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Welcome to the real world.
The sound of a car in the drive brought her out of her reverie. Trent! Annoyed at the quick spark of anticipation in her pulse, she strode to the front door, intent on greeting him in person and giving him a healthy piece
of her mind.
“Where the devil have you been?” she demanded, jerking the door open.
Standing on the front porch, his eyes a brittle blue, his expression a mirror of her own surprise, was Senator James Thaddeus Crowley.
Her insides shredded. “Oh,” she whispered.
Crowley leaned heavily on his cane and his face was lined and weathered. A man stood next to him, one step back, and as Nikki’s gaze moved to his face, her stomach clenched. She faced her own death. This tall man with the short-clipped black hair, feral eyes and long nose was the man who had been chasing her, the man whose swift steps had followed her through the steamy undergrowth of the jungle on Salvaje. In a blast of memory, she recognized him as the man who had placed his meaty hand on her shoulder and given her a shove. Oh, God!
“Miss Carrothers,” the senator said smoothly, recovering as she began to sweat. “Well, well, what do you know? First on the island and now back here.”
“What do you want?” Danger sizzled in the air around them and she looked for a chance of escape, but the two men blocked her way to her convertible and the senator’s silver Mercedes was parked nearly on her car’s bumper. No way out.
“I’m looking for McKenzie.” Crowley’s frigid eyes narrowed a fraction. “Your husband? Or is that just an ugly rumor?”
“He’s not here right now,” she said, trying vainly to calm the racing beat of her heart. Her fingers were slick with sweat where she still touched the edge of the door.
“No?” Crowley slid a grin of pure evil to his compatriot and said something in Spanish that caused Nikki’s skin to crawl. She didn’t understand the language, but the meaning was clear and deadly. She slammed the door shut, threw the deadbolt and tried to remember where all the doors in the house were. Oh, God, she couldn’t. She didn’t know how many entrances there were, how many ways a murderer could get into the house.
Trapped. Fear brought a metal taste to the back of her throat. Barely able to breathe, she ran to the bedroom, found the phone and dialed. “Please help me,” she whispered as the dispatcher answered. “My life’s in danger and—” She saw the face of Crowley’s goon in the window and dropped the phone, running to the far end of the house. She heard a door creak open and her heart plummeted. She hadn’t locked the kitchen door behind her.
It was only a matter of time until he tracked her down.
Fear, like ice, seemed to clog her blood and keep her feet from moving, but she forced herself to run. She found the door to the basement, left it open and quietly ran up the stairs to the second floor. On the landing she waited, her heart thudding loudly, her blood thundering in her ears. Holding her breath, waiting for her doom, she heard him. Inside. Walking like a predatory cat.
Trent, where are you?
She heard the steps creak and the door to the basement bang open farther.
She moved quickly, silently, diving into the first room she found. A bedroom with twin bunks and a window. Without thinking, she threw open the sash and stepped onto a shingled roof that was pitched gently. On her rump, she slid down the shakes, catching herself on the gutter. She had no choice but to jump. Wrapping her fingers on the sharp metal near a downspout, she lowered her body, heard the gutter groan in protest and dropped, landing in a crouch. She had no plan of escape, only hoped that she could run to a neighbor’s house. But the neighbors on this stretch of the lake were few and far between, separated by dense forest or a long stretch of water.
Sprinting across the backyard, she raced into the thick shrubbery that rimmed the lake. In the distance she heard a car’s engine roar to life and she thought that the senator had only been bluffing, that he was leaving. Through the leaves she saw the flash of silver. His Mercedes. Thank God. But her relief was short-lived. In the upstairs window of the house, the very window she’d opened, she spied the henchman, his face set in an ugly anger, his eyes searching the grounds.
“God help me,” she whispered silently, realizing that Diamond Jim had left this cruel man to do his work. He’d make tracks, be far from the scene when her next accident occured. Heart in her throat, she concentrated. Think, Nikki, think! Use that damned brain of yours!
She couldn’t risk running to the front of the house. From his eagle’s-nest view, the would-be assassin could see her. Her only chance was the forest. Surely she could make her way through the thicket to the next house.
Running quickly, shoving aside branches and berry vines, she plowed through the undergrowth. Dry leaves and cobwebs clung to her face, vines and sticks tripped her.
She heard a shout in Spanish and her heart turned to mush. He’d seen her! Run, Nikki, run for your life!
A limb behind her snapped. Oh, God. He was closing the distance. Her heart was beating like machine-gun fire. Run! Run! Run! Her legs couldn’t move fast enough.
Déjà vu! This is how she’d felt in Salvaje and in her nightmares. Running, running, being chased by the evil. Footsteps pounded behind her. Closer. Closer. “Please, God, help me!” Her lungs felt ready to explode.
A gunshot cracked and she stumbled, scraping her knees and scrambling back to her feet.
She broke through the thicket and found herself on the edge of the cliff, looking down at the lake, far, far below. “No!” she cried as the footsteps plowed closer.
In terror, she looked over her shoulder and saw her attacker, large and looming, his face, cut by twigs and thorns, twisted into a hideous snarl.
“Now you will not escape,” he said, smiling and breathing hard.
Nikki stepped backward, felt her feet teeter and shifted her weight.
