Body Contact (6 page)

She sat there—thinking that if she could just focus on something else, the need to feel Jack's touch would go away. But it was impossible to turn off the sensations. Not when Jack was so close. Not when that hand of his would feel so good against her pulsing flesh.

Stop it. Just stop it!

“What?” Jack questioned, his voice husky.

“I didn't say anything.”

“Didn't you?”

She turned her head so that she was facing him. Her lips parted, but she couldn't force any more words out. For a long moment, they stared at each other as though they'd just been caught doing something they shouldn't.

Then she decided she had nothing to lose by revealing at least part of what she was feeling. “I'm having a little problem coping with that film.”

“Yeah. I should have turned it off faster.”

“Why didn't you?”

He laughed. “It was…um…interesting.”

She blew out a stream of air, as if that might clear her head. “Yes. I've never seen anything quite like it.”

“You lead a sheltered life.”

“Maybe.” Needing to break the intensity of the moment, she looked around the dimly lit cabin. Several other couples were watching TV, and from the looks on their faces, she was pretty sure they were watching the same or a similar show.

“You could try and get some sleep,” Jack murmured. “Rest your head on my shoulder.”

Could she manage that, she wondered. Gingerly she lowered her head to the wide, firm surface, feeling strangely comforted by the contact. When his hand came up to stroke through her hair, she closed her eyes.

He made her feel calmer, safer. But she knew it was only the illusion of safety. And, at any rate, she was too keyed up to sleep. Keyed up from the film, and keyed up from the knowledge that they were drawing closer to Orchid Island. And since they didn't have to detour around Cuba, the way a U.S. carrier would, the flight would be less than two hours.

Some time later, the attendants turned on dim lights and served a sumptuous lunch of lemon pepper chicken, wild
rice, and baby green beans. After the trays were cleared away, Maddy felt the plane begin its descent.

She watched out the window as they approached the island, an irregular rectangle of green, like an uncut jewel laid on turquoise velvet.

It was beautiful, yet the beauty of the place only accentuated the feeling of danger.

Enter at your own risk, she thought as they skimmed along the last stretch of open space before the runway. Leaning back in her seat, she worked at finding the sense of calm that she could invariably muster up when she was in the middle of an assignment.

She'd always done it before. But this was different. Her nerves were screeching, and she couldn't make them settle.

She tensed as she felt the plane come to a halt on a stretch of tarmac in front of a low, white building.

There was a sense of anticipation in the cabin now. A suppressed excitement.

Some of the men were talking to their women, touching them. Others were craning their heads out the windows, intent on getting a preview of their destination.

The door opened, flooding the previously sealed interior with instant heat and rich scents—tropical flowers and an underlying layer of rotting vegetation.

The air was almost too thick to breathe, or perhaps it was only the tight feeling in her chest that was giving her problems.

Minutes later, they stepped into white-hot sunlight and descended a flight of stairs.

But it wasn't the heat that had Maddy's skin breaking out with a thin layer of perspiration. It was the gun emplacements manned by uniformed guards at the corners of the low metal buildings facing them.

A
S THEY CROSSED
fifty yards of oven-hot tarmac, Jack was cataloguing details and impressions. The heat. The guards. The people around him.

But most of all he was aware of the woman at his side. He knew her nerves were stretched taut. Unfortunately, he had something to do with that. He should have turned off that porno movie on the plane as soon as he'd seen what it was. But something had stayed his hand. He'd wanted to catch Maddy's reaction. Wanted to find out if she was operating on sexual overdrive, the way he was.

He'd gotten his answer—in spades. And it had given him a rush to know she was as hot and needy as he was. Then he'd silently conceded that his mind had gotten pretty off track from what he was supposed to be doing.

But then he'd known the danger all along. Known that working with Maddy was going to be a considerable distraction. That was one of the reasons he'd tried to get her to stay home. None of his arguments had been persuasive. He'd been left with a feeling of failure mixed with anticipation, and with the knowledge that he was responsible for her safety, which meant that he had to keep his head screwed on straight.

His hand clenched around the strap of his carry-on bag. Deliberately he switched his attention to the guards who manned the gun emplacements at the corners of the building's roof. An interesting show of force from a man who was welcoming a group of friends to a house party.

Well, probably not friends. He doubted if Oliver Reynard had any bosom buddies. But the gunners did make a statement about security on the island.

He was amused to note the varying reactions of the people around him as they closed the distance between themselves and the over-equipped guards. The men stood up straighter. Most of the women—including Maddy—moved closer to their guys, as if hard male bodies could protect them from machine-gun bullets.

One of Reynard's private army was standing at the entrance to the building where they were headed. Jack had studied their insignia, and he knew that the guy was a lieutenant. Kind of a high rank to be playing doorman, which meant that he was there for more than ceremonial purposes. He was taking a good look at the deplaning passengers—and he'd be asked for his opinion later.

As the first of the guests drew near, the man clicked his heels. A nice touch, Jack thought. Kind of like a storm trooper.

