Jill Sorenson - Crash Into Me

In his closet he had casual, expensive sportswear, vintage T-shirts, and designer jeans. He must be independently wealthy, because he also owned a lot of high-tech gadgets, an impressive collection of surfboards, and a top-quality, titanium-lined wetsuit.

Heart pounding with excitement, Sonny worked faster, sorting through a significant array of masculine beauty products and rifling through closed drawers.

There was one nondescript cardboard box hidden beneath a pair of sweatpants in the bottom drawer. Sonny pulled out the box and took off the lid. Inside, there was a dirty green trucker hat and a pair of old sunglasses.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. These things had belonged to Arlen.

Scrambling to her feet, she dug her cell phone out of her purse to alert Grant. And heard the click of a revolver in the entryway behind her.

Making a split-second decision, she let the phone fall to the carpet and slipped her hand into her jacket, going for her gun.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he warned.

She paused, fingers touching metal. If she ducked down as she drew her weapon, there was a good chance he’d miss.

“This is a.38,” JT explained. “At this range it would blow a hole through you the size of a watermelon.”

Keeping her hand where it was, she tilted her head to look at him.

He smiled at her, coldly handsome without the charming, sleepy-eyed façade. “Remove your weapon and take out the clip.”

It occurred to her that not only did JT know she was carrying, he knew what she was carrying. He’d been in her apartment. Feeling sick with unease, she slid her SIG out of the holster and let the clip drop.

“Good,” he said, nodding. “Toss that on the bed.”

“Backup is on the way,” she said, hoping it was true. “Any minute, there’ll be feds and local police crawling all over the place.”

“Then we’d best get going,” he said.

She turned to face him, moving slow. His eyes were cool and his hands were steady, but she knew he was afraid to approach her. As well he should be.

“Do you have a pair of cuffs in your purse?” he asked, studying her warily.

“If you think I’m going to make this easy for you-”

“Do it or they’ll never find Carly.”

Her stomach lurched. “Where is she?”

JT’s mouth twisted with impatience. “We aren’t negotiating, bitch, we’re leaving. Now take those cuffs out and put them on your wrists or I’ll just shoot you now and be on my way.”

It was highly inadvisable to let a perp take her to another location. Her best chance at survival was to scuffle with him, even to risk taking a bullet in an attempt to break free.

Because she had Carly to consider, she removed the handcuffs from her purse.

“Make them tight,” he said.

Gritting her teeth, she secured her own wrists. She didn’t know how he’d snuck up on her, because she hadn’t heard a sound, and the boat had never shifted under his weight. If she made it out of this situation alive, and she wasn’t sure she deserved to after this rookie mistake, she would never leave her back to a door again.

Stephen watched JT and the woman from a distance. They were walking away from Shelter Island Marina, and in the deepening gloom, he couldn’t see her very clearly.

Something about her was familiar.

He hesitated, glancing back at the houseboat. It appeared as though JT had forgotten to lock up on his way out. The woman wasn’t struggling or showing any signs of distress, and JT was leading her toward other people, not away from them.

If Stephen followed them, he might not see anything more interesting than a moonlit walk or a romantic dinner, and what he really wanted to do was snoop through JT’s belongings. He waited until the couple was out of sight before he stepped from the shadows, hurrying across the concrete pathway and slipping onto Captain Trips.

He was afraid to turn on the lights, so he had to wait for his eyes to adjust. Heart pounding a mile a minute, he stood inside someone else’s home, a silent intruder. After an indescribable length of time, the gleaming surfaces and clean lines took shape.

Stephen gulped, more nervous than ever. This was the kind of place where one stray fingerprint would be noticed. He had to be careful not to touch anything.

Hands sweating, pulse racing, he moved from room to room, hoping his boots didn’t leave scuff marks on the polished hardwood. A quick glance told him what was out of place. In the bedroom, there was a clip on the ground and a gun on the bed.

Next to the clip lay a woman’s handbag. It was lying on one side, its contents spilled across the carpet.

“Damn,” he whispered, knowing he’d made the wrong decision. He should have followed them.

Wiping his palms on the legs of his jeans, he reached down to pick up a single white business card. Flipping it over, he saw a familiar name.

Special Agent Sonora Vasquez.

“Damn!” he repeated. The woman who took off with JT was that blue-eyed FBI agent, the one who’d treated him kindly. She’d made him uncomfortable-all women did-but he’d felt an instant connection with her. A kinship.

His eyes moved past the card, to an empty shoe box near the foot of the bed. Inside, barely discernible in the approaching dark, was one of his dad’s old trucker caps and a pair of dirty sunglasses. The lenses glinted wickedly in the meager light.

Stephen sucked in a sharp breath. And felt his vision narrow.

Arlen may have deserved killing, but none of those girls had. He could still see their pretty faces, smiling up at him from their photos.

“You murdering motherfucker,” he muttered, picking up the gun. He didn’t know how to use it, but it felt good in his hands. It felt damned good. He scooped up the clip and jammed it into the chamber, surprised when it easily clicked into place.

He was locked and loaded. Ready to go.

And when he heard a voice behind him, a man busting through the door, he was so geared up for violence, he whirled around and pulled the trigger.

JT draped a T-shirt over her wrists, hiding the cuffs, and stuffed his gun in the pocket of his jacket. He led her down the causeway with the muzzle pressed against her spine, a chilly reminder that he meant business.

To the casual passerby, they were a cozy couple taking a quiet stroll.

As they approached Fisherman’s Wharf, she felt another surge of panic. At dusk, the docks were quiet, but when one last boat cruised into the harbor, she knew it was Destiny. Carly and James were safe inside, oblivious to the danger, snuggling close as they came in from their stolen afternoon at sea.

JT had lied. Not only had Sonny allowed herself to be captured, she’d given him an opportunity to use her as leverage.

“Don’t start resisting now,” he clucked, reading her body language. “It will hardly do them any good.”

“Eat shit and die,” she returned in a bored tone, deliberately relaxing her shoulders. If there was any time to fight, it was at this very moment, before James and Carly got involved. Twisting her body toward him, she swung her cuffed hands up, catching him under the chin.

He staggered back a step, stunned.

Encouraged by the small victory, she struck again, aiming a roundhouse kick at JT’s right hand, the one holding the gun. With amazingly fast reflexes, he caught her ankle before her foot connected and jerked her off balance.

Having no way to break her fall, she landed hard on her back. Pain jolted down her spine and the wind rushed out of her lungs.

He looked around to make sure there were no witnesses, keeping the gun in his pocket pointed down at her. “Get up.”

She rolled to one side, gasping for air.