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As soon as the door closed behind her, she ran, hand over her mouth, and barreled into something as unyielding as a brick wall.
It proved to be Mr. Big. He grabbed her shoulders.
“Please,” she gasped out, from behind her hand, before he could start scolding her. “I’m going to throw up. Right now.Please.”
He swung his arm around her shoulders and scooped her along in his wake, hustling her out onto a side deck.
Just in time. She hung over the railing, vomiting up her very soul, along with the half sandwich and coffee Mr. Big had insisted that she choke down earlier.
She dangled there, slung over the railing like a forgotten rag doll, spitting out the bitter strings of snot and bile. Eyes streaming, nose bubbling, bare ass hanging out for anyone to see. Not that she cared.
A big, warm hand on her shoulder made her jump. It was just Mr. Big again, shoving a wet linen napkin into her hand. She cleaned her face. “I c-c-can’t go back in there,” she stammered. “I’m too scared.”
“You have to.” His face was resolute, hard as stone.
She pressed the wet rag against her shaking mouth and tried to suck enough air into her lungs to speak, to make him get it. “You don’t understand,” she gasped out. “He keeps putting his hand between my legs. I think they want—that they’re going to—”
“Becca.” He gripped her shoulders. “I am trying to help you.” He enunciated each word so that they punched into her head. “But the timing’s not right yet. You have to go back. I need…more…time.”
Vibrating with fear, she didn’t fight back.
“Do you want to live?” he hissed.
She stared into his eyes. She mouthed one soundless word.Yes.
“Then buy me more time. Serve the fruit, the coffee, the dessert. Stay sharp. Keep your eyes open. Be ready for anything. And whatever you see me do, don’t scream. Got that?”
He waited a few seconds, and gave her shoulders a tooth-rattling shake. “Got that?” he hissed.
“Got it.” The words came out in a halting whisper.
He snatched the wet napkin out of her hand, and swiped it roughly over her face, beneath her eyes. She felt like a bewildered kitten being groomed, knocked and battered around by its mother’s tongue.
He pushed back the hair that clung to her damp face, spun her around and gave her a push towards the door. “Get on with it.”
She shuffled like a robot to the kitchen to collect the fruit and crème. Her mind looped and spun around like a carnival ride, struggling to derive hope from what he’d said. Trying to help her? That was good, as far as it went. Buy him time? Did he mean by letting those men have sex with her? She stumbled down the corridor, tried to picture it.
Could she…? To save her own life?
No.
She pushed open the door, let the emergency generator kick into action. Smile, smile, smile. Her heartbeat was deafening in her head.
Becca began serving the fruit plate with practiced grace, the fan of pineapple here, gleaming strawberries there, the fleshy strips of mango, the pyramid of raspberries. She drizzled crème over the berries, letting some puddle to the side. A subtle turn of her serving spoon mixed berry syrup into the puddle, creating a delicate butterfly-shaped swirl.
Voices booming, fading, swelling in volume again. “…structure is completely outfitted with state-of-the-art equipment, and the waiting list is already growing. I’ll conduct one last round of testing before we—”
“We can talk business onboard,” the Spider cut him off.
His guest’s eyebrows rose. “I beg your pardon?”
The Spider slanted his eyes meaningfully toward Becca and back to his guest. “I wish to avoid electronic eavesdropping. My boat is under constant guard. We’ll go out a hundred meters from the shore, and discuss the practical details there.”
“Ah. As you wish,” the man replied doubtfully.
“Focus upon pleasure, rather than business,” the Spider invited, as his hand slid up Becca’s thigh, his fingers digging into her groin.
Becca’s hands jerked. A strawberry fell, bounced off the Spider’s powdered-sugar-dusted plate and onto the table, leaving an unsightly streak that stained the linen with a smear that looked horribly like—
