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RELAYED MESSAGE:

The SHEY GROUP is a private paramilitary organization headed by Logan Kincaid. These operatives take on high-risk, high-stakes missions in accord with U.S. government policy. All members are former CIA, FBI or military operatives with top-level security clearances and specialized skills. Members maintain close ties to the underground intelligence network and conduct high-level, behind-the-scenes operations for the government as well as private clients and corporations.

The U.S. government will disavow any connection to SHEY GROUP operations. Employ at your own risk.

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

It’s the most wonderful time of the year! And we have six breathtaking books this month that will make the season even brighter….

THE LANDRY BROTHERS are back! We can’t think of a better way to kick off our December lineup than with this long-anticipated new installment in Kelsey Roberts’s popular series about seven rascally brothers, born and bred in Montana. In Bedside Manner, chaos rips through the town of Jasper when Dr. Chance Landry finds himself framed for murder…and targeted for love! Check back this April for the next title, Chasing Secrets. Also this month, watch for Protector S.O.S. by Susan Kearney. This HEROES INC. story spotlights an elite operative and his ex-lover who maneuver stormy waters—and a smoldering attraction—as they race to neutralize a dangerous hostage situation.

The adrenaline keeps on pumping with Agent-in-Charge by Leigh Riker, a fast-paced mystery. You’ll be bewitched by this month’s ECLIPSE selection—Eden’s Shadow by veteran author Jenna Ryan. This tantalizing gothic unravels a shadowy mystery and casts a magical spell over an enamored duo. And the excitement doesn’t stop there! Jessica Andersen returns to the lineup with her riveting new medical thriller, Body Search, about two hot-blooded doctors who are stranded together in a windswept coastal town and work around the clock to combat a deadly outbreak.

Finally this month, watch for Secret Defender by Debbi Rawlins—a provocative woman-in-jeopardy tale featuring an iron-willed hero who will stop at nothing to protect a headstrong heiress…even kidnap her for her own good.

Best wishes for a joyous holiday season from all of us at Harlequin Intrigue.

Sincerely,

Denise O’Sullivan

Senior Editor, Harlequin Intrigue

Protector S.O.S.
Susan Kearney

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Susan Kearney used to set herself on fire four times a day; now she does something really hot—she writes romantic suspense. While she no longer performs her signature fire dive (she’s taken up figure skating), she never runs out of ideas for characters and plots. A business graduate from the University of Michigan, Susan writes full-time. She resides in a small town outside of Tampa, Florida, with her husband and children, and a spoiled Boston terrier. Visit her at www.SusanKearney.com.

Dear Reader,

My HEROES INC. miniseries has been so popular that Harlequin has let me write more of them. Travis and Sandy’s story in Protector S.O.S. was inspired by a genuine love of the sea. I have many fond memories of sailing during New Jersey summers, and while I have never encountered the kind of storm described in this book, I have a vivid imagination. Besides, pushing my characters to their limits, mentally, physically and emotionally is fun for me to write and, hopefully, will be a great read. I always enjoy hearing from my readers, and you can reach me through my Web site at www.SusanKearney.com.

Best,

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Travis Cantrel—Ex-Special Forces, currently employed by the Shey Group, Travis is accustomed to danger, but when he returns home to search for his kidnapped sister, his heart is in the most danger of all.

Sandy Vale—Travis’s ex-lover, she now runs a marina and delivers sailboats with best friend and partner Ellie Cantrel.

Ellie Cantrel—Abducted by strangers, she never gives up hope of rescue. And meanwhile she wonders if Alan Lavelle is a friend or a foe.

Logan Kincaid—The leader of the Shey Group. He never hesitates to support the men who work for him.

Martin Vanderpelt—A mysterious and eccentric millionaire who has a plan—one that can endanger the entire eastern seaboard of the United States.

Alan Lavelle—A man with his own agenda.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Prologue

“You’re late,” Sandy Vale’s eccentric millionaire client complained, his tone filled with annoyance, his wrinkled jowls sagging at his throat.

When Sandy and her first mate, Ellie Cantrel, delivered new sailboats to their buyers, most of them beamed from ear to ear. But not Martin Vanderpelt. He frowned, his lips pressed firmly together, as if he already knew that he would find something to complain about.

Sure that the cabin was shipshape, Sandy hopped off the deck, tied the bowline around the cleat on the dock, then straightened and tried to ignore Martin Vanderpelt’s scowl. “We ran into a little rough weather, sir. Nothing your boat couldn’t handle.”

Ellie positioned bumpers between the boat and the dock to protect the hull from scrapes, and Vanderpelt’s glance lingered over Ellie’s tanned legs. “For the money I paid, I expected your delivery to be on time.”

“Sorry you had to wait, but I think you’ll be pleased. She’s a beauty, Mr. Vanderpelt.” Sandy held out her hand in a friendly manner, pretending she didn’t notice the coldness in Vanderpelt’s expression. After a week at sea, she normally enjoyed landfall. But as clouds scudded over the sun and the air temperature dropped ten degrees, Vanderpelt ignored her handshake and climbed aboard the thirty-six-foot vessel, and Sandy wished she was back at sea.

She didn’t like the way Vanderpelt had looked at Ellie. Not that lots of men didn’t look at her friend. But something cold in his eyes warned her that he hadn’t made all his millions by being a nice guy.