The lieutenant opened a heavy metal door that said Passport Control/Customs and held it deferentially as the passengers filed past.

Jack looked around at Passport Control and Customs. What he saw was a stark, low-ceilinged room with a bare cement floor and corrugated metal walls that might have been constructed and maintained in any third-world country.

Quite a different setting from the luxury of the waiting room in New York. Lord, what had Dawn Winston thought when she passed through this grim space?

Probably that it was an anteroom to hell. If she'd been in any shape to observe her surroundings, which she might not have been. According to his information, she'd been drugged when she'd arrived on the island.

For him, it was reminiscent of a prison intake area. Or
the perfect shooting gallery. With Reynard's guests as the targets. If the guy wanted to wipe out a whole planeload of passengers in one swift barrage, he had the perfect venue. For a sick moment, Jack couldn't let go of that image. Reynard had invited these gangsters here to eliminate the competition.

Maybe the notion had invaded Maddy's mind, too, because he felt her press her shoulder against his.

He schooled his features into a cocky smile. “We'll get to the good part soon. Our host just wants to make a point.”

“Which is?”

“That he means business—when he wants to.”

“Um,” she answered, raising her gaze to look at one of the video cameras recording the whole scene.

He studied the fine sheen of perspiration on her cheeks. “You're probably hot,” he murmured. “Why don't you take off your jacket and get comfortable.”

“Yes. Right.”

As she took the jacket off and folded it over her arm, a disembodied voice issued from a loudspeaker. “Have your passports ready. You may line up double file with your companions, facing the counter at the end of the room.”

The passengers dutifully shuffled two by two into line like animals headed for the Ark. Letting others go ahead of them, Jack made sure that he and Maddy ended up in about the middle of the group where he could observe the procedure before it was their turn. He watched with interest as Don Fowler and his honey were asked a series of questions by a uniformed official. Then their carry-on luggage was opened and examined. Finally, they were ushered toward a duo of guards—one male and one female who went over their bodies with hand-held metal
detectors. As the machines beeped, Fowler was relieved of his cell phone and pager.

Did the jerk really think he was going to carry communications equipment into this place, Jack wondered as he saw the drug lord ask for his property back.

“I'm sorry, sir,” the attendant answered. “If you wish to make a call to the mainland, we have excellent facilities that can be placed at your disposal.”

I'll bet, Jack thought. Excellent and monitored.

Finally, Fowler gave up the argument and hustled his woman through a door beyond the customs barrier.

The jerk who'd pulled the stunt in the rest room and his girlfriend were next. As Jack watched Mr. Sexy's body language, he could tell the guy was nervous. It turned out there was a good reason. They passed the question and answer session, but when it came time for the metal detector, the guards found something a little more significant than a cell phone or a pager. The lunkhead was wearing an ankle holster, with a small-caliber pistol that apparently hadn't been detected back in New York. Perhaps that had been on purpose, Jack mused. Maybe Reynard wanted to assert his authority on his own turf.

And the inspector didn't simply take it away. He pushed a button that activated an alarm. As a deep, clanging noise filled the room, more armed guards materialized from a door at the side of the enclosure.

Again Mr. Sexy and his honey became the center of attention, although this time the guy wasn't swaggering. A burly guard took him by the arm and hustled him swiftly out of the area. His honey was marched off behind him. She tried to resist, but the guards kept her moving, and the last thing Jack saw was her pink-clad shoulders begin to shake with reaction.

Too bad for her, Jack thought. She'd hooked up with the wrong scumball.

The small drama took less than a minute and left the group standing in the customs area in stunned silence.

“Next,” the uniformed official called out.

Jormo Kardofski and his lady stepped smartly up to the barrier. They were both acting like they had nothing in the world to worry about. Indeed, Jormo was absolutely clean. Not even one of those computerized date books. Maybe he'd been here before. Or maybe he was smart enough to know that electronic devices and weapons were not duty-free items on Orchid Island.

Jack and Maddy were next, and he strove to project the same sense of nonchalance that Kardofski had exhibited. He'd known enough to leave his toys back in New York, even if it did make him feel naked going unarmed into this hostile environment. But that didn't mean they were home free. The real worry was Maddy's makeup case with its hidden transmitter.

He saw her fingers tighten on the handle. But she kept her expression carefully neutral as she turned the box over to the guards.

Jack reminded himself to breathe as the man snapped the latch and lifted the lid, but the contents had the intended effect. After a quick check through the tubes of lipstick and bottles of foundation, the man turned it back to her.

Well, a major hurdle crossed, Jack thought as he and Maddy submitted themselves to the body inspection.

Even though he knew there should be no problems, Jack fought to stay cool as the man's hands moved up and down his body.

“You're free to go in,” the guard informed him. “Enjoy your stay with us.”

“Thank you.”

He reached for Maddy's hand, and they strolled toward
a door at the far side of the room where the other cleared passengers had exited.

