She’d wanted. Him.

The thought sent blood rushing to her cheeks and formed a knot in her stomach.

“What are you thinking to make you blush like that?”

His voice, throaty and amused, drew her attention back to the face she’d been staring at. “N-nothing.”

Then came the smug, cocky grin that used to make her want to smack him. “Were you imagining me naked?” He raised his hands in a helpless shrug, when he was anything but. “Women usually do. Better yet, were you imagining us naked? Because I have been, and that sofa makes into a damn comfortable bed.”

Slowly she shook her head. “I don’t think so.” It was eye-opening just how tempted she was, even though there were a thousand reasons why she shouldn’t be. It was risky. What if the Justin she loved to hate came back? What if this thing was just the side effect of adrenaline and fear? What kind of potential was there between her and Justin? Besides great sex.

And the biggest question: was she willing to risk having her heart broken again?

About the Author

MARILYN PAPPANO has spent most of her life growing into the person she was meant to be, but isn’t there yet. She’s been blessed by family—her husband, their son, his lovely wife and a grandson who is almost certainly the most beautiful and talented baby in the world—and friends, along with a writing career that’s made her one of the luckiest people around. Her passions, besides those already listed, include the pack of wild dogs who make their home in her house, fighting the good fight against the weeds that make up her yard, killing the creepy-crawlies that slither out of those weeds and, of course, anything having to do with books.

In The
Enemy’s Arms
Marilyn Pappano

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my favorite divers:

my son Brandon; Meg Reid, dive master and best friend; and, as always,

to my husband, Bob. One of these days I’m going to

join you guys under the sea!

And until that day, major thanks to my non-dive buddy,

Don Shidler, for keeping me company onshore!

Chapter 1

Welcome to Cozumel, the flight attendant had said as the jet taxied to a stop. The uniformed men armed with deadly weapons between the plane and the terminal weren’t Cate Calloway’s idea of a perfect welcoming party, but their presence didn’t unnerve her as it had on her first trip to the Mexican island.

Taking a deep breath of warm humid air and smiling at the soldiers who never smiled back, she towed her bag behind her and went inside. She’d sent her supplies ahead, so she made it through immigration, baggage and customs fairly quickly. In the small lobby at the front of the building, she stood away from the flow of eager tourists to scan the area.

There was no sign of Trent or Susanna and not even a vaguely familiar face in the room. A number of men waited, holding signs with the names of the parties they were picking up, but none of them was looking for her.

After ten minutes, she made herself comfortable against the wall. After twenty minutes, she pulled out her cell phone, grateful that she’d bothered with the international calling plan for this trip, and dialed Trent’s number. It went straight to voice mail. So did Susanna’s.

After thirty minutes, she found a taxi driver, showed him the address of La Casa and climbed into the backseat. She didn’t mind being forgotten at the airport in a country where she barely spoke the language and having to make her own way to La Casa. Really, she wasn’t that petty. It was just that on her previous trips, Trent had met her himself. She’d never gone anywhere alone. It had been easier to feel independent with him or Susanna there beside her.

The cabdriver wasn’t chatty, but that was okay. The Louisiana divers who’d surrounded her on the airplane had been chatty enough to give her a new appreciation for silence. He swerved through crowded streets, narrowly missing cars and scooters alike, until traffic thinned as they reached the more isolated neighborhood of La Casa.

A tall cinder-block wall surrounded the few acres, with a rusted iron gate standing open next to the drive. The sign identifying the place was so discreet as to go unnoticed: La Casa para Nuestras Hijas. The House for Our Daughters.

Her fourth time here, and Cate was still bemused by the thought of Trent Calloway, her lazy, spoiled, self-centered ex-husband, committing his time, money and self to a shelter for runaway, orphaned or mistreated girls. Granted, he did it out of love—for Susanna, or so he said—but still…

The driver pulled to a stop in front of the house, jumped out and retrieved her bag from the trunk. She traded cash for it, thanking him, then turned to look around. Several buildings hunkered within the walls. The house stood to the left of the drive, once grand with two stories, elaborate ironwork, red-tile roof and deeply shaded porch. In the middle at the rear was a garage that housed school desks, chalkboards and supplies instead of vehicles, and to the right of the drive, also set farther back than the house, was the dormitory, a low squat building whose only ornamentation came from the bright paint on its cinder-block walls: turquoise, sunny yellow, apple red, lime green.

The quiet raised goose bumps on Cate’s arms. Usually there was laughter, music, voices. If the girls weren’t in class, they were studying under the trees or playing in the grass. There was always a volunteer or two with them, helping with their lessons or organizing games, keeping their spirits up or making them laugh.

“Hello?” she called out. “¿Hola?”

Nothing.

Dragging her bag with her, she climbed the two steps to the porch, where the boxes she’d shipped earlier were stacked against the wall. They were filled with medical supplies, from basics like bandages and antiseptics to IV solution and antibiotics. What she didn’t use in her two weeks here would be stored or shared with La Casa’s other shelters on the mainland.

The front door stood open. She pulled on the screen door, her suitcase bumping over the threshold, then let it close behind her with a thump. “Trent? Susanna? Are you here?”

A sound came from upstairs, like the echo of her suitcase wheels on hardwood floor. A moment later, a woman appeared, staring over the railing as she dragged her own bag along.

Relief rushed through Cate. “GayAnne. I’m glad to see you. Where is everybody?”

GayAnne’s bag thudded its way behind her down the stairs. “Gone. Everyone’s gone.”

“Gone where?”

“Jill and Kyla went home last week to visit their families, and I woke up this morning to find Marta packing up the kids to take to some relative’s house. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m leaving, too. I’m staying with my boyfriend until everyone comes back.”

Marta was a local woman, Cate knew from past visits, the one in charge when Susanna and Trent were busy. She was as dedicated to the girls as Susanna; they were safe with her. “Where is Trent?”

GayAnne shook her head. “Gone. Disappeared. Him and Susanna both.” She was about as far from the stereotypical California girl as she could be: petite, red-haired, skin as pale as if it had never seen the sun. The bag she dragged was more than big enough to carry her, and the look in her wide blue eyes suggested she might be more comfortable hiding inside. “If I knew anything, I’d tell you, but I don’t. If you see Susanna—” the redhead swallowed visibly “—tell her I’m sorry to run out like this, but I’m not staying here alone.” She finished with a shrug, avoiding Cate’s hand as she passed.

“Wait, GayAnne—”

A horn beeped outside, punctuated by the slamming of the screen door behind GayAnne. “Can’t,” she called over her shoulder. “No time.”

Leaving her own bag where it was, Cate walked to the door. A young man was swinging off a scooter out front. He tossed a second helmet to GayAnne, then heaved her bag onto the back of the scooter, securing it while she strapped on the helmet. A moment later, they were roaring out the gate, and the silence returned.

Cate swallowed hard, and her stomach knotted. Where was Trent? Susanna? The other volunteers? Where were the girls La Casa was built to serve? What in hell was going on here?

Slowly she turned away from the door again. Compared to La Casa’s usual activity, everything seemed unnaturally still. The house not only appeared abandoned, it felt it. It felt…lost. The sheen of the ancient wood floors seemed duller than usual. The paint on the thick plastered walls looked more faded. The very air smelled empty. Unused.

It unsettled her deep inside.

Her stomach still tight, she walked to the door of the room that served as La Casa’s office, making as little noise as possible—as if there were anyone around to hear it. Trent might have just taken off, even though he had obligations here, even though he’d known for six months she would be arriving today. He’d always been lazy and spoiled and selfish. He’d run out on her when things got tough more times than she could count, including that last time. The time she’d filed for divorce.

But Susanna Hunter, God love her, didn’t have a lazy, spoiled or selfish bone in her body. She’d been volunteering at soup kitchens when she was a kid, tutoring at-risk children when she was still in school, mentoring, fundraising, serving. This place and the girls it cared for meant the world to her. She would never just leave them.

Maybe GayAnne was wrong. Maybe she had a flair for the dramatic that Cate had missed seeing on her last visit. Maybe…

Susanna had run the shelter from this office, while the rest of the place housed the staff. Usually that in cluded Trent and three or four volunteers from the States. GayAnne had been there the longest, since Cate’s first visit. The others came from the college Susanna had attended or one of the churches back home that helped fund the mission, and they stayed anywhere from a week to six months. In addition, a couple of local women worked there, too.