Reminding herself that Vanderpelt wasn’t just any client and that she needed his goodwill, she bit back her sarcastic “So pleased to meet you, too.” She couldn’t afford to mouth off—not when he had bought a half dozen sailboats for his wealthy guests to race around the island. Despite the rumors about Vanderpelt’s rude manners, Sandy and Ellie were hoping for repeat business. However, while they might not be chosen to deliver Vanderpelt’s next boats, it would be worse if he complained about their service to the boat manufacturer who’d hired them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter One

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

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

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

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

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

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

Impatient for news, he called Sandy again just before his morning flight took off, and as soon as he landed at noon. He tried Ellie at home, at the marina and on her cell. No answer. Frantic, Travis rented a car and sped down the coast, cutting the two-hour drive to an hour and a half.

Normally he would have called the hospital, the police department, Ellie’s other friends. But Sandy’s warning made him wait. However, if Sandy and Ellie weren’t at the Bayside Marina when he arrived, he would ask Kincaid and the Shey Group for help.

Travis slid to a stop in the gravel parking lot of Bayside Marina. The newly painted sign, the trimmed landscaping and the new roof made the old place look more upscale. Ellie had told him about the retail store, but he hadn’t expected the parking lot to be so crowded. But it was Saturday afternoon, and tourists and locals alike would want to enjoy the summer sunshine.

Travis bypassed the impressive new store and headed for the marina’s office. Striding along the dock, he automatically took in the changes. Sandy and Ellie had added two new fuel pumps and several rows of slips. They’d purchased a new forklift, and one of the operators was in the process of moving a boat from dry storage to the water.

On a busy Saturday, Ellie was usually tuning up one of the boat engines. He and his sister shared an aptitude for all things mechanical, and he kept searching for her to pop up from an engine compartment, a smudge of grease on her cheek. But when he didn’t see Ellie anywhere, disappointment and worry slashed him. She wasn’t in the bait house, or directing traffic at the ramp, or at the tool shed.

Travis headed directly to the office. The old mahogany door sported new gold-leaf lettering that read Vale & Cantrel Enterprises, with operating hours posted right next to a plastic sign that said Closed. Travis knocked anyway. The girls often used the Closed sign instead of Do Not Disturb, which everyone ignored. Besides, he could see Sandy through the glass, her head bent as she perused assorted paperwork.

Sandy’s waist-length tresses were gone. Now, bright yellow sunglasses, worn above her forehead, held her shoulder-length blond locks out of her eyes, giving him a clear view of her face. Sandy wasn’t model pretty. Her mouth was a bit too full and her nose had a cute little bump where she’d broken it windsailing. Her flawless skin was sun-kissed and far too tan. Nevertheless, Sandy was the only woman he’d ever met who sizzled. She had this unexplainable electric energy to her that never failed to engage his senses—at full throttle. Long ago, the passion between them had been charged, but their arguments had been long, horrendous and ugly. Once, she’d been like a fancy-free flame that attracted him with her heat and brightness, but when he’d gotten too close, she hadn’t just scorched him, she’d burned him to the bone.

Nothing short of fear for Ellie could have brought him back. Bracing for bad news, stiffening his defenses against Sandy’s magnificent eyes—they changed color like the sea, from sparkling turquoise when she was happy, to kelp-green when her temper raged, he strode into the office.

A sixth sense must have told her he was at the door, because he’d no more than turned the knob before she’d shot out of her seat behind the desk and rushed to him, flung her arms around his neck and planted a kiss on his mouth. A kiss that sent his senses spinning. A kiss that made the intervening years disappear with magic. A kiss that overloaded his pleasure centers and stole his breath.

Whoa. After eight years, this was not the reunion he’d imagined. No how. No way. Sandy might be one laid-back woman, but she could bear a grudge for a long time. After their last fight, he expected her to hold his words against him forever.

She tasted of salt and sea air and a citrus fragrance that reminded him of spiced lemons. And she fit against him just the way he remembered. Automatically, he raised his arms around her. Their tongues tangled, and in another moment she was going to find out that she still made all the blood in his brain flow south. But she pulled back, her eyes a tempestuous green, and placed a finger over his lips.

What the hell? She hadn’t spoken to him in years, then left a worrisome message on his voice mail, and now she didn’t want him to speak. Every brain cell cried out for him to ask about Ellie, but, as if reading his mind, Sandy shook her head.

“You still good with engines, Travis?”

Confused, his eyes narrowed. Sandy didn’t play games. She hadn’t placed a worried-crazy message on his voice mail without good reason. And from the tension in her shoulders to the tight grip of her hand on his arm, he knew something was wrong.

“You called me—”

“To fix a motor. Didn’t you say you needed a job?” Her eyes begged him to play along.

Job? They hadn’t even spoken. What the hell was going on here?

He shrugged to release the tension between his shoulder blades. “Yeah. I’m at loose ends right now. I could use some work, but I didn’t bring my tools.”

Relief warmed the chill from her eyes. She grabbed a sweater from a hook by the door. “Tools I can lend you. Can you start today?”

“Do I get time and a half?”

“That depends how good you are.”

“You know how good I am,” he bantered playfully, but if she didn’t explain soon, his teeth might crack from the way he was gnashing them. Accustomed to cloak-and-dagger stuff at work, Travis hadn’t expected to return home to a mystery.

Years ago, when he’d been responsible for Ellie, he’d been in a relationship with Sandy. Many of their arguments had been over Ellie. Sandy had considered him too restrictive and over-the-top protective. She’d once told him that if he could have, he’d never have let Ellie out of the house, never mind on a date. But Ellie had enjoyed pushing him to the wall, dating bikers, surfers and all-around misfits. At first he’d been pleased when Sandy had taken Ellie under her wing, but then he’d realized Sandy had been encouraging his sister’s rebelliousness. After numerous heated arguments, he and Sandy had split up—but the girls had become fast friends.

