Cold in the Shadows 5 (12 page)

He didn’t like that he didn’t like it.

“It must have something to do with the attack from the night before.” Her voice regained some of that huskiness he’d noticed during the talk she’d given on frogs. He’d forgotten the effect her slight Kentucky accent had on him.

“The one you reported to the cops?”

She nodded.

“No police report with your name on it was filed that night.”

“What?” Her surprise looked genuine. No micro expressions of deception.

“I checked,” he added.

“How?” She frowned.

He shrugged. “I asked around.”

“But why wouldn’t they file the report? I was with them for
two
hours.”

No record of that either.

Her confusion turned to anger. Righteous indignation rising to the surface with every breath. “The caretaker warned me the cops might not take me seriously.”

“Can you remember the detectives’ names?”

Her lips were dry and cracked as she pinched them together. He passed her the salve he’d already applied several times and she took it with a cautious expression. “Thank you.”

He avoided looking at her mouth when she put it on. Obviously he was suffering from whatever the reverse of Stockholm syndrome was, where the captor felt sympathy for their captive. His subjects were usually stinky, ugly, hairy guys, much easier to detach from, but he hadn’t rescued and repeatedly saved them from death, nor bathed with them naked—thank God. Maybe this was a biological thing—his wiggly DNA wanting a chance to divide and conquer.

As long as he recognized the issues he could deal with them, and use them to his advantage.

She frowned as she struggled to remember. “One guy was called Ortez, he gave me a card which is in my purse in the lab.”

Or more likely in evidence—or destroyed—but he didn’t tell her that. Interestingly a detective called Patrice Ortez had been on duty that night, alongside a guy called Diego Torres. Alex Parker had gotten the names of all the detectives working in the area, now he’d hopefully be able to pull the right phone records. Apparently it wasn’t as easy as it sounded—and it sure as hell wasn’t legal.

Audrey didn’t know about her dead student yet and he wasn’t about to enlighten her. He was saving that information for when he might need leverage, or to knock her emotionally off balance. Yep, he was a real prince.

He crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair. “Like I said, nothing was filed. There is no report.”

“I don’t know if they’re corrupt or incompetent.” She put the glass on the bedside table. “I should get to an American police station immediately and tell them exactly what happened. Can you call someone for me?”

“No.” He let his eyes get hard. It was time to get down to brass tacks while she was still weak from her illness and vulnerable from the uncertainty of her situation. “Time for the truth, Audrey. I know who you are.”

She blinked twice. “I didn’t realize who I was was ever in question.” Her tired features pinched further. “I want to make a phone call and talk to someone official.” She pushed the bedclothes off and swung her legs carefully over the edge of the bed.

It took every ounce of self-control to force himself to sprawl back in his chair and let her struggle. “Knock yourself out.”

As she placed her toes on the sheepskin rug she tugged the T-shirt as low as it would go—mid-thigh. Her legs wobbled as she pushed to her feet and staggered to the doorway that led to the deck. The fresh sea breeze swept through the room and cleared out the scent of the sickroom, but the effort was obviously too much for her. She sagged against the doorframe as she looked outside. “Where are we?”

He moved to stand behind her. She swayed and he scooped her up when she would have collapsed to the floor. She grabbed onto his shirt, fingers curling tight over his heart.

“Just tell me who you work for and I’ll get us both out of here.” Up close her eyes were almost lavender. The fire in them told him exactly what she thought of answering his questions when he wouldn’t answer any of hers, but she surprised him.

“I work for the U of L and hold adjunct status at the university in Bogota. My boss is the head of department, Professor Paula Renault. Now I’ve told you what you wanted to know. Get me out of here.”

Killion shook his head and carried her out onto the deck and spun them in a slow circle. “See this?” She clutched his shirt tighter, holding on as if dizzy. “There’s no one here except us. There’s no one to talk to except me, and we’re not going anywhere until you tell me the truth about who you work for.” The sky was so blue and the sun so strong Audrey tucked her face into his chest, and he hated how the action affected him. His voice grew softer. “I’m all for hanging out until you tell me who hired you. But you aren’t fooling me. I know what you did. I know who you killed, and I don’t mean good old Hector. So let’s cut to the chase and get this over with.”