Like the rest of the house, the office had an abandoned look: a half-eaten cookie on a saucer, a cup of coffee long gone cold. As if Susanna had merely taken a break and would be back any moment now. Her desk was covered with papers, but Cate had never seen it otherwise. The bulletin board hanging above it didn’t have a scrap of empty space available, and the chairs were piled with stacks of things to be filed—again, normal. Susanna was a hands-on person; she tolerated paperwork because it was an evil necessity.

A second, smaller desk on the other side was almost compulsively neat—not because Trent was, by nature, a neat person but because he opted for the easiest way out and, in this case, that was filing as he went along. The corkboard next to his desk held a calendar, with her arrival and departure dates circled in red, and a half-dozen photographs thumbtacked on randomly. They hadn’t changed since her last visit: three of Susanna, two of his parents and brothers and one of himself with Justin Seavers, his best friend from college. Two damn good-looking men, and together they weren’t worth a damn.

She eased the picture from under its tack, as was her habit, and studied it. The first time, Trent had cocked one brow and she’d shrugged. Just wondering where he hides his horns and pitchfork. The second time, alone in the office, she’d wondered if anyone had ever taken as quick a dislike to her as Justin had. She wasn’t ac customed to scorn at first sight. Usually, she had to do something significant to piss someone off that badly.

The photo had been taken within the last few years, on a boat somewhere off the coast of Cozumel. Both Trent and Justin wore dive skins pulled down to their waists. Though they were roughly the same size, they looked as different as night and day. Trent was dark— hair, eyes, skin; a gift from his Italian mother—and Justin was light—blond hair, café au lait skin and coffee-dark eyes. Though one came from Georgia, the other from Alabama, their lives had been pretty much the same from birth: privileged. The Seaverses had even more money than the Calloways; Justin’s sense of entitlement had been even greater than Trent’s.

Justin’s dislike for Cate had been even stronger than that.

Her cheeks heated, and the knot in her gut eased enough to summon her usual derision for Justin. He’d hated that she wasn’t just another of Trent’s passing diversions. He hadn’t wanted to lose his partying buddy—which he hadn’t—and he’d thought she didn’t deserve Trent. He’d told her so at the rehearsal dinner the night before the wedding.

Cate hadn’t seen him since the following day, and she hoped she never would again.

Still clutching the photo, she turned and looked around the office once more. Maybe she should call the police, or Trent’s parents. Maybe she should get out of the house and get the authorities in there before any evidence that might exist was destroyed.

Tell the police what? her little voice scoffed. That her irresponsible ex-husband had forgotten she was supposed to arrive today? That his very responsible girlfriend had actually left the house rather than wait for Cate to make her way there? As for evidence, didn’t that imply a crime? Was there anything in this room to suggest something had happened?

Her eyes couldn’t see it, but her gut felt…something.

Gradually she became aware of a textural difference beneath her fingertips. Turning the photo over, she found a small Post-it note affixed to the picture, the precise writing in Trent’s hand.

C: If anything happens, call him. He’ll know what to do.

Call Justin Seavers? Yeah, right. The only times she’d ever called him, she’d been looking for her fiancé/husband when he hadn’t returned from a night out with the boys. He’d always been at Justin’s place, too hung over to talk to her, Justin had said in that superior tone. He’d told her to go on about her business, that Trent would come home when he was ready. Smug bastard.

And Trent wanted her to turn to him now? What could one lazy, irresponsible trust-fund baby do to help another?

Then she read the note again. If anything happens… Finding the shelter empty and silent certainly qualified as anything.

He’ll know what to do. Maybe Trent had confided in him. Maybe Justin could at least tell her something to report to the police. Maybe he knew where Trent and Susanna were and why everyone else had left.

Gritting her teeth, she stuck the photo back on the bulletin board, opened the lower-left drawer on Trent’s desk and pulled out a leather-bound address book. Trent relied on his smartphone for a lot, but he also liked pa-per-and-ink records. She found the entry she needed, then punched the numbers into her cell with tiny, vicious pokes.

The phone rang once in her ear, followed by a sound from outside the office. Moving the cell away, she took a hesitant step toward the door and listened hard. Music came faintly from somewhere inside the house, and it was moving closer.

Her palms went damp, and her heart stuttered to a stop before breaking into a gallop.

Oh, God, someone else was inside the house!

The ringtone was an Eric Clapton song, about a man on the run, trying to avoid getting swept away by a river of tears. Of course, a woman was his downfall; so often they were, though Justin Seavers had had better luck at avoiding that fate than most guys he knew.

There was no special meaning to the ringtone, though. He’d known Cate would call; the song had been on his phone; it was a thoughtless choice. It didn’t mean he’d ever cared—would ever care—enough to run from Cate, and it sure as hell didn’t mean she could save him. He wasn’t of the opinion that he actually needed saving, at least not anymore.

He silenced the phone as he reached the hall, then stepped through the office doorway. She was standing there, posture rigid, fingers clenched tightly around her cell phone. She was ten inches shorter than him, enough to make him feel like the big, strong protector or, more likely, the overlarge clumsy oaf.

When she recognized him, relief flashed across her face, quickly replaced with the cool, disdainful look she usually reserved just for him. “You,” she breathed, letting the tension, or most of it, ease from her body.

Justin leaned against the doorjamb, one ankle crossing the other. “What’s up, doc?”

Straightening her spine, she managed to appear an inch or so taller. “Where’s Trent? Susanna? Why did all the volunteers leave? What’s going on here?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? Trent said—”

“When did you talk to him?”

She blinked, unaccustomed to being interrupted. She might be delicate in size and stature and, according to Trent, sweeter than sugar most of the time, but she was probably the most book-smart person Justin had ever known, and she was accustomed to being in charge. People didn’t interrupt Dr. Cate Calloway, head of emergency medicine at the Copper Lake Hospital and part-time instructor of trauma management at her alma mater.

“A week ago. Maybe ten days. I called to let him know I’d shipped some supplies and to see if they needed anything else.”

“How did he seem?”

She blinked again. “Like Trent. He was on another call. He said if Susanna thought of something, she’d give me a call. If not, they’d see me today.”

“And neither of them called you?”

The effort to stop from rolling her eyes was visible in the tension in her jaw. “No. Otherwise, I would have said that was the last time I talked to him—” She drew a breath. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugged again. Annoying her had always come easily to him. All he had to do was breathe. Hippocratic oath or not, he was pretty sure if someone hauled him into her E.R. on the verge of death, she’d be tempted to shove him over.

“I thought I’d see how the diving is this fall.”

“Then why aren’t you on a boat out in the ocean?”

“My dive buddy’s taken some time off. What’s in the boxes out there?”

“Medical supplies, toiletries, books, clothes.”

“Any drugs?”

The disdain increased fractionally. “Antibiotics, antihistamines, some nonnarcotic pain relievers. Nothing special. Why are you really here? Trent said if anything happened—” She raised her hand when he started to interrupt again. “He wrote in a note that if anything happened, I should call you, and now here you are. How convenient. Why you? Why not the police, his parents, the foundation?”

Ignoring her questions, he finally moved away from the door and into the room. It seemed to shrink by half, putting him closer to her than he’d been in a very long time. “What note?”

The corners of her mouth pinching, she took the few steps to the bulletin board and pulled off the photo from a dive trip three years ago. He barely glanced at it but turned it over to read the note on the back. Looking up again, he cocked his brow. “You two arranged a secret message system involving this photo of me?”

Her mouth pinched even more, as if she’d sucked the sourest of limes. “Of course not. He just knew…I usually…pick up the picture at least once…when I’m here.” Her face tinged with a blush, and she was not an attractive blusher.

Everything else about her, though…straight brown hair, blunt cut, in a braid today, blue eyes, a mouth to match the sweet nature he’d been told she possessed, great legs, nice body. He’d think she had chosen beach-casual for travel, in brown shorts that showed no curves, a tan tank top that clung to every curve and flat sandals with straps, but she always dressed for comfort. Trent joked that was why she’d gone into medicine in the first place. What could be cozier than wearing scrubs all the time?

He fingered the picture before peeling off the Post-it and crumpling it. “So my picture interests you.”

