A Matter of Circumstance Read online

  She told herself that no amount of muscle could combat a bullet, that maybe he was doing his best just to keep them both alive. It was hard, though, even if she realized that half her problem was that she resented him heartily for assuming that she was Peter’s wife and that, being younger, she had latched on to him for material reasons.

  And maybe she also resented him out of sheer frustration. By God, he was physically beautiful. His stomach was taut, his legs long and hard, his shoulders those of an Atlas.

  That dark hair; those flashing eyes, emerald in the sun; that handsome face, high boned with arching dark brows, teeth pearly white against the full sensual curve of his mouth…. Not even the thick shadow of beard detracted from his looks. He seemed like a bulwark of character and strength—and he wasn’t doing a damn thing for her! Just chatting away in Spanish and drinking his cerveza!

  Maria collected his empty plate, and he stretched his free arm around Mandy. She tried not to stiffen; it was a casual gesture, and she decided she would rather trust him than be left vulnerable to Roberto’s naked ogling.

  Maria took Mandy’s plate less than graciously, eyeing her maliciously, and to Mandy’s own surprise she returned that nasty glare and inched closer to Miguel.

  “Mandy.” He spoke softly and she jumped, turning to look up at him. “You want something to drink?”

  The accent was back in his words.

  “Ah, yes. A diet Pepsi, please.”

  He started to laugh. “What do you think this is? They’ve got beer, water, guava juice and Coca-Cola. ‘Classic’, I believe.”

  She recognized his dry humor and just barely held her temper in check. “A Coke!” she snapped.

  He started to translate her request to Maria, but Maria snapped, “I heard her,” then disappeared below.

  Maria returned with the soda and sat staring pointedly at Mandy. The older woman said something to her, which she ignored; then Julio grated out something impatiently and the two women—along with Roberto, Mandy noticed gratefully—went below deck. Mandy sipped her Coke, thinking that a soda had never tasted so delicious before. She stared around again, tensing as she realized that there was a small island on the horizon, and that a pleasure boat was anchored just beyond its beach.

  How far away was it? she wondered yearningly. Three miles—or five? And did it really matter? If she had to, she could manage a five-mile swim….

  “So, Señora Blayne, you are resigned to our company, sí?”

  She started, forced into an awareness that the oddly genteel Julio Garcia was watching her.

  “Resigned?” she queried regally, ignoring the pinch of Miguel’s fingers suddenly tightening around her shoulders. “Not in the least. Perhaps,” she added sarcastically, “You’d be so kind as to explain to me just what you’re after so that I may become… resigned!”

  Julio gazed curiously at Miguel then returned his dark soulful eyes to hers. “Miguel has not explained it to you?”

  “She gave me no chance, this one!” Miguel pulled her closer against him, irritating her beyond belief by playfully fluffing her hair. She stiffened against him, but his hold was a powerful one for all its casual appearance, and she had no recourse except to smile grimly at Julio Garcia.

  “I haven’t the faintest idea of what is going on.”

  Julio shrugged and grimaced. “Your husband betrayed me, Mrs. Blayne. He swore to have my father freed. Empty promises.”

  My husband is dead, she thought with fleeting pain, and he never betrayed anyone in his life.

  “My fath—my husband,” she amended quickly, “is a senator, not a warden! What are you talking about?

  “He is still in prison! Jorge Garcia—statesman, poet, one of the finest, most courageous freedom fighters ever to live!—still rots in prison! Peter Blayne promised to have something done. He said to trust in the law! Well, I have tried his laws for years! Ever since the Mariel boatlift—”

  “Wait a minute!” Mandy interrupted in a burst of passion. “Are you trying to tell me that your father was a prisoner—a criminal—in Cuba, but that we should let him roam free in the United States?”

  “Idiota!” Julio shouted, then went on in an irate shouting spree.

  “Julio, Julio! She does not understand!” Miguel said, trying to soothe him.

