Jo Leigh - One-Click Buy - September Harlequin Blaze

She didn’t hear any movement. “Someone,” she said again, only a whole lot louder, “call the cops.”

There were footsteps to her right and in back of her. Horns honked in the road, and she assumed the crowd had gotten so large that they were blocking the street. Hell, they probably didn’t see a sight like this every day.

Ed Martini writhed on the sidewalk, holding himself like a child who has to pee. Martini, who hadn’t blinked when Michael’s wrist had been broken, who thought nothing of killing two innocent people, then drinking champagne. The pig deserved to die himself, but maybe it would be worse for him if he had to go to prison here. She didn’t think the Caymans had extradition laws, but that didn’t matter either. He wasn’t going to kill Michael. Not now.

“Hey, hey. Put the gun down, miss.”

She looked up to see two police officers standing on the road. “He’s a kidnapper and a thief and a murderer, and I have proof of all of it.”

“Put the gun down and we’ll talk.”

She didn’t want to. She wanted to pull the trigger. But she didn’t. She just bent, put the gun on the ground and backed away.

The cops, in their crisp khakis and black hats, split up, with one man shooing the bystanders away and the other coming toward her. Two steps in, Ed lunged forward and grabbed the gun.

She leaped back, cursing herself for not kicking the weapon as far as she could.

Ed got to his knees, then to his feet, the gun in his right hand pointing at her chest. His face was a red mess, with tears and more dripping from his nose and chin. He didn’t look so smooth now. What he did look like was a man who didn’t care about consequences. Not when he clearly wanted to kill her so damn badly.

“Sir, put the gun down. Sir…”

Ed didn’t even glance at the cop. He just snarled at Tate. “You bitch. You’re gonna pay-”

“I’ve already paid. Isn’t fifty-five million enough? Isn’t kidnapping and assault enough? You broke his wrists! All he was trying to do was protect me, and you’ve crippled him.”

“He’s long past caring,” he said, lifting the gun. “And in one second you’re going to be, too.”

Tate closed her eyes, prepared for the impact of a bullet to send her crashing into the crowd. But it didn’t come. She heard a scuffle, then a thunk, and she opened her eyes to see the two sturdy police officers on top of Ed, their knees planted on his back as they twisted his hands around for cuffs.

Tears filled her eyes and she laughed and wept as she realized it was over, that Ed was really in custody. And then it hit her, what he’d said about Michael.

Her legs didn’t want to hold her up as she let the truth in. Michael was dead. They hadn’t broken his other wrist, they’d shot him. Of course they had. Why bother to keep him around? She’d proved she would do anything for him, so all they’d needed was her own belief that she could save him.

Michael was dead.

LEAVING THE COOK IN the galley, Michael went back down the narrow corridor toward the master suite and the other berth. Danny, unless he’d taken Ed and Tate to the island, had to be there somewhere. Probably prepared, as the cook’s death hadn’t been all that quiet.

There was a head just before the smaller berth, and Michael slowed as he neared it. His arm and shoulder throbbed to the beat of his heart as he silently made his approach.

Gun at the ready, he kicked the door in, but no one was there. The room was too small to hide in, which meant Danny had to be in one of the bedrooms. If he was on board at all.

The berth, with a couple of beds and very little else, did have space to hide. Although a man Danny’s size would have trouble.

If the roles had been reversed, Michael would have gotten behind the door, listening carefully for footsteps. He wouldn’t wait for his assailant to show up, he’d shoot through the door.

With that in mind, Michael decided to lure Danny out. He still had a lot of ammo in the mag, so he got close, aimed his weapon at the master suite door and fired.

Despite the name, silencers never really silenced a gun. They helped, but for anyone below deck, the gunshot would have been heard. Just in case Danny had headphones on, Michael put the gun under his right armpit-which hurt like a bitch-unscrewed the silencer, then retrieved the weapon. Two more shots, and this time someone would have to be dead to miss the sound.

Michael crouched in the head doorway, waiting. It was tough to be patient. His mind went one of two places-Tate or pain. He had to keep bringing himself back to his target.

Three minutes went by and Michael saw the door to the master suite move.

Danny had ducked-at least that’s what it looked like from the position of his gun. It didn’t matter. He could have crawled out on his belly. For all his size and weight, there was nothing the man could have done to save his own life.

Michael put three shots into the door. Danny fell like a massive tree, his head cracking loudly on the teak floor.

Michael backed up until he could sit on the edge of the john. His whole body throbbed with pain, mitigated slightly by relief. Even that only lasted a minute. Tate was still out there. And Charlie.

He hadn’t heard a thing from upstairs, but that didn’t mean Charlie hadn’t recovered. At least his brother didn’t have a gun. He’d probably end up shooting himself if he had.

Michael stood, momentarily dizzy. Then, after a few deep breaths, he headed back to the saloon. The smell of death followed him, tainting the scent of the ocean. He felt pretty sure that the coppery taste at the back of his mouth would remind him of tropical islands for some time to come.

The saloon itself was in good shape. Michael’s gaze went right to the big leather chair. The government would be selling off the boat once Ed was in prison, and it felt damn good to know the bastard would never sit in that chair again.

Michael needed Tate to get back. Looking toward the beach, he didn’t see any water taxis-but then, they were pretty far offshore.

Shit, he couldn’t put it off any longer. He turned to the small room that had been their prison for ten days. Jazz’s body was still in the doorway, and beyond him, Charlie.

IT HAD TAKEN TOO LONG for the police to get their act together once the street cops had taken her to the station. She’d had to scream to get the right person’s attention, but once Chief Eccles understood what was at stake, he made things happen.

In fact, she had to fill in the details as they sped to a police boat. It was long and sleek and, according to the chief, faster than the speed of criminals.

He brought along six men, heavily armed, in what she assumed to be the British colonial equivalent of a SWAT team. As they flew over the water toward the Pretty Kitty, all Tate could do was pray. If only he could still be alive, she’d give more money to charity. She’d work in a soup kitchen. She’d trade years off her own life. Anything. Just not what Ed had said. Not that.

She stood up, too insane to be still, next to the captain. Wind and sea mist sprayed her face, ruining the makeup she’d so carefully applied this morning. Well, that and her tears.

CHARLIE HADN’T MOVED at all, and as Michael knelt next to him, his chest constricted with a stab of guilt and regret. He put his fingers to Charlie’s throat, searching for a pulse. He thought maybe…but that could be his own heartbeat.

He bent down, putting his ear right over Charlie’s heart. There, damn it. He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t in great shape, but he wasn’t dead.

Relief made his eyes water as he sat back up. Now it was just a matter of time before Tate and Ed came back. Before Michael could finish taking the trash out.