listened as he punched in the numbers. Then he snatched the suitcase up, shoved the door open and jumped inside.
Sliding to a stop—the soles of his boots must have been slick with snow; his pants from about midcalf down were white with it—he closed the door behind them with haste tempered by enough care to keep the sound of it to a minimum.
“Okay,” he said as total darkness enveloped them. “Now what?”
“Put me down.”
Mick found herself deposited, without ceremony, on her feet. One of the flip-flops had been lost, she discovered as she touched down, and she quickly kicked off the other. The weathered wooden planks beneath her feet were at least dry, which came as a welcome relief. The wet, fishy smell of the lake was unmistakable. She could hear the familiar creaking of the ropes securing the boats and the slap-slap of tiny wavelets against anything solid they could reach. The boathouse was basically a mammoth garage that had been built over a small, man-made inlet just wide and deep enough to accommodate the family’s various watercraft. Fortunately, Mick knew it well.
The thief was once again gripping her arm. Like he could hold her if she didn’t want to be held. Well, time to disabuse him of that notion.
It took one swift move to get herself free.
“Hey,” he protested as she spun away, but he made no move to try to recapture her: smart man. Like the house and just about every other structure on the property, the boathouse was outfitted with a security camera. Inside, the boathouse was as dark as pitch, and she was as sure as it was possible to be that nothing usable could be seen. But the boathouse had long been a favorite makeout spot for Uncle Nicco’s kids and their friends, and every teenager who had ever spent a balmy summer night on this property knew how to circumvent the single camera.
Mick yanked the plug from the socket.
“Lock the door,” she directed over her shoulder. Careful to avoid the ropes connected to the jumble of floats, water skis, life jackets and buoys stacked against the wall, she ran toward Uncle Nicco’s beloved thirty-six-foot cabin cruiser, Playtime, on which she had spent many a pleasant summer afternoon. It was currently tied up, along with a pair of Jet Skis and a runabout, at the dock, which ran the length of one side of the building. Her eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness, which wasn’t absolute after all. Moonlight shone through a quartet of windows set high up in the metal walls. The black gleam of the water contrasted with the duller charcoal of the wooden dock. Playtime’ s white hull was bright in comparison.
“Is this some sort of trap?” he asked warily.
She could see him, barely, as a denser shadow in the darkness just a few feet behind her. His hand moved, and she caught a glimmer of metal. His arm was down by his side, but he held her gun—at least, she presumed it was hers.
“Did you lock the door?” She threw the question back at him.
“Yes. So are you setting me up or what?”
“If I am, then you’re screwed.” Grabbing a dock support for balance, she jumped on board Playtime. If she hadn’t wanted to make it look to Uncle Nicco and his men like she’d been abducted by this guy, she would have ditched him there and then and taken off in the boat.The only thing was, unless she was willing to burn her bridges completely, she needed to take him with her. To maintain the illusion that she was a hostage, leaving against her will. Which might, or might not, at some point save her life. Or at least give it back to her. “Feeling lucky?”
He snorted, which she took as a no. Well, at least they were on the same page about that.
“Get on board,” she ordered.
Heading toward the controls, she didn’t even bother to glance over her shoulder to check whether or not he obeyed. A moment later, the lurch of the boat as he jumped onto the deck told her all she needed to know.
“You stealing his boat?” Sounding slightly
Sliding to a stop—the soles of his boots must have been slick with snow; his pants from about midcalf down were white with it—he closed the door behind them with haste tempered by enough care to keep the sound of it to a minimum.
“Okay,” he said as total darkness enveloped them. “Now what?”
“Put me down.”
Mick found herself deposited, without ceremony, on her feet. One of the flip-flops had been lost, she discovered as she touched down, and she quickly kicked off the other. The weathered wooden planks beneath her feet were at least dry, which came as a welcome relief. The wet, fishy smell of the lake was unmistakable. She could hear the familiar creaking of the ropes securing the boats and the slap-slap of tiny wavelets against anything solid they could reach. The boathouse was basically a mammoth garage that had been built over a small, man-made inlet just wide and deep enough to accommodate the family’s various watercraft. Fortunately, Mick knew it well.
The thief was once again gripping her arm. Like he could hold her if she didn’t want to be held. Well, time to disabuse him of that notion.
It took one swift move to get herself free.
“Hey,” he protested as she spun away, but he made no move to try to recapture her: smart man. Like the house and just about every other structure on the property, the boathouse was outfitted with a security camera. Inside, the boathouse was as dark as pitch, and she was as sure as it was possible to be that nothing usable could be seen. But the boathouse had long been a favorite makeout spot for Uncle Nicco’s kids and their friends, and every teenager who had ever spent a balmy summer night on this property knew how to circumvent the single camera.
Mick yanked the plug from the socket.
“Lock the door,” she directed over her shoulder. Careful to avoid the ropes connected to the jumble of floats, water skis, life jackets and buoys stacked against the wall, she ran toward Uncle Nicco’s beloved thirty-six-foot cabin cruiser, Playtime, on which she had spent many a pleasant summer afternoon. It was currently tied up, along with a pair of Jet Skis and a runabout, at the dock, which ran the length of one side of the building. Her eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness, which wasn’t absolute after all. Moonlight shone through a quartet of windows set high up in the metal walls. The black gleam of the water contrasted with the duller charcoal of the wooden dock. Playtime’ s white hull was bright in comparison.
“Is this some sort of trap?” he asked warily.
She could see him, barely, as a denser shadow in the darkness just a few feet behind her. His hand moved, and she caught a glimmer of metal. His arm was down by his side, but he held her gun—at least, she presumed it was hers.
“Did you lock the door?” She threw the question back at him.
“Yes. So are you setting me up or what?”
“If I am, then you’re screwed.” Grabbing a dock support for balance, she jumped on board Playtime. If she hadn’t wanted to make it look to Uncle Nicco and his men like she’d been abducted by this guy, she would have ditched him there and then and taken off in the boat.The only thing was, unless she was willing to burn her bridges completely, she needed to take him with her. To maintain the illusion that she was a hostage, leaving against her will. Which might, or might not, at some point save her life. Or at least give it back to her. “Feeling lucky?”
He snorted, which she took as a no. Well, at least they were on the same page about that.
“Get on board,” she ordered.
Heading toward the controls, she didn’t even bother to glance over her shoulder to check whether or not he obeyed. A moment later, the lurch of the boat as he jumped onto the deck told her all she needed to know.
“You stealing his boat?” Sounding slightly
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