She snorted. “Puzzles would be a better word. I look at it and wonder how two men with all the advantages money can buy can grow up to become…well, you and Trent.”

He was about to make some flippant reply when a sound outside caught his attention: the crunch of tires on gravel, the low rumble of an engine. Pocketing the picture, he stepped past her to the window, keeping to the side of the flimsy curtains, and lifted one edge just enough to see the black vehicle in the driveway. The first man out was tall, muscle-bound, and he gripped a stubby black pistol. There was no doubt in Justin’s mind that he worked for the Wallaces.

Muttering a curse, he grabbed her arm on his way out of the room. “We’ve got company, and it’s sure as hell not a welcoming committee. Come on.”

He expected resistance, but she dragged her feet only long enough to grab hold of her suitcase in the middle of the hallway. Yanking it up, she awkwardly shoved the handle in one-handed, then let him pull her down the hall to the back of the house. As they turned into the kitchen to reach the rear door, and the backpack he’d left there, a knock sounded heavily at the front door.

When they reached the smaller door that led to what had long ago been servants’ quarters, he slung the pack over his shoulders, then eased the door open. The nar row strip of yard was empty, the path apparently clear to the small gate set in the rear wall.

They would be hidden from view of the driveway for probably twenty feet; the remainder of the distance to the gate, they would be visible to anyone looking from the direction of the car. Best scenario, all the car’s occupants would be inside the house by then, none of them happening to look outside for a few seconds. More likely, someone remained at the car or had been sent to check the garage and the dorm, or both. Worst case, one of the men was already watching the gate, maybe from outside the property, out of sight until they burst into the alley, where his bike waited.

But, he acknowledged as footsteps shuffled in the front hall, they couldn’t stay where they were.

He slid out the door, holding it until Cate had followed, then carefully eased it shut. Taking her hand again, he walked close to the house, listening to sounds of at least two, maybe three, men inside, straining to hear any noise from outside.

At the corner of the house, he glanced down. “Ready for a bit of fun, doc?”

Her knuckles white on the handle of her bag, she swallowed hard and nodded. With a nod of his own, they left the safety of cover and ran for the rusty gate. Short legs like hers couldn’t run as fast as he could walk, but he kept a quick pace anyway, his hand on her upper arm half dragging, half carrying her along.

When they reached the open gate without incident, he released her and tossed her the extra helmet he always carried. “Put that on.” He had his own helmet on in seconds, then used a bungee cord to fasten her bag to the backrest. She was still fumbling with the strap when he lifted her by the waist and hefted her onto the seat.

“Hey!”

“It’s not brain surgery, doc, and we’ve got to get out of here.”

He swung his leg through the space left for him and started the engine. Glancing back to see if she was settled, he caught movement in his peripheral vision, then a gunshot cracked in the heavy air. The bullet passed between them, exploding into a cinder block across the alley, and every muscle in Justin’s body cramped.

Revving the powerful engine, he released the clutch and the bike shot forward. Zero to 150 in ten seconds, the manufacturer claimed, and he was pretty sure he’d just demonstrated it. He drove like a demon through four blocks of alleys, barely slowing before rocketing across the streets, then made a hard turn on the next cross street. It was a broad thoroughfare that didn’t see much traffic, at least when he’d been on it, but it was also a risky place to speed, with police and military installations strung along its length.

His destination was a short distance ahead: one right turn, then another, onto a jammed street that passed cruise ships, dive shops and hotels. Their speed diminished significantly—down to ten, maybe fifteen miles an hour, with all the cars, scooters and tourists. His nerves humming, he kept an eye on the traffic both ahead and behind until he passed under the pedestrian bridge. Just past it, he goosed the engine, cutting it too close crossing lanes in front of a ’70s-era VW Bug. He drove up the handicapped ramp, crossed the sidewalk and eased through an open gate.

A cinder-block wall sheltered them from the street. He nosed the bike in until the front wheel met the wall, then killed the engine and climbed off. He removed his helmet first, and he ran his fingers through his hair be fore grinning weakly. “Hell. This time I’m gonna kill Trent.” He had to lean against the wall—his legs were that wobbly—and needed a couple deep breaths to fill his lungs again.

Cate finally swung her leg over and eased to the ground. She was steadier than he, but why shouldn’t she be? She was an E.R. doctor. Life-and-death emergencies were part of her daily routine. Though not, he noted as her hands began to tremble, her own life or death. “Were those men police officers?”

“Doubtful. If it had been cops shooting at us, we never would have made it this far.” Fairly certain his legs would hold him, he pushed away from the wall and unlashed her suitcase. “You have a swimsuit in there?”

She blinked, the only indication of her surprise at the change of subject. “Of course. Why?”

“Because we need to blend in, and in this part of town, most women are in swimsuits.” He gestured broadly to make his point. “Put it on.”

Her eyes widened with good old-fashioned modesty. “Here?”

He grinned. That might be fun—Cate Calloway stripping on a public street—but it wasn’t gonna happen in his lifetime. “There are bathrooms down at the dive shop. Come on.”

Both a ramp and stairs led to the dive shop doors. Divers were gathered around the dock, checking their equipment, and the shop employees were in and out, wheeling air tanks, answering questions, giving advice before the afternoon dive boat headed out. He wished he had his own gear and could just join the crowd. Under the sea seemed the last place those men would look for them.

Of course, the doc couldn’t dive, but she wasn’t his responsibility. He’d be more than happy to pay whatever it cost to get her back to the airport and on the next flight out, or put her on a cruise ship for the remainder of her vacation. Anything to not have to deal with her. But not dealing with her had never been that easy.

Once inside the shop, he pointed out the bathroom, then approached the man at the counter. Mario glanced up, then did a double take. “I didn’t see your name down for this dive. How have you been?”

“Good, except I’m not diving this time. I’m here with a…friend who hasn’t discovered the joys of scuba yet.”

“She must be some…friend to keep you out of the water for long. Where is she? You got her hidden from the rest of us so we won’t try to steal her away?”

“Bathroom. Listen, I just picked her up at the airport and was wondering if I could leave her stuff here while we have lunch.”

Mario reached under the counter and produced a lock and a key. “Any empty basket you want.”

“Thanks. Hey, and a T-shirt, too.” Justin accepted the key, shrugged off his backpack, then pulled his shirt over his head, replacing it with the blue one Mario picked. Divers Do It Deeply, the slogan proclaimed above a picture of a smiling mermaid. After paying for it, he faced the dock. “You’ve got a good crowd.”

“Regulars. Louisiana. Argentina. The single divers’ group. You’ve probably gone out with all of them.”

He probably had, which made him turn his attention back inside. He didn’t want anyone besides the dive shop employees to recognize him. Keeping a low profile was something he’d had to learn, and he needed it now especially.

A couple of women came out of the bathroom wearing dive skins. They were solid women, in black Lycra that gave curves to their curves. Side by side, they completely blocked the view of the woman behind them until they angled off to the steps to the dock.

She was slender, shapely, nice breasts, well-defined biceps, flat middle. Her shirt was white, sheer cotton, unbuttoned to reveal a bikini top in the vivid colors of a vintage Hawaiian shirt: red, blue, purple, slashes of orange and yellow. A squishy straw hat covered her head, its floppy brim concealing her face, but there was nothing much hidden by her blue shorts—short being the important word. The faded denim clung to her hips and butt and left plenty of leg exposed, all the way down to a pair of flip-flops and painted red toenails. On an island filled with sexy women, she was one to make people look twice.

And she was headed to him.

Good God, it was Cate, looking less like a doctor than he’d ever seen her, and he’d known her long before she became one. She stopped beside him, one hand clenched around the handle of the suitcase she’d been pulling behind, and waited silently.

Mario gave a low whistle and grinned. “She might keep you out of the deep water, amigo, but be careful you don’t wind up in hot water.”

Justin’s answering smile was more of a bared-teeth grimace. He was already in hot water. He just hoped Cate didn’t make it boil.

Chapter 2

Cate protested leaving her suitcase in the locked wire basket at the dive shop. She didn’t care if people stowed thousands of dollars’ worth of gear there on a daily basis. The items in that bag were all she had on the island with her. The stethoscope tucked into her medical bag in the suitcase was the best for picking up subtle heart sounds; it had been a med school graduation gift from her parents, and she wasn’t sure she could even hear anymore on lesser models. She didn’t wear much makeup, but what she wore would cost an arm and a leg to replace, and her favorite well-broken-in sneakers were in there, too. So was her Kindle, and the sunblock that would keep her from self-combusting under the tropical sun.

