Body Contact (3 page)

“Does that mean we can't bring a transmitter? If we can't call for help, what are our plans for getting off the island? Do we have to steal a boat?”

“I've weighed the risks and the advantages. I think we can get away with communications equipment if we hide it in your makeup kit.”

She swallowed. So she was the one who'd be caught red-handed if anything went wrong. All she said was, “Okay.”

“And of course, there's no way we can send a long message. We'd be detected. It will have to be a spurt.”

“I'm not going to pretend I know what a spurt is,” she snapped.

“It's a compressed transmission, sent in a quick burst of characters. That way, the enemy can't get a fix on the radio's location.”

She nodded.
The enemy,
she thought.
Yes, Reynard was the enemy all right.

Jack was pointing toward a group of buildings set on paths that wound through landscaped grounds.

“Some of the guests stay in these villas. If things work out right, we'll be assigned to one.”

“Better for a quick getaway?” she asked.

“That. And they're an indication of status. Only the highest-ranking guests get them. By the way,” he went on, “I've picked names for us. I'm going to be Jack Craig. You'll be Maddy Griffin. Get used to it.”

“I will.” She paused. “But isn't he going to know they are false identities? Won't he do background research on us—the same way we're doing research on him. I mean, I can't believe he's not very careful about who comes to his private little country.”

“He's very careful. But I've set it up so that we should check out. First, remember that Jack Craig would go to enormous lengths to hide his personal business from the world. But I've gotten some little tidbits salted into the databases he's likely to use for background checks. And I've arranged for a couple of key informants to back up the Jack Craig alias.”

Maddy opened her mouth to ask for details when a knock sounded at the door.

Jack straightened and called out, “Come in.”

A waiter in black slacks and a starched white coat wheeled in a cart with covered dishes.

“Would you like me to serve the meal, ma'am?” the man asked her.

Before she could answer, Jack spoke up. “We can do it ourselves. Thank you very much.”

As soon as the man had left, he turned back to Maddy. “I'd like you to change for dinner.”

“I'm comfortable like this.”

“I want you to get comfortable with some of the other clothing you'll be wearing on the island, outfits drug lord
Jack Craig would have chosen to show off your charms.” Crossing to the closet, he opened the door and began sliding hangers along the pole as he inspected evening wear. Finally he pulled out a turquoise, sleeveless chiffon knee-length gown with a plunging draped back. Matching sling-back pumps and a pair of ivory panty hose were in a heavy plastic bag attached to the hanger.

“I'd like to see you in this.”

The tone of voice was the one he'd used earlier when he'd been ordering her to strip for him, and it set off a frisson along her nerve endings. Appalled at her reaction, she called up a touch of anger. Anger at his arrogance. And anger because she hated admitting he was right. Getting comfortable in this clothing was essential. So she snatched the gown away from him and headed for the bathroom down the hall.

“Lose the bra,” he called after her.

Biting back an angry retort, she slammed the bathroom door behind her. After pulling off her blouse and slacks, she hesitated for a moment. Then she unhooked her bra and laid it on top of the discarded clothing.

Slipping into the dress, she closed the zipper and adjusted the bodice. The color was perfect for her, but the fabric clung to her breasts, clearly showing the outline of her nipples. She thought about disobeying orders and putting the bra back on. But that was out of the question, she decided as she turned and looked over her shoulder in the mirror. The back plunged so low that the band would surely show.

At least the skirt had a fair amount of softly draped fabric so that it swirled around her legs rather than hugging them.

Quickly she pulled on the panty hose and the sling-backs. They added three inches to her height—putting her
on a more equal footing with Mr. Cool. If she didn't trip and fall on her face!

She rarely wore shoes this ridiculous. Practicing was definitely a good idea.

Turning again, she studied herself in the mirror. She hadn't bothered to put on any makeup after her shower, and suddenly it seemed as if she wasn't doing the dress justice. Determined to make an impression on the man awaiting her return, she yanked open a drawer and pulled out the makeup kit that she'd seen earlier.

It appeared the colors had been chosen for her. Quickly she brushed on two tones of eye shadow, then applied liner and mascara.

After smoothing on foundation and blusher, she started outlining her lips. When she'd filled in the outline with a lighter color, she stood back to inspect the effect. Like the high heels, the coating of war paint was far from her standard choice. But she'd attended enough formal affairs to know how to turn herself out to advantage. And she was pleased with the results. As a final touch, she undid the pin at the back of her neck and brushed out her hair so that it floated around her face.

“What took you so long?” Jack demanded when she sauntered back down the hall to the meeting room. Or as much of a saunter as she could manage with those heels.

“These things take time,” she murmured.

He looked up, and she had the satisfaction of seeing his eyes flash with green fire before he recovered himself.

“Will this do?” she asked in a silky voice.

“Yes,” he clipped out, uncovered one of the plates from the cart and slammed it onto the table. He managed to transfer the second one more gently.

In her absence he'd spread a white cloth, set out the napkins and cutlery, and poured water into long-stemmed glasses. She noted with a tinge of surprise that he'd gotten
everything in the right places—a feat which her own father had never been able to manage. When Spike Guthrie had set a table, it had looked like the knives, spoons and forks had clattered down from the ceiling—either because he was protesting doing women's work or he really didn't know their proper placement. She'd never determined which.

So Jack Connors—or Jack Craig—was more civilized than he looked. Well, at least he knew the amenities of table service. She might have asked if he'd been a waiter at some time in his career. But she decided not to press her luck. So she simply pulled out her chair and sat down.

 

O
LIVER
R
EYNARD SWIRLED
amber cognac in his glass, then took an appreciative sip. Leaning back in his favorite leather chair, he thumbed through the various lists that had been prepared by the heads of his departments. The executive chef. The head gardener. The recreation director. The ordnance officer.