Travis had been none too pleased when Ellie and Sandy joined forces in business. He didn’t like the idea of his sister gallivanting all over the ocean with only one other woman. They were vulnerable, and obviously something bad had happened or Sandy wouldn’t have called him.

“Come on.” Sandy led him through the office door onto the dock. “I’m in critical need of a top-notch mechanic.”

“What—”

“Give me a second.” She squeezed his hand so tight, the bones creaked. “The boat’s over here. The motor’s on the fritz.”

“You want to clarify?”

Sandy tugged the sunglasses from her forehead down over her eyes. “She’s overheating when kept below two knots. The owner has out-of-town guests and is impatient to take her out tomorrow.” Travis didn’t give a damn. He wanted to know about Ellie. But he held his tongue, grabbed a toolbox from the shed and acted as if he intended to fix the motor as Sandy led him to a day-sailer with an outboard on its transom.

He half expected Sandy to tell him that Ellie had hooked up with some guy with a record. Or some loner who lived on a houseboat, collected disability checks and drank away his benefits. Ellie had always had a soft spot for those who were down and out. And she never thought of the danger she might be placing herself in. Every time Travis had tried to talk with her, she’d told him off.

So he’d taught her to fight dirty. But she’d refused to learn to shoot a weapon or keep one aboard. Sandy hadn’t been any more reasonable. Both of them seemed to believe that they were impervious to trouble. But Travis had always known that two women alone at sea were targets. It was amazing they’d gotten along just fine on their own—although he had no doubts that Ellie filtered what she told him about her adventures. There was no telling how many close calls they’d had, how many scrapes they’d been in that he didn’t know about.

Since the two women listened to nothing he said, perhaps his ignorance was bliss. It had certainly been less stressful—until now.

Travis stepped aboard and headed for the engine. He checked the fuel first. The tank was full. He yanked the power cord once and wasn’t all that surprised when the motor fired right up. There was no extra smoke, no sign of the overheating she’d mentioned. In fact, the only thing close to overheating was his temper.

Travis didn’t want to tell Sandy, “I told you so.” He wanted to know that his sister was safe, that Sandy had brought him here for no reason other than to irritate him. But the knot in his gut told him otherwise. So did the tension in Sandy’s jaw, where a muscle ticked. He’d never seen her wound so tight.

With her laid-back attitude, Sandy usually looked at life through mellow-toned glasses. But her live-and-let-live philosophy seemed to apply to everyone but Travis. According to Sandy, years ago, he could do nothing right. He knew nothing about women, nothing about teenage girls and nothing about parenting.

What made their fights so tempestuous was that Sandy had been partially right. But what twenty-two-year-old dude was ready to take on raising a rebellious teenage sister and have a serious relationship? Travis had done his best. And he couldn’t have screwed up too badly with Ellie because she had turned out just fine. She didn’t do drugs. She didn’t drink too much. And she had good friends. If she went too easily from one man to the next, Travis didn’t see what he could do about it. Ellie was a grown woman, but obviously she’d tangled with something bad enough for Sandy to break her silent treatment of Travis and call him.

He wanted an explanation, but Sandy left him to man the tiller while she cast off the lines. Amid gulls squawking, and other boaters waving as they passed by, they cruised out of the protected harbor. Travis kept one eye on the temperature gauge and saw no sign of a malfunction.

Sandy returned to the cockpit and sat next to him, crossing her long, tanned legs. “Sorry for the dramatics. I’m pretty sure that my office and phones are bugged.”

Travis frowned, pulled the tiller to his body and motored around a channel marker. “Where’s Ellie?”

“Our last client kidnapped her.”

“What?” Travis didn’t hold back several four-letter words. His temper, already on a short fuse, lit up. It worried him that Sandy didn’t even bother to shout back—a sure sign of serious trouble.

“At least pretend to fiddle with the engine, and I’ll tell you everything.” While he removed the engine’s hood, Sandy’s eyes brimmed with tears and she wiped them off her cheeks. He’d never seen her cry, and his gut churned with fear. “We’d been paid by Danzler to deliver a boat to a private island off Nova Scotia owned by a Martin Vanderpelt. When we got there, Vanderpelt examined the boat, discovered it wasn’t the exact one he’d ordered and went ballistic.”

“I don’t understand.”

“His boat had been struck by lightning. Danzler had a duplicate hull on hand and filled his order. But Vanderpelt insisted we return for the original damaged hull and made us take his associate, Alan Lavelle, with us.”

“You took on a passenger?”

“He pulled a gun on us.”

“Go on.” Travis forced himself to appear outwardly calm, but inside he tensed up with fear for Ellie. Taking out a wrench from the toolbox, he pretended to use it, his concerns for Ellie escalating with every word Sandy spoke. The defeat lacing her words scared him as much as her story.

“So the three of us sailed back to Danzler Marine only to learn Vanderpelt’s original boat had been stolen. We decided to return home to wait for Danzler, the insurance company and the police to find the boat, or decide what to do next. That’s when Alan grabbed Ellie and forced her into a motorboat that came alongside us. He told me that when I found Vanderpelt’s boat and brought it to the island, he’d release Ellie.”

“Why didn’t you call the cops?”

“He said I’d be watched. And that if I went to the authorities, Ellie would suffer consequences.” Sandy met his eyes, her own still teary. “I called you from a pay phone, but was afraid to answer your calls. They are watching me. I don’t know who or where or how, but I’ve heard clicks on my phone, and there are people hanging around the marina that I’ve never seen before.”

Travis forced himself into professional mode. He couldn’t allow his fears to overwhelm him if he was going to help his sister. “When did they take Ellie?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“What kind of boat was it?”

“A Grady-White with double Mercury engines. The first five numbers of the serial are 47583.”

