Pilot Error (30 page)

Jurgensen had just been and gone—was it minutes ago or much longer? It didn't matter, the point was that now the snake had begun to play hardball. Enraged, he had stormed into the tiny storage alcove where they had confined Luke and demanded answers to his questions: What did the US Navy know? Were they aware that Dominic Van Allen was the man behind it all? Who had Luke told of his discoveries in the Keys?

When he hadn't gotten any answers, Dirk had dragged his prisoner into the wine cellar where exposed beams ran across the low ceiling. Then he had bound Luke's hands to the beam, adjusting the rope's length so his feet barely skimmed the floor, and asked his questions again.

And again.

Frustrated by Luke's tolerance to pain, Jurgensen had finally left, saying he would be back when gravity had time to talk some sense into him. It was a simple but cruelly effective plan. Whatever else Dirk Jurgensen was, he was wise in the ways of interrogation and getting what he wanted.

Well, this time he's not going to get it.

Luke grasped the rope above his hands, ignoring its prickly bite into his blisters. Grimly he pulled himself up enough to take the pressure off his shoulders and wrists. Although the act lessened the physical anguish, his thoughts refused to be mastered.

Micki was in Jurgensen's hands. That was as much a torture as the physical suffering. If Luke didn't tell him what he knew about the counterfeit ring, and with whom he had shared his knowledge, then Jurgensen said he would hurt her. Luke told himself it was a ruse and not to believe it. He had seen the way the man looked at Micki in the van; Jurgensen's idea of a 'just good friends' relationship was vastly different from Micki's.

Fatigued muscles trembling, Luke strained to hold onto the rope and spare his body the suffering that awaited him when his strength failed again. Gritting his teeth, he fought to remain silent against the burning fire in his arms, shoulders, and back. It wouldn't surprise him if Jurgensen were standing in the darkness right now, watching, waiting for him to break. The man was unbalanced, living in a bubble if he truly believed Micki would have any part of him and his world.

Maybe Jurgensen
would
hurt Micki.

Stamina spent, Luke's muscles slackened, dropping him back down to take his weight against the ropes. The agony of muscles, joints, and tendons forced past their endurance, and the thought of Micki at Jurgensen's mercy, drew a cry from him despite his determination to remain silent. He imagined that, in the distance, Micki called his name in answer.

If Jurgensen hurt her, then Luke would have to tell him what he wanted to know. He'd tell him anything and everything to make him stop. None of this was Micki's fault.

Clenching his eyes shut, he fought for control. Was there something he could tell them to make them let her go? He seemed to hear her, frightened and lost, calling his name.

Think, Hardigan, what are you going to tell the bastard when he comes back that will convince him to release Micki? What—

There was a flurry of movement near him, and Luke jerked instinctively, expecting another boot in his gut or fist in his face. What he was not expecting was a warm female body pressed against him, the scent of expensive perfume, and a passionate kiss on his lips. Grunting in surprise, he tried to pull away, but the woman held him entwined as if to hold him forever.

"Luke!" Her breath was warm and sweet on his neck. "Oh, Luke, I thought I'd lost you!" Covering his face and lips with tiny, ardent kisses, she ran a gentle hand across his bruised, unshaven cheek. She sounded as if she was crying, or close to it. "Dirk told me you were dead."

Squinting in the brilliance of a flashlight beam that was in his face, Luke tried to make out her features. All he could see was a mane of tousled dark hair and a slender body clad in a black silk garment that was barely long enough to be called a dress. Was this another of Jurgensen's tricks? This woman sounded like Micki, but his eyes were telling him a completely different story.

Turning his head to shield his eyes from the light, Luke managed to evade her kisses and her touch long enough to ask a wry question. "Who are you?"

With a sound of displeasure, she fell back a step, taking the blinding light with her. Now maybe he could see...

"Don't start with me, Yank." Indignant, she gave him a firm thump on both shoulders, sending an unintentional jolt of pain through his body. "You put me through hell, making me think you were dead."

"Micki?" Luke regarded her in amazement, trying to resolve what his senses were telling him. It was her all right, all hellfire and vinegar, but perfumed and poured into a black silk dress with her hair spilling freely about her face and shoulders.

Stepping back, she knelt and began rummaging through some sort of bundle. Still thunderstruck, Luke watched her, taking in the long expanse of shapely leg and the gentle drape of the dress across her...

Micki shot him a glower. "Not a word about the dress or I'm leaving you hanging here. Got it?"

Luke smiled sheepishly. "Got it. How'd you find me?"

"Long story." Micki got to her feet with what looked to be a small paring knife held in her hand.

As if that were explanation enough, she stepped near again, slipped the knife under the rope about his wrists, and began to saw its strands. Looking down into her face, Luke brushed his cheek against her hair, the only gesture of affection he could make.

"Micki?" When her gaze shifted from the rope to his eyes, he asked softly, "Did Jurgensen hurt you? If he did I swear I'll—"

Before he could say more, she brushed her lips against his and he found himself leaning forward into her embrace.

"No." She answered the pressure of his body against hers with a yielding of her own. "He didn't hurt me. Not physically, anyway."

Luke moved toward her lips for another kiss, but she pulled away, breaking the moment.

"Now quit blathering and let me get these ropes off. We've got to get out of here before he finds out I'm gone."

Moving in close, Micki blocked his body with hers as she began to cut through the rope again, preventing the agonizing sway that pulled at the muscles and tendons in his wrists and arms. Luke appreciated that, but all the same had to resist the temptation to groan. With her arms above her head and her body pressed tightly against his, there were sensations stirring in him that were in direct contrast with the agonized signals coming from his arms and back. Luke couldn't decide if he were in heaven or hell. Micki was doing the best she could with a knife that looked like it was made for cutting vegetables, not rope, but if something didn't give soon, then he just might topple right over the brink of insanity.

