Relative Strangers Page 4

  Dayle.

  Her heart pounded with fear for her friend as she remem-bered hearing Dayle's scream. She hoped that if Dayle wasn't talking to the cops at this moment, she was at least nearby, perhaps on the other side of one of these doors.

  Footsteps overhead brought her head up, and she looked around for a weapon. As the steps stopped outside the door to her right, she yanked the fire extinguisher out of its bracket and pressed against the wall behind the door.

  Hinges squeaked and a broad back appeared. Meg swung the extinguisher with all of her strength and struck his shoulder hard. He grunted, dropping what he was carrying, and whirled toward her.

  Meg gaped at him. "You."

  Mr. Armani winced and rolled his shoulder to test it. "Ah, shit. That hurt."

  He looked different in jeans and a white T-shirt. No longer corporate, but not a hood. He lacked the greasiness of a thug—and the manners. At the moment, he seemed more concerned about his shoulder than punishing her for hitting him.

  Meg gauged the distance to the door he had just opened. He stood between it and her. She hefted the extinguisher, prepared to clock him again, and calculated the odds of making a break for it.

  He eyed her as she brandished the tank like a fat, red base-ball bat. Long curls of hair had escaped from her ponytail, and sweat plastered them to the sides of her neck. Her arms were tan and taut, her muscles flexing in anticipation of his next move. Even pale with fear, she was a striking woman.

  "Put it down," he said, trying to sound unimpressed even though he was acutely aware of the damage that metal canister could do to his head.

  "Like hell." She raised her chin a notch, daring him to make a move toward her.

  He kicked the door shut behind him and smiled.

  A rock of apprehension lodged in her throat, and she resisted the sudden desperate need to retreat. There was only a wall behind her anyway. If he planned to kill or rape her, backing away wouldn't help.

  "It'd be in your best interest to drop it," he said, taking a step toward her.

  Meg stood firm, but her knees began to tremble. "It'd be in your best interest not to come any closer."

  He took another step, tensed to fall back if she swung. His shoe bumped something on the floor and they both looked down at the small blue plastic bucket on its side. Several ice cubes were scattered across the floor.

  She stared at them in confusion. He'd been carrying a bucket of ice?

  He lunged.

  She swung the extinguisher up, aiming for his chin.

  He jerked back, and the tank whooshed past his face. Catching it on the back swing, he wrenched it away from her.

  She dropped against the wall and ducked her head, hands up and eyes closed. I'm dead.

  The makeshift weapon dangling from one hand, Ryan stared at the woman crouched at his feet, her body tensed for a blow. That surprised him. It also made him angry. He had never struck a woman and couldn't imagine a situation in which he would. But this woman didn't know that, didn't know him. And God, when he'd first seen her, laughing with her friend at the airport as if nothing had happened three months ago, hadn't he wanted to hurt her? Hadn't he wanted to make her pay for Beau's death? Because she hadn't. Obviously, it hadn't devastated her the way it had him.

  Clenching his jaw, he turned away.

  When she heard him move, Meg opened her eyes to see him putting the extinguisher back in its bracket. She broke for the door. Her injured knee slowed her down, but she reached it and fumbled with the handle, swearing when her fingers slipped across the smooth metal.

  He was on her in a heartbeat. Whirling her around, he shoved her against the door, curled his fingers into the front of her tank top, and leaned into her. "If you want to play rough, we'll play rough," he growled. "It's up to you."

  A good portion of his body was flush against hers, and she felt what could have been the butt of a gun jammed into the waistband of his jeans. Oh, Jesus, a gun.

  "What do you want?" she asked.

  "I want you to behave. Don't make me force you."

  She tried to stare him down, but his gaze bore into hers without wavering. He leaned on her windpipe, pressing her head back. The bump she had sustained earlier sent a sharp ache through her temples. "I'll behave," she said, as if she had a choice.

  He backed off, hoping she didn't notice the tremor in his hands. He was beginning to think he had overestimated his ability to intimidate this woman. The expected tears and pleas, the promises to give him whatever he wanted hadn't materialized.

