debris by Gulf waves. Only yards from where they stood, those same, gentle waves caressed the shore.
They both stopped the moment their feet touched sand, and Meg's heart began to pound in her ears. "Dayle," she said under her breath.
Ryan curved his fingers around her elbow, not willing to take the chance that she would bolt.
Meg swallowed back the new sickness that bubbled into the back of her throat at the sight of her friend, the Gulf at her back, a gun aimed at her temple. Someone had hit her more than once—both eyes were surrounded by purple, swollen flesh. Blood had caked at one corner of her mouth and under her nose.
Meg flicked her gaze to the man who held the gun to Dayle's head and vowed
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