License to Thrill Page 21

  Just as she turned her head, one of the muscle-bound thugs tumbled frome the car, slapped one hand around her waist and the other around her mouth, and then pulled her into the backseat.

  Before Mason could react, the door slammed and the Malibu sped away.

  “Oww!” the thick-necked goon cried as Charlee sank her top teeth into the base of his thumb. “Stop that.”

  “Get your hands off me, you big ape.” She fought him but he held her tight against his lap.

  “You’re feisty,” he said. “I like that.”

  She elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

  “Oww! Sal, make her stop hurting me.”

  The guy behind the wheel raised a handgun and pointed it over the seat at her. “Behave.”

  Charlee settled down. Not because she was afraid of them—if she had a dollar for every time someone had pointed a gun at her she would be on vacation in the Caymans right now instead of stuck here with these two—but because she could think better if she wasn’t having to battle Mr. Personality here.

  “Who are you guys?” she demanded. “And where are you taking me?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” grunted Sal the driver who thankfully lowered his gun and returned his eyes to the road. “Shit! Look at the freeway. It’s backed up for miles.”

  “Take PCI.”

  “I can’t turn around now.”

  “Well, take the next exit.”

  “We’re gonna be stuck in traffic for hours,” Sal complained.

  The thug beside her had retrieved his handgun from his shoulder holster and held the nose of the thirty-eight pressed against her ribs. Charlee sighed and longed for her own gun.

  “Who do you work for?” she asked him.

  “None of your business.”

  “Why have you been following us since Vegas?”

  He just grunted.

  “You’re the guy who shot through my grandmother’s window, aren’t you?”

  “So what if I was?” he asked petulantly.

  “Don’t tell her anything,” Sal commented.

  “Did you ransack the trailer too? I saw your car at my grandmother’s place.”

  “She had something we wanted.”

  “What?” Charlee demanded. “What’s this all about?”

  “Shut up.” He prodded her with the gun.

  “Were you the ones who set my father’s apartment on fire? What was that about?”

  “That wasn’t us. We didn’t start the fire. We were just looking for your old man.”

  “I said not to tell her anything,” Sal snapped. “Are you listening?”

  “He’s right. Shut up.” The other man dug the gun deeper into her side.

  “Where are we going?” Charlee asked, figuring if she threw enough questions his way he’d answer some of them eventually.

  “You don’t take orders too good, do you?”

  “Not from cretins who didn’t finish high school.”

  “Hey! I got a GED, it’s the same thing,” the man beside her protested.

  “Sure, go ahead, delude yourself,” Charlee said.

  “It is.” He glared.

  “Petey, she’s giggin’ you, man, don’t fall for it,” the driver said. “Just gag her and tie her up and be done with it.”

  Petey frowned. “You really think a GED isn’t as good as a high school diploma?”

  Frankly Charlee had no personal prejudice about anyone’s level of education but Petey obviously had a problem with his credentials.

  “Well, you did end up as hired muscle,” she pointed out “Probably wouldn’t have happened if you had stayed in school. Who knows? You might even be running your very own Subway sandwich shop today if you had just gotten that diploma.”

  So much for her smart mouth, Charlee decided five minutes later when they hadn’t budged two feet in wall-to-wall traffic and she was trussed up with more tape than a Miss America contestant in the swimsuit competition and lying facedown on the seat.

  On the up side, she hadn’t thought about Mason in good ten minutes.

  Mason.

  Ah, hell, why had she thought about him?

  “Hey,” Petey said. “Don’t cry. We’re not going to kill you, I promise.”

  Tears rolled down her face.

  “Come on now.” Petey patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. “It’s going to be okay.”

  She must look pretty bad if her kidnapper was trying to console her. That made her cry all the harder. Damn Mason Gentry.

  And just like that, all the fight left her. What did it matter if Sal and Petey did kill her? At least she’d be out of her misery.

