Susan Kearney - Protector S.o.s.

Ellie and Sandy needed the extra money they earned delivering boats to help support their fledgling marina. Okay, maybe not so fledgling. They’d expanded over the last two years, adding a lucrative retail supply business to their main operation of leasing slips and selling fuel. They no longer worried over paying their bills, but they had more plans for expansion in the works.

Vanderpelt headed down below and Ellie rolled her smoky gray eyes at the sky, signaling what she thought of the high-and-mighty Vanderpelt. Sandy shrugged. During the past year, they’d had other unusual clients. A buyer in Florida had met them on his dock in his pajamas, a glass of champagne in his hand and a buxom blonde under each arm. A movie star in L.A. had burst into tears at the sight of his boat, totally overcome at finally being able to afford the yacht he’d always dreamed of. Sometimes Sandy felt like Santa Claus—but not today.

She distracted herself from Vanderpelt’s displeasure by perusing his private island. Located about a hundred miles due east of Nova Scotia, and part of mainland Canada, the forbidding rocky shoreline and chain-link fence around the perimeter, with No Trespassing signs posted every ten feet, looked more like a military compound than the luxurious home of an eccentric millionaire.

A stately two-story house with a steeply pitched roof perched on tall pilings next to a clearing that looked like a helicopter pad. Vanderpelt’s pilot was supposed to fly them back to Bar Harbor, Maine, where they could rent a car, head home and regroup before heading out to sea again.

Vanderpelt’s thinning blond head poked out of the cabin, followed by the rest of him. Sandy had hoped his expression would have lightened to pleasure after seeing the rich mahogany cabinetry, the immaculate galley and the well-appointed cabin, decorated by a top Toronto designer.

But his blue eyes had narrowed, and the furrow between his brows had deepened to a fierce glower. “This is not my boat.”

Sandy and Ellie exchanged “uh-oh” glances. Although Sandy’s concern was intensifying with the storm blowing in, she kept her voice pleasant. “Mr. Vanderpelt. Lightning struck the mast of your boat and melted part of the hull. The manufacturer wanted you to have a brand-new, undamaged boat. You’re lucky they had a replacement.”

“You brought me a substitute? That’s not good enough. It’s unacceptable,” he sputtered.

Sandy kept her tone businesslike to cover her annoyance. The customer wasn’t supposed to know that his original boat had been damaged, and she was delivering a substitute, but obviously someone had screwed up either the design or the decor, clueing him in to the switch. “Sir, if you have a beef with the manufacturer, I suggest you call them. I’m a subcontractor. I was paid to deliver this boat to you. If the boat’s unsatisfactory, you need to take that up with Danzler Marine. Not me.”

“Damn right. You wait right here.” Vanderpelt stalked off, his cheeks flushed with rage.

“Like we’re going anywhere,” Ellie muttered. “There’s not another piece of land within a day’s sail.” She glanced at the dark cumulus clouds rolling in. “I think I’d prefer facing the storm and the sea to his mood.”

“Hang on. We’ll be out of here soon enough.”

“I’ve got a bad feeling about him.” Ellie shivered and glanced over her shoulder at Sandy, her usual dancing green eyes dimmed.

Sandy sighed. “I never understood why Danzler Marine didn’t tell Vanderpelt up-front about the lightning, but now I know. They didn’t want to deal with his temper.” Sandy straightened her spine. “Keep in mind that he’s so rich, he’s probably accustomed to his every whim being catered to. When something goes wrong, he has all the self-restraint of a two-year-old.”

Vanderpelt returned shortly with another man at his side. His cohort was about five foot ten, with dark, thinning hair, heavy-lidded eyes and pale skin that suggested he spent a lot of time indoors. His obsequious manner, and the duffel bag he carried, indicated he was an employee rather than a guest. As he blinked at them through his thick glasses, his bland face suggested to Sandy that the man was accustomed to Vanderpelt’s rages. However, in contrast to his meek demeanor, his bulky jacket unnerved her.

“What’s up?” Sandy asked, a lump of fear lodging in her gut. Ellie’s brother, Travis, had worn jackets that bulged under the arm. Like Travis, this man was carrying a weapon. Unlike Travis, he had a shifty look to him. And the fact that Vanderpelt had brought muscle didn’t bode well for Sandy and Ellie.

Vanderpelt raised his voice to be heard over the rising wind, the clanging halyards and the waves lashing the dock. “There’s been a change of plans. Alan will return with you and make sure you bring back the one I ordered.”

“Sorry, we don’t take passengers.” Sandy tried to politely refuse to take Alan.

Vanderpelt shook his head. “My agent at Danzler has agreed.”

“Ellie and I can handle the job by ourselves. We sailed her here, we’ll sail her back, together.” And that couldn’t be soon enough. Sandy untied the front cleat. As if reading her mind, Ellie started the engine.

That’s when Alan drew his gun and aimed it at Ellie. He spoke with no inflection. “We’re following Mr. Vanderpelt’s orders. All of us.”

He stepped aboard and motioned with his gun for Ellie to get under way. Eyes wide with fear, Ellie stared at Sandy, silently begging her to do something.

Oh…my…God. They were being hijacked at gunpoint. And there was not a damn thing Sandy could do about it.

“Travis? Travis? Damn it. Answer the phone.” Travis Cantrel listened to his voice mail, but didn’t need to wait for the caller to identify herself to recognize Sandy Vale’s thick, Maine accent. It reminded him of lazy days at sea, erotic nights and stormy arguments. Odd, how they’d been so good in bed together, when the rest of the time all they’d done was fight. Travis hadn’t heard from her in years. In fact, ever since their breakup eight years ago, the few times he’d been back home, Sandy had conveniently disappeared. His sister, Ellie, and Sandy were business partners at the rundown marina they’d bought, but, although he and Sandy had had no contact in close to a decade, her tone of voice told him she was in a panic.

“Travis, Ellie’s in trouble. Get home. Now. And don’t bring in the authorities. Whatever you do, don’t do anything until we talk in person. Got to go.”

Travis didn’t wait to hear more. Although Sandy had called from a phone number he didn’t recognize, he called her cell, his stomach rising up to his throat. Sandy never panicked. Hell, she didn’t worry over the little stuff, or the big stuff. So if she was hysterical, Ellie must be… Had there been a car accident? Was Ellie sick? A million worries rushed through his head. Travis wasn’t just Ellie’s big brother. After their parents’ deaths in a boating accident—he’d been twenty-two, Ellie seventeen—he’d been responsible for her. Sure, she was all grown up now. But as he stuffed clothing and toiletries into a suitcase, his pulse sped like a skidding race car about to slam into a wall.

Why the hell wasn’t Sandy answering her phone? Why hadn’t she told him what was wrong in her message?

Travis kept calling during the taxi ride to the Newark airport, where he could hop a commercial flight to Maine. After finishing a job in Alabama, he’d flown into New York City for some R and R and to visit his friend, Ryker Stevens. So he was free to pick up and go. Not that his boss, Logan Kincaid, would mind. Family came first, and Ellie was Travis’s only family.

Travis called the Shey Group headquarters to let his boss know he was unavailable until further notice, and to ask for a trace on the phone Sandy had used. He found out the call had come from a pay phone in the back of a bar in the early hours of the morning. But why would she do that when she had a perfectly good cell phone?