“You can’t go around dragging a suitcase without drawing attention,” Justin said. He secured the lock, then hung the key on its cord over his neck and slid it under his shirt. “Have you eaten? I haven’t eaten. Let’s get some lunch. And a drink. Or three.”

Scowling, Cate watched him saunter away before jogging to catch up. She grabbed his arm, slowing him enough to ease around in front of him and block his way at the base of the stairs. “Have you forgotten? Trent and Susanna have gone missing, La Casa is abandoned and someone shot at us!”

That one was still giving her palpitations at odd moments. She’d treated more than her share of gunshot wounds, but never, ever had she imagined that she could come that close to being the target of one herself. She’d felt the bullet pass her face, had felt the spray of dust as it bit into the concrete wall.

Justin was stubbornness in human form. “They’re not missing. They’re taking a break. They’re relaxing somewhere, sleeping off a big lunch, and now I need a big lunch. If you want to fast until they get back, feel free. You can keep me company while I eat.” Stepping around her, he started up the steep flight of stairs that led to the pedestrian bridge.

“Lazy, spoiled, self-centered,” she mumbled, staying a few steps behind him.

They reached the bridge, and she broke off muttering. Ahead of them was a hotel, the grass lush-green, palm trees and flowers everywhere, the swimming pool glittering brightly next to a thatch-roofed restaurant. Behind them was the water, dotted with boats, the most amazing blue-green hue she’d ever seen. With the warm sun, the gentle breezes, the rustle of palm fronds and that incredible water, it was…

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Justin’s voice was low and coming from right behind her, resonant, as it usually was, with self-satisfaction. But in this case, she couldn’t hold it against him. “The mainland’s over there. See those buildings? That’s Playa del Carmen.” He pointed, his forearm resting on her shoulder, bringing with it the mixed fragrances of sunshine and cologne. He smelled as expensive as he looked and, touristy T-shirt aside, he did look expensive.

And handsome, all golds and tans and browns, like some sort of tropical sun god.

She squeezed her eyes shut, chastising herself, blaming him. She wasn’t a foolish romantic. She preferred substance over form. She’d had her heart broken once before by a man so exactly like him they could be twins, and she’d learned her lesson. She wouldn’t repeat the past.

Besides, she didn’t even like the man, nor he her, and she was taking a self-imposed break from any kind of relationship, even with men she did like.

“This isn’t your first trip to Cozumel, is it?”

And there was a timely reminder of the man Justin Seavers was. “You know it isn’t. Trent and I came here on our honeymoon. We stayed at a hotel down there—” she pointed to the right “—all the way at the tip of the island, and he had a fling with not one but two women who worked there. I’m sure he told you all about it when we got home.”

For an instant, she thought she saw regret on his face, but his features shuttered so quickly, she was sure she must have been mistaken. He shifted away, then began walking again. She felt vaguely…guilty as she followed him.

On the opposite side of the bridge, a few steps led to the pool area, then a few steps more into the restaurant. It was open to the air, few walls, with an uncovered patio that held a scattering of tables. Justin headed in that direction, choosing a seat where he faced the ocean and the street.

“They’ve got great burgers here,” he said, his voice level as the waiter brought chips, salsa and menus.

“I didn’t come to Cozumel to eat a hamburger.” She didn’t realize how snippy she sounded until he replied.

“No, you came to find an outlet for that relentless dogooder side of yours, to show people that you’re more compassionate than they are and—” he accepted a bottle of water from the waiter and twisted the cap off before raising it in a toast “—to spend some quality time with your ex-husband.”

Cate didn’t know whether to be insulted, dumbfounded or amused as he swigged the water. She did have a do-gooder side. She wasn’t nearly as giving as Susanna, but she donated her time and expertise when she could. She wasn’t trying to put on a display of compassion. Most people back home in Copper Lake, Georgia, didn’t have a clue about her volunteer activities, and she certainly didn’t care whether strangers in another country were impressed with her. As for the last…

The sound that finally escaped was as much snort as laughter. “I gave up on quality time—any time—with Trent about five years before the divorce. In case you haven’t noticed, he’s in love with Susanna. In case you hadn’t noticed, he hasn’t been in love with me for years, if he ever was.”

She’d thought he was, once upon a time. He’d thought he was. But Justin never had.

Uncomfortably, she drank some water while studying the menu. Everything sounded so good, including the hamburger he’d recommended, but by the time the waiter returned, she’d settled on seviche. Shrimp, fish and conch cooked by way of chemical reaction—there was a dish she couldn’t find at home in Copper Lake.

Silence settled over the table after the waiter took their orders. She snacked on the chips and chunky salsa and watched the birds searching for treats on the patio. Justin watched the traffic on the street. To anyone who bothered to notice them, they probably looked like just another pair of tourists instead of two people who’d known each other thirteen years and had run out of civil things to say about ten minutes after they’d met.

Thirteen years. A long time. She’d been a sophomore at the University of Georgia at Athens. Justin and Trent had been juniors, despite the lack of attention they’d paid to their classes. College had been a four-year vacation for them, paid for by their families, with the only expectation that they earn a degree—not necessarily one they would use.

Expectations for after college had been slim, too. While Cate had studied her butt off in medical school, Trent had traveled—skiing in Colorado, cruising the Mediterranean, diving around the world—and Justin had gone with him. Her third and fourth years she’d spent days in clinical rotations and nights in the med school library, cramming data about each monthly specialty into her weary brain, and they’d gone mountain climbing in Nepal and surfing in Australia. Trent had barely made it back from China for her graduation, literally walking in the door of her apartment as she and her parents were walking out.

She was basking in self-pity, she realized, and that wasn’t her style. So what if she’d begun her medical career with a grand total of $342,769 in debt? Who cared if they’d been out seeing the world while she’d worked so hard? She was a doctor. The only thing she’d ever wanted to do in her life.

Besides, Trent had paid off that debt as a divorce gift.

Yes, other husbands gave their wives wedding and anniversary gifts. Hers had rewarded her for putting up with him as long as she had.

“What did GayAnne tell you?”

Her gaze shifted to Justin, leaned back in his chair, wearing sunglasses that had come from nowhere. The backpack, she realized. He hadn’t left it locked up at the dive shop with her suitcase. “Nothing. Just that everyone was gone and she was leaving, too. Where are they?”

His only response was a shrug so lazy, so arrogant, that she wanted to smack him. She curled her fingers around the water bottle to make it harder to reach across the table and do just that. “Knock it off, Justin. The volunteers have fled. The girls are gone. The local employees are gone. Susanna and Trent are gone. You know damn well they wouldn’t just take off on a whim. La Casa is too important to Susanna, and she’s too important to Trent. Something has happened, and you at least have an idea what or Trent wouldn’t have told me to call you.”

Another long swig of water, another lazy shrug. “Maybe he’s trying to set us up together.”

Cate sat back. The idea was ludicrous. As if Trent would wish her on his best friend, or vice versa. As if she would willingly stay five minutes in the room with Justin if she wasn’t forced to. She didn’t like him at all, but she liked him best when he was on another continent, and Trent was well aware of that.

She loaded her voice with scorn. “Come on, Justin. Tell me what the hell is going on so I can—”

His cell phone rang, and he raised one hand impe riously to stop her while he answered it. Rude, obnoxious, self-centered. She fumed as the waiter approached and set a plate in front of each of them. Immediately her stomach growled, overriding her annoyance. It had been a long time since breakfast, and she needed to refuel in order to deal with her present company.

The seviche looked incredible; the hamburger Justin had ordered smelled even more so. She dug in, closing her eyes briefly at the first mild, sweet, spicy, limey flavors, silencing the low mmm of satisfaction that hummed through her. If she’d been with her last serious boyfriend, AJ Decker—the cop who’d gone and fallen in love with his ex-partner while Cate wasn’t looking— she would have immediately picked up another forkful and insisted he taste it. She didn’t offer Justin anything.

Silence followed his hello for a moment, then his mouth tightened. The muscles in his fingers holding the phone contracted, too. He didn’t look pleased.