“You did good.” He tossed the wrench back into the toolbox. “What can you tell me about Alan Lavelle?”

“Not much. He was medium height, medium build. Nondescript. He didn’t talk much, and said nothing about himself or Vanderpelt. He didn’t seem to know boats, but the closer we got to land, the edgier he became.”

“You think he took Ellie back to Vanderpelt’s island?”

“I don’t know.” Sandy’s voice cracked. “He could have taken her anywhere.”

“What did Danzler Marine say about the missing boat?”

“They filed a police report and are collecting a claim from their insurance company.” She shrugged. “They’ll probably be happier if the boat’s never found. Lightning weakened the hull, and that’s not easy to fix.”

He saw regret in her eyes, and something more. “What else?”

“Alan called me this morning. He told me I had to deliver the boat alone. But I protested, telling him I couldn’t handle it by myself and needed a mechanic. So he okayed one crew member.”

“That was good thinking.” Sandy had done remarkably well under trying circumstances. This kind of pressure often caused people to fall apart, and they failed to think clearly. He made his voice warm, despite the chill in his heart. “I’m glad you called me.”

“I didn’t have much choice.” She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders as if bracing for a blow. He didn’t understand why. They might have fought like dogs over a scrap of meat, but they’d never come to blows. Although during some of their past fights, Sandy had made him angry enough to lose his temper, Travis had never lashed out with violence. But she was steeling herself as if she expected him to go postal.

“What?” he asked.

“Alan said if we didn’t bring him the boat within ten days, he’d…” She swallowed hard.

“He’d what?”

“He’d kill Ellie.”

ELLIE WAS ALTERNATELY terrified, angry and restless. When Alan had forced her from the sailboat, she’d been shaking so hard, she’d barely understood that she was being kidnapped, never mind comprehended all the ramifications.

Right now, pessimism had her hugging her knees and wondering how anyone would find her. The ride in the Grady-White had been short. Once they’d raced out of sight of Sandy, they’d switched to a sturdy cabin cruiser, and Alan had locked Ellie in the forward cabin. She had a bunk, a head and a shower. The portholes didn’t open. He’d locked the hatch from outside. Not even Houdini could have escaped. And even if she smashed open the door—a feat that would take considerable force—she would have to face two armed men, Alan and his cohort.

Twice a day, Alan brought her food. The rest of the time, she was alone in the cabin with her thoughts. She tried, and failed, not to think about Alan’s threat to kill her. She tried not to think about how easily they could shoot her, toss her body overboard, and no one would ever know what had happened to her.

Instead, she attempted to think of a reason for her predicament. Why did Vanderpelt want that original boat so much? A boat with a damaged hull? Nothing made sense. Either he was insane or she was missing too many facts. She hadn’t a clue why he’d gone to such extremes to retrieve a damaged sailboat.

She still couldn’t believe their bad luck that Vanderpelt’s boat had been stolen. And she had no idea how Sandy would find it. Yet, she had every confidence in her best friend and partner. For Ellie’s sake, Sandy would overcome her disinclination to contact Travis. And the Shey Group, the powerful and secret organization of which her brother was a vital part, would hunt down Vanderpelt and rescue her. At least, that’s what Ellie told herself in her optimistic moments.

Ellie slept as much as she could over the next four days. Still, with no one to talk to and nothing to read, the time passed slowly. Contradictorily, she dreaded the end of the voyage.

But late on the fourth day of her captivity, Alan unlocked her cabin door. He tossed a black hood to her. “Put that on.”

His face was cold, his dark eyes, almost dead, like a zombie in those creepy horror movies. And his voice, so lacking in intonation, sent icy stabs of pain into her chest.

There was no point in fighting him. Not when just beyond him, in the main cabin, the other man waited. Mouth dry with fear, Ellie told herself they hadn’t brought her all this way to shoot her. With trembling fingers, she placed the hood over her head.

“Stand up and turn around.”

She forced her rubbery knees to support her. Willed herself not to fight, despite the hood that not only blinded but suffocated.

“Cross your wrists behind your back.”

Oh…God. She hesitated, and Alan roughly grabbed her hands and bound her wrists with tough, rigid plastic. As if all the moisture had been sucked out of her mouth, she couldn’t swallow. “What—”

“Silence.” Alan slapped her cheek and she stumbled, her shoulder slamming into the bulkhead.

Her ears ringing, her nose clogging, her eyes filling with tears, Ellie reeled from the stinging blow to her cheek. But the pain was nothing compared to the terror bleeding through her veins. Unwilling to provoke her captor again, Ellie remained silent. Although Travis had taught her to fight, there was no point in revealing her skills and giving up the advantage of surprise until she stood a real chance of escape.

The deck squeaked, giving her warning that Alan approached again, and despite herself, she cringed. He didn’t strike her, but his hand roughly clasped her upper arm and jerked her to her feet. Then shoved her through the main cabin and outside. She walked a gangplank to a floating dock that rose and fell with the wave action.

Listening carefully for clues as to her whereabouts, she heard seagulls’ caws and the whipping wind rustling leaves. There were no sounds of halyards clanging against masts, or the creak of boats at anchorage. Wherever they’d taken her, it wasn’t a marina. And since they led her about openly with the hood on her head, she could only conclude they weren’t worried about someone spotting her and reporting her predicament to the authorities.

Was she back on Vanderpelt’s island?

The time spent at sea was about right to have made the return. But she had no way of knowing if they’d come due north, south or east or any combination between. Tilting her head downward, she spied slivers of green grass and gravel by her feet. And what little air passed through her hood smelled of the sea.

