Forster, Suzanne

Chapter 1

An enormous. 357 Magnum, aimed point-blank between her eyes—that was Gus Featherstone's first clue that something had gone awry with her plans. The second was the black ski mask the gunman wore and the terrifying glint in his dark eyes.
Apparently she should have been more specific when she arranged to have herself kidnapped.

As it happened she'd been curled up on the chaise lounge by the pool, painting her toenails a rather rude shade of pink, when he'd crept up behind her. He must have crept because she hadn't heard a thing, not a hush and squeak of his shoe soles, not even the granular scrape of loose bricks as he crossed the terrace floor. And now the damn sun was so bright, she couldn't even make out the outline of his features. He was nothing more than a gigantic black amoeba against a sizzling white summer sky.

"I can't possibly do this today, " she told him, wishing her hands weren't occupied so that she could shade her eyes. It really was exasperating trying to talk to someone you couldn't see. "I'm signing a spokesmodel contract with American Naturals Cosmetics. You have heard of American Naturals, haven't you?"

His silence baffled her. If this was Tuesday, then she most assuredly had a luncheon meeting with the company chairman, the CEO, and the legal flacks to finalize her contract. They were having lunch at Citrus on Melrose. She couldn't have confused something that important, which meant the gunman must have
his
days turned around. The abduction was scheduled for Friday.

She started to tell him that, and then it dawned on her what the problem was. No, dawned didn't begin to do the insight justice. Reality reached out, plucked her up like a child's toy and shook her silly. The kidnapper—this ominous creature in black, from his ski mask to his jumpsuit to his crepe-soled commando boots—had no idea that all of this was a ploy. He hadn't been told anything except where to take her once he'd kidnapped her and how much he'd be paid. He'd either confused the days or intentionally changed the plans, thinking to gain some advantage, and she couldn't inform him of his error without blowing months of preparation and perhaps her entire future.

"Get up, "
he told her.

The rasped command startled Gus with a strange little thrill. Heavens, the man sounded as if he could grind glass with his teeth.

"Could you hold on just a minute?" She held up the bottle of nail polish and waggled it at him. "I need to screw the top back on. " The obscene black thing he was holding to her face made her a little giddy, honestly. It reminded her of a microphone, and she wondered what he would do if she broke out in song. Clearly she'd inhaled too much toluene. Over the years the ritual acts of manicuring and pedicuring had turned her into the equivalent of a nail polish junkie. She'd actually come to love the smell of the stuff, but who knew what it was doing to her gray cells.

"Move!" he ordered.
"Now."

"Well, okay, but my toes aren't dry yet. " She pretended to be having trouble with the polish top, which in fact, she was, although the man's surliness was beginning to unsettle her. Rob Emory, her fiancé, had made all the arrangements for the kidnapping through some clandestine underground network. He was also her manager, and since he handled other talent besides Gus, she'd wanted him to hire an actor for the job. He'd insisted the kidnapping had to look real, that the media, the law, even her family, would never believe it otherwise, and a publicity-mad actor couldn't be trusted to keep quiet about something like that. All the contracts had been made anonymously, apparently for the protection of everyone involved, much like contract killings were arranged, she imagined.

But she couldn't tell this man any of that.

The sun's brightness brought tears to her eyes. She looked away, heedless of the gun, and saw his reflection in the swimming pool. A blaze of darkness, he flared across the surface of the water like the hooded executioner of a medieval inquisition. A bright corona surrounded him, and the effect was one of a solar eclipse, but the pool's slow ripples distorted his seemingly huge frame, lending movement and fluidity to its sinister strength.

He was more than she'd expected, more than she could ever have imagined. More primitive, more terrifying, more everything. She told herself it was his macabre appearance. She could even see details, and his clothing mystified her. The ski mask was bad enough. She simply couldn't get over the fact that he was dressed in the zipper-front jumpsuit of an auto mechanic, or a fighter pilot... or a Mafia hitman.

A blotch of shocking pink splashed her golden brown skin.

Rob had hired a real killer.

Her fiancé had inadvertently employed a hired gun!

"Get rid of that stuff. " The Magnum twitched menacingly, indicating the polish.

Gus's pulse beat went liquid and swerved to a steeper pitch. Very carefully she settled the nail polish brush back into its shocking-pink well and screwed the cap on tight, giving it an extra twist. She should have stayed on top of this and insisted on certain precautionary measures instead of yielding to Rob, who openly admitted to having seen every
Rambo
movie twice. If she'd been seeking the services of a kidnapper, she would very specifically have said no assassins, no wet work. She would have made that clear. Why hadn't Rob?

When she looked up next, her vision had adjusted to the light. She could see him now, but it might have been better if she couldn't. Because of his camouflage, the only visible feature was his eyes, which gleamed like those of a dead animal in a lightning storm.