It was with great relief that he finally felt the rope's strands begin to part and slowly give way. Reaching for the floor with his feet, he was astonished when his legs would not support him and instead spilled him onto his backside.

Micki, hands on her hips in a familiar stance, regarded him in amusement. She obviously had no idea how breathtaking she was in that dress. "That was graceful, Hardigan."

Luke began to push himself to his feet, but she shook her head and put a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"No, stay there a minute." She went to what looked like a silk-blouse-turned-into-luggage, with the tails tied to form the bottom and the arms tied to make a shoulder strap, and drew out a plastic bottle of water. "Here."

Grateful, Luke accepted it and drank deeply. He emptied it halfway before he spoke. "Where'd you get this?"

"Commandeered it."

Micki smiled in a way that made Luke's heart turn over. It was impossible to pinpoint just when he had fallen for her. Him—Luke Hardigan—the Navy hunk in Dress Whites, a guy who was never in need of a date, had actually fallen in love.

Before he could say anything, she knelt behind him and began massaging his shoulders with firm, knowing hands. It felt like heaven, and slowly the numbness in his muscles began to fade. If only he could stay put for a century or two and enjoy it.

Luke turned to her, an act that brought them face to face. "We've got to get moving. I don't know when Jurgensen's coming back. How'd you get in here, anyway?"

She nodded toward the darkness before them. "Through a door off a service corridor. I slipped in when Dirk came out, before the door closed."

"It's locked, I take it?"

Micki nodded. "And my key card doesn't work."

"Your what?"

"My key card. They seem pretty big on technology around here. I took it from my guard after I bashed him over the head."

With a groan, Luke pushed himself to his feet and dropped a hand down to give Micki a lift up. She, of course, ignored it and rose unassisted. Some things, it seemed, never changed.

"Then we'll just have to use the other door," he said.

"Other door?"

***

Luke led her to the far side of the dark cellar, explaining that he groggily remembered the riveted steel door from when they had first brought him in. Beyond it was an underground passage, he said, but because he was drugged at the time he couldn't remember where it led. It had been no surprise that her key card hadn't worked in that lock either, or that he immediately came up with a plan to 'hot wire the system.'

Delegated to the menial task of holding the flashlight, Micki frowned skeptically. So far Luke's tinkering hadn't yielded any promising results, and the more time that passed, the more uneasy she became. Dirk would be going up to the room to collect her for dinner any minute, and when he did, The Big Escape would be all over.

A tiny spark arced as Luke poked at the exposed circuit board with the tip of the paring knife. The stolen utensil wasn't exactly a precision tool, but it was the best they had under the circumstances.

"We haven't got all day, you know," Micki said anxiously.

"We'll be out of here in a couple of minutes, beautiful."

"Don't call me that," she snapped out of reflex, though her heart wasn't in it. Her grief when she had thought Luke dead had knocked a few bricks out of her defensive wall, and she was going to have to put a lot of effort into building it back up.

Either that, or let him in completely.

The thought startled her, making her jump.

"I could do a lot better if you held the light still," Luke grumbled impatiently.

Steadying the tiny flashlight with both hands, Micki watched his dark head bend closer to inspect the electronic lock's inner workings. They'd been through so much together; it seemed impossible that they had only known each other for three days.

You can't fall in love with someone in three days.

But she had with Dirk—blinded by the spontaneous and electric chemistry between them. How could something that had felt so right turn out to be so wrong?

No longer trusting her feelings, Micki turned her thoughts elsewhere. Luke was still wearing the camouflage pants and t-shirt he had stolen from the guy on the beach, making her wonder what sort of abuse lay hidden underneath. She didn't like the black and blue swelling on his face, or the slightly hunched way he held himself, or the stiff way he moved. Dirk had turned into one of his own favorite sayings; a demon in disguise.

Micki grunted and shifted her bare feet on the cold cellar floor. "Are you getting anywhere with that or not? You may be a crack Navy lawyer, but as a locksmith, you suck."

Ignoring her, Luke took the flashlight and leaned forward to inspect the panel again. There was the hollow pop of an electrical explosion and a white flare of light that completely haloed his head. With a yelp of pain, he staggered back with one arm flung protectively across his eyes.

Micki started forward, and had her hand on his arm before she even thought about it. "Luke! Are you okay?"

"Damn it," he growled wryly, arm still pressed to his eyes. "Haven't these people heard of overload protection?"

"Let me see."

"I'm okay. Just a little singed."

"Let me see."

Luke gave in, lowering his arm and blinking repeatedly. "Really, I'm fine."

She took the flashlight from him. Fearing the worst, she was relieved to see there were only minor first degree burns to his face, centering about his eyes. His eyebrows and lashes were singed, but nowhere did she see evidence of the injury she had feared. Micki touched him lightly on the curve of his jaw, drawing a tiny flinch from him as if she took him by surprise.

"Doesn't look too bad," she told him gently. "I've seen tourists who've fallen asleep on the beach look worse. You're just going to have the pain without the tan."

"Sure," Luke said, reaching up to take her fingers.

Shining the flashlight at the panel, she was amazed to see that in all the excitement she had missed the fact that the lock had released with the fireworks. The steel door was now slightly ajar. "Hey, you did it!"

"Yeah, probably fried the circuits." He squeezed her hand, his gaze moving in the direction of the door.

Micki took two steps, her hand still clasped in Luke's. Only when he took one uncertain step after her, calling her name in a soft question, did she hesitate. Looking from the open door to him, standing so still and showing no reaction when the flashlight beam strayed over his face, she realized the chilling truth.