  Mason sped down the Pacific Coast Highway in the rental car he’d commandeered from a disgruntled Daphne. By some miracle, the Malibu had gotten stuck in a traffic jam and he’d managed to catch up with them. But he only saw the two men in the car.

  What had they done with Charlee?

  Savage vengeance, unlike anything he’d ever felt, coursed through his veins. If they’d hurt one single hair on her head, he’d wring their necks with his bare hands.

  What had happened to the controlled, success-oriented businessman who’d walked into her office a mere four days ago? Where was the guy whose family name meant everything to him? Who was he now?

  Something hard, solid, and certain burned directly to the left of his breastbone.

  He was in love with her. Stone cold in love and he had no idea what to do about it.

  Romantic love made no sense to his logical investment banker’s brain or the fact that it had happened so suddenly, so unexpectedly. But there it was.

  She was his soul mate. His better half. He knew it with a certainty that rocked his world.

  He felt like cracked lightning. Raw, stark, dangerous. Charlee had done this to him. She stripped off his controlled exterior and exposed the man beneath. The man who’d been shambling through life without really living it. The man who’d been afraid to break free and go for what he really wanted. The man who’d been almost; dead inside until he’d met her

  She’d changed everything and now he was about to lose her.

  This whole thing was his fault. If he’d just told her about Daphne beforehand, they’d be safely ensconced in the hotel room waiting for Pam to come take them shopping for Oscar clothes.

  Ha!

  The thought of that leisurely afternoon spent watching Charlee try on designer outfits evaporated.

  He gripped the steering wheel and moistened his lips. Once they’d gotten off the congested freeway and onto the Pacific Coast Highway, they’d been moving right along. Past Santa Monica, past Venice Beach, past LAX.

  Where were they going and was Charlee still with them? And if she wasn’t, what could they have done with her? Was she in the trunk of the car?

  Was she dead?

  Fear bit him. She wasn’t dead. She couldn’t be dead. He had so much to say to her, so much to explain.

  He had to apologize and he had to tell her how he felt about her. It didn’t matter if she didn’t love him back. What mattered was that he was in love with her.

  Steeling his jaw, he narrowed his eyes with resolve. He was sticking to the Malibu like Velcro. Nobody but nobody was going to abduct his Charlee and get away with it.

  Nolan paced off the cramped confines of the mineshaft for the one-millionth time since Blade Bradford and his illegitimate son Elwood had abandoned them here the afternoon before. What in the hell were those two up to, he wondered.

  A thin beam of light slanted through a hole in the ceiling, barely illuminating the constricted space. That dinner plate-sized hole was too far away to reach and every time he moved a fresh dusting of earth crumbled from the dirt wall.

  What had once been two tunnels leading right and left from the underground room to the mines were now blocked with debris and rocks from a massive cave-in. Elwood and Bradford couldn’t have entombed them any more effectively if they had actually buried them alive.

  Come to think of it,
this had all the makings of a Poe short story.

  “Nolan,” Maybelline chided, “please stop pacing.”

  “I’m trying to erode the damned wall.”

  “More likely you’ll cause it to fall in on us.” She waved at their precarious surroundings, then put the hand up to shield her nose and sneezed.

  He paused. She was right. Plus he was kicking up enough dust to choke an asthmatic.

  At first, Maybelline had been as antsy as he, pacing and cussing both her offspring and her exlover for dumping them here the day before. But during the last few hours she had grown so calm Nolan got worried. Maybelline wasn’t the quiet type.

  She sat with her back against the north wall, her eyes tightly closed.

  “Are you okay?” He squatted beside her and ignored the creaking in his knees.

  “I’m fine. I’m just trying to think.”

  Nolan exhaled sharply and sat down. He’d spent the last sixteen hours wracking his brain for a solution and he’d come up with nothing.

  At gunpoint, Elwood and Blade had forced them into the mine shaft, slammed and bolted the rusted but solid metal door, and walked away. They’d had the decency to leave them three two-liter bottles of Evian, four apples, a bag of Doritos, and a Heath bar.