"The gun isn't necessary, " she tried to assure him. "Really, it isn't. "

"Get up, " he snarled. "Get the
fuck
up!"

She jumped like a startled cat, then rose warily. He was taking this job
very
seriously. She was still clutching the bottle of nail polish, but she'd also surreptitiously snatched up a tiny pair of manicure scissors that had been hidden under her leg.

She dropped the polish to distract him, and as it clattered across the bricks, she closed her hand over the scissors, concealing them. She had no other choice. The thong bikini she was wearing didn't have enough material to conceal anything, including most of her.

"Turn around. " He issued the command as if he were pulverizing something under his shoe.

His hostility made Gus wonder if he knew of her reputation. The media loved to make her out as difficult, citing the Featherstone family wealth as if it were all the proof required. In the early stages of her career, they'd stuck her with labels like "beautiful brat" and "trust fund baby. " Ironically the only trust money she ever saw was a meager monthly allowance, which was the primary reason she'd gone into modeling. And if she had been a smidge detail-oriented where her career was concerned, she was at a loss to understand why that should be held against her. She'd always considered herself to be among the most reasonable of women, even in a crisis.

"Couldn't we talk about this?" she asked him.

He kicked the bottle of polish into the pool, whipped her around so suddenly she lost her balance, and pressed the gun barrel between her naked shoulder blades. Fortunately her closed fist escaped his attention as he drew her hands behind her back and looped her wrists with black electrician's tape.

"Apparently not, " she observed.

"One more word, " he warned through clenched teeth, "and you'll be sucking cement off the bottom of the pool. " The gun barrel dug into her back, forcing her forward. "Ouch!" she cried.

Two sharp clicks told her a bullet had been chambered.

"That wasn't a
word, "
she explained frantically. "It was a cry of pain!"

Another push caught her off-guard. She fought to keep her balance on the uneven bricks, but with her hands tied behind her it was impossible. She lurched helplessly, stumbled and fell to the rough surface, landing hard on her knees. He might as well have shot her for her reaction. Pain popped and streaked like burning bullets, unleashing both her legendary temper and her tongue.

"Look what you've done!" She reared back and gasped at the oozing lacerations. "Now I've skinned my knees, and I've got a photo shoot tomorrow. For depilatory cream!"

Gus was only getting started, but the tirade died in her throat as she twisted around to glare at him. One of the security team who guarded the Featherstone estate had entered the pool area and he was coming up behind the kidnapper. He must have been hired recently by her stepbrother, Lake, because Gus had never seen the man before. A huge, hulking brute, armed with an automatic weapon, he looked positively lethal.

"I've got an M-16, " the guard snarled. "Drop the gun, turn slowly, and kick it to me.
Move,
you sick bastard!"

There was a crackle of light in the kidnapper's eyes that terrified Gus. The dead animal had come to life. All of the malevolence in him seemed to come through his eyes as he lifted his ominous black head and silenced her with a savage glare. She couldn't imagine what he was going to do, but her adrenaline was geysering like shaken champagne, and she was riveted.

"Go inside, ma'am, " the guard warned. "Do it now. "

But Gus didn't move from the terrace or from her knees. She watched with the same horrified fascination a child would who watches two dogs suddenly turn vicious and attack each other. The kidnapper didn't respond for several seconds, and then, to Gus's complete surprise, he did just as the guard ordered.

He dropped his gun to the bricks, turned, and kicked it hard. As the weapon skipped across the terrace, Gus wondered why it didn't go off. The kidnapper's shoulders had slumped in an attitude of defeat, and she was caught somewhere between relief, disappointment, and disbelief. He hadn't struck her as a man who would give up so easily. He hadn't struck her as a man who could ever give up.

The guard scooped up the gun, all the while watching the kidnapper. A grin wreathed his fleshy face as he rose, the M-16 still trained on his target. He moved to tuck the Magnum in the waistband of his uniform, but something made him hesitate. The gun gleamed in his grip. He scrutinized it and froze. Horror replaced his grin as the weapon exploded with a blinding flash.

Both weapons clattered to the ground as he reared backward, gripping his fist. A guttural howl ripped from his throat. The kidnapper flew at him, a blinding flash of movement as he aimed a kick at the guard's midsection. The bulky man was lifted several feet off the ground. The next kick caught him under the chin and sent him careening backward into a potted palm.

He hit with an impact that cracked the massive pot in two, and then he sprawled to the ground, unconscious.

The sudden eruption of violence had locked Gus in place and left her shaking, but she hadn't moved from her knees through the whole thing. She thought about screaming as the kidnapper scooped up the M-16 and whirled on her, but that's all it was, a thought. No sound could make it through the vise grip of her throat. He slung the weapon's strap over his shoulder and strode to where she was crouched. With one hand he lifted her to her feet and spun her around. His strength was frightening.