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an abduction—a deadly serious business.
He couldn’t afford to lose sight of his goal for one second.
They came to a fork in the gravel road. If he continued up toward her house, the rocks would block his view of the harbor, and he needed to see the boats. So he pushed her in the other direction, down toward the Hopkins’s boatyard.
“Where…are you taking me?”
He knew what she was thinking. From the moment he’d first heard about Amelia Hopkins and the Global Freedom Front’s plans, her fate had haunted him—that’s why he’d gone to their leader and requested this job.
Thank God he’d earned the terrorist leader’s respect. It had taken him three years, but he’d finally managed to get close enough to Chien Fou to ensure that whatever he asked for, he got.
The idea that one of his fellow seamen might lay his hands on Amelia sickened Cole. Yet he knew that in the deepest, most shameful corner of his soul, the idea of taking her, willingly or not, titillated him.
He disgusted himself.
“Look, whoever you are. I have money. Lots of it,” she said desperately. “I’ll make sure you’re set for life. Just please don’t—”
“Shut up!” he snapped.
Off to the north, the boats were moving. Amelia spotted them as soon as he did. She stopped.
“What’s going on down there?”
The boats were rigged like pirate ships, flying the Jolly Roger. Cole heard cheers and laughter coming from the little town below.
Chien Fou’s ruse had worked. Cole pictured exactly what the townsfolk saw.
Ships with black sails and orange pirate flags. Seamen with red rags around their heads and knives in their teeth.
“Oh, dear heavens,” Amelia whispered, and craned her neck to look up at him.
He met her gaze for the third time and, just like the first, when he’d put himself in her path as she came out of the fortune-teller’s booth, and the second in the crowded pub, her eyes glowed like Tupelo honey.
Her expression morphed from puzzlement to confusion to horror within the space of a second.
“You!” she stormed.
He nodded and curved his mouth in what he hoped was a sneer. “You don’t look like the type who’d pay a fortune-teller. What’d she tell you—beware of strangers?”
Two spots of crimson flared across her cheekbones. His pulse jumped. So the fortune-teller had gotten his message across. Or spilled the beans about the weird guy and his odd request.
“What’s going on down there? Who are they?” Her head jerked toward the boats.
“Who knows? Pirates. Revelers. Paid performers.” He heard the sting in his own voice.
“No, they’re not.”
She was entirely too intuitive.
“They’re not part of the festival. Something’s happening. Something bad.” She surprised him by jerking against his thumb, a classic self-defense move. She took off running.
Damn it. He threw himself after her. She was nimble and quick, skipping down the cliff-side path, her high heels clicking on the rocks.
Then suddenly she went down. Her fancy boots were her undoing, just as he’d predicted.
He caught up to her in no time. She lay in an awkward heap on a jutting rock, her eyes glittering like gold nuggets—or hot coals.
Cole examined the line of her body. Was she hurt? Or was she feigning? At this point, he wouldn’t put anything past her.
Then he saw it. The long skinny heel of her boot appeared caught under a rock.
“I knew I should have brought my purse. I carry a gun. I could have shot you.”
“No purse? Then what’s this?” he asked, picking up the metal case she kept dropping when she fell.
“Give me that.”
He examined it. “What is it?”
“Nothing you’d be interested in.”
He flipped the clasp and opened it. “Makeup?”
“Stage makeup. Some of the performers used it.”
“The fortune-tellers.” He thought about the boat calendar and her perfect 1940s makeup and hair. “You’re an actress?”
“None of your business. May I have my case?”
He handed her the case.
She kicked him.
“Ow! Damn it!” Her spiked heel made a big dent in his forearm. She jabbed at him again. He grabbed her foot. “Stop!”
“Oh! You’re breaking my ankle.”
“Yeah. Right.” He was barely touching her, but he held his hands up, palms out. “Get up.”
Amelia glared at the bully who had abducted her. She couldn’t let him know how terrified she was. When he’d grabbed her earlier, she’d seen the hastily disguised lust in his eyes.
She’d always been capable of taking care of herself. Plus her father’s employees had always looked after her like family.
But there was no one around to protect her now. This dangerous stranger had anticipated every move she’d made.
Whatever he wanted to do to her, she’d be helpless against him.
What an idiot she was, wearing these ridiculous thousand-dollar boots. She should have worn her hiking boots. Of course her plans for the evening hadn’t included being hauled up and down the cliff face by a ruffian.
“Let’s go. I said, get up.” He held out his hand. It was a large hand, with short blunt fingernails. His palm was calloused—she’d felt its roughness against her neck.
She lowered her gaze. If he looked into her eyes, he’d know she was planning something. She figured she had one last chance to get away.
She took his hand and moved to stand, mentally rehearsing her rash, spur-of-the-moment plan. If she could surprise him and throw him off balance, she could escape and warn the town—of what exactly, she had no idea. But she knew that those pirate boats converging on the harbor boded ill for Raven’s Cliff.
She feinted as if she’d lost her footing, then with all her might she swung the makeup case at his head.
He stopped her so easily it was laughable. He wrenched the case from her hands.
“Nice trick. Try it on someone your own size. I’ll hold on to this. I don’t care to be banged on the head with it. Now let’s go. We need to head up to your house now. You can walk or I can carry you. It’s your choice.”
Amelia glared at him. Helplessness churned in her gut until she felt ill. She had no chance of escaping him. None.
Whatever he wanted, he’d take.
“What do you want from me if it’s not money?”
He didn’t answer, just tilted his head back an inch and raked her body with his gaze.
Amelia’s heart pounded in her ears as fear wrapped icy fingers around her heart. He was going to rape her, or kill her or both. Everyone in Raven’s Cliff was convinced the Seaside Strangler was dead. But what if this man—
“Look. I’m not talking pocket change. I’ve got enough to set you up for life. I’ll give you whatever you want.” She sounded pathetic, but she didn’t care.
Gone was her bravado, gone the self-assurance and determination that made her