Fear niggled in her belly, but it didn’t slow her eating. She wasn’t one of those people whose appetite came and went based on their emotions. Maybe it had to do with the pace of working in the E.R.; maybe it was a leftover from the frenetic medical school years, but when it was time to eat, she ate. She could do salvage work on a kid’s leg dangling by a shred after a bicycle–pickup truck run-in, then go to the break room, wash up and eat a substantial meal of spaghetti and meatballs.

Besides, this call that displeased Justin could be about any number of things other than Trent and Susanna. Someone could have dinged his Ferrari back home in Alabama. A banking mistake could have temporarily delayed a payout from one of his multiple trust funds into his checking account. The housekeeper could have forgotten to vacuum backward out of his living room so she didn’t leave footsteps behind.

Best friend or not, Trent was only a small part of the universe that revolved around Justin.

And she didn’t register in that universe at all, except as a very minor nuisance. She’d learned that years ago and would never forget.

Bracing the phone between his ear and shoulder, Justin picked up the knife and cut the burger in half, then fished off the lettuce from one half. The call hadn’t started off good: the caller ID screen had shown the number as unavailable. He rarely took those sorts of calls; with his money, his family and his reputation, there were way more people trying to contact him than he wanted to talk to. Under the circumstances, though…

The caller was a man, his voice heavily accented but easy to understand. I saw you at La Casa para Nuestras Hijas, Mr. Seavers. I was warned you might be in the vicinity.

Justin hadn’t recognized any of the men in the black sedan, but why would he? He didn’t generally hang out with thugs…though apparently he’d been somewhat friendly with men who hired thugs. How was it that he’d never heard even a hint of gossip about the seamier side of Joseph and Lucas Wallace’s activities back in the States?

Because they hired discreet thugs, he thought grimly.

“What was in the backpack you took from La Casa?”

The man’s question echoed in his head, and he worked to sound careless, more to impress Cate than the caller. He wanted rid of her, and the only way to do that was make her believe that everything was okay with Trent and Susanna. “Just stuff I need. You know, some thing to read, a change of clothes—things that don’t fit in my pockets.”

“You mean, things you took from La Casa. Things that don’t belong to you. I want them.”

Justin glanced at Cate and locked gazes with her. She was eating as if she didn’t have a care in the world, but she was also watching him shrewdly. So far, she’d believed pretty much nothing that he’d told her, and this conversation was definitely going to make her doubt him even more and make her that much more of a problem. Sliding his chair back, he left the table and walked to the low wall that separated patio from driveway. There he couldn’t smell the tantalizing burger or the seviche for the sweet heavy fragrance of yellow flowers that vined the wall.

His voice flat, he said, “Nothing in my pack belongs to you, either. What have you done with Trent and Susanna?”

“Mr. Calloway and Ms. Hunter are fine, for the moment. But that won’t last if my employers don’t recover the property Ms. Hunter took.”

That damn flash drive. Susanna hadn’t stolen the files contained on it entirely on her own. Justin had met her in the stairwell at the Wallaces’ office building, taken the drive and disappeared while she returned to the offices for a meeting with Lucas.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Justin lied. “Maybe your boss just misplaced whatever he’s missing, because I’m pretty sure Susanna would never take anything that wasn’t hers. She’s such a goody-goody.”

“We’ve searched her, Mr. Calloway and La Casa. That leaves you. Any time Ms. Hunter has problems, she turns to you, and we know you were on the island that day.”

Sensing movement behind him, Justin shifted. He half expected Cate, eavesdropping, but instead it was a tiny clubfooted bird, hopping around in search of tidbits. Cate still sat at the table, still eating, still watching him. Keeping her in his peripheral vision, he turned his gaze to the street, where one ancient VW Bug after another chugged past.

“What is it your boss thinks is missing? Susanna’s taste is too good to pilfer any of that tacky art in the reception area, though I admit her purses are big enough to hide a piece. Or was it maybe something smaller? Did they leave a few grand in cash lying around that day? Or did it have sentimental value, like the gold lighter presented to Great-Grandfather Lucifer by President What’s-His-Name a hundred years ago?”

His attitude was pissing off the man. It showed in the tightening of his voice. “Records,” he said precisely. “She took records, and we want them back. Give them to us, and your friends will be released unharmed. Continue to hide the records, and they will pay the price. Call the authorities in your country or mine, and they will pay the price. Stand in our way, and you will pay the price. Do you know how my employers dealt with the last person who stole from them? Take a look at the photograph I just sent you.”

Frowning, Justin watched the photo download, then his stomach heaved. It was difficult to say if the body lying on the sand was male or female, young or old. All he could say for sure was that he or she had spent some time in the ocean, the main course for a feeding frenzy among its residents. Please, God, after drowning first.

“By the way, Mr. Seavers, everything I’ve just told you applies to Dr. Calloway, as well.”

“She doesn’t know—” He broke off his automatic denial. Damn! They’d been watching for her, too. The Wallaces must have known she was due back for one of her medical clinics. Whether they believed she knew anything was a moot point. She was here, and she’d been at La Casa. As far as the Wallaces were concerned, that meant she was involved. He could try putting her on an airplane back to Georgia or a cruise ship to nowhere, but she wouldn’t be safe. As long as the Wallaces thought their business was in danger, so was Cate. He was stuck with her.

“Dr. Calloway doesn’t have a clue about anything that happens outside her emergency room. Healthy, uninjured people don’t interest her.”

“Then if you both follow my instructions, her stay on the island should be quite uneventful. Now, do you know where the records are?”

Justin hesitated. If he lied and said no, the bastard wouldn’t believe him. If he lied and said he had them, they’d want to set up an exchange, and he doubted seriously that the Wallaces intended to let any of them walk away from this. The fact that the man wasn’t worried about any copies of the documents they might have made indicated that.

So he told a close version of the truth. “Not exactly. I’ve got some ideas.”

“I suggest you start looking. I’ll be in touch again soon. Oh, and Mr. Seavers—when you have the documents, don’t bother making any copies. Keep your phone charged and nearby.”

As the call ended, Justin stared across the street, where a cruise ship was making its way slowly to port. The Wallaces wanted the files back but weren’t worried about copies. Why?

True, the files were encrypted, but Garcia, one of his buddies in Mississippi, was working on that. She’d hacked into far better programs than any the Wallaces’ tech guy could even conceive of.

So they wanted the information badly enough to kidnap Trent and Susanna—and to threaten Justin and Cate—but they didn’t care about copies because the information was fluid. Names and locations could be changed. Move the people around and set their own hackers to erasing their existence…

Footsteps alerted him to Cate’s movement in time to keep her voice from startling him. “Was that about Trent and Susanna?”

He gave her an irritated look. “Geez, you lock in on one subject and beat it till it’s dead. No wonder Trent got so bored with you.”

Her jaw tightened and hurt flashed through her eyes the instant before she pivoted to return to the table. Aw, damn. He hadn’t meant—

He should apologize, but the Justin she knew didn’t offer apologies easily—at least, not sincere ones. That didn’t stop him from following her. She was rummaging in her purse for her cell phone when he reached the table. He tugged it from her grasp and slid it into his pocket with one hand as he picked up the bill with the other.

Stonily she stared at him. “Give me my phone. I’m going to call Trent’s parents.”

He did a quick conversion from pesos into dollars, then tossed down enough cash to cover the next three meals. “If Trent wanted Mom and Dad to know where he is, he would’ve told them.”

Her gaze narrowed, making him feel like something small and slimy that she was about to dissect. She didn’t argue, but turned toward the bar, no doubt to ask where she could find a phone.

He caught her arm and swung her back, half coaxing, half dragging her to the steps that led to the street. “You’re tired. It’s been a long day. Commercial flights are hell, aren’t they? Let’s go someplace quiet, and we can talk.”

“Talk?” Her response reminded him of a parrot his frat brothers had inherited from a graduating senior. Whenever it was upset, it squawked like that. “I’ve been trying to talk since that awful moment at the house.”

He grinned. “You mean when they shot at us?”

“I mean when I saw you standing in the doorway.”

He flagged down a cab and ushered her into the backseat the instant the vehicle came to a stop. After giving the cabbie the address, he tried to casually glance around to see if anyone might have noticed them. He’d guessed not, but then, he hadn’t exactly had experience with being followed.

As they pulled away from the curb, Cate straightened. “What about your motorcycle?”

