A stolen boy

A haunted soldier

A cornered con woman...

Rafe Angelito thought he was done with the demons from his past—until his son is kidnapped. Blackmailed into abducting an American heiress, the legionnaire soon finds himself trapped in paradise with a fiery, daring beauty who’s nothing he expects...and everything he desires. But when he uncovers her own dark secret, Rafe realizes he’s made a critical mistake—one that could cost him everything.

Playing body double for a spoiled socialite was supposed to be Holly Ryan’s ticket to freedom. But when she’s snatched off her yacht by a tall, dark and dangerous stranger, the not-quite-reformed con artist will make a desperate play to turn her captor from enemy to ally, by any means necessary.

Yet as scorching days melt into sultry nights, Holly is drawn to the mysterious capitaine, with his unexpected sense of honor and his searing touch. When they’re double-crossed, they’ll have to risk trusting each other in ways they never imagined...because in this deadly game of deception, it’s their lives—and hearts—on the line.

Praise for Brynn Kelly’s Deception Island

“Nonstop action and romantic tension sizzle....”

—Publishers Weekly

“Deception Island is a brilliant thriller that will have you begging for more. The plot is a maze of surprising and harrowing twists and turns that lead to a dynamic conclusion.”

—Fresh Fiction

“What. A. Ride. Deception Island held me in its clutches from the very start. From the ambitious storyline to the well-crafted characters, this debut novel speaks of a promising future in fiction for author Brynn Kelly.”

—Harlequin Junkie

“It was rough, raw and real, with a storyline that hypnotized me and some of the best character development I’ve had the fortune of reading.”

—The Romance Reviews

“Kelly’s debut is an impressive, emotionally intense, pulse-pounding page-turner.”

—The Reading Frenzy

“This pulse-pounding romance will leave you breathless and aching for more.”

—Joyfully Reviewed

“Surprising twists and turns coupled with strong, dynamic characters make this one a pleasure to devour.”

—StuckInBooks.com

“It’s nonstop suspense and desire on the beaches and in the jungles of remote Indian Ocean islands.”

—Romance Reviews Today

Deception Island

Brynn Kelly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

It took award-winning journalist BRYNN KELLY only two decades to realize all those stranger-than-fiction news reports (pirates, mercenaries, murders, conspiracies...) provided the perfect training for a new career: as a writer of larger-than-life novels.

She’s delighted that HQN Books is publishing her Golden Heart® Award–nominated debut novel because it gives her an excuse to spend her days in a bubble of delicious words and fiendish plots. Still, after all those years writing about the real world, she’s secretly terrified someone will realize she’s making it all up.

Brynn has a degree in communications with a journalism major and has won several prestigious writing awards, including a Valerie Parv Award and a Pacific Hearts Award. She’s a bestselling author of four nonfiction books in her native New Zealand.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

Title Page

About the Author

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Copyright

Chapter 1

Time to get this over with.

Rafe Angelito signaled his two crewmen. They pushed the RIB off the beach and leaped in, the scrape of the hull on pebbles the only sound in the moonlit bay. As he’d predicted, the American had brought her yacht closer to shore than usual for the night, to shelter from the trade winds belting through the Indian Ocean.

Michael pulled in the bowline while his brother Uriel lowered the outboard motor and gunned it. Rafe tested a thin rope, coiled it and stuffed it in his pocket. A pampered heiress wasn’t likely to give them trouble, but with his son’s future at stake he wasn’t taking chances. A kidnap for a kidnap.

He cricked his neck. Time for action, at last. Since dawn they’d followed the yacht through the archipelago, awaiting the right moment to strike. A lightning operation—grab the woman, leave the yacht. Even if she got out a mayday call they’d be gone before anyone responded.

“Faster,” he ordered, the language of his childhood awkward on his tongue.

“Yes, Capitaine.”

Rafe’s jaw tightened at Uriel’s facetious comment. “Call me that again and I’ll rip out your throat.” This week he wasn’t a French Foreign Legionnaire. He was a Lost Boy again, whether he liked it or not.

Michael handed him a phone, nodding at the screen. A text. Rafe clenched his teeth. Gabriel again. What is happening, my brother?

He yanked off his glove, gripped the railing and replied one-handed in his native language. A few minutes and we’ll have her.

And I’m not your brother, you son of a bitch.

A reply came in seconds. Don’t mess this up, Raphael, or your boy is mine for good.