  He held out a hand. "Give me your keys."

  She gave him a blank look. "Why?"

  He snapped his fingers. "Just give them to me." He'd felt them in her pocket when they were thigh to thigh, and he wasn't going to risk losing an eye if she tried to use them as a weapon.

  Pulling out her key ring, she dropped it in his palm. He shoved it into his pocket without breaking their locked gazes. "Sit."

  Meg, who didn't think her jelly legs could have supported her much longer anyway, slid down the wall until she sat on the floor. A half-dozen aches protested, but they were nothing compared with the anxiety she felt about Dayle. "What happened to my friend?"

  "They took her."

  Shit. "Who are 'they'?"

  He smirked as he bent to pick up the spilled ice cubes. "As if you don't know."

  "I don't know. What do they want? What do you want?"

  "Please," he said.

  "Look, I don't know what the hell's going on here, but you and your buddies have made a huge mistake." As she spoke, she got to her feet. "Where did they take her?"

  He straightened, holding the ice bucket in one hand. "Sit down."

  "Just answer me. What do you want from me?"

  "Sit," he said.

  "No, damn it. Answer me."

  "You're getting on my nerves." He took a menacing step toward her.

  Meg cringed inwardly but refused to back down. "What are you going to do? Hit me again?"

  "I didn't hit you the first time, but I'll knock you flat if you push me."

  Her gaze dropped down the length of his body, taking in the sinewy muscles beneath his shirt and jeans. He wasn't a muscleman, but he was strong and agile, steely. She didn't doubt for an instant that he could do major damage with one punch, but she also sensed that he had no intention of harming her. He'd had plenty of opportunity to rape her when she was unconscious. And he could have beat her senseless with the fire extinguisher after she slammed him with it—he'd looked angry enough. Yet he had done none of these things—he hadn't even restrained her in any way.

  But she sat as he'd ordered, her back against the wall. If she didn't relent, he might decide he could handle her better bound and gagged. And that would diminish her chances of escaping.

  His lips were set in a straight line as he plunked the bucket on the bed. Taking a towel from a cabinet along the wall, he made an ice pack and handed it down to her. "For your head."

  She hesitated. Now he wanted to treat her injuries? She accepted the towel and weighed its prospects as a weapon. It wouldn't serve as well as the fire extinguisher, but then, that hadn't proved all that effective. She glanced around for something better as he started another ice pack. The cell phone sat on the table next to the bed, a few feet away.

  His movements were swift and jerky as his annoyance grew. "I saved your ass, lady," he said. "For that, I think I de-serve better than a fire extinguisher bashed into my back. The only thing that saved me from getting my butt kicked was that the bigger one went after your friend. By the time I got there, the other one was all over you."

  He gave the ends of the towel a twist and shoved it at her. His diamond-hard gaze dropped to her lips and then to the left, softening. She was going to have one hell of a bruise along her jaw where Goon Number One had punched her. For a moment, he wished he'd had the presence of mind at the time to beat the guy bloody. But then he wondered why he should give a damn what happened to her. She didn't seem to give a d
amn what had happened to Beau.

  "Put that on your jaw." He turned his back.

  Meg scrambled to her knees, seized the phone, fumbled for the power button, and jabbed a finger at nine-one-one.

  He faced her. "What are you doing?"

  "Calling for help." What an idiot.

  "You don't even know where you are," he said.

  "They can trace the call."

  "The battery's dead."

  She threw it at him. It bounced off his temple and clattered to the floor in pieces. Meg didn't wait to see whether it stunned him—she dove for the door.

  This time, she managed to turn the knob and get it open before he plowed into her from behind. She sprawled head-long into a larger, more elaborate compartment with a door at the other end.

  He flipped her onto her back, and she thrashed, kicking and screaming for help, more startled by his strength than the fear of what he might do to her. He had already shown that he had no intention of using the gun—he'd just had the perfect opportunity to shoot her in the back and hadn't.

