Ark of Fire (39 page)

Grinning, he dropped the bra. “Amazing how you can hunt down a person anywhere in the world with a microdot tracking device and a Palm Pilot. And the beauty of it? It doesn’t cost more than two hundred dollars. That’s the good thing about them chinks and how they mass-produce everything on God’s green planet. Keeps down the cost of running surveillance.”

“That’s why you attacked me in Oxford, so you could plant a tracking device on me.”

“Aren’t you the clever bitch?” He gaze slowly moved down her soap-covered body, stopping at her quivering breasts.

Edie sank deeper into the mound of bubbles, her head being the only thing that remained above water. If she could have, she would have squeezed herself right down the drain.

“He’s going to be back. Any minute now. So you better leave while you still have the chance.” She pointedly glanced at his sutured skull, hoping to drive home her point.

“Ooh, I’m quaking in my boots. Besides, I’ve got my doubts about your redheaded honey returning any time soon. Last I saw him, he was sitting at the corner bar, downing a cold one. So, it looks like it’s gonna be just me and you, sweet tits. But after what I saw last night, I think you can handle it.” Lewdly grinning, he winked at her. “I got last night’s fuck fest on video. Hot. Real, real hot.” Reaching down, he cupped his crotch with his free hand, pursing his thick lips in an exaggerated air kiss.

“I’m going to be sick,” Edie moaned, leaning over the side of the tub, gagging.

“The fuck you are!”

Charging forward, her would-be rapist grabbed her by the hair. Lemon-scented water splashed onto the floor as he yanked her up and out of the tub. Arms flailing, Edie reflexively slammed her balled fist into the bandaged wound on the side of his head.

“Fucking shit!” he bellowed, instantly releasing his hold on her.

Edie seized her chance, running into the other room.

A weapon.
She had to find a weapon.

Her eyes quickly darted from the floor lamp to the bed to the lumpy chair.

Oblivious to the fact that she was stark naked, she lunged toward the fake Louis XIV chair. That was where she’d been sitting when she filed down her broken nail.

From behind her, she heard the thud of heavy boots.

She shoved her hand alongside the seat cushion, her search coming to an abrupt end when a muscled arm snaked around her waist, yanking her away from the chair. Frantic, she tried to twist free, but it was as though she had a giant vise grip clamped around her midsection.

“Think again, cunt,” her assailant snarled, lifting her bodily off the ground. Pivoting, he tossed her onto the bed, the iron frame noisily clanging against the wall. Edie immediately rolled to her right side, but anticipating the move, he grabbed her by the ankle, pulling her back to the middle of the bed.

“Don’t move,” he ordered, pointing the gun at her heart. “Or there won’t be anything left of your left titty.”

Not so much as twitching, Edie braced herself, certain a bullet would slam into her chest at any moment.

When it didn’t happen, she released a pent-up breath, wordlessly watching as her would-be rapist clicked the safety on his weapon. That done, he placed it on the mantel. Completely out of reach.

Cracking his knuckles, he walked toward the bed. “In case you’re wondering, I can kill you with my bare hands as easily as I can shoot you.”

Edie didn’t doubt for one second that he spoke the truth.

Intently staring at her, he placed a knee on the foot of the bed. In the next instant, he had her pinned beneath him. His harsh breath hit her full in the face. Edie figured he had a good hundred pounds on her.

Unable to move, barely able to breathe, she mutely stared at her assailant.

She had only two choices: submit or fight. Either way, when all was said and done, she figured she’d end up dead.

At that thought, Edie heard a buzzing in her ears, the rapist-cum-murderer’s rough unshaven face blurring at the edges.

Submit,
a voice in her head ordered.

Her mind made up, Edie clenched her jaw and stared at the ceiling.

Finagling his hand between their hips, the monster unbuttoned his pants. In the same instant his cell phone vibrated; Edie could feel the pulse against her bare hip.

“Fucking shit.”

Removing his hand from between their two bodies, he reached for the vibrating phone clipped to his waistband. “Not a word,” he warned, supporting himself on his elbows.

Relieved to have some of his weight removed, Edie obediently nodded.

“Braxton. Yes, sir, I got her.” He frowned, his brows drawing together in the middle. “No, sir, she’s all right . . . yes, sir . . . I’ll have her there in fifteen minutes.”

Disconnecting the call, he snapped his cell phone shut and reclipped it on his waistband. Muttering some of the most foul-mouthed profanities she’d ever heard, he pushed himself to his knees, clamping a hand around her upper arm as he did so. With no explanation as to what he was doing, or why he was doing it, he pulled her off the bed.

Edie had no idea who had been on the other end of the line. And she didn’t much care. She only knew that she’d been given a reprieve.

His hand still wrapped around her upper arm, he dragged her over to the mantel, retrieving his gun. He then shoved her through the open bathroom door.

“Get dressed,” he ordered, gesturing to the messy pile of clothes on the toilet seat.

Bending at the waist, Edie picked up her discarded bra. “Can I at least dry off? I’m still wet.”