Rafe’s gut twisted. His son was sheltered, innocent—everything Rafe never had a chance to be. Right now, Theo was supposed to be home with his grandmother on Corsica, going to school, learning to fish, playing football. But the Lost Boys had come in the night, just as they’d come for Rafe as he’d lain sleeping in the dust of a refugee camp nearly thirty years ago.

Another buzz. He likes his uncle Gabriel. He’ll make a good lieutenant, when I’ve finished with him.

Theo’s face filled the phone’s screen, terror lacing his dark eyes. Rafe’s heart kicked. Next to his son, with an arm slung over the boy’s shoulder, a man grinned. Gabriel. Two decades older, but no mistaking the machete scar splitting his nose. Rafe tightened his grip on the phone. What kind of “uncle” would snatch a nine-year-old to blackmail his father into committing a gutless crime?

Gabriel, that was who. But why kidnap the daughter of an American senator? The Lost Boys’ usual trafficking victims were lost themselves—unwanted girls and women sold into prostitution, or orphaned boys forced to become child soldiers, like Rafe. This heiress was the closest America had to a princess. A stupid risk, but at least Rafe could ensure no harm came to the woman—or his son. Best-case scenario? Within the week her father paid the twenty million, she went home and Rafe got Theo back. Worst-case?

Crack. A cobweb of splinters spread across the screen, fracturing the image of Theo’s face. Rafe loosened his grip and shoved the piece-of-crap phone in his pocket. The worst-case scenario would not happen. He pulled on his glove. He was an imbécile for thinking a past like his could remain buried.

His gaze swept the yacht, which was silvery and skeletal with its sails stowed. No movement. With luck she’d be asleep. On signal, Uriel swung the boat around to the northwest, setting up for an approach from the yacht’s leeward side. Rafe yanked down his balaclava and signaled his crew to do the same. Wouldn’t do to have their faces broadcast on the American’s live webcam.

“No mistakes,” he growled. “Anyone hurts the girl, I hurt him.”

* * *

The halyard clinked against the mast as the yacht rocked in the swell. Holly Ryan closed her eyes and stretched out on the deck, soaking up the pleasure of dozing to the current’s ebb and flow.

She inhaled the velvety air and sighed. The sound rolled out into the night, joined by the slap of water against the hull and the strain of a distant motor. Tropical heat seeped into her skin. If only life could stay this way forever—waking at dawn and anchoring at dusk, sun-bleached hair clumped from swimming, freckled skin rough with salt.

She linked her hands behind her head. The boat wasn’t a hell of a lot bigger than her prison cell and only marginally more comfortable, but it was intoxicating just knowing the horizon wasn’t blocked by a concrete wall. Hallelujah. So what if the real Laura Hyland sipped champagne on her father’s superyacht somewhere off Bali while Holly did the hard sailing? Holly could get drunk on the smell of freedom—out here it came salty, with notes of seaweed.

Four more months of sailing and Holly would have fulfilled her end of this screwed-up bargain and earned enough money to wipe clean the disaster that had been her life so far. In the meantime, she’d damn well enjoy it. She’d done worse things for lesser reward.

Closer now, the motor whined as it was pushed faster. Bit late for a fisherman, and no villages lay along this stretch of rain forest. Precisely why she’d chosen the spot for an anchorage—the fewer people she faced as Laura, the better. Even in Indonesia, people had heard of the New York socialite and her solo circumnavigation. Though she did resemble Laura after a hurried makeover, Holly couldn’t risk anyone figuring out the truth.

The motor’s pitch dropped—it was slowing, the water swishing around it. On approach. She bolted upright, the back of her neck prickling. Moonlight glinted off an inflatable with three large figures on it. No lights, closing in. Her breath shuddered. Not one of the local fishing boats. A journalist looking for a scoop—but out here, at this time of night? Hardly. A shark-finning boat? Dozens of large sharks had glided past the yacht in the last few days.

Whoever they were, she had no escape. By the time she weighed anchor they’d be on her. A mayday call or flare wouldn’t do shit, out here in the middle of nowhere.

She skidded into the cabin, snatched up her pocketknife and stuffed it in her shorts pocket. What else could she use for a weapon? Damn the senator for refusing to let her carry a gun. She eyed the radio, biting her lip. No time for a call—if these guys cornered her down here, there’d be no escape. She sprang back up the ladder. The inflatable drew up to starboard, the men silent. Balaclavas. They wore balaclavas. Shit. She spun around. Come on, come on. Her gaze landed on the winch handle. She wrenched it out of its socket, tested its solid weight. Good old-fashioned heavy metal.