  It wouldn’t take long to go through their meager provisions. Well, except for the Heath bar. His teeth not being what they used to be, the chocolate-covered hard toffee was not his candy of choice.

  He got to his feet, unable to sit still, and squinted up at the shaft of light taunting him from overhead. He looked back over at Maybelline and watched her press her tongue to her lips.

  A trickle of perspiration pearled at the hollow of her throat and the quick kick of lust that had him wanting to lick away her salty sweat startled him. He was as randy as a young buck. Go figure.

  “Thirsty?” he asked, reaching for the Evian. They had been careful to ration the water, not knowing how long they had to make it last.

  Maybelline shook her head. “We need to conserve.”

  “Your lips are dry.”

  She opened one eye to peer up at him through the thick haze of dust motes. “I’ll live.”

  “One sip,” he urged, fretting over how pale she looked. His gut clenched. He thought of how they’d made love in the back of the camper. How good she’d made him feel. How much he enjoyed being with her. “One sip won’t hurt.”

  “Okay,” she gave in. Obviously she was pretty darned thirsty if she acquiesced this easily.

  Nolan untwisted the lid and the round plastic ring separated from the cap and came off in his hand. He passed the water to Maybelline but found himself staring intently at the white plastic ring.

  Rings were symbols.

  Of unity. Of eternity.

  Of marriage.

  Deep, long-buried emotions swept through him. From the time he could remember he’d been accused of being a hopeless romantic and now he knew it was true. He believed they would get out of here. He believed they had many long and lusty years ahead of them. He believed they would solve the Oscar dilemma facing them.

  But most of all, he believed, with all his heart, that he was in love with Maybelline Sikes and had been for the last forty-seven years.

  And he was going to ask her to marry him again. This time for real. Right here, right now, with the white plastic ring.

  Holding the ring between his forefinger and thumb, he got down on one knee.

  The sound of his knee hitting the ground resonated wooden, hollow.

  He and Maybelline looked at each other in surprise.

  “Wood floor under the dirt,” she said.

  Simultaneously, they began to dig.

  CHAPTER 17

  Mason sat in Daphne’s rented Mercedes next to a vineyard outside Figero, California. It was a small town in the very corner of the state near the Arizona/Mexico border. He waited for the cover of darkness. The Malibu was parked in the driveway of a weather-scarred farmhouse a quarter mile from where he had stationed himself.

  Apparently, the goons in the Malibu never realized they were being followed. When they’d pulled into the farmhouse, Mason had driven past, and then circled back. He’d caught a glimpse of the two men hustling Charlee inside.

  Sitting still and doing nothing had never been so excruciating. The minutes ticked by. His stomach grumbled because he hadn’t eaten since the seafood buffet at the hotel the night before, but he ignored the hunger pains. His own needs were inconsequential. Charlee was in trouble.

  He wished for a pair of binoculars. He wished for a spy camera. He wished for a gun.

  He’d thought briefly about going to the police but the idea of explaining everything and the fact that he had no identification on him, plus the terrible fear that if he left for even a moment the thugs might disappear with Charlee, kept him rooted to the spot.

  He wished regretfully that he had commandeered Daphne’s cell phone as well as her vehicle but unfortunately, the urgent need to follow the Malibu had overridden careful planning. He had to do the best with what he possessed.

  Which meant he had his brains, his tae kwon do training, a tire iron, and the burning desire to make those guys pay for stealing his woman.

  His woman.

  He liked the sound of that. Liked it so much in fact that he grinned. He also liked the kick-ass, Vin Diesel attitude stoking through his veins.

  He couldn’t wait for nightfall.

  Except he had no choice but to wait. Other than a dilapidated barn located a few hundred yards from the house, the surrounding field was vacant, barren land. They would see him approaching from all four sides. No bushes, no shrubs, no trees.

  Darkness was his ally. Even though it was killing him, he would wait.