Her mouth dropped open as she looked up at him.

“Hey, I’m not judging you.” He tilted his head and gave her his best smile.

“You know who I
killed
but you’re not
judging
me?” She gaped, then took a swipe at his cheek with her open hand.

He easily avoided the blow, and laughed. Mistake. She started to struggle, so he gripped her tighter and returned to the bedroom. He laid her down carefully on the crumpled sheets and leaned over her, staring deep into those indignant eyes.

“I mean it when I say we’re not going anywhere until I get the truth.”

She opened her mouth to say something and then stopped, biting her lip in a way that flipped his small brain to the “on” position. No doubt about it, he needed to burn off a little steam in the sex department.

She frowned thoughtfully, as if replaying something in her mind. “Spook.”

Uh-oh
.

He blanked his features.

“Someone said you were a government spook.”

Something a good operative would never call another on. He straightened. “You’re mistaken.”

“No, I’m not. It was that other guy. The big Brit.” Her eyes grew huge. “He thought I was asleep. You’re not a tourist at all, are you? You’re a spook. A CIA agent.” She said it like it was akin to being a child molester. Her pupils flared and she shrank back against the pillows. “What do you want with me? Why have you kidnapped me? I’m a frog biologist, for God’s sake.”

Boom
.

She’d been awake ten minutes and he’d already lost control of this interrogation. Never underestimate smart people. Rather than screw it up further by trying to regain the upper hand, he turned on his heel and left. He didn’t bother locking up. There was nowhere for Dr. Audrey Lockhart to go.

*     *     *

A
UDREY LAY IN
bed with her heart hammering like a hamster on a red-hot wheel. This wasn’t a rescue. This was a kidnapping.

As soon as “Patrick” left, Audrey rushed to her feet and headed for the garden doors. She was wearing nothing except a long T-shirt, but if she flashed the neighbors while trying to escape she didn’t really care. She had to get away.

Her wound was healing, but she was careful not to jar it as she staggered out onto the balcony. The sun reflected off the surface of the topaz ocean so brightly tears stung her eyes. The house was perched near the top of a steep hillside covered in dense forest. She looked around frantically. There wasn’t another house in sight, nor were there any people visible. She thought about shouting for help but didn’t want to attract the wrong sort of attention until she knew exactly what she was dealing with.

A wave of wooziness flowed over her and she clutched the railing until it passed. The heat sapped her meager strength and even this short walk to the balcony left her tired and breathless. The deck didn’t lead anywhere. There were no steps and nowhere to go unless she wanted to climb thirty feet down a sheer rock face.

Not today. Not any day for that matter.

Surely, if she went out the front door there would be a road and she could flag someone down for help?

One thing was for certain, she wasn’t sitting around for the insane government agent to come back with more of his ridiculous accusations. She went to the bedroom door and peeked out along the corridor toward a living room with hardwood floors. The house was constructed with beautiful clean lines of pale wood and white-washed walls and if it wasn’t for the fact she was being held captive when she should have been at work, she might have paused to admire the architecture of this tropical paradise.

“Patrick” wasn’t anywhere to be seen. If he was a spook—and there had been no reason to lie as they’d thought she was unconscious at the time—she doubted Patrick was his real name. It felt wrong not even knowing his name when he held her life in his hands, but even more disorienting was not knowing where on the planet she was being held. She didn’t even know what day it was. Did her parents know she was missing? She hoped not. Her mother would freak. Her mom and dad were already run ragged keeping Sienna from going off the rails and looking after their grandson. It wasn’t fair to put them through anything else.

Using the wall for support, she made her way to an airy open-plan living room and staggered past a large center island that marked off the kitchen. It was empty, thank goodness. There were huge seascapes on the walls, but no personal pictures anywhere. Was this a rental cottage? She couldn’t imagine it was a CIA safe house, but if it was, it certainly explained her taxes.