As one man tied up and pulled the boats alongside, another stepped onto the yacht’s stern, wobbling as if he straddled a tightrope. He was burly but perhaps not a sailor. That could work in her favor. She moved the winch handle behind her, out of sight.

“What do you want?” she asked, sounding more confident than she felt.

“We don’t want to hurt you.” The deep voice came from the bow of the inflatable, in thickly accented but precise English.

Her cheeks iced over. In her experience, people who said that usually did the opposite. The burly man advanced, feeling for his balance. Was that seriously an Angry Birds T-shirt?

“Who are you?”

“We are taking you with us.” The guy on the inflatable again. He said something to his crew in a language she couldn’t place. His voice was authoritative but at ease. She chanced a look. He leaned against the console, arms crossed. Confident, but casual with it—like he’d done this a hundred times. He was even bigger than the guy coming for her, but more athletic. Not good.

“You won’t be harmed if you cooperate,” he continued.

Her blood chilled. “You’re pirates? You’ve got to be kidding me.” She was almost halfway through this job, halfway to her new law-abiding life. Not even Blackbeard was going to ruin that.

He laughed, deep and calm. “I wish I was joking, Laura.”

Laura. This was no random heist. What was his accent—Russian? Eastern European? Not one of the notorious Indonesian lanun pirates who patrolled the Strait of Malacca. This archipelago was far enough south of the main shipping lanes that thieves weren’t supposed to consider it profitable. So much for sticking to safer waters.

It was a long time since she’d had to fight a man. She had one advantage—they thought she was a helpless socialite. They weren’t expecting trouble, and if they were kidnapping her for a ransom, they wouldn’t want to kill her—yet. She swallowed. She could play the frightened girl, give them false confidence and try to escape. In what—her tender? That thing wouldn’t win a race with a jellyfish.

She could tell them the truth, but why the hell would they believe her? Even if they did, what then—they’d apologize gracefully and be on their way? Fat chance.

“No, please, you can’t do this to me.” She let her nerves show in her voice. The Angry Birds guy was five feet away. Another few steps... “I’ll scream, I’ll... I’ll... My daddy’s a United States senator, a retired marine. A webcam is broadcasting your every move. He’ll track you down in minutes.” She cringed, inwardly. Too much?

“Nothing to be worried about,” said the man on the inflatable. “We’ll take you somewhere comfortable for a few days, your father will pay a ransom, you will be freed.”

“No. Please...”

Angry Birds jumped down onto the deck. Holly sprang backward, onto the bow. She slid her legs apart for stability, her bare feet compensating for the yacht’s movement. The man on the boat growled something. Angry Birds shouted back. One word was clear: Capitaine. He approached gingerly, his palms up, placating her. She cowered, as if bracing for the moment of contact, her pulse pummeling in her ears.

He inched closer. Patience. She tightened her grip on the winch handle. Her days of being someone’s punching bag were long dead. She waited until he was within a yard of her, then pivoted her torso, letting her hand whip with the momentum, and bashed the handle into his face with a dull, meaty crack. He wobbled, forced to prioritize regaining his balance over capturing her. Yelling from deep in her chest, she drove her heel into the side of his knee, buckling it. As he collapsed, she shoved him backward. The boat tilted with his weight and he slid into the water, one hand clutching the grab line. Her leg muscles clenched, finding equilibrium, her soles clinging to the deck like limpets. Gasping for breath, she cracked the handle onto his fingers. He splashed into the inky water with a howl.

The boat rocked, and she jumped backward to avoid following him in. Hands grabbed her biceps, from behind. Damn. When had a second man come aboard? She bent her knee and rammed a heel into his groin. Awkward, but effective—he grunted and eased his grip, just enough for her to swivel out of it. It wasn’t the capitaine, just the other goon, now bent double and panting. Before he could straighten, she clutched his head and rammed her knee into his face. Bones crackled, he yelped. She sprang back.

Instinctively, he brought both hands up to his face. Holy crap, she’d broken his nose? She wasn’t as out of practice as she’d thought. She launched a flying kick into his stomach, but it glanced off. Damn. He flailed but regained his balance, shook himself and fixed his hooded eyes on her. She retreated, panting. What now—the knife? She didn’t want to risk getting close enough to use it—and bloodshed wasn’t her thing. Angry Birds splashed about below, no doubt fighting the pull of his heavy boots.

