To the Brink (31 page)

Charles hated the fucking press. Jackals
and scavengers. That's all they were. And every one of them was trying to pick his bones clean as he walked from the complex to his waiting car.

"When we have more information," he said smoothly, addressing the half a dozen or so reporters swarming him, "we will notify you."

He didn't give a fuck if they couldn't hear him above the questions the members of the foreign press corps shot at him like bullets.

He paused before climbing into the backseat of the limo. "In the meantime, rest assured, we are doing everything in our power to locate Ms. Prescott. I have every confidence that she'll be found hail and hearty. Now, please excuse me. I have a meeting and I'm already late."

He smiled his best ambassadorial smile, waved magnanimously, and ducked into the limo.

"Fuckers," he muttered under his breath as the car sped down the street.

They just wouldn't let it die. All right. Fine. It stood to reason that when a U.S. Embassy employee went missing it would cause a stir—even on the international level. And yes, as the U.S. Ambassador to the Philippines he was bound to be the one they'd turn to for answers.

But this fuss had better, by God, die down soon. Hell. It would have already been as dead as Darcy Prescott if that nosy desk clerk at the Garden Orchid Hotel in Zamboanga hadn't blabbed to anyone who would listen about the beautiful young American who had disappeared from his hotel.

Even worse, the loudmouth was circulating the report that her room had been ransacked after she'd turned up missing.

Bumbling fools. Charles worked his neck beneath his shirt collar, tugged on his tie to loosen it. That's all he had to work with. Bumbling fools. Yes, he'd instructed Legaspi to have his people search for the missing tape, but he'd expected a little finesse for chrissake.

He reached into his breast pocket when his cell phone rang.

"Gatlin."

A red-hot rage boiled through him as he listened to his connection in the Philippine government, Santillan Legaspi, tell him that Darcy Prescott was alive. Not only alive, she'd been rescued and flown off Jolo.

Charles closed his eyes. Felt his heart expand in his chest. Felt a need to hurt someone.

"How did this happen?"

Rage built to a fever pitch as he listened to excuses about how a handful of what appeared to be American commandos managed to snatch Darcy Prescott away from a bloodthirsty band of terrorists—who were on his payroll, he might add—
and
a company of Philippine army infantry.

"Who knows about this?" he asked, amazed at the calm in his voice when he felt like all of his blood vessels were about to explode.

Okay,
he thought when he'd heard the worst. Only the military knew. And they were currently too embarrassed to release the story since it appeared that one of their own helicopters had been stolen out from under their nose and used in the rescue.

"See to it that it stays quiet. No one else is to know about this, understood? I don't care how much money it takes to buy their silence, no one is to know. Just goddamn take care of it!

"I'll talk to you any way I want to, you colossal fuckup! Christ—our entire operation could be in jeopardy because of you! This was your plan! Your decision! Well, I'm making the calls now and so help me, if you screw this up again, Legaspi, you're a dead man."

He had to consciously settle himself down. He drew a deep breath. Then another. "Now find her. I don't care how you do it."

He dragged a hand across his face. "Jesus. Do I have to do everything? Figure it out yourself. She's got to have family. Friends. Someplace she would feel safe. See if there's a boyfriend. Connections to people who would know how to pull off a rescue like that. Just find her! And find that tape. She cannot be allowed to make it public."

Both men knew far too well the far-reaching repercussions if the information on that tape got out.

Charles snapped the phone shut. Felt sweat roll like oil from his forehead.

And knew he'd have a stroke or a heart attack if he didn't get himself under control. He reached into the side compartment of his briefcase with a trembling hand. Uncapped the engraved silver flask he carried there.

Two deep hits settled his hands. The third finally slowed his heart.

He stared straight ahead as tears stung his eyes. Why had he made that tape in the first place? Because he'd wanted some leverage over Amad, that's why. The weasel was always making noises about backing out of the deal. Well, Amad couldn't go anywhere with the incriminating tape as a bargaining chip.

Only you don't have the damn tape, do you?

Darcy Prescott had it and now he was up shit-creek. What in the hell was he going to do?

Okay. First things first. He would not, could not, panic. There was still time. Darcy Prescott was a smart woman. She had to know by now that her kidnapping was no random, run-of-the-mill terrorist attempt to extort money. That meant she knew she was as good as dead if she opened her mouth to the wrong person about that tape.

No, he thought, breathing his first breath of relief since his cell phone rang. She wouldn't talk. Not yet. Not until she found someone she could trust with the information. And that might take her a while.

He swore under his breath. Careless. He'd been so stupidly careless when he'd given the tape to Amanda Stover by mistake. One stupid, uncalculated misstep after years of dodging potholes and pitfalls and he'd fallen into the biggest hole of all.

He'd gotten too greedy. And that had made him stupid.

Amanda Stover had had to die of course. After he'd discovered that he still had the tape containing the weekly staffing he'd given to his secretary to transcribe, he'd realized his mistake. Instead of the staffing tape, he'd given her the tape he'd made of his conversation with Amad about their latest deal.