“At the moment, I’d rather be in a car than on my bike.”

“What about my suitcase?”

“We’ll get it later. Don’t worry. Mario will take care of it.”

“But—my stethoscope—”

He rolled his eyes. “If anything happens to your precious stethoscope, I’ll replace it. Scout’s honor.”

He wouldn’t have thought it possible for her face to get any scrunchier, but she managed. “You were never a Scout, and you have no honor. If anything happens to my stethoscope, I will hunt you down and kill you.”

Grinning was the last thing he wanted to do after that low blow, but he managed the brashest, most arrogant one ever. “Gotta get away from me before you can track me down.” And that wasn’t happening anytime soon, thanks to the Wallace brothers.

Bastards.

Despite her anxiety, Cate couldn’t help but appreciate the scenery they passed: beautiful buildings, though set amidst some tackier ones, lush greenery and the water— that incredible-shades-of-blue water. Under better circumstances, and with better company, she would have her nose pressed to the window. More likely, she would instruct the cabdriver to pull over, pay the fare and head straight to the water’s edge.

She glanced at Justin peripherally and gave a mental shudder. Better company. Oh, yeah, right.

The driver slowed and turned into a narrow driveway. Twenty feet in, he stopped at an elaborate wrought-iron gate, and Justin handed him a card to swipe.

The drive led into a very private haven dotted with palm trees and other vegetation whose names she couldn’t guess. Bright waves of color competed against the too-pretty-to-be-real green of the grass, and the plantings hid any sign of neighboring houses.

The house that was the center of such beauty was a surprise. She’d never given any thought to what type of home suited Justin, other than the antebellum plantation that had been in his family for centuries, but this bare-concrete, industrial-type building that reminded her of Cold War scenes in Russia never would have made the list. It was so stark, so…ugly.

The cab stopped in front of a large black door, and Justin paid the driver before sliding out. “Come on,” he said when she didn’t move. “Welcome to La Casa Seavers.”

Was he kidding? When he visited paradise, he lived in a squat, concrete bunker?

The moment the door closed behind her, the cabdriver accelerated away. She watched until he was out of sight, then turned back as Justin opened the front door.

Foolishness washed over her. Appearances were deceiving; hadn’t she learned that along with every other little kid in the world? Plain and ugly on the outside, maybe, but breathtaking inside. One glance was enough to show that.

The floors were a mix of terra-cotta and aged wood, and the walls were painted in warm earth tones. The furniture looked comfortable, the art exquisite, and what she could see of the kitchen would make her friends who cooked swoon.

“Not quite what you expected there for a minute, is it?”

“It’s lovely,” she admitted. Then the bitchiness that seemed ever ready to pounce around him added, “Your decorator did a very nice job.”

She wasn’t sure, but she thought he mouthed the appropriate insult before he turned toward the stairs. Abruptly, he turned back and stared into the living room.

“What—”

“Stay there.” He took the stairs two at a time, then disappeared down the hall.

Okay, she was a coward. She stayed, edging a bit closer to the door that still stood open. A few muffled sounds came from upstairs—not a scuffle or anything, just Justin doing whatever he was doing.

Her gaze went to the living room, trying to find what had caught his attention. A magazine lay on the floor next to the iron-and-stone coffee table, and one door on a heavily carved armoire stood ajar, less than an inch. Two of the half-dozen pillows on the sofa were crooked, and one was upside down. Other than those small details, it looked more in order than her own living room had ever been.

Justin’s steps thudded down the stairs, startling her. He reached past to close and lock the door, then started down the hall. “Come on. We’re not staying here.”

“Why?” She hurried to catch up, regretting that she had only a moment to register the formal dining room and that incredible kitchen before they were out the back door and on a patio that surrounded a sparkling blue pool. A block from the ocean and he had a pool?

The rich are different.

“Why are we leaving? Has someone been here? Why? Looking for us? And what does this have to do with Trent and Susanna?”

He stopped so suddenly that she ran into him. The backpack, at least half-empty before, now softened the collision. It still knocked the breath from her, though. It must have. It couldn’t have anything to do with the fact that they were so close. She was way too damn old for that. Besides, this wasn’t just any good-looking guy. It was Justin, for heaven’s sake. Enemies since the day they’d met, remember?

He dragged his hand through his hair. “Okay, look, you’re right. They didn’t just go off. They’re in trouble, and so are we. Yeah, those guys broke in here, looking for us and…”

“And?”

“And a flash drive with files that Susanna and I kind of, uh, stole.”

Cate stared. She couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d declared he was wildly in love with her. Susanna stealing… Oh, hell, Justin stealing… It was so wrong, not just morally or ethically or legally, but for who they were.

She didn’t realize her mouth was gaping open until he pushed it shut with one fingertip under her chin. His grin was crooked. “I guess I should feel honored that you’re stunned speechless. You don’t think as badly of me as you like to pretend, do you?”

She tried to ignore the faint heat where his finger had been, tried to form a coherent thought. “So you guys st—” She couldn’t say the word. “You took some data that belongs to someone else and they want it back so now Susanna and Trent are…what? In hiding?”

Grimly he shook his head.

Horror replaced that stunned feeling. “Kidnapped? They’ve been kidnapped?” At his nod, she shoved him with both hands on his chest. “And these same people were shooting at us and they broke into your house looking for us and— Oh, my God, what have you gotten me into?”

She shoved him again, knocking him back a few inches, and he grabbed her wrists. “Hey, it’s not me. They got into trouble on their own. Well, more or less.”

“What does that mean—‘more or less’?”

“It means this isn’t the time or the place to talk about it.” He lifted her wrists a few inches. “If I let go, will you stop punching me?”

“Those weren’t punches,” she muttered. “I can show you a real punch.” His grip loosened, and she jerked free. “I can’t believe… Oh, of course I can believe it. You and Trent never did think about the consequences of anything you did. Why should you? Your parents or their money or their lawyers always took care of it for you.”

Scowling, he took her arm and steered her toward the vine-covered fence at the back of the yard. “You’re such a snot, Cate. When you see a patient in the E.R., don’t you wait until you have his history before you start passing judgment?”

“I don’t pass judgment. I treat their illnesses, patch up their injuries and turf them upstairs or out. My responsibility and interest end when they leave my department.” Stolen information, kidnapping, getting shot at… Dear God, this was not what she expected of this trip.

He led the way straight to a gate that she wouldn’t even have noticed, covered as it was with the same flowering vines as the fence. Brushing aside leaves, he typed a code into the keypad, then pushed the gate open and sneaked a look outside before he stepped out.

“So we’re going to the police now, right? Or no, wait, we should probably call Trent’s parents and let them contact the FBI. With all the lawyers and politicians in the Calloway family, they probably know someone who can get them straight through to the director himself, and we are in a foreign country. The FBI or the State Department should be involved. I can get in touch with Emilia…or maybe I’d better call Trent’s dad instead. Emilia will be so devastated—”

Justin stopped short and faced her. “Stop babbling.”

She stiffened. “I don’t babble.”

“We’re not contacting the police or the Calloways or anyone else.”

“We have to. We’re not cops. We’re not qualified to deal with a double kidnapping!” That was the way things went in her world: she came across evidence of child or spousal abuse, a sexual assault, a shooting, a stabbing, a beating, and she reported it to the police. End of her involvement, except for an occasional court appearance to testify.

“This may come as a surprise, doc, but the kidnap pers—the people who have Trent and Susanna in custody, the people giving orders to the bad guys hunting for us—don’t want the police involved. All they want is their files back, or they’re going to kill them, and they’re going to do their best to get you and me, too. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to piss them off anymore than they already are.”

She stared at him, his features as implacable as she’d ever seen them, then clamped her mouth shut and looked around for the first time since clearing the gate. They were on a narrow swath of grass, about as wide as the average car. On the left, fences and cinder-block walls marked the rear boundaries of homes and hotels that faced the ocean. On the right, heavy undergrowth that could conceal an army of thugs opened in a narrow gap to reveal the crumbled foundations of a structure long gone. Cozumel had found itself in the sights of numerous hurricanes over the years—probably the reason for the type of construction of Justin’s mini-mansion.