  Still, she was afraid she had pushed him too far as he leaned over her, his face red with rage, blood trickling down his temple. Grappling for the hands that pummeled his face, he captured her wrists and flattened them to the floor on either side of her head. "Be still, damn it."

  Meg writhed, fighting his restraint even though she already knew she had lost. "Get off."

  "Not until you calm down."

  She bucked under him, arching her back off the floor. "Get off!"

  "I'm not going to hurt you."

  Her breath was coming in quick gasps. Fearing she would hyperventilate, he leaned his face close to hers. "Listen to me. I'm not going to hurt you."

  She twisted her wrists in his grasp. "Then let go."

  "You don't have a choice here. Calm down."

  He sounded so reasonable she wanted to scream. "Up yours."

  "You're the one making this difficult."

  "Guess I just don't understand the protocol of kidnapping."

  "If you can be rational, I'll let you up," he said. "Otherwise, we can conduct this conversation just like this."

  "Fine."

  "Fine what?"

  "I'll behave," she said.

  "You said that before."

  "Do you want it in blood this time? You're stronger than I am. There's not much I can do to defend myself."

  The color had flooded back into her cheeks, and the corners of his mouth twitched. "Yeah, you're helpless."

  His amusement irked her. "Are you going to let me up or what?"

  "I'm going to get up," he said. " You're going to stay on the floor. I want you sitting on your hands."

  "Good thinking. There's no telling what kind of damage they could do."

  Another almost-smile. "You're quite the smart ass, aren't you?"

  "Only in life-threatening situations," she said.

  "That mouth gets you into a lot of those, I would guess."

  "Are you going to get off me sometime tonight?"

  He rolled away and got to his feet in one fluid motion. He had to be the most graceful man she had ever seen. Then, cursing herself for finding him the least bit attractive, she sat up.

  "Sit on your hands," he said.

  "Give me a chance."

  "Just do it."

  She slipped her hands under the backs of her thighs and glared up at him. "How long have I been here?"

  "Couple of hours," he said.

  "Who the hell are you? You don't kidnap women for a living."

  "I didn't intend to kidnap you. I was just watching you when those goons went after you. Like an idiot, I rushed to your rescue."

  He rubbed the back of his neck, asking himself what he had been thinking. But the truth was, he hadn't been thinking. He'd simply reacted. Even when he'd started following her, he hadn't been thinking. He should have called the FBI right away to tip them off. But he'd wanted to see for himself who she was, how she lived. What he'd seen hadn't made sense—the modest beach house, the practical Honda. Is that how an accomplished jewel thief lived? He'd begun to think that maybe he really did have the wrong woman.

  But then the two men had jumped her and her friend, and they hadn't seemed the least bit confused about her identity. One of them had even called her by name. Margot.

  Ryan knew now that it had been stupid to bargain with them, dangerous. But at the rate the FBI was going, he might never know who masterminded his brother's murder, let alone look the bastard in the eye. And that was something he wanted very much to do. He wanted revenge, pure and simple.

  Meg saw the murderous thoughts slide through his eyes, and it unnerved the hell out of her. He looked like he would happily throttle anyone who crossed him. "Who are you?" she asked.

  He fastened his damning gaze on her. "Ryan Kama."

  Her eyes widened. She knew his last name well. When she had arrived in Fort Myers, the unsolved, two-month-old murder of the CEO of KamaTech had still been huge news. Her fellow reporters had expressed deep frustration at the lack of information that law enforcement had made available to the press. No pictures of suspects. No theories. No motives. No nothing.

  Ryan saw the recognition in her eyes and felt a moment of satisfaction. "So you do know who I am."

  "I know who Beau Kama was."

  "He was my brother." There was accusation in his tone.

  "I didn't know him. I only know of him."

  How could she sit there and lie so blatantly without even blinking? But then he reminded himself that she had tricked his brother into thinking she loved him. "I know how you work, lady, so you can drop the act. The police told me all about your methods when they were pumping me for what I knew about you and Beau."

