Wendy Rosnau - Merrick's Eleventh Hour

He handed her purse to her, kept her wallet. “Take the inhaler, that’s all you’ll need.” Then he reached up and jerked the clip from her hair releasing the thick knot. When she reached up in protest, he noticed the marble-size diamond ring on her finger.

She dropped the lipstick into her purse, set it in the seat next to her and kept the inhaler.

“Did you file for a divorce?”

She looked up. “What?”

“You heard me. Did you divorce me?”

She shook her head.

“Then that ring on your finger doesn’t belong there.” Merrick pulled the small envelope from his pocket. “Give it to me.”

She looked down at her hand, but she made no effort to take off Cyrus’s rock.

“I could cut off your finger. Should I?”

She took off the ring. He opened his hand and she dropped it into his palm. He shook his ring out of the envelope—a two-karat emerald-cut diamond set on a white gold wedding band wrapped with more diamonds.

“Put it on.”

“Where did you get that?”

“Put it on.”

She took the ring and slid it onto her finger.

Merrick pulled the white card Cyrus had left at the cemetery from the envelope, then dropped his garish four-karat diamond inside and slid it into his pocket. He reached down inside his boot and came up with his Nightshade. When she saw the knife, she clutched her hands together as if anticipating losing her finger.

He had never once laid a hand on her, never hurt her in any way, and yet her fear of him was indisputable. He had more than one good reason to inflict pain on her, but that was Cyrus’s MO, not his. Not that he wasn’t angry enough to let his rage fly.

He did it now, raised his hand and drove the knife blade into the back of the driver’s seat. She cried out and tried to scoot away from him.

“Keep your ass nailed down.”

He saw her glance at the white card, silently mouth the words. Game on. Your move.

“What’s that?” Her voice hollow and full of trepidation.

“A gift from Cyrus. He left this and your ring in Washington for me a few days ago.”

“Washington?”

“Did he forget to mention it?”

She looked dumbfounded. Didn’t answer.

Merrick took her wallet, slid the white card inside and tucked the wallet into the hole he had sliced in the leather seat. Then he opened the door and climbed out. “Get out.”

“If you kill me, Cyrus will come after you. He’ll—”

“I didn’t come here to kill you, Johanna. I only learned that you were alive a couple of days ago.”

“I don’t understand.”

“That makes two of us. I never expected you, of all people, would betray me. I’m usually a better judge of character. Now get your ass out of the car.”

She slid out and leaned against the back quarter panel of the cab. “You’re the one who tried to kill me, remember?”

“No more lies, Johanna. You helped Cyrus fake your death, then ran off with him.”

“I didn’t fake anything, and I ran to save my life from the men you sent to kill me.”

“That’s bull.”

She jerked away from the car. “I was there. I heard every word. Those men were acting on your orders.”

“I never sent anyone to kill you, Johanna. If I had wanted you dead, I would have done it myself. I could have blown your head off any day of the week. We shared a house for five years, remember? A house miles from the closest neighbor. I could have buried you in the backyard under a rosebush in broad daylight and no one would have been the wiser.”

That comment rendered her speechless for a moment. “If you’re not going to kill me, where are you taking me?”

“On a little boat trip.”

Her eyes shifted to the blue water and the harbor crowded with boats riding the tide.

Her hesitation made him say, “Rule number two. Never forget rule number one.”

He had no idea how close Cyrus was, and as much as he wanted to face the bastard, he wanted it on his terms. He motioned for her to start walking, and he followed three steps behind her down the pier where the Aldora waited. When they reached it, he said, “Get in and go below.”

He followed her down the companionway, swung the door open to the stateroom and, when she walked inside, he didn’t say another word, just pulled the door shut and locked her in.

As he headed back up the companionway he noticed his hands were shaking. For the first time in months he wanted a drink. If he had a bottle on board he would have broken rule number three: Never let your emotions navigate a mission. Getting stink-ass drunk wasn’t on his agenda, and he didn’t trust the man he might find at the bottom of a bottle. He’d never been an angry drunk, but there was always a first time for everything.

The morning he’d woke up at sea after leaving Amorgos, he’d gone over everything Melita had told him, and within an hour he’d arrived in Naxos on the hunt for Zeta Poulos’s daughter. Melita had said that Sonya wasn’t living in the house the last time she’d visited.

He’d used every resource available to track her down believing there was no reason why she would have changed her name. In the end he’d resorted to his old government assassin tricks to find her. It had taken him thirty-six hours.

Sonya was eighteen and enrolled in a private school in Hora. Dressed as a priest bringing bad news he had met with the girl. His roll as kidnapper came late that evening once he’d gotten her away from the school. She had been more than willing to go with him after he’d told her that her mother was on her deathbed.

The glitch came after he had Sonya on board the Aldora. He’d revealed to her that her mother was very much alive and well, and what he wanted from her was the location of Krizova’s most recent hideout. But the girl didn’t know where Cyrus had moved his family after leaving Naxos—it was part of her agreement to be allowed to stay in Hora and go to school.

He’d told her that was unfortunate for her and, afraid for her life, she’d offered him a phone number where she could reach her mother in case of an emergency.

This was definitely an emergency, he had told her—a life-sustaining emergency, and she wouldn’t want to end up at the bottom of the sea.

Moments later Sonya called her mother. On speakerphone Merrick had waited for the concerned mother to take a breath, then he’d taken over the conversation, giving Zeta Poulos explicit instructions—her daughter would die by three o’clock if she didn’t follow them to the letter.

It was two o’clock when the plane from Athens had landed at Hora’s airport. Merrick had watched the passengers exit the plane. It was the first time in almost twenty years that he had seen Johanna, but he spotted her easily. She wore white pants and a green satin blouse, her hair, still as long as he remembered, twisted in a sexy knot.

He’d stood numb beside the taxi, his dark sunglasses shielding his eyes as she guided her housekeeper toward him. Melita was right. Johanna’s years in Greece had been kind to her. She looked far younger than forty-six.

Merrick climbed into the cockpit, and with a clear sky overhead and a million miles of azure sea to get lost in, the Aldora sped away from Hora recklessly.

It was his silver hair that signified the passing of time, but it was the handsome face and amazingly fit body, his voice and those penetrating gray eyes that had turned back the clock.

She should hate him. Most days she had convinced herself that she did. But that was a lie. What she hated most was that she didn’t hate him, and seeing him again only confirmed what a fool she still was.

She’d spent years in exile, hiding out like a criminal because of him. She had chosen a new life, or perhaps it had chosen her, but the memories of the old days with Adolf Merrick had continued to haunt her. They had spent five years together and she still couldn’t forget how happy she had been.