Stern instructions came from the boat. The capitaine sounded frustrated with his men but bored, like he knew capturing her was just a matter of time.

Not if she could help it. She sprang behind the boom, her free hand fumbling to loosen the mainsheet. The pirate inched forward, a dark stain spreading across his gray balaclava. She swept the boom toward him. He stumbled and shot out his hands to catch it. Before he could recover she hurled the handle. It clocked his broken nose. Bingo. He roared and reeled back, but righted himself. He spat indecipherable words, blood and saliva dripping from his mask, his arms spread out for balance, hands clawed.

Damn. She should have thrown the knife—who knew her aim would be that good? She didn’t trust her chances now. She zipped her pocket, spun and plunged into the sea. Once the cool water swallowed her, she jackknifed and propelled herself under the yacht, kicking and pulling against the tug of the swell, feeling her way around the keel’s smooth curve. Her chest ached for air. She surfaced silently on the port side, in the moon’s shadow, and devoured oxygen as quietly as she could.

Urgent voices sounded above her. How long could she tread water and wait for rescue? Could she fool them into thinking she’d drowned? Laura’s website must be getting a million hits with this on the live stream. The woman’s craziest fans watched 24/7, keeping up a constant social media commentary. When Holly had sunbathed on the deck in Laura’s bikini she’d nearly broken the internet, even though the images were kept low-res to cover for the body switch. Help could already be on its way.

“Laura, you can’t stay down there forever. We will find you.” The capitaine switched languages and spoke sharply to the other men, his voice ringing out from the deck of the yacht. Two men on the yacht and one in the water equaled none in the inflatable. What were her chances of slipping away in it? Better than her other options.

She filled her lungs, pulled herself underwater and followed the hull out in the direction of the men’s boat, coming up for air in the shelter of the yacht, blinking her stinging eyes clear. The inflatable’s bowline stretched above her head, tied alongside. She retrieved her knife and popped the blade.

Clinging to the yacht’s grab line, she hauled herself up as far as she dared. The yacht shifted with her weight. She froze. Deep voices murmured as the men searched. They’d find her in seconds. She stretched up. Moonlight winked off the blade. The line was inches out of her reach. Shit. Footsteps approached.

She dived and felt her way under the inflatable. The hull was metal and shaped into a deep V—no ordinary rubber boat. If she could steal it, she could get to the other end of the archipelago, at least. She’d passed a couple of inhabited islands that morning.

She popped up on the far side and clutched a cleat, forcing herself to suck in air as if through a straw. Could she sneak aboard and release the bowline before they got to her? She’d have to get in from the stern—the sides of the hull were too steep, and heaving herself up would draw attention.

Something brushed her bare calf. She gasped, drawing up her legs. Had Angry Birds found her? Nobody surfaced. Her heart thundered. If it wasn’t the man, what was—?

A nudge, then something rough skimmed her leg. Not human. A white-tipped dorsal fin sliced through the black water. Holy crap, a shark. One of the oceanic whitetips she’d seen earlier? It’d be testing her, trying to figure out if she was prey. Oh, God. She gripped the knife with one hand and the cleat with the other, forcing her legs to still. It’d expect prey to thrash, to swim away. Stillness would confuse it, right? She fought the urge to hyperventilate. From the port side of the yacht came splashing. Angry Birds. Doubly bad—he was closing in on her and baiting the shark. Her arm shook with the strain of holding herself steady.

A panicked shout burst from the yacht. Had they spotted the shark, or her? She caught movement to her left. Angry Birds slogged through the water with clumsy strokes. Blood trailed from his nose, where she’d clocked him with the winch. He flinched, and his gaze darted below. Was the whitetip scouting him out, too? Or were there more than one? She fought an urge to order him to be still.

He yelled, suddenly thrashing. Holy shit. Fast footfalls and shouts responded from the yacht. Didn’t they have a gun? The man’s body lurched downwards, his scream splitting the air. Her hand spasmed, her muscles burning. Ah, crap, she couldn’t just watch.

“Get a life preserver,” she shouted. “If he can grab it you can pull him up.”

“Where is it?” The capitaine’s tone was urgent, but not panicked, like a shark attack was a minor distraction.

“The stern, starboard side.”