Ellie had no idea how long they walked in silence, but she counted her steps. Two thousand and ten. Alan jerked her to a stop, and she heard the clink of a key inserting into, then turning, a lock. Alan spun her around, removed the plastic from her wrists, then shoved her forward.

Ellie barely got her hands in front of her in time to break her fall onto what felt like a mattress. The door slammed behind her and the lock slid home. Yanking the hood from her head, she blinked in the dim, gray light, finding herself in a new prison. The walls were stones set in cement, the tiny, high windows revealed only sky. The door was solid metal. Inside her four walls, she had a mattress on the floor, a toilet and sink in the far corner. No shower. No light. No tools.

On hands and knees Ellie examined the walls, but the solid stone gave her no hope of escape. She stood on the toilet, but still could see nothing but sky outside. And the sink’s plumbing fittings were solid, nothing she could loosen with just her bare hands. Ellie wanted to lie on the bed and cry herself to sleep. She didn’t. Instead, she lifted the mattress until it rested flush with one wall. The floor beneath the mattress was stone, like the walls. She couldn’t dig her way out.

Now what?

She needed to think. And nothing got the blood pumping and the mind working like a little exercise. Ellie warmed up with slow stretches, then ran in place until her breath came in gasps. After slowly walking in place to cool down her heart rate a little, she did push-ups. Isometrics. And then a final series of stretches.

And didn’t feel one damn bit better. She was still a prisoner without any hope of escape.

Ellie drank cold water from the sink, then kicked the mattress back onto the floor. She was about to lie down when the voices of two men drifted to her. Hurrying to the wall, she pressed her ear against the stone.

A man spoke gruffly. “You don’t look happy.”

“I’ve never killed a woman,” another man said, his tone somber.

“Hey, man. It’s just like running your blade through a tough piece of steak.”

The peace Ellie had won for herself through her exercise disintegrated. Stumbling away from the wall, she’d barely flopped onto the mattress before the door opened and one of the men shoved a bowl of food in her direction. When she didn’t get up fast enough to take it, he dropped the bowl. The ceramic dish broke, and her soup splashed on the floor, walls and mattress.

Chuckling, he slammed and relocked the door.

Ellie hadn’t been hungry. But at the sight of the spilled soup, she burst into tears.

“Come get me, Sandy,” she sobbed, lying on her side, her knees pulled to her chest. “Travis, please find me. Soon.”

Chapter Two

Sandy waited for Travis to shout at her. To tell her how irresponsible she’d been. That Ellie’s life was in danger because she’d led his little sister into a dangerous situation. She braced for him to yell at her for refusing to keep weapons on board, for accepting a commission from a stranger. But without saying one word, Travis flipped open his cell phone.

Arrogant as ever, Travis hadn’t listened to her warning that if they contacted the authorities, Ellie would be killed. Sandy didn’t wait for him to press the send button, she grabbed for the phone. “Don’t!”

Travis pulled the phone away. He’d always had the most amazing reflexes, but she’d forgotten exactly how fast he could move. She’d also forgotten how he could drill her with one of his I-know-better-than-you-do looks that always made her furious. Anger at him chased back some of her fear. Until she looked, really looked, at Travis’s face, and realized he was more dangerous now.

He’d changed during the last eight years. The gaunt lines of youth had been replaced by the solid maturity of a man. If possible, he’d grown more handsome, more cocky. His shoulders had broadened, his chest had thickened with powerful muscles that tapered to a flat stomach. But his face, with its bold nose and square jaw, remained compelling. His dark hair that gleamed in the sunlight was still thick, but cut short. She didn’t understand how his eyes, the exact same smoky gray as Ellie’s, could convey such harsh disapproval with just a glance. “My phone call will bounce through four continents and five satellites. The message is encrypted with a code not even the Pentagon can break. You needn’t fear anyone will listen in.”

The Travis she’d known wouldn’t have explained at all, but this Travis gave her the opportunity to offer an opinion. “Yeah, but when they can’t break your code, do you suppose they’ll think you’re one of the authorities they told me not to contact?”

Sandy didn’t know why she bothered to argue. Travis never listened to her. Now that he was thirty, and undoubtedly more set in his ways, she was probably wasting her breath. The hard look on his face, the grim set of his mouth, warned her to choose her words carefully. For Ellie’s sake, she had to work with him. If she’d had any other choice, she’d never have called Travis. But with Ellie’s life on the line, she’d do anything to help her—even put up with her brother again. While Sandy didn’t know exactly what Travis did for a living, she knew it was high-tech, dangerous and clandestine work for a secret organization that worked with the U.S. government.

Sandy had expected Travis to come charging in to save Ellie. She’d known he’d be full of himself, but she needed his expertise. So when, after considering her words, he pressed the off button and said, “Good point,” her jaw dropped.

The Travis she’d known would never have admitted that she had a good idea, never mind let her suggestion change his mind. Perhaps along with his body’s maturing, his mind had grown wiser. Or perhaps his fear for Ellie was making him consider other options. Whatever accounted for the change in him, she hoped he’d learned to control the temper that fueled him.

If Travis’s temper had been a motor, it would have run on high octane. If his temper had been a boat, it would have been a sleek racer, raring to go and easily tipped. And if his temper had been a storm, it would have been a nor’easter—powerful, raging and disastrous.

Years ago, Sandy had decided she didn’t want to drown in one of his storms. And yet, she’d always been drawn to the passion that drove him. There was a turbulence to Travis that made him the most exciting man she’d ever known, but that attraction came with a cost—a price so high, that being around him was dangerous to her well-being.

After the most passionate of flings, Sandy had concluded she couldn’t live in the chaos that always surrounded Travis. Their breakup had been painful, but necessary. She’d cut her losses and gone on. And as a means of self-protection, she’d avoided Travis during his infrequent trips to visit Ellie. For her own sanity, she didn’t want to risk falling for him again. Incredible passion wasn’t worth the accompanying heartache.