He was having one of his magnifique parties in a few days, and no detail was too small to escape his notice.

The food, the assignment of the guest rooms, the number of uniformed guards and extra personnel in the public areas. The newly enhanced check-in procedures at the customs area.

He set down his glass on the marble-topped antique table, then picked up his gold pen and jotted a notation on one of the menus. “More tropical fruit at the opening reception.”

Then he flipped to the list of housing assignments to see how his maintenance staff was coming with the video and sound recording equipment. He wanted it in perfect working order in every guest room. With double backup systems. Better safe than sorry. If one of his guests was
planning to stab him in the back, he wanted to know about it quickly so the threat could be neutralized.

It paid to be thorough. His father had forgotten that little fact. And the omission had gotten him killed.

Oliver was determined that nothing of the sort would happen to him. He was planning to live out a long and satisfying life on this private island domain that he'd purchased twenty years ago with money he'd set aside from his inheritance.

Thinking about his father made his features contort.

The old man had been a legitimate businessman. In the outside world, he had earned a reputation for respectability.

But at home, and within his own company, he'd been a tyrant. Lording it over everyone under him. Making rules just for the fun of tripping people up.

Especially his only son.

But Oliver had turned the tables on his father very nicely. He'd dumped enough sugar into the fuel line of his private plane to make it crash off the Atlantic coast. Now he was the one in charge—making the rules. Making everyone who lived on Orchid Island or who came here as his guests conform to his policies.

His other goals were showing visitors from the mainland that they could have a better time here than anywhere else on earth, showing them how well he lived, and showing them that he was lord and master of this island.

He loved those aspects of the parties. The control. The aura of excitement. The undertone of sexuality that his male guests found so stimulating. Some of his most lucrative business deals had been made with men who were thinking with their cocks instead of their brains. He loved using sex to confuse the issues and manipulate powerful men.

And he loved inviting new people to his lair from time to time.

Like Jack Craig and a couple of others in the party. Craig was something of an anomaly, of course. He'd sent word through an acquaintance less than a week ago that he'd like to come down to the Island to discuss a very lucrative deal.

Oliver had given his okay to have Craig included. But he was still in the process of having the man investigated. And if he didn't check out, Craig and his companion wouldn't be coming home with the rest of the merrymakers.

He turned back to his lists, noting the security arrangements at the Dark Tower, where his very special guest was being held.

Stan Winston's daughter. Winston's most prized possession. Oliver had a long memory for wrongs done him in the past. And he'd been waiting for the chance to pay Winston back for screwing him out of several important manufacturing deals—deals that would have channeled a great deal of money into legitimate enterprises.

So when the opportunity to snatch the girl had come up, he'd leaped on it. But the party later in the week meant that he'd have to put any decisions about her on hold.

Maybe he'd even return her to Winston only slightly the worse for wear—if Winston came up with the right price. He was still thinking about what he wanted. Not money. Some terms that would humiliate the man, put him in Oliver Reynard's debt. But that was only one interesting possibility. It might be more satisfying to return her in a coffin, and demonstrate that he had absolute power over Winston's life.

 

T
HE STEAK WAS GOOD
—broiled just the way Maddy liked it. The baked potatoes excellent, not steamed in foil but
delicate and fluffy so that they mixed perfectly with the sour cream, chives and bacon bits that were provided as garnishes.

“Winston Industries knows how to cook,” Jack commented as he cut off another piece of tender, juicy steak.

“Only the best for Stan Winston.”

The comment came from the man himself. He was standing in the doorway, looking like an earthquake victim. His hair was uncombed. His clothes might have been slept in for the past month. And the lines in his face had deepened to furrowed channels.

“Mr. Winston,” Maddy murmured. “Come join us. I'm sure the kitchen can send up something for you.”

“Thanks, but I'm not hungry.”

He pulled out a chair at the table and sat down.

Maddy nodded. Despite her invitation, it was impossible for her to talk to the man, to be in the same room with him without feeling guilty.

The dinner that had seemed so appealing a few minutes ago might as well have turned to library paste.

“Don't let me interrupt you,” Winston said. “I was just wondering how your plans are going.”

“We've been establishing the personas we're going to project for Reynard,” Jack said. He had also put down his knife and fork. “And I've obtained detailed aerial photos of the island.”

“Let me see them,” Winston said eagerly.

The dinner forgotten, Maddy jumped up and brought the pictures, self-conscious in the revealing dress. But Stan barely glanced at her.

Jack stood too, coming over to point out the features he'd shown Maddy.

“Where do you think the bastard is holding Dawn?” Winston asked.

“Anything I tell you now can only be a guess,” Jack
answered. “He could have her in the main house. Or somewhere else on the island.”

The distraught father took the news badly. “This is all my fault,” he whispered.

“No! How can you say that?” Maddy asked.

He turned his face toward her. “I know you're still blaming yourself—even after I told you that was nonsense. I've been working up the guts to explain what was really in that girl's head.”

“You can't know her thoughts,” Maddy protested.

“I can make an educated guess. What happened was that Dawn blames me for her mother's death last year. Jill and I had had a fight the night she died. And she was angry when she got into her sports car. That's why she was driving too fast and missed the turn on Thunder Road.” He heaved a sigh. “Since then, Dawn has barely spoken to me. And I've been so afraid that something would happen to her, too, that I've kept her under virtual house arrest. That's why she planned her escape. To get away from me. Now both of us are paying the price—I mean you and me. We both think it's our fault. Only I'm the one responsible. Not you.”

Maddy's heart ached for the man. “We'll get her back,” she murmured.