She didn’t stay to watch. With shark and men occupied, she swam as smoothly as she could to the stern of the inflatable, fear clawing her stomach. She pocketed the knife and reached for the ladder, her arm still shaking. The boat swung away. Her fingers slipped off the rung, and she splattered into the water. Crap. Sandpapery skin brushed her sole. Her blood froze. A wave rocked the boat, smashing the outboard into her forehead. She swallowed the flare of pain. Ten yards away, the water churned. A feeding frenzy? The man had stopped screaming. A cry rang out, followed by a splash—too big to be the life preserver. Jesus, had another of the men gone in? Shouts echoed from everywhere—in the water, on the deck.

Another nudge on her leg, harder. She flailed for the ladder, forcing her eyes open against the water slapping her face. How many sharks were there—a whole school? Did they even travel in schools? Did it freaking matter?

A wave dunked her, sweeping her from the boat. She fought her way back, her lungs ready to burst. Her hand hit the rung and she caught it with one finger, lurched forward and clamped the palm over it. Roaring with effort, she anchored her thumb underneath and held on, the bitter burn of salt water in her throat. With the current dragging her away, she had no chance of hauling herself up. Her forearm strained near to snapping. The water swished with the force of something big shooting up underneath her. Her every muscle clenched. She hadn’t survived twenty-nine years of crap to die like this.

Chapter 2

Something tugged on Holly’s hand, then clamped under her arms. She thrashed, a scream ripping through her. No give. No pain, either. Maybe she’d die before it set in.

She flew into the air, weightless. What the hell? Below her an oval of ragged teeth crested the water and fell away into blackness. Still she soared. Her stomach dropped. Boof. Breath smacked from her lungs, pain shot through her nose. She’d landed, on something hard. A man’s chest—the capitaine, his arms wrapped tight around her, lying under her on the floor of the inflatable. The boat tilted to starboard. He threw them toward port, then to the center. The vessel wobbled and righted. Silence cloaked them. Holy crap. The shark hadn’t caught her. He had.

Something bumped the hull. She held her breath. A few dozen teeth on a few tubes and they’d be dessert. But everything stilled except the man’s heaving chest and his quick panting rustling her hair. She wheezed in relief, gulping in air. Her nose throbbed.

“Are you hurt?” he said.

Her jellied muscles begged for reprieve. No! You’re not giving up this fight. She took a steadying breath, raised a fist and slammed it into his stomach. Her arm bounced off, pain ripping up to her shoulder. He barely flinched. His arms tightened around her, jamming her nose into his chest. He hooked his legs around hers, pinning her with solid weight. She couldn’t even wriggle.

“I’ll take that as a no,” he said, huskily.

“Let me go.”

“Sure. We can’t lie here all night. But know that you can’t overpower me. Run and I’ll catch you, fight and I’ll win. You are coming with me tonight.”

“Why are you doing this?”

He paused. “Money. What else?” His tone was flat with bitterness. “Cooperate, and no harm will come to you. You have no choice but to trust me.”

Trust him? She’d never met a man she could trust and wasn’t about to start with a pirate. He released his grip, though his muscles remained tense. She coasted down his body and sat up. He sprang to his feet, towering over her. Just what was she up against? The balaclava shaded dark eyes. A tight black T-shirt outlined the taut chest she’d landed on. No wonder his stomach was impenetrable—even in the moonlight she could count the ridges of his six-pack. His sleeves cut across biceps that looked sculpted from granite. How the hell would she escape that?

“What happened to your friends?” she said.

“Gone to a better place than the shit hole they came from.”

“I’m sorry.” What a way to die.

“I doubt that.” He grabbed her wrists and yanked them behind her.

“Ow!”

“I do not trust you to cooperate.” He deftly tied a rope around her wrists, tighter than handcuffs and just as unyielding.

“I can see trust is going to be an issue between us.”

The odds were better now, one-on-one, but he was right—if it came down to a battle of force, he’d steamroller her. He was iron strong, icy calm. Military, probably—and proper military, not some amateur militia. Wasn’t capitaine French for captain? A battle of wits might be a more even fight.

He moved swiftly to her feet and bound them, then secured her to a railing, disturbingly practiced at restraining a human being. Could some foreign military be behind this? Was it a declaration of war, a political statement? Instinct told her he was lying about doing it for the money. He moved to the bow, surprisingly catlike for a man of his build. Definitely military.

“You have a satellite phone on the yacht? A laptop? GPS? Weapons?”

“If I had weapons would I be sitting here like this? But, yeah, sat phone, laptop, GPS. Knock yourself out.”

“Where are they? Tell me everything I need to grab so we can take them.”