“We need help. I’ll wait until I can use a land line and a pay phone.”

She couldn’t believe her ears. Travis, the original Mr. Go-It-Alone, had become a team player. Stunned by his transformation, Sandy realized that the man she was sitting beside must have gone through more than she’d imagined to have changed so much. Ellie had hinted that Travis’s stint in the Special Forces had taken a toll, but Sandy hadn’t wanted to discuss him—not when the subject was so raw and painful. So Ellie had honored her wishes and rarely mentioned his name.

She peered at Travis over her sunglasses. “I’m all for getting help, but if there’s any chance of a leak…”

His eyes snapped with the old temper, but he kept it caged. “We need help with Vanderpelt. The Shey Group, the people I work with, will get me Vanderpelt’s history—everything from where he was born to where he keeps his money. I need to know who Vanderpelt trusts. Where he’s from. What other property he owns. Everything about his business, to make the right decisions.”

“You have access to that kind of information?”

He nodded. “We also need blueprints of the island. Satellite photos might tell us if Ellie is there. We may need an assault team to land. Or a secret approach might be better, depending on the number of men and defensive positions. I need expert military analysis. We don’t have the time, expertise or equipment to do this all alone.”

Travis sounded as if he knew what he needed, as if he was an expert. And a stranger. Instead of responding emotionally, he’d laid out a plan in a logical progression that had clued her into the fact that the organization he worked for must have extraordinary resources. “Okay. But Vanderpelt expects you and me to deliver his boat. We’ve got to find it, repair it, then sail it to his island.”

“The Shey Group can help us there, too.”

Travis spoke as if he had no doubt his organization would help them. She didn’t question his judgment, because one thing hadn’t changed—Travis had always loved his sister. And Sandy had no doubt he would do whatever it took to rescue her. Making the decision to call Travis had been difficult. She’d worried that his hot-headed temper would hurt her chance of rescuing Ellie, but now she was very glad to have Travis at her side.

Sandy knew that boats often disappeared and were never seen again. It was too easy for a professional thief to steal a boat in the middle of the night, change the serial numbers and sail off to another country to sell it. The Coast Guard couldn’t cover every cove and harbor along the U.S. border. And marinas simply operated on too small a profit margin to employ night watchmen. Usually, the insurance company paid off the claim and the owner purchased a new boat. Finding Vanderpelt’s missing vessel was not going to be easy.

“How can the Shey Group help with the boat?”

“We have contacts in the Coast Guard, the navy and the police. If Vanderpelt’s boat shows up on any official radar, we’ll know about it.”

Travis’s certainty gave her a measure of relief. “You’re assuming Alan and his associate didn’t sink her, or change the serial number.”

“I’m not assuming anything. Can you put out word to the local sailors, and at the marina, that we need to find that boat? Also, if we can get a line on the Grady-White, it might give us a clue as to who we’re dealing with.”

She nodded. “The grapevine is as good as ever.” Fishermen, local guides and pleasure boaters were a tight community. When one of their own needed help, everyone pitched in.

Travis turned the boat around, heading back to the marina. “I’ll order us some jamming equipment. We have to be able to communicate without fear of someone listening.”

Travis sounded sure of his technical expertise, but she still feared his equipment could give away their plans. “But, if we jam the signal, won’t they become suspicious?”

“Not necessarily. Let me deal with it.”

Were they actually working together? It was difficult to believe that she and Travis had had a conversation without ending up in bed or shouting at one another. This had to be a first. And she hoped it would continue.

After they returned to the marina, Sandy typed up a description of Vanderpelt’s boat. She offered a reward for any information, then used the copy machine to make flyers. Her assistant manager would post some at the marina. But she took the majority of the flyers, and a stapler, with her. She and Travis drove up and down the coast, stopping in marinas, bait shops and boat dealers to put them up and talk to people about the missing boat. At this time of year, the waterways were crowded with boaters on summer vacation. Everyone promised to keep their eyes peeled during their journeys.

While Sandy worked, Travis stopped at local bars. He used the pay phones repeatedly, never staying on the line for more than thirty seconds. Then they’d both return to her vehicle and head to the next spot.

Travis checked the sideview mirror for what must have been the hundredth time. “I wish I could pick up a tail.”

“Why?” She was driving since Travis was barhopping. In case anyone was watching, he’d ordered a beer every place he’d stopped. But he probably hadn’t drunk much, because he still appeared clearheaded. Even in their younger days, Travis might have been a hell-raiser, but he hadn’t been much of a drinker. He liked fast cars and faster boats, but he always said high speeds and drinking didn’t mix.

“A tail might give us some clues. Vanderpelt is like chasing a ghost.”

She didn’t like the frustration in Travis’s tone, or the discouragement in the set of his shoulders. “What do you mean, he’s a ghost?”

“Vanderpelt is not a U.S. or Canadian citizen. His name is probably an alias. A corporation owns the island, but it’s a subsidiary of a Swiss company. Normally, the Swiss are not into sharing their financial information with us. But since 9/11, and thanks to a favor Logan Kincaid did for their embassy people in Saudi Arabia, they told us the Swiss company is part of a Libyan conglomerate, headquartered in Tripoli.”

“So you don’t know who he is or where he’s from?”

“Yeah.”

“If his business is that extensive, surely someone must—”

“His cover is deep. We are not dealing with a common criminal. With his connections and wealth, he’s likely tied to any one of a dozen criminal organizations, the Russian Mafia, the Colombian cartels, the Chinese, the Bulgarians—take your pick.”