The one that was supposed to be his insurance. Christ. Some insurance. If the contents of that tape got out, he was a dead man.

He felt cold now. Through the sweat, he felt cold.

The blonde, Amanda, whom he'd handpicked because she
was
blond and appeared to have the intellect most of the free world associated with blondes with breasts, had been smarter than he'd thought. Smart enough, evidently, to pass the tape on to someone who would know what to do with it. Not smart enough to keep herself alive, though.

Well, Darcy Prescott didn't have what it took to outsmart him, either. No one did.

When they found her—and they would—he wouldn't rely on Legaspi and his derelict goons to get the job done this time.

He had connections all over the globe. Had lined enough pockets forging his alliances to fill the Taj Mahal. If he went down, so would several others. And they'd all go up in flames with him.

So, yes, wherever Darcy Prescott was hiding, they would find her. Find the tape. He would see to it that she turned up dead this time.

And life, as he enjoyed it, would get back to normal.

WEST PALM BEACH, FLORIDA

PRESENT

"Thank you," Darcy said as she let the nurse out of Ethan's town house in West Palm. "We really appreciate this."

"Just doing my job." Gina Cleveland, the private nurse Darin Kincaid had hired to care for Ethan, was tidy and tanned in her white pants and navy blue tunic top. "Call now, if you run into problems, but I really don't expect to hear from you. He's doing just fine."

Darcy closed the door behind Gina. On a weary sigh, Darcy leaned back against it, looked toward Ethan's bedroom—and, against all odds, felt like crying.

She pushed away from the door with a self-effacing shake of her head. "
Now
you feel like bawling. When the worst is behind you."

She was safe—at least for the time being. Ethan was recovering as everyone had promised her he would. With an open invitation from the Garretts to join E.D.E.N. anytime he grew weary of the Boston P.D., Manny had headed back to his job. Nolan was back with his pregnant wife, and Dallas... well, Dallas seemed to be clocking a lot of time playing guardian angel over Amy, who was resting at Jillian and Nolan's, where Jillian had insisted she stay until the Kincaid family physician declared her recovered. From all indications, Amy was resting comfortably after brief treatment in the hospital where Nolan and Dallas had taken her shortly after they'd set down.

That had been twenty-four hours ago.

Like every other day since this nightmare started nine days ago, the last day had also gone by in a blur. This morning, Darcy felt as if everything they'd been through was catching up with her.

Raking a hand through her hair, she walked into Ethan's kitchen—a neat and spotless, almost sterile space done in stainless steel and commercial appliances. She poured herself a cup of coffee.

Moving to the set of sliders, she slid one open and walked out onto a balcony furnished with serviceable white patio chairs, a small glass and chrome table, and little else. Like the kitchen and the rest of Ethan's town house, it was very male, very stark. Like the man, it was acutely efficient.

"If you squint and use a little imagination, you can occasionally see a mast on a sailboat slipping along the Intracoastal. At least that's what the realtor said. Seemed to place a lot of stock in that as a selling point."

Darcy didn't turn around at the sound of Ethan's voice. Didn't bother to ask what he was doing out of bed. She'd only get the same answer he'd given her the last four times she'd fussed: "I'm not sick."

No. He wasn't sick. He was only recovering from a gunshot wound that had required ten stitches, a regimen of injected antibiotics, and two additional pints of blood.

The doctors said that if they hadn't made it back when they had, Ethan could have lost his leg. He could have died.

She forced herself to not think about what could have happened to him. She sipped her coffee instead, enjoyed the warmth of the midmorning sun against her face and the sweetness of a mild breeze that carried the faintest scent of the ocean.

At least she would have enjoyed it if she hadn't been so aware of Ethan limping up behind her. And if she hadn't felt so entangled in the domesticity of it all— waking up in the same house, sleeping under the same roof.

That was the hard part. In the three short years they'd been married, their opportunities to share morning coffee together had been precious and few. Each one was an indelible memory. It would be easy, so easy, to weave present and past together and make the grave mistake of confusing them with now. Then, they had been married. Then, love had been enough.

Now ... well, Darcy was very confused about now.

And she couldn't afford to be. She had to figure out where she went from here. Something much more important than just
her
life hung in the balance.

"I'd take a cup of that."

She looked over her shoulder, watched as Ethan eased himself into a patio chair.

He was wearing only a pair of loose-fitting tan cargo shorts. And God, he looked incredible. Stronger. Not yet fully recovered but definitely recovering and yes, she admitted, if it weren't for the fatigue that still claimed him and his limp, it would be hard to imagine what he'd gone through.

His abs were fiat, his chest broad, his face—no longer pale and strained—clean-shaven. His blue eyes were clear and void of pain. His dark hair fell around his face. If he'd combed it, he'd used his fingers—and the effect was stunning.

"Um, Darcy? I'd take a cup of coffee... if it's no bother," he added, making Darcy realize she'd been staring.

Disgusted with herself for losing her focus, she dragged her gaze away.