We? A tense edge had crept into his voice. Should she answer? Her options numbered roughly zero. Besides, when she escaped she’d need the sat phone to make a rescue call. She gave him a rundown.

“What else should I pack for you?”

“Sorry?”

“What else do you want to take? You know I’m kidnapping you, yes?”

“I’d figured.”

“You’ll need some dry clothes. Ah, I’ll grab everything.”

“ChapStick,” she said, automatically. Two men just got eaten by sharks and you’re asking for ChapStick?

He paused. “This is some kind of lipstick?”

“Yeah, because that’s the first thing I’d think about when I’m getting kidnapped.” She jammed her salt-scoured lips together. Shut up. He’d expect her to be hysterical, not snarky. “Forget it. Get clothes, whatever. Why am I giving packing orders to a pirate? Or are you technically a terrorist?”

The inch of brown skin visible beside his eyes crinkled. Was he smiling? This had to be the most surreal night of her life. “Go with pirate.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“You’ll see. There’ll be no escape for either of us until your father pays.”

Either of us?

He checked her bindings, jumped from the bow onto the yacht’s stern and disappeared from her limited view. Agile as well as strong—a formidable opponent. His calmness chilled her as much as his strength. A sharp mind was more dangerous than a muscular body, and he evidently had both.

She shifted. Something pressed into her thigh. The knife.

This wasn’t over.

* * *

Rafe crept over the deck and dropped into the cabin. Feigning imbalance, he smashed his shoulder into the interior webcam, knocking it to the floor and stomping on the debris. Gabriel would be watching the heiress’s webcast. No need to let on that Rafe was taking all the equipment he could prize off the boat, now he was no longer guarded. Let him believe that once Rafe and the woman were stranded on the honeymoon island, they had no way to communicate with the world.

He snatched up a large backpack and tipped out the contents. He had a couple of hours at most before rescuers arrived, and he’d already lost a good half hour securing her.

He shoved in an armful of clothes, with more force than necessary. Two more Lost Boys gone tonight, their blood on his hands as much as Gabriel’s. He exhaled heavily. He’d seen too many of their kind meet death too early. Boys who grew up with no one to give a damn about them and died with no one to mourn them.

But Gabriel had survived, somehow. The aid workers must have lied about him dying in the firefight at Odeskia, to prevent Rafe running back in to find his only friend. Rafe narrowed his eyes. No use blaming them. They’d given him a chance to claw his humanity back after five years as a killing machine. Given the same mercy, Gabriel might also have become a different man.

He pulled a network of cords from the walls and shoved them in the bag. The woman had been more effort than he’d bargained for. Where did a society princess learn to scrap like that? That was dirty street fighting, not some rich girl’s martial arts hobby. And she was far prettier than the photos and videos he’d studied—a raw, strong natural beauty, not some delicate doll.

He scoffed. What had he expected? Only a fool underestimated his quarry. She’d survived three months alone at sea. And even someone as vain as Laura Hyland wouldn’t wear lipstick and stilettos on a solo sailing trip.

But she had said something about some lip thing. He swept a bunch of bottles and tubes into the bag. His heart twisted. The last time he’d packed up a woman’s things was a year after Simone’s death, when he’d finally forced himself to clear her belongings out of their villa on Corsica. The coconut scent of her shampoo still haunted him. Later, he’d found Theo sitting by the garbage bin. The kid had unpacked every bottle and tube and lined them up along the tiled floor, like miniature tombstones.

He zipped up the bag. Thinking about his wife wouldn’t help his son. Phase one was complete. Phase two was to get the heiress to the plane, then to the island. Phase three was a week guarding her—alone, now. Going by tonight’s events, that was likely to be more bruising than he’d anticipated.

The thought of phase four made his hands move faster—return the heiress unharmed and get his son back. Would Gabriel keep his end of the bargain? Rafe’s jaw tightened. He’d better. For all his vices, the Gabriel whom Rafe had known had an unshakeable sense of honor toward the brotherhood of the Lost Boys. Hopefully he still did—and still considered Rafe a part of it.

A clicking noise filtered into the cabin. He tensed. Merde. The RIB’s motor was about to start.

* * *

Come on, you piece of crap. Holly turned the key over. Nothing. Surely it didn’t need the choke—it was still warm. She couldn’t risk flooding the motor.