He exhaled, drawing her attention back to him. He mistakenly took her silence for acceptance, but she wasn’t convinced. “Did you listen to yourself just now?” she asked, the panicked tone gone from her voice, sounding much more like the seasoned E.R. doctor she really was. At least she had that much under control. “These criminals are threatening to kill Trent and Susanna. There’s not even a question what we should do next.”

“You’re right. There’s not. We’re going to find a place to stay for a while and come up with a plan for getting them back. Come on.” Shifting the backpack to his other shoulder, he started walking again.

Cate growled, surprising herself. Oh, she’d done it silently before when people annoyed her, but this was out loud, a good, threatening growl. She was that frus trated. But Justin’s only response was a snort as he continued moving at a steady pace.

Even as she dogged his footsteps, she considered her options: call her ex-father-in-law anyway. Call AJ and ask his smart detective advice. Call the local authorities—

She couldn’t call anyone unless she wheedled her phone back from Justin or managed to escape him long enough to find a pay phone. Wheedling was out—he would enjoy it too much and still refuse—and the idea of escaping him, of going out into town on her own when she didn’t speak the language and every man she saw might be the one who shot at them, turned her insides morgue-cold.

“Unless you like playing the subservient little female scuttling along ten paces behind, you might as well come on up here where we can talk.” Justin sounded entirely too easygoing. Why shouldn’t he? He was a risk taker, an adventurer, a thrill seeker and, as she’d said, he never worried about consequences. He’d probably gotten an adrenaline kick out of getting shot at. He was probably looking forward to the next moment of danger.

But she was none of those things, and she just wanted the world she’d awakened in that morning to come back—the safe, settled, routine world.

She refused to jog to catch up, but after a dozen of the longest strides she could manage, she was beside him again. He looked so damn complacent that another growl nearly escaped before she forced it deeper down.

Despite his invitation to talk, he didn’t say anything while they walked another few hundred yards. When she glanced over her shoulder, she couldn’t pick out which grown-over fence was his, and she couldn’t help but shudder as her gaze skimmed the opposite side. Any thing could be hiding in there. Wild animals. Wilder people. The kind of people who were holding her ex-husband and her friend captive.

A shudder rippled through her, strong enough to make her stumble. Justin’s fingers curled around her biceps, holding her upright until she caught her balance. She tried to put gratitude into her look, but it came off more a grimace than anything else. All the years they’d known each other, they’d never touched, not once, and suddenly he was grabbing her, pulling her, catching her, every time she moved, it seemed.

And she was grateful—for some of it, at least. Just grateful, nothing more, nothing less.

She was repeating that to herself when a car turned off the street ahead and onto the grass and stopped, facing them. The sun glinted off the windshield, hiding the occupants, and fear rushed through her veins. “Oh, God,” she said breathlessly, her gaze darting around in search of the nearest cover. Another vine-draped fence was a few feet away on her left, the overgrowth more than eight feet to the right. The nearest cover was Justin, and she didn’t hesitate to spin around behind him, her eyes closed, her hands clenched, waiting for shouted orders or a hail of bullets.

Instead, all she heard besides the thudding of her heart was…

Chapter 3

Laughter. Justin knew he shouldn’t laugh. He understood that Cate was frightened. Hell, so was he, though not at this very moment. After all, he had called Mario for a ride while he was upstairs and told him what he knew about Trent and Susanna’s trouble. It just wouldn’t have been fair to ask him to involve his family otherwise. “Gee, thanks, doc. Let the bad guys shoot me first.”

Her body went stiff and she opened one eye, then the other. Peering past him, she saw what he’d already seen—Mario’s wife, Benita, standing beside a Beetle twice her age, her pregnant belly almost too big to fit behind the wheel, and four-year-old Rafael poking his head out the open driver’s door. The tension drained from every part of Cate’s body except her face and her right hand, still knotted in a fist. He quickly moved out of striking range.

She sniffed haughtily. “At least I know emergency medicine. If she’d shot you, I could put pressure on the wound until the ambulance arrived.”

“You’d be surprised how much first aid I’ve learned over the years. I do care about the consequences sometimes.” That comment had stung. Sure, he’d been a little reckless years ago, but who in their late teens/early twenties—besides Cate—hadn’t been? He still took risks. Just living was a risk. A person couldn’t exist in a vacuum—or, in her case, an emergency room.

But his risks were calculated. When he dove or climbed mountains or trekked into the wilderness, he was prepared. The experience was as safe as a man could make it.

Turning from Cate, he approached Benita and bent to accept a hug first from her, then Rafael. “Thanks for coming.”

“I’m happy to help out.” Her words had a faint, lyrical accent that hinted at time spent elsewhere. Before marrying Mario, she’d worked for a cruise line and traveled the world. She didn’t seem to have any regrets that she stayed in the same place all the time now, spoiling a family instead of passengers.

Cate cleared her throat, and he stepped back to introduce them. The two women exchanged looks and nods before they all got into the car, Cate squeezing into the backseat with Rafael, Justin struggling to fit in the front passenger seat while Benita did the same on the other side. When she caught him frowning, she shook a warning finger his way. “Be grateful I didn’t pick you up on the scooter. That would be a tight fit.”

He’d seen entire families tootling around on bikes made for two. “Hey, I’m not complaining. I like Bugs. Love ’em.”

Once the vehicle was moving, Benita shifted her gaze to Cate’s in the rearview mirror. “I understand you’re a doctor, you used to be married to Trent and you help out at La Casa.”

“I am, I was, I do.”

Benita’s scoff was soft. “If Mario and I ever divorced, I would take him out on his boat, weight him down and send him to the bottom of the sea.”

Justin grinned. “Yeah, but Mario’s not like Trent. At least, not the Trent she divorced.”

A glance over his shoulder caught a flicker of surprise crossing Cate’s face. The instant her gaze connected with his, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. She didn’t like him, didn’t trust him, and he didn’t care. Well, he cared only in that it would make the next however-many hours they were stuck together more difficult, as if dealing with bastards like the Wallaces wasn’t difficult enough already.

But he didn’t give a damn that she thought he was the same irresponsible trust-fund brat he’d been in college. It didn’t bother him that she could overlook the same things in Trent that she considered fatal flaws in him. It didn’t matter at all that she couldn’t see past her prejudices or bother to notice that just like her, Trent and everyone else, he’d grown up.

He straightened and scowled out the front window. It really didn’t matter, damn it.

“Where are we going?” Cate asked.

Benita glanced from the mirror to him to the street again. When he didn’t volunteer an answer, she did. “A little place Mario picked out. No one will ever think to look for you there. I would never go there if my darling husband whom I dearly love hadn’t told me to.”

Justin grinned. No doubt, the hotel his dive buddy had chosen was more than adequately substandard. The televisions, if there were any, would pick up only static; the mattresses would rate one thin level above the ratty carpet for cleanliness and quality; and the guests next door would likely be renting on a half-hourly basis. Back when he was young and foolish, he’d spent some time in such rat holes.

He’d bet his brand-new buoyancy compensator and dive computer, neither of which had even made it into the water yet, that Cate didn’t know such rat holes existed. He didn’t know whether to anticipate her discomfort or dread her whining.

Benita made a few turns practically on two wheels, quite an accomplishment for a vehicle as squat as the Beetle, drawing a delighted squeal from Rafael. The kid had pressed his back against the side of the car, his bony knees drawn to his chest, and was watching Cate with his head tilted to one side. Her presence kept him from his usual endless chatter.

“You can talk to him,” Justin remarked.

Cate’s gaze flashed his way, then she looked at Rafael and pitched her tone to a warm, cheery softness that she never showed Justin. “Hi. My name is Cate. What’s yours?”

Rafael stared.

“You must be, what, about four years old? And you’re going to have a new brother or sister. Which one do you want?”

Rafael still stared.

Without changing her voice at all, she spoke the next words to Justin. “Sure, I can talk to him. You just neglected to mention that he doesn’t speak English, didn’t you?”

“Aw, gee, and you don’t speak Spanish, do you? Sorry, doc, I thought you knew everything about the life in the universe.” Suddenly pain shot through his upper arm. He jerked around the best he could in the confined space—which meant his head, neck and one arm were contorted around toward her while the rest of him continued to face forward—and scowled. “You pinched me.” She’d reached through the narrow space between front seat and frame and pinched him.

“Stop fussing,” Benita warned, “or I’ll do it next time, and I leave bruises. Understand?”

