Jo Leigh - One-Click Buy - September Harlequin Blaze

But perhaps there was some other building behind the main house where he had her. He hoped so. It had been too long since she’d been taken. He doubted Tate was handling things well.

Shit, by now her disappearance had to have made a stir. She was Tate Baxter, after all, and the kidnapping had taken place in broad daylight in a very expensive section of Manhattan. William would be going insane and he would want his security chief’s head on a platter.

Well, it had been an interesting job while it’d lasted. Once he got Tate back home, he’d resign and he’d distance himself as much as possible from his team. They didn’t need to collect unemployment just because he’d been suckered.

The edge of the main house came into view, and behind it he could see the ocean. There was a yacht, at least a 65 footer, moored at the edge of a small pier. Parked right by the dock was a white van with muddy plates. Lights glowed from inside the yacht, and as he ran faster, he could see a man’s silhouette.

There was no other building. They had her on the water. But not for long.

“WAKE UP.”

Tate fought to stay cool, but the sharp pains in her wrist and on her arms were more insistent than the man. She opened her eyes. There were more lights on, and she could now see him clearly.

He was of some mixed heritage, maybe black, maybe Hispanic. His eyes were almost golden, which didn’t make much sense. He looked intent and excited; he was smiling as he shook her, and his teeth were crooked, large. He exhaled garlic in her face, and she tried to move her head, which hurt worse than her wrist.

“She’s awake.”

Another voice, a man, older, behind him. She didn’t want to see him, but she looked anyway. He was nothing like his companion. She was right about his age. He was tan, and while his hair was completely white, his face was unlined except around his eyes. He seemed very tall, although from her position on the bed that could be an illusion. He wore a blue shirt and he had a large silver chain around his neck.

“Who are you?”

“You don’t need to know that,” he said. “Move back, Jazz.”

The small man let her go and got off the bed. Now she could see the tall man more clearly, and he reminded her of the men in her father’s club, pampered and false, as if they’d used every trick in the book to stay the hand of time.

“What’s your father’s phone number, Tate?”

“I won’t tell you.”

“Yes, you will. The only question is how much Jazz will hurt you until you do.”

The panic started again and she felt a scream building in her throat.

“Just tell us. It will be so much easier.”

“You’ll kill me if I tell you.”

“I’ll kill you if you don’t.”

“Go ahead.”

“Oh, no. That’s not how we play the game.” He nodded at Jazz.

The small man smiled wider, his glee apparent at the anticipation of her pain. He reached over her head and took her hand in his. He pulled it, hard, and the scream grew as it felt as if he were tearing her wrist apart.

She kicked and found that her legs were no long tied together. It didn’t matter, though. She couldn’t reach anything or stop the tearing. All she could do was scream and thrash, her free arm as useless as her legs.

“Give us the number, Tate. This is only the beginning. He’d like nothing more than to ruin that hand of yours forever. He’ll cut it through the artery. He will. Then he’ll have to stop the bleeding, and the only way he knows to do that is to cauterize it. You know what that is, don’t you?”

The image of her flesh burning made her gag, but there was nothing in her stomach. Maybe she should tell them. Then they’d kill her and it would be over. That was better, wasn’t it?

The big man sighed loudly. “Again,” he said as if he were asking Jazz to change the channel.

Tate closed her eyes as Jazz reached for her hand. The pain took her breath and, with it, her strength. She knew what they wanted from her father, and just like all those years ago, they would win.

“All right,” she said, her voice nothing more than a whisper. “Stop. Please.”

Jazz let her go, but it didn’t help much. The pain shot up her arm and wrapped around her chest. Was it really just today that she’d been picking out shirts at Prada? That she had daydreamed about Michael looking at her with pride?

“Well?”

She wiped the tears from her cheeks with her free hand, wishing for a miracle, knowing none would come. “212…”

MICHAEL MADE IT TO the pier without the police showing up. Nothing mattered now but getting to Tate. It was too easy to imagine her in serious trouble, the kind that didn’t clear up with a cup of tea and a good night’s sleep.

His gun in his hand, he moved toward the yacht, the Pretty Kitty, and tried not to make any noise. If the yacht owner was at all security-conscious, Michael had already set off the alarm. Nothing he could do about that except prepare. He had to remember to ask questions first, which wasn’t his usual MO.

Brody might be an ass, but that wasn’t against the law in New York. If Michael killed him, it would be bad. On the other hand, if Brody tried anything stupid, a bullet in the kneecap might just show him the error of his ways.

He made it to the stern, jumped over the gunwale and got a peek at the main saloon. It was just as luxurious as he’d supposed, nicer than his apartment. Up three stairs was the wheelhouse, but there was no one there, either. Everyone, it seemed, was behind doors.

He kept moving alongside the boat, keeping as low a profile as possible. There was a porthole just ahead, slightly higher than his crouch. Making sure he kept quieter than the water, he made his way there and looked inside.

Tate wasn’t there. Neither was Brody. But he did know the man sitting at the small table, his beefy hand holding on to a beer bottle.

Charlie.

It didn’t compute. What the hell was his brother doing on a boat in Sands Point?

Michael stood, not caring at the moment if Charlie saw him. Unfortunately he didn’t hear the footsteps on the dock until one second before the butt of the gun smashed into his temple.

WHEN TATE WOKE, HER first thought was that death hurt like a son of a bitch, and that filled her with such anger she cried out. Only then did it occur to her that she hadn’t been killed. That her pain meant that she’d passed out again.

Her heart sank as she realized the ordeal wasn’t over. That they were waiting to kill her when she was fully conscious and able to experience everything as it happened.

Didn’t they get it? She’d given them her father’s phone number, and by now he probably knew she’d been kidnapped and was already gathering up the cash he’d need for her ransom. She wondered how much they were asking, but it really didn’t matter. Her father would give them his last cent if he thought he could save her.

But he knew, just as she did, that paying the ransom meant nothing. She would never get off this boat alive. It made perfect sense, now that she thought about it, for them to bring her to a boat. All they had to do was weight her down and toss her overboard. She’d never be found.

She shifted on the bed. Not only was the pain in her wrist getting scary but most of her arm was numb. She was thirsty, too. Normally she drank eight glasses of water a day, but today-was it still Friday?-she hadn’t. Which was probably good, because it didn’t look as though they were going to give her a bathroom break anytime soon.

She used her free hand to pull the small pillow farther down, which seemed to help the pressure on her wrist. Oddly her heart wasn’t beating terribly fast, and she was breathing mostly in the normal range. Even her thoughts were coherent. So, what, now that she was certain she was going to die, the panic was gone?