The capitaine bolted up onto the deck of the yacht, her backpack in hand. With the bowline untethered, the swell pulled the drifting inflatable away. He’d have to swim for it. As long as she got the damn motor started they’d be swapping boats tonight. He crouched, swinging the bag onto his back. Weird. Was he giving up that easily?

She flinched, as a thought struck. The kill switch—she hadn’t checked for one. She fumbled around and found a coiled lanyard at her feet. She must have knocked it out, in the darkness. Her hand trembled as she felt around the console. Calm down. You can do this. There. She clipped the cord onto the switch and flicked it on. The capitaine sprang up and sprinted down the yacht toward her, arms pumping like a bionic man’s. Dang, was he going to jump for it? Her heartbeat quickened. She turned the key. The motor chugged to life. Relief surged through her veins.

She reversed the throttle, just as he leaped from the yacht. Adieu, Capitaine. His large shadow flew toward her. Clonk. His skull smacked into her forehead, hurling her backward. No way. She thumped onto the deck, pain radiating out from her spine and consuming her head. Her vision fuzzed out. What was he—Superman? He had her pinned, again, his face an inch away.

He rolled off her, panting, and touched a palm to his balaclava-clad forehead. Her eyes came back into focus, zeroing in on the knife as it rolled away. She dove for it. As her hand closed, he caught her arm and spun her. In a microsecond, he was astride her, clamping her torso between his thighs. He calmly plucked the weapon from her fingers.

“What did I tell you about running, princess?” He pulled off the balaclava and sucked in a breath. “And fighting?”

Holy crap. The moonlight bounced off sharp cheekbones, tanned skin that plunged into a strong jaw shaded by stubble, and a black buzz cut glistening with sweat. His dark eyes glittered with adrenaline and his huge chest heaved. As pirates went, Johnny Depp had nothing on the capitaine.

She shook her head—the only body part she could move. He’s kidnapping you, you moron. It was far too soon to get Oslo Syndrome, or Stockholm Syndrome, or whatever was the name for loopy people who fell for their captors. She’d evidently gone too long without a good-looking man in her life. Or not long enough.

His gaze strayed to the frayed remains of the rope he’d bound her with. “Merde,” he whispered, his full lips twisting into an impressed smile. That good-looking, and he spoke French?

Focus. How long until he figured out she was an imposter? And then what? Feed her to the sharks? He’d be better off taking the yacht—fat chance the senator would pay to save her neck, with his precious daughter lying low in luxury.

“I see we need to set ground rules, princess.”

“You can get off me, for a start.”

His knees tightened against her waist. “When I say we need to set ground rules, I mean I need to set ground rules. I gather this is how a kidnapping works—the kidnapper gives the instructions, the hostage follows them or suffers the consequences.”

He flicked open the knife and made a show of running his finger along the steel. The skin on the back of her neck crawled. She’d sharpened that blade just hours ago.

“You need me alive.”

“For now, yes.” He rested the blade against her ear, just lightly enough to avoid piercing the skin. “My job is to keep you alive until your father pays, but no one said anything about keeping you in one piece. That is your choice.”

Her mouth flooded with saliva, but she didn’t dare swallow. “Where are you taking me?”

“You’ll know when we’re there.” He ran his free hand around her waist and patted down her pockets. “Get up.”

He removed the blade and loosened the grip of his legs, giving her just enough leeway to wriggle away. He leaped to his feet, like the world’s largest gymnast. “You’re driving, princess.”

She pushed up to standing. She barely reached his bowling ball of a shoulder. Short of praying for a tsunami to tip him out of the boat, her options were limited. Forget coming clean. Then there’d be no reason to keep her in one piece. She had to play this out. Maybe on dry land she’d have more chance. “Aye, aye, Capitaine.”

His jaw tightened. So the title meant something to him? “We head northwest.”

To the next island? Could she escape and find a village, maybe track down an NGO? She needed to find a chink in this pirate’s well-muscled armor, and quickly.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Holly counted two dark figures waiting on a beach ahead of the inflatable. Dense beech forest soared into a charcoal sky pinpricked with stars. No lights, buildings or vehicles, but plenty of cover. Could she grab the backpack and run, get out a message via the sat phone before they caught up?

One of the figures waded knee-deep into the water. One yank of the wheel and she could take him out.

“Keep it straight, princess.”

The capitaine slid up beside her, his voice a warning rumble, his right hand coasting down her arm to enclose her hand as she steered. Her fingers twitched, his grip tightened. She willed her breath to settle—he wouldn’t always be watching her, guessing her next move. There would be a chance for escape.