  "I don't have methods."

  His eyes narrowed in disgust. "You get cozy with rich men. You do whatever you have to do to get them to trust you. When they're sated and sleeping soundly, you steal them blind. Except something went wrong with Beau. None of your other marks have ended up dead. As far as the cops know, anyway."

  "I don't remember a woman ever being mentioned in the coverage of Beau Kama's murder."

  "The cops—and the FBI when they took over—are keeping the info out of the press. They seem to think that if you're stupid enough to think you got away with it, you'll move on to another mark. Then, once they nail you, you can tell them all about your boss, Slater Nielsen, and how one of your marks ended up the victim of a professional hit man."

  "But I'm not her. I must look like her—"

  "Right. That's so easy, isn't it?"

  "I'm not lying," she said.

  "Of course not. You would never lie to get what you want."

  Meg put shaking fingers to her temple and rubbed in a small circle. "How do you know all this?"

  He gave her a malevolent look. "Hands."

  "What?"

  "Sit on your hands, damn it."

  She obeyed, somewhat satisfied, and a bit relieved, that she made him nervous. She didn't imagine that a ruthless killer would have been so anxious.

  He relaxed slightly. "I have a friend who has connections within the FBI. They've shut me out of the investigation, but not entirely."

  "I don't understand what you want from me."

  "You're going to help me get to the man you work for," he said. "In return, I won't turn you over to the feds."

  "I'm a reporter for a newspaper—that's who I work for. I haven't even lived here long."

  "Yeah, right. Are we going to make a deal or not?"

  "But I don't know what—"

  "Fine," he cut in. "Play it your way."

  "I'm not playing it any way. You've made a mistake."

  He came at her, and Meg shrank against the wall. He jerked her toward him by her shirt. "Listen to me very carefully," he said. "You're in a delicate position right now. If you don't cooperate, I'll turn you over to those friends of yours who seemed to enjoy beating up on women. And you know

  where they'll take you
. Follow me so far?"

  Meg didn't have a clue where they'd take her, but she was certain they wouldn't give her an ice pack once they got there. She thought of Dayle, and her stomach tensed. Please, please, be all right. She gave a curt nod.

  He didn't release her right away, his mouth dry. The subtle, musky scent of perfume clung to her, enhanced by the perspiration that dampened her skin.

  She saw the tip of his tongue wet his lips and swallowed back a surge of something that could only be fear. "I understand," she said.

  He remembered how she'd tasted when he had kissed her at the airport. Too good for a traitor. But that's what she was. She had betrayed his brother, and now he was dead. Ryan released her and turned away, running both hands through his hair. Linking his fingers at the base of his neck, he tilted his head back. Rage was a loosely chained beast inside him.

  Meg still felt the hard nudge of his knuckles against her throat. He hadn't seemed so harmless just now, but even so, he had not hurt her. "Why did you call them my friends?"

  "The one who hit you called you by name."

  Wisps of fog cleared from her memory. "Slater's gonna be happy to see you, Margot." "My name isn't Margot. It's Meg."

  "He looked you right in the face and called you by name. He told me he was there to retrieve the one that got away from his boss. That's Slater Nielsen. And you're the one who got away, so drop the act. You're not going to win this fight."

  She fought to control her rising panic. There was no reasoning with him. And why the hell had those thugs mistaken her for this Margot? Had none of them ever met her? "What happens now?" she asked.

  "Your friends and I arranged a morning meeting with Nielsen."

  "Will Dayle be there?"

  "Who's Dayle?"

  "My friend. You said they got her. Will she be with them?"

  "Hell if I know."

  Fear returned, along with anger. "You shouldn't have let them take her. She has even less to do with this than I do."

  "They wanted insurance. I let them have it."

  "What does that mean?"

  "I tried to get them to leave her with me, but they wouldn't do it. They wanted to make sure you cooperated with the plan to meet in the morning, and seeing as how she's a friend of yours ..."