Justin settled back. “I’m sure she left a bruise. I think I can feel a knot forming as we speak.”

“Rafael speaks a little English, Cate,” Benita went on. “But he’s shy about using it with Americans. Rafi? What are we having?”

He smiled slowly at Cate before answering softly, “We are having a baby girl.” Then his smile turned sour. “No boy.”

Cate’s smile came slowly, too, and was sympathetic. “No boy? Aw, maybe next time.”

“Maybe,” he echoed.

While they continued to smile at each other, Justin turned his attention to the neighborhoods they were passing through. He’d been coming to the island for fifteen years but had only a general grasp of the city’s layout. He could locate the airport and the various hotels he’d stayed at before buying his house. He knew where every dive shop on the island was, along with his share of tourist-friendly clubs and restaurants. But Benita had made so many turns, and with each block the street seemed narrower, the buildings smaller and poorer, the people on the street tougher. This part of Coz definitely wasn’t on the island tours.

Abruptly, Benita slowed to a stop in the middle of the street and leaned forward to study the buildings on the right. Unpainted cinder blocks formed walls in front of and between the first three, one a store of some sort, the other two houses. A broken sign hanging crookedly from the fourth structure identified it as otel. She smiled with satisfaction and pulled into the narrow drive that passed into a courtyard. Nothing bigger than the Bug could have made it through without scraping the walls.

“This is—” There was a squeak in Cate’s voice, and she tried to remove it with a deep breath. “This is where we’re staying?”

Benita was still smiling. “It belongs to my husband’s sister-in-law’s cousin’s father. They’ll give you their best room, I promise. Wait here while I go inside.”

He could see Cate trying to process exactly what “best room” translated to in a place like this. If the stubborn set of her jaw was anything to go by, she intended to make the best of it…which left him trying to figure out exactly what her best might be. As long as he was wondering, could he hope for cooperative? Maybe even quiet?

Benita returned a moment later with a key and wiggled into the driver’s seat again. There was little room in the courtyard, but she maneuvered the car to the rear edge before stopping again and holding out the key. “Mario will bring dinner and Cate’s suitcase when he gets off. Tio Pablo can provide decent beer and a fine bottle of tequila if you feel the need. When this is all done, you’ll have to come for dinner again, right?”

“Right.” Justin took the key, then unfolded himself from the seat. How had it been easier getting in than getting out? When he was standing straight, he shrugged to ease the tension in his shoulders while watching Cate climb out. She made it look so much more graceful: one sandaled foot braced on the graveled drive, all the creamy skin of her leg, muscles flexing as she ducked her head and rose out of the car like a princess out of a battered rust-flecked pumpkin of a carriage.

She ducked to say goodbye to Rafael, then Benita. “Thank you for helping us.”

“You’re welcome.” Then, with a grin, Benita added, “Good luck dealing with…” Her gaze shifted between them.

In unison he and Cate replied, “I’ll need it.”

Benita laughed as she shifted into gear and drove away.

The number on the key was faded, well-worn by years of sliding into and out of pockets and the lock. The corresponding room was ten feet down the courtyard, so he headed that way.

“Do you know I once did a medical mission on a remote, poverty-stricken reservation out west, and the place was cleaner and better kept than this?” she remarked as they sidestepped a trash bag that had been torn open on the scraggly grass, its contents scattered.

“No whining, Dr. Do-Good.” He had to wiggle the key to get it into the lock, but it turned without too much effort and the door swung open. Surprised by the interior, he forgot to step inside. Cate got halfway around him before she stopped, too. After a moment, she went in, and after another moment, he followed her.

“Wow. I never would have thought…”

The room wasn’t fancy by any means. It was so small the two beds were twins, with barely enough room to pass between them. Instead of cheap-motel bedspreads, they were made up with quilts, and a spotless vinyl floor took the place of cheap-motel carpet. The bathroom was a real bathroom—no sink and mirror against one wall, with a commode and shower in a tiny room—and it was spotless, too. The lone painting on the wall above the beds was an original of good quality, the lamps were bright enough to actually see, and the air-conditioning unit in the window lowered the temperature with no more than a quiet hum.

Justin made sure the door was locked, then set his backpack on the nearest bed. “It must be a family room, one they normally don’t rent out.”

The only response from Cate was the closing of the bathroom door. Grinning, he folded back the quilt on his bed, kicked off his shoes and stretched out on soft, faded sheets and comfortable pillows. Remembering the cell he’d taken from her and stuck in his pocket, he pulled it out, turned it to silent mode, then put it away again. If he didn’t keep it close, the first time he dozed off she’d try to reclaim it and make those damn phone calls she’d been talking about.

Phone calls that should be made? She was right: they weren’t qualified to deal with kidnappers. But he knew where the data the Wallace brothers wanted was, and he couldn’t get that picture their thug had sent him out of his head. He didn’t want to wind up that way, didn’t want Trent or Susanna or even Cate to wind up that way.

He also knew more about the brothers than Cate did. Too bad he hadn’t known more before he’d recommended Susanna’s project to them for funding.

Cate came out of the bathroom, still wearing the same clothes, the same braid, but somehow looking fresh, as if she were just starting her day. Must be one of the benefits of being an E.R. doctor: deal with guts and blood and gore, and revive on breaks.

She’d removed the floppy hat—definitely a plus— and buttoned her shirt. That should be a plus, but he could see through the damn thing, and somehow having that thin, gauzy fabric just barely covering the bright colors of her bikini bra and the creamy gold of her middle seemed more interesting than safe.

She sat down on the other bed, facing him. “So.” The word sounded momentous for one short syllable. “What’s going on?”

There was a time to BS and a time to be honest. This, it appeared, was the time for honesty. Too bad. He enjoyed BS-ing her so much more.

He rolled into a sitting position, stuffed the pillows where bed met walls and leaned against them so he was facing her. “Okay. Do you know who Joseph and Lucas Wallace are?”

Her nose wrinkled, drawing her mouth into a dissatisfied set, too. “Trent used to call them Mississippi’s version of the two of you. Rich, irresponsible, reckless, immature—”

“You could have stopped after ‘you,’” he grumbled. “I got the picture. True enough. Except that the brothers inherited a chain of hotels right after college and found out they have an ability to make more money than they ever imagined. They own an interest in every top hotel or resort in the entire southern hemisphere, or so it seems.”

“Trust-fund babies creating trust funds for their own babies. Who would have thought.”

Her surprise honed the edge of his irritation. “You know, Trent and I don’t jet around all the time figuring ways to deplete our trust funds even faster. We do stuff, too.”

Cate took a moment to mimic him, pushing back the quilt, sliding off her shoes, banking pillows behind her for comfort. She might wish for that warm beer or fine tequila of Tio Pablo’s, but she was truly comfortable for the first time since dawn. “What does Trent do besides help out at La Casa?”

“‘Help out’? Is that all you think it is? He deals with all the fundraising. He brings in new money, and he updates the regular donors on what their donations are doing and keeps them happy enough to continue sending money. He does all the PR, arranges events for the girls and coordinates all the volunteers from the U.S. It’s a full-time job for which he receives a room to sleep in and free meals, as long as he does some of the cooking or the cleaning.”

Her first thought was to argue. That sounded like a do-gooder, which Trent certainly was not. Doing good was something he did for himself, not underprivileged kids in another country.

But he said he loved Susanna, and he said it with far more sincerity than he’d ever given Cate. People could change for love, could become better and kinder. She had to consider it was possible. Rather, she had to consider it might be permanent. She had to admit, every time she heard from him or Susanna, she expected it to be the time she heard that he’d gotten bored and said goodbye to Susanna, the school and the girls to return to his thrill-seeking, globe-trotting life. After all, he’d committed to her, and how long had it been before he’d left?

Could Susanna be different? Could the love he claimed for her be so much more substantive than the undying love he’d pledged to Cate? Could Susanna hold him when Cate couldn’t? And would Cate mind if she did?

“Okay,” she agreed. “Let’s say Trent has transformed into Saint Trent of La Casa para Nuestras Hijas.”

Justin’s jaw tightened at her supposition, but she didn’t let it stop her. His jaw had tightened, his brow had furrowed or his eyes had gone hard every time she’d ever seen him. It was part of the animosity that he usually managed to cover with sarcasm, faked good humor or mocking.

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