“So rescuing Ellie is going to be—”

“We’ll get her. These people won’t kill her as long as she’s of use to them. We have ten days, and we’re going to make use of every hour, every second.”

The determination in his tone bucked up her flagging hopes. Travis knew better than Sandy what they were up against. If he thought they could find and rescue Ellie, then it had to be possible. And meanwhile, Sandy would do her best to put her survivor’s guilt away. She’d never understood why Alan had taken Ellie as hostage and not her, except that she couldn’t get out of her mind the way Vanderpelt had leered at the sight of Ellie’s legs. Sandy said nothing to Travis about that look. He had enough worries, and he was already doing everything he could think of to find Ellie. But she also felt guilty that she hadn’t stepped forward and suggested Alan take her in place of Ellie. Taking the Vanderpelt commission had been Sandy’s idea. She was the older partner, and it should have been her taken hostage. But Alan had grabbed Ellie without warning, and Sandy had been so stunned, she simply hadn’t thought fast enough to do more than protest.

Driving up and down the coast stapling flyers to telephone poles didn’t seem like enough. Sandy wanted to do more. She wanted some hint that Ellie was still alive. The minutes seemed to tick by like months, and the stress kept her stomach churning.

If she didn’t known Travis better, she might have thought he had his emotions under total control. But every once in a while, their gazes crossed and she glimpsed desperation and bleak despair, along with fierce determination. They ate a late dinner of clam chowder and burgers. She barely tasted her food, but her body needed the fuel.

When they exited the restaurant, it was dark. Most day boaters would have come in and trailered their boats home hours ago. Those spending the night on the water would be anchored in a safe harbor, or tucked into a slip for the night. For her part, Sandy could do nothing more. But Travis had a restless energy that told her he wasn’t ready to quit.

She was about to suggest heading back to her marina when Travis’s cell phone beeped. He checked the caller ID. “I need to use the pay phone.”

For the first time that day, she accompanied him while he made a call. She was surprised how long it took to go through, but then, he’d dialed an international number. She was praying Ellie had escaped, and someone was calling Travis to let them know his sister was okay. But she knew how unlikely that was. Despite her impatience, Sandy refrained from asking questions Travis couldn’t answer.

“Travis, here.” He spoke into the phone, his voice deep and confident.

Shifting from one foot to the other, she fidgeted and looked for clues on Travis’s face whether the news was good or bad. His eyes narrowed, but he nodded as he listened, and she had the impression some progress had been made.

“Thanks. We can be there in an hour.”

“Where?”

“Pine Key. Some windsailers found the Grady-White on a sand bar. She washed in with the tide. We’re meeting the Coast Guard and a forensic team there.”

Forensic team? Her knees buckled and Sandy clutched Travis’s arm. “Oh, God. Are there bodies?”

TRAVIS CURSED HIMSELF as he stared down at Sandy’s pale face and quivering lower lip. “No bodies. The forensic team will comb the boat for clues to who stole the boat then sank her.”

“Ellie?” Sandy still clutched him, but her death grip had lightened somewhat.

“We don’t know where she is.” Right now that was good news to Sandy, who’d believed that Ellie’s body might have been on the sunken boat. Travis had no excuse for scaring her. His mind had been on Kincaid’s news, and he’d stupidly frightened Sandy when he knew better. She’d been on edge all day. Exhaustion darkened her eyes and guilt stabbed him. She was worried out of her mind, and his carelessness could have sent her over the edge into hysteria. “I’m sorry for scaring you.”

Travis took Sandy into his arms, and it seemed the most natural move in the world. She needed solid reassurance. He had to insure she wouldn’t go to pieces on him. However, as her fresh scent—a pine shampoo she favored—drifted into his system with the potency of bubbling wine, he ached to hold her for longer than was necessary. When the smooth texture of her cheek brushed his jaw, it took all his self-control not to slant his lips over hers. Like a powerful high tide rushing in during a full moon, his elemental reaction to her almost swept him under. He simply wasn’t prepared to want her—not with all the years that had passed. Not with all the bad memories. Not with Ellie out there somewhere, waiting for them to rescue her. Stunned how Sandy affected him, Travis refrained from dipping his head to sip a taste of her mouth.

Already her color was returning, and her lower lip ceased quivering. “I should slap you upside the head for scaring me like that.”

She didn’t mean it. The tough talk was to cover up her momentary panic. He squeezed her tightly, then released her and stepped back. “If hitting me will make you feel better, go ahead.”

“Naw. I’d only hurt my hand on that stubborn jaw of yours.” She straightened. “But if you ever do that to me again, I swear I’ll deck you.”

“And I’d deserve it.” Not that she could hurt him. His reflexes had been honed from years of hand-to-hand practice in a half dozen martial arts. Travis held out his hand for the keys. “You’re tired. Why don’t you let me drive?”

She’d always claimed that he drove too fast to be trusted with her vehicle, but she handed over the keys with only minor hesitation. The truth was, he did drive too fast. But he had great reflexes. And he knew this road as well as he knew the expressions on Sandy’s face. He’d spent his youth driving up and down this coast, and could anticipate every curve, every light, fork and town. And he damn well wouldn’t risk an accident when Ellie’s life hung in the balance.

He kept his speed down to five miles over the limit, but it seemed to take forever before they reached Pine Key. Once a one-lane, covered wooden bridge for horse-drawn carriages, the bridge had been renovated several times over the past century. Now, two lanes of concrete, asphalt and steel, the bridge was high enough for smaller boats to pass under. The island beyond, with its protected cove, was a favorite anchorage for pleasure craft. Tonight, a police helicopter, several Coast Guard patrol boats and a barge with a crane disrupted the darkness and peace of the isolated spot.