“Bitch, do I look like I care?”

Without a doubt, he’d been a pompous ass.

Ashamed of his earlier actions, Caedmon hoped that a heartfelt apology would smooth the rough waters. If it didn’t, he would woo Edie with Parsi lamb and cardamom pudding.

He glanced at the brown takeaway bag clutched in his hand, hoping the peace offering would lead to improved relations. And that improved relations led to something decidedly more intimate. More romantic.

As he climbed the well-worn treads that led to their garret room, he wondered if the day would ever come when he could make a full confession. When he could freely and openly tell Edie about the pain of love lost, of vengeance sought and claimed, of the eventual emergence from an alcohol-induced fog. He thought that because of her own travails, she would understand. Maybe even forgive.

“And a warm, fuzzy hug would be nice, too,” he said aloud, chortling.

Still laughing as he reached the top of the stairs, the chuckle caught in his throat.

The door to their room had been left ajar.

Afraid of what he would find on the other side of the door, he slowly pushed it all the way open, entering the room. At a glance, he could see that a violent ruckus had taken place. Almost immediately his gaze landed on the large dark spot that stained the tousled coverlet. Setting the brown bag on the dresser, he walked over to the bed. His heart painfully thudding against his chest, he placed his hand on the wet spot, then breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t blood.

Edie Miller was still alive.

Not as well as she could be, but most definitely alive.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spied the Virgin Air bag on the floor next to the bed, upended, emptied of its contents. He next surveyed the room, searching for a ransom note.

There was none. He didn’t need a scrawled scrap of paper to know Edie had been kidnapped because they wanted him.

Stunned by the well-executed abduction, he went into the bathroom, heading straight for the sink. Turning on the cold water tap, he rinsed his face.

He knew the drill: wait until further instruction. Eventually, he would be contacted. If their plan had been to kill Edie, they would have left her corpse behind as a warning. But there was no sprawled, blood-splattered body. Her abduction was simply a means to an end.

He reached for the neatly folded bath towel and dried his face.

Taking deep, measured breaths, he walked back to the bedroom. Again, he inspected the premises, searching for anything that could be used as a weapon. When the time came to confront his foes, he didn’t want to stand before them defenseless. His gaze alighted on the upholstered chair. The chair where Edie had earlier sat, filing a broken nail.

Having no recollection of her returning the file to the Virgin Air bag, he walked over to the chair. The file not being in plain view, he slid his hand around the chair cushion. Frustrated when he came up empty-handed, he removed the cushion from the chair.

There, betwixt two stale chips and a piece of hard candy, dully gleaming in the lamplight, was the nail file. Though it was hardly a well-honed broadsword, it would have to do.

He replaced the chair cushion.

Bloody hell, but he wanted a drink. Needed a drink to—

And a burning desire to save the woman he’d come to think of as his own.

Lowering himself into the lumpy Marquise chair, he inhaled the exotic scents of cardamom and cumin mingled with that of lemon-scented water.

“I mean you no harm,” Stanford MacFarlane said as he ushered her into the room.

Edie snorted, the memory of her near rape all too vivid. “Yeah, and British beef is safe to eat.”

As she spoke, she glanced around her prison, taking in what appeared to be an old millhouse, the metal cogs and wheels of the original machinery still in place on the other side of the room. She could hear water running beneath the floorboards and figured the millhouse was located on a stream or brook.

Next she turned her gaze to the man standing across from her. She gauged Stanford MacFarlane to be in his mid- to late fifties, the graying buzz cut with the sharply defined widow’s peak being the dead giveaway. At one time he was probably handsome, but years spent in the sun had turned age lines into deeply incised creases, giving him a stern, gnomelike visage. A man of medium height, he had an erect military posture, with an air of command that bordered on the egomaniacal. She figured that right about the time he started to toddle, folks got out the garlic when they saw him coming.

“Just answer me this . . . what are you going to do if you actually get your hands on the Ark?”

“That’s between me and the Almighty,” MacFarlane r eplied.

“What if the Ark of the Covenant turns out to be nothing more than a gold-plated box?”

MacFarlane smiled. “And God said to Moses, ‘Let them make me a sanctuary, that I may dwell among them.’”

Realizing that he considered the Ark some kind of God box, Edie decided to try a different approach. “There’s no question in my mind that you’re a God-fearing man. Which means that we have a lot in common. You may not know this, but I go to church every Sunday and . . . well, I don’t have to tell you what the Bible says about mercy and compassion. ‘Blessed are those who are pure in heart: for they shall see God,’” she recited, tossing out a Bible verse of her own, figuring the only way to fight fire was with more of the same.

Hearing that, MacFarlane’s gaze narrowed. “Like many of your ilk, you’ve hijacked the Bible in order to put forth your left-wing, feel-good agenda. The carjacker will not steal your vehicle if you show some compassion. Nor will the killer pull the trigger as he is an intrinsically good man.”

And the rapist will not brutalize his victim if shown loving-kindness.
Yeah, right.