  Briefly, he closed his eyes and saw Charlee. The way her face glowed when she laughed. The way she fit so snugly into the curve of his arm. The way she smelled like no other woman on earth. The way her lips tasted of honeyed sin. The way she teased and goaded him to fulfill his highest potential.

  How had she managed to embed herself under his skin so quickly and so permanently? Instead of getting her out of his system as he’d hoped, making love to her had drawn him even closer to her.

  He missed her with an ache so severe a fistful of Percodan wouldn’t cure it.

  His eyes flew open. Dammit. He had to see her. Had to touch her. He had to know she was all right. He clenched his fists to control his impulse to storm the farmhouse and risk killing them both.

  Five minutes after sunset, he was out of the car, tire iron in hand, even though streaks of purple and orange still illuminated the sky behind him. The silence was eerie. He heard nothing except his pumping blood roaring through his ears.

  Charlee. He had to rescue Charlee. Nothing else mattered. He’d die for her if he had to.

  Driven by that one relentless thought, he crouched low and sprinted toward the rundown farmhouse. When he reached it, he paused to catch his breath and pressed his back flush against the wall.

  Cocking the tire iron like a baseball bat, he waited, listening.

  When enough time had passed so that he could be certain he hadn’t been detected, Mason inched toward the bedroom window located a few feet to his left. Cautiously, he eased his head around and peeked through the curtainless window.

  The room was empty.

  Pulse strumming, he crept down the side of the house to the next window that turned out to be a bathroom with those watery panes you couldn’t see through.

  Sucking in his breath, he wiped his damp palms on the front of Skeet’s purple hula girl shirt, reapplied his steel grip to the tire iron, and moved on.

  Another bedroom.

  He darted a glance inside the window.

  And spotted Charlee.

  Bound and gagged and reclining on her back in a pink and orange paisley plastic beanbag chair.

  For one brief impossible second, his heart literally stopped.

  She was alive. Thank God.

  N
ow what? He paused to ponder his next move, his mind racing at a startling clip as he formed and rejected one plan after another.

  “Ahem.”

  At the sound of a throat being cleared behind him, Mason froze.

  Slowly, he turned his head and came face-to-face with one of his own ilk.

  The tall, distinguished-looking gray-haired man wasn’t one of the two goons who’d kidnapped Charlee. That much was clear. The man standing before him sported a hundred-dollar haircut, a thousand-dollar designer suit, and a very large handgun pointed right at Mason’s head.

  “Ah, the younger Mr. Gentry.” The man gave him a cold, false smile. “I suggest you put down the tire iron and come with me.”

  Charlee had to pee bad. She’d been holding it for hours. If Sal and Petey didn’t let her go to the bathroom soon she would have to wet her pants or suffer irreparable kidney damage.

  Unfortunately, the two men were in the other room playing gin and she lay in the stinky beanbag chair that obviously had not been cleaned since 1975, her hands and feet bound and her mouth still covered with duct tape. Her captors had only been in to check on her once since they’d arrived at the farmhouse several hours earlier.

  She knew she should be devising some clever plan for escape, hatching some kind of brilliant detectivish scheme, but no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything except the persistent ache in her bladder. Not even when she tried to evoke Mason’s visage just so she could hate him.

  About the time she had decided to surrender to nature and just pee her pants, she heard the front door slam and a new voice inside the house. Someone else was here.

  Her pulse rate spiked. Who could it be?

  She heard the sounds of an argument but couldn’t make out what was being said.

  Then came the footsteps. Several of them, headed toward the bedroom.

  Oh, crap. This was it. They’d brought in the terminator. Would they let her pee before they killed her? she wondered idly.

  The door flew open and Mason stumbled inside, pushed ahead of a dapper man with a thin mustache, cruel black eyes that belied his oily smile, and a nasty-looking forty-five in his hand. Petey and Sal stood in the doorway behind him.

  Mason!

  Their eyes met. She saw relief and a sweet tenderness swimming in his chocolate eyes.