Travis crossed the short bridge and parked. As he and Sandy exited, the crane roared to life and pulled a boat from the water. Lights from the surrounding craft and automobiles focused on the hull, and four holes in the bottom could clearly be seen where water spouted out.

“Those holes are perfectly round,” Sandy muttered. “They sank her on purpose.”

After Travis identified himself to a cop, he and Sandy strode up a long gangplank and boarded the barge where the crane operator gently lowered the damaged boat to the deck. A team of gloved forensic people immediately went to work, crawling through the hull in search of evidence. Since the boat had been underwater for hours, the sea would likely have washed away microscopic clues. But maybe they’d luck out and find a jacket lodged in a seat back, keys or identification coated in plastic.

Several people on shore watched the proceedings, and Travis wondered if any were taking undue notice of his and Sandy’s actions. Several times today, he’d thought someone might be following them. But despite his vigilance, he’d never spotted the same stranger twice. Which meant either he was suffering from paranoia, or the people watching them were switching off, indicating a coordinated effort and professional action that required substantial economic means.

Travis and Sandy joined the investigators, who’d carefully set an anchor and line inside a clear plastic bag. In other bags, Travis spied several life jackets, a flare, a screwdriver and an extra portable gas tank. No one bothered dusting for prints. Each item would be examined for DNA evidence, but it was unlikely blood, hair, or even a fingernail would have survived the assault of the sea.

The lead investigator, a pudgy, pleasant-face man with piercing eyes, joined Travis and Sandy as if he’d been expecting them. “I’m chief investigator George Foster.”

“Travis Cantrel and Sandy Vale.” Travis, then Sandy, shook George’s hand.

The amenities done, George went right to business. “The plastic serial numbers on the hull were removed before they sank her, but we lucked out. Whoever scraped off the plastic was in a hurry. We’ve matched the serial numbers to the ones Sandy remembered, so we don’t have to wait on a match from the engine’s manufacturer. This is definitely your boat. Logan Kincaid said that you’d want to contact the owner yourself.” George slipped a piece of paper into Travis’s hand. “I’ll give you a thirty-minute head start before I turn that information over to the local cops.”

“Thanks.” Travis tried to control his impatience. While there was a chance the owner of this boat knew where Ellie was, they might have difficulty finding him. Still, they might drive to the boat owner’s house, luck out and find both him and Ellie there.

George Foster seemed to understand Travis’s immediate need to track down their next lead. “Go. Your boss, Kincaid, is a good man. My number’s on that paper, too. Anything else I can do, let me know.”

“Appreciate it.” Travis nodded. “If you find more on the boat—”

“You’ll be the first to know. Kincaid gave me your cell number. But don’t expect us to find much. She’s been submerged almost twenty-four hours.”

“I understand.” Travis took Sandy’s hand and they hurried toward the car. He slipped into the driver’s seat, fastened his seat belt and handed her the address. “Which way?”

“Let me check the map.” She reached into the glove compartment and turned on an interior light. Although every nerve in him screamed to drive fast, until he had a direction, he restrained his impatience.

Sandy had a great sense of direction. If he gave her a moment to orient herself, she’d find the fastest route. Gazing down at the map, her lips pursed in concentration and she focused intently. He recalled that, despite all her laid-back ways, she usually got the job done, working at her own pace.

Turning the marina into a profitable enterprise had taken both hard work and good business sense. It also fit Sandy’s need for freedom. A nonconformist, she liked to set her own hours and wear whatever fashion struck her. She rarely slept in past dawn. However, she needed her afternoon nap, and often turned cranky late at night.

He’d bet she hadn’t slept since Ellie’s disappearance and, with the hour close to midnight, she had to be ready to drop. Yet, she hadn’t complained once about her exhaustion. After she gave him the directions, he tuned the radio to a local easy-listening station. Elevator music, as she called it. Music that would put her to sleep.

“Why don’t you close your eyes,” he suggested.

“You’ll wake me when we arrive?”

“Yeah.”

Sandy bunched her sweater against the door to pillow her head, but despite his effort to drive smoothly, she couldn’t relax. After fifteen minutes, she opened her eyes and flicked the radio to hard rock. The sounds of Jimi Hendrix filled the car, bringing back memories of loud beach parties, roasting marshmallows over an open fire, skinny-dipping and lusty sex. The one good thing about all of Sandy and Travis’s fights had been when they made up, the sex was always fantastic.

“Travis?” Sandy’s voice was low and throaty.

“Yeah?”

“You think there’s any chance Ellie could be with the boat’s owner?”

“It’s possible—but unlikely. Before we knock on the door, I need to stop and use the pay phone. By now, I’m hoping we have some background intel on the boat’s owner, Kevin Baine.”

Travis would have preferred to use his cell phone. But headlights in his rearview mirror kept him antsy. The car never drew close enough for him to see a driver. And when he pulled over, the vehicle kept going. But Travis knew a good tail wouldn’t blow his cover by stopping. Instead, he’d hide up ahead, turn off his lights and—once they’d passed by—jump back on their tail.

He pulled off the road at a convenience store, dialed the pay phone and waited for the connection. “It’s Travis.”

Ryker Stevens, a friend of Travis, and Kincaid’s best intel specialist, took the call. “Kevin Baine. U.S. citizen. He’s an army veteran. Honorably discharged. He makes his living driving a truck. No arrests. No suspicious activity. He looks clean, but I’ll keep digging.”

“Thanks.”

Travis got back into the car. For three miles, the road behind him remained empty. They had passed no rest stops or crossroads. And then headlights appeared behind them again, as if someone had been waiting for them.

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