“Put it in neutral and leave it running,” he said. “The sand drops off steeply.”

They eased into shore. The man held the bow while the capitaine hauled Holly’s backpack over his shoulder. Her forehead throbbed where he’d smacked into it. He stepped into the water and held out a hand. She ignored it and jumped, splashing into warm water up to her knees, her feet sinking into fine, sloping sand.

The capitaine spoke in clipped, urgent raps. Holly picked up a word: Michael. A couple of the prison inmates had spoken a language like that. Where had they been from? Ukraine?

She fought to keep upright without the rocking of the boat underfoot. She took a step, her sea legs heavy and graceless, as if gravity had doubled its force and was coming in sideways. No way would she be able to run. Her heart thunked. There went plan A. Three months ago she’d been seasick from the ocean’s incessant movement after so many years run aground in prison, now her body was freaked out by the absence of it. Great.

The capitaine pushed the inflatable off the sand as the man jumped in and shoved it into Reverse. One down. As the engine faded, the air filled with the screech of a zillion insects and God knew what else. Would she be kept here? Surely not. The island was only a few miles from her mooring—a long stretch of land, but narrow, as far as she could remember from the GPS. Rescuers wouldn’t have to look far. The tension under her ribs unwound a notch. Maybe this wasn’t such a professional operation, despite the capitaine’s commanding presence.

His hand closed around her upper arm, urging her forward. She shook him off, but the sand rose and fell under her like a tide, and she stumbled sideways. He caught her waist, swept his other arm under her legs and lifted her as if she were a child.

“Put me down.”

“It’ll be quicker this way—and I can keep an eye on you.”

The world swayed. She gripped his shoulder, beating down a surge of nausea. What choice did she have? The disorientation hadn’t been this bad after even the longest sailing trips she’d done as a teenager. But after six years of walking on concrete and baked dirt in a Californian prison, maybe her mind wasn’t as quick to adjust. And this was the first time she’d set foot on land since she’d been dropped onto the boat off the coast of San Francisco.

When the heiress had taken the helm to sail into Samoa, then Cairns, Darwin and Bali, Holly had been secretly stashed in Laura’s stateroom in one of the senator’s superyachts, surviving on military ration packs and banned from showing her face. There she’d waited for long days while the heiress flounced off on her one-woman environmental crusades—endangered Sumatran orangutans, rising sea levels, dying coral reefs... How long until Holly got her land legs back? Hours? Days?

The capitaine adjusted his grip and pulled her into him, one hand pressing into her thigh, the other firm around her waist. His warm, earthy scent coasted around her, like rain pounding dusty ground.

At least she was doing a good job of appearing to be a helpless society-page diva, however unintentional. She might as well save her strength, while sapping the capitaine’s. Even in darkness, the air was too hot and damp for sweat to evaporate.

A short, wiry man waited on the dry sand above the waterline, his head wrapped in a red bandanna. She might be able to take him down on a good day, even if she had no hope against the Spartan. But today wasn’t a good day. And he carried an assault rifle that was almost half his size. The capitaine spoke to him in the same language as before. The man dropped his beady black gaze to her wet T-shirt, smirking, and muttered something. The capitaine snapped out a sharp answer, tilting her slightly to turn her chest into his. Protecting her honor, or staking his claim? Either way, it worked—the man lifted his gaze and sneered at her captor instead.

They plunged down a sandy path winding through rain forest, the capitaine’s stride long and sure as he followed the man’s bobbing flashlight. Insects screamed like the world’s biggest electric drill, in surround sound. After half a mile the guy’s breath hadn’t even wavered with the effort of carrying her. Lines etched between his eyes hinted at inner tension, but outwardly he was as fit as he looked. She’d kept up her fitness in prison with endless, pointless jogging around the yard, but sailing had required a different strength. It had left her with toned arms and legs, but she hadn’t stretched them into a sustained sprint for years. Running from him—even when she got her land legs back—was looking like less of an option. She’d find another way to get quality time alone with the sat phone. Even Superman slept, occasionally.

Or did he?

The thick canopy gave way to a long narrow clearing. Moonlight reflected off a small plane. In the shadows, a dark figure waited. She pressed her lips together, tasting salt. How far could they fly in that—to Sumatra, Timor, Borneo, Australia? Right up to Singapore or Malaysia? Tens of thousands of islands, a gazillion square miles of jungle—even if a search was launched, rescuers had no chance of tracking them. Damn.

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