Her head started to pound. What was she doing here? She had a busy schedule, experiments to run. Students to teach. Frogs to care for. Things like this didn’t happen to her—then she remembered her friend, Rebecca. They’d been walking home from a club one night and a mugging had turned into murder when their attacker had pulled a gun.

So things like this
did
happen to her.

Maybe she was jinxed.

A cell phone sat on the living room coffee table and she snatched it up, turning it on and finding to her amazement it actually had a signal. A toilet flushed somewhere in the house. The sound spurred her into motion.

She was out of breath and sweating by the time she reached the front door. The elaborate electronic lock surprised her, but the door opened easily. She eased the solid oak door quietly closed behind her and dialed nine-one-one. The call rang endlessly and she gave up and dialed her parents instead. She looked out at a thick canopy of trees and frowned in confusion. No road. No vehicle. Not even a bicycle to borrow. Where was this place?

Her call again went unanswered.

She tried their cells. Maybe her parents were at the police station filling out forms about their missing daughter. Maybe they were printing flyers or posting on social media requesting help in finding her. Frustrated, she hung up and dialed Devon. If anyone had the wherewithal to track her whereabouts it was her ex, or his and Rebecca’s father, Gabriel, who was very fond of her.

Again the call rang endlessly, seeming to echo incessantly over the fiber optics network of the world.

A steep path led down toward the beach. Even looking at it sucked the energy from her marrow, then she remembered she wasn’t a guest here, she wasn’t on vacation. Instead, she was the prisoner of a delusional, if handsome, lunatic. She took a step forward and found herself once again swept up into strong arms. With her free hand she grabbed onto his shirt for balance, recognizing his scent before she even saw his face.

He plucked the cell out of her fingers and pocketed the phone. “For the love of Christ, you’ve been awake fifteen minutes and you’re already a giant pain in my ass.”

She fought to get out of his grip, but she had no strength left. Patrick had about seventy pounds of muscle mass on her, plus he hadn’t almost died from a fever.

“You’re going to hurt yourself and put your recovery back another week. I’ve already wasted enough time trying to keep you alive,” he bit out.

The callousness of that comment hurt. “I didn’t plan to get stabbed.”

He strode through the house and dumped her on the bed. She lay there too exhausted to move. Tears pricked her eyes and she turned away, not wanting him to see her so vulnerable. She’d been kidnapped by a rogue agent who’d mistakenly thought she’d killed someone—which should have been laughable except here she was being held captive in a strange house at an unknown location. He’d been watching her. Following her. Stalking her. How else had he been on hand to “save” her? Sure, he’d nursed her for days and probably saved her life, but who knew what else he’d done when she’d been unconscious. A rush of revulsion shot through her. She adjusted her shirt to cover more of her thighs.

His eyes narrowed as if reading her thoughts, a touch of temper spiking those cool depths.

“Just tell me who hired you, Doc, and I’ll arrange transportation back to the mainland ASAP. Getting you out of my hair will be a pleasure, believe me.”

They were on an island? She tried not to give away her surprise or unease. “And what happens when I can’t tell you what you want to know?”

He stared at her with a hard expression. Nothing like the nice guy who’d slept in the chair beside her bed earlier. There was nothing
nice
in his expression and a little shiver of apprehension slipped down her spine as she realized this guy had total control over every aspect of her life.

The moisture in her mouth evaporated as her fear increased. “What are you going to do if I don’t tell you what you want to know?”

“Oh, you’ll tell me eventually.”

And despite his default laid-back persona, she believed him. This man was not some beach bum, surfer dude. The harsh set of his features told her he’d done things and seen things that would make her cover her eyes in horror. The trouble was she didn’t know the answers to the questions he posed.

She reached for her water but her hand was shaking too much to actually pick up the glass and she almost knocked it over. He grabbed it and held it to her lips. She reluctantly took a sip wondering why she trusted him on one level and thought he was dangerous on another.

The water eased her dry throat. His face was only inches from hers, so close she could see the white gold of his eyelashes. She pushed the cup away. “Are you really CIA?” He said nothing and she could read nothing from his expression. “Are you a spy?”