As he pushed it open and stepped through, he had the sensation of walking from a station on the way to hell into a portal to heaven. Or at least as closely as a tropical paradise could duplicate heaven. The door led directly from the customs area to a covered flagstone patio bordered by manicured planters edged with lava rock. A delicate green carpet crawled across the earth and onto the rocks. Rising from the ground cover were arrangements of small palms and pink and red bougainvillea that climbed wooden posts and wound gracefully through vertical supports overhead.

In one corner of the patio, a small combo clad in red-and-yellow costumes was playing soft island music. Opposite them, a buffet table took up one whole side of the area, heaped with a spread that put the one at JFK to shame.

Jack heard Maddy let out a rush of breath as if she were finally free to relax. Of course she wasn't.

That was probably what Reynard wanted everyone to think when they took in the contrast between the customs area and this outpost from Bali Ha'i. They'd passed the test—and now they were being rewarded.

But he was sure they were probably still being videotaped. And he'd better remind Maddy of that fact. As he gave her an expansive grin, he said, “A lot of potential for home movies here.”

“Yes,” she murmured, and he gave her points for not trying to spot the cameras.

“Happy?” he asked, aware that the question carried several meanings. Anybody listening would assume it was Jack Craig making small talk with his lady while they waited for the party to begin. But Jack Connors was also
asking Maddy Guthrie how she was feeling now about having come on this mission.

“Deliriously happy,” she answered without missing a beat.

“Glad to hear it.” He casually stroked a finger up her arm, feeling gooseflesh bloom under his touch.

She might look cool, he thought. But she was strung tight as a Nashville banjo. Which she should be. Because they were about to put their charade to the ultimate test.

A waiter wearing black pants, a white shirt and a red sash offered them planter's punch, and they each accepted a tall glass. Maddy took a large swallow. Jack sipped at his while he waited for something memorable to happen.

He didn't have long to wait. The last of the passengers were nibbling shrimp and tiny crab cakes or sipping their drinks when the combo stopped in the middle of “Yellow Bird” and played a little flourish.

As the band members glanced toward their right, Jack followed their gaze. When he saw a sleek black panther glide onto the patio, he thrust Maddy protectively behind him.

Then he relaxed a fraction as he realized that the large cat wore a rhinestone-studded collar to which a stout leather leash was attached. A man followed along behind the animal, holding the other end of the lead firmly in his right hand.

It was Reynard, Jack knew from the photographs he'd studied.

The Master of Orchid Island. The man who could do anything here he wanted. With anybody.

Dawn. Or himself and Maddy.

And if he decided to bring a jungle cat to a social gathering—so be it. The cat appeared to have learned some manners, but if the animal sprang at anyone, Reynard would simply be dragged along behind it.

Or more likely, he'd let go, Jack thought as he shifted his position slightly, still keeping Maddy close, but trying not to act as if he thought their lives were being threatened.

Would the guards shoot if the beast started mauling guests? Or would that just be part of the entertainment?

Aware that he'd very effectively garnered everyone's attention, Reynard stepped onto the patio, his eyes sweeping over the crowd. His gaze noted Jack and Maddy, moved on, then came back to them.

Apparently they were of special interest.

Jack would have liked to take that as a good sign, but he couldn't muster any real enthusiasm for the assumption.

As Reynard studied them, he returned the interest, sure that Maddy was taking the same opportunity.

Somehow mere photographs hadn't caught the essence of the man, the subtle atmosphere of evil and depravity that wafted around him like a cloud of poison gas.

Jack pulled back from the fanciful notion and tried to be objective. For example, the pictures had conveyed an aura of power that had made him look larger than he really was. In fact, the man was only slightly over medium height, trim and lithe, with dark hair just beginning to gray at the temples, a healthy-looking tan and deep-set gray eyes that seemed to miss nothing. He was dressed in navy trousers and a brilliant white shirt open at the neck. In the V of his collar, several heavy gold chains nestled in crisp salt-and-pepper hair. A smile flickered at the corners of his well-shaped mouth as he observed the reactions of his guests to the pet he'd chosen to bring along to the party.

“I assure you, Sabina is a very well-trained kitty. She only mauls guests who try to bring weapons or other contraband into my island paradise.”

Silence greeted the pronouncement.

He gave a small laugh that grated along Jack's nerve endings. “Please, that's supposed to be a joke. Mr. Sandstrom and his lady have not been punished for breaking my rules. The only penalty is expulsion. They will be returning to the U.S. as soon as my jet refuels; and since they'll have the whole cabin to themselves, they can have sex right in their seats.” He laughed, letting everyone know he was fully aware of the incident on the plane. Then he stretched out his arm. “If we haven't already met, I am Oliver Reynard, and I welcome you to my home.”

Jack was relieved when he hooked the end of the leash over a metal post and snapped a ring into place, securing the animal. Sabina lay down on a straw mat and began to lick her paw. But when Reynard wandered over to the buffet table, forked up a wad of roast beef and tossed it to her, she caught it in midair, her curved claws shooting out as she speared the morsel and conveyed it to her mouth.