Jo Leigh - One-Click Buy - September Harlequin Blaze

What did he have to lose by checking it out? Michael knew Ed wasn’t about to forget the five million. No one seemed to be in a huge rush to get it, so they either hadn’t called in the ransom yet or they must have given William some time to gather the cash. Michael’s whole objective was to buy time.

Eventually the circumstances for victory would come his way. This was the kind of thing he’d trained for all his adult life, and these guys? They knew nothing but the brute fundamentals. He’d win and he’d get Tate out of this in one piece. If they believed him right now.

“Yeah, that’s all swell, but the five million, we don’t need her for that. And there’s no guarantee-”

“She’s crazy about him, Ed,” Charlie said. “You threaten to hurt Mikey and she’ll do anything you want.”

Ed barely gave Charlie a glance. “It seems like a lot of trouble.”

“Not so much trouble,” Michael said, “not fifty million dollars’ worth. Completely untraceable.”

“But if she signs over the money, she can just as easily blow the whistle.”

Michael smiled at Jazz. “I don’t see how, unless she can communicate from the other side.”

Jazz’s thin eyebrows came down as he frowned.

While Michael waited for him to comprende, he took a moment to think about a particularly juicy way he would kill the man when the time came.

“Oh. The other side. I get it.”

“Once you know the account is legit and you make the transfer, there’s no way anyone’s going to trace the transaction. Not if you put the money back into the same bank under your name.”

Ed chuckled just as the hatch opened at the front of the saloon. A bald guy came up the stairs. He stopped there and pulled a big tray filled with food up from the hold. Then another. Following the second tray there came a man in a white chef’s coat.

Michael turned his attention back to the bald guy. He was older than Michael by at least a couple of years, but, shit, he was in great shape. Michael would need to bring a weapon along to kill that one.

Evidently he was Danny. The one who was going to lose the GPS tracker. Jazz made him wait as he went into the berth at the inside of the saloon. He came out again holding the Coach bag. Before he handed it to Danny, he took the cash out of Tate’s wallet and her wristwatch.

Michael changed his mind. He would kill Jazz with a dull fish knife instead.

The chef was nothing. A chef. If this was everyone who would be on the boat, he could manage. There was only one guy who truly scared him and that was Jazz. Michael knew the type-he enjoyed his job. The more people he could hurt, the better.

The discussion was over, at least for now. As the chef and baldy set up the table for Ed’s dinner, Ed finished his beer, then told Jazz to cut him loose.

“Take him into the cabin and cuff him next to his girlfriend.”

Michael didn’t show his relief. All he cared about now was making sure Tate was okay.

WILLIAM BAXTER STOOD in his upstairs closet, staring at the shelves of his safe. He’d never given much thought to the heft and weight of five million dollars, but he did so now. He knew, because it was important to know such things, that one million dollars in one hundred dollar bills weighed twenty-two pounds. Therefore, five million dollars would weigh one hundred and ten pounds. He needed a vessel, something he could fit into a public trash Dumpster, something that wouldn’t look suspicious to someone passing by, something that would hold one hundred and ten pounds of hundred-dollar bills. It was a serious matter. One, if he got it wrong, that could mean his daughter’s death.

His eyes closed as he tried to regain his bearings. He kept remembering the phone call. The electronically altered voice.

Your daughter is ours. Bring five million in unmarked hundreds to the Central Park carousel. At two-thirty this morning put the cash in the Dumpster with the red X. No police. No tracking chip or dye packs. You deliver the money by yourself. One thing goes wrong, Tate is dead.

He had to get a grip on himself. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for his daughter, including giving these people his money. If only he could believe that following the instructions to the letter would be enough.

He knew only too well that if a man was capable of kidnapping, he was capable of murder.

It occurred to him that the vessel he was desperately searching for had been so obvious, if he hadn’t been this close to tears. He would use an old gym bag. There were a couple downstairs.

But to go downstairs would telegraph that something was wrong. The last thing he needed was for the staff to gossip. Any oblique reference at all could be enough to cause damage.

He would have to call Stafford, his majordomo. Just as he stepped out of the closet, his intercom buzzed. His heart leaped in his chest, but he made it to the phone. “Yes?”

“Sara Lessing returning your call, sir.”

“Yes. And, Stafford, please come to my room and bring one of those old gym bags from the storage room. Discreetly.”

“Sir.”

William pressed the lit phone line. “Sara.”

“Hi, Mr. Baxter. Is something wrong?”

“Is Tate with you?”

“Uh, no.”

“Would you happen to know where she is?”

“She didn’t say anything to me about having plans.”

“I see,” he said, sitting down before his knees gave out. He hadn’t realized how much stock he’d put in the idea that Tate was simply with her friend and this was all a prank.

“Mr. Baxter, have you tried her cell?”

“Yes. I have.”

“What about Michael? Or Elizabeth? They’d know.”

“Mr. Caulfield is also not available by phone, and Elizabeth suggested Tate was with him.”

“Oh. Wait.”

“Yes?”

“Okay, nothing’s wrong. Not really. Except…well, I wasn’t supposed to tell you…”

“Sara, please-”

“Of course. I’m sorry. Tate is participating in this, well, sort of stunt.”

“Pardon me?”

As William listened to Tate’s best friend outline the lunatic plan, every part of him wanted her words to be true. He hadn’t wept since his wife died twenty-two years ago, but he wept now, knowing that the silly plan to fake Tate’s kidnapping had gone so horribly wrong.

“Sir?”

“Thank you, Sara. I appreciate your explanation. However…”

“Yes?”

“An hour ago I received a ransom call.”

Sara didn’t say anything for a long time. “Michael is with her. He’ll make sure she’s safe. I know he went after her. He was against the whole idea.”

“Was he?”

“Oh, God.”

“I have to go. Needless to say, if you hear-”

“Of course. And if there’s anything-”

“I’ll call you.” He hung up, and only then did Stafford enter the room, carrying a large black gym bag.

“Is this fine, sir?”

It was perfect. All five million dollars fit inside with just enough room to zip it closed. He had several hours to kill until the drop-off. Plenty of time to imagine the hell Tate was in.

THE DOOR OPENED AND all Tate’s bravado vanished. Before she could even see who had opened it, she was hit by a massive panic episode. Heart, lungs, legs, brain…all the things she had counted on were no longer under her control. The fear had her tight and the room dimmed.

“Tate.”

She opened her mouth, but his name wouldn’t come.

“Tate, look at me.”

The side of the bed dipped, and she felt his cool fingers on the side of her face. The tunnel vision, which blocked out so much, softened and let her see who it was. “Michael.”

He smiled. He wasn’t wearing his sunglasses, either, so she could see his eyes. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s okay. You found me.”