  Mandy was more furious than ever. She couldn’t believe that this whole thing was over another criminal! “Don’t swear at me in Spanish! Say it in English. No hablo español! This is the United States of America—”

  Suddenly that long-fingered sun-bronzed hand was over her mouth again, and brilliant green eyes were boring into hers. “Quieta! Cerra la boca, Amanda!” Miguel snapped. “You want English? Shut your mouth. You don’t understand! Julio, I will take her forward and explain, eh?”

  Julio exploded into rapid speech again, pulling his gun from his holster and waving it around. Mandy inhaled deeply in shock as Miguel dragged her to her feet, his hand still over her mouth, and half led, half dragged her to the few clear feet of space that surrounded the main mast.

  “Damn you!” he grated out tensely, releasing her mouth at last, but only to grip her shoulders and stare down at her like the wrath of God while he spoke. “Are you trying to get us both killed?”

  She tossed her hair back. “He’s crazy! I won’t—”

  “Yes, he’s crazy! And that’s exactly why you’d better start paying a little heed. Don’t you know this story? Doesn’t your husband ever talk to you about his work?”

  Her husband? Oh, Peter…

  Yes, Peter talked to her. But she’d been so involved with her own work lately that she hadn’t really seen him in a while. She shook her head stiffly. “I don’t know anything about any of this! Except that if Peter has refused to let some murderer roam the streets, then—”

  He took a deep breath, a bitter breath. “For your information, Mrs. Blayne—Mrs. Bigot!—not everyone who came in on the Mariel boatlift was a murderer!”

  “I am not a bigot! But don’t you dare try to tell me that Castro didn’t empty his prisons on the U.S.!”

  “Oh, great! So everyone who is Cuban—”

  “I didn’t say that!”

  “But you meant it!”

  “The hell I did!”

  “What are you, the head of the DAR, Mrs. Blayne? Your impeccable bloodlines go back to the Mayflower, I take it!”

  “As a matter of fact,” Mandy lied coolly, “they do!” She suddenly felt as if she was going to burst into tears. She hadn’t meant to offend him, but she’d be damned if she would be responsible for putting a criminal—be he Irish, German, Spanish or all-American—back on the streets.

  Her lashes fell over her eyes; she didn’t understand why this terrible antagonism had suddenly erupted between them. He was her lifeline, however tenuous. She was simply terrified, and trying not to be.

  Frightened, but determined to be strong. And there were so many chinks in her armor!

  He was still angry, but was holding his temper in check. He spoke flatly to her, still holding her shoulders, his voice very distant.

  “Jorge Garcia was not a murderer, a rapist, or even a thief. He was a political prisoner, but the charges trumped up against him could have sent him before a firing squad. He was, once upon a time, a brilliant man. Rich and a philanthropist, a lawyer, a scientist. He still had a few friends in the Castro regime, but even so his enemies managed to have him labeled as dangerously insane. He was sent out on the Mariel boatlift and consequently wound up with dozens of other cases, waiting to be reviewed by the immigration board.”

  “You’re trying to tell me that Julio’s father is not just a good man but a great one?”

  “From all I’ve heard, yes.”

  She shook her head, her temper growing. “So we’re at fault! The Americans are at fault, and it’s okay for Julio to attempt to assassinate Peter and kidnap me.”

  “I didn’t say it was all right! Julio has obviously snapped. Yes, gone mad, in a way. Apparently he’s
been frustrated half to death. It doesn’t make him right. It just explains his behavior. You can’t do anything—your husband probably couldn’t even have done anything, no matter how hard he tried, except speed up some paperwork.”

  “Then why are you yelling at me?”

  “I’m not yelling!”

  “You sure as hell are!”

  He released her shoulders abruptly. “Excuse me, Madame DAR. It’s my Latin temper, you know.”

  “You’re stereotyping yourself—not me!” Mandy snapped.

  “I’m not trying to do anything except get us both out of this. I’m a cop, not a lawmaker, and not a politician. I don’t even know what I’m doing here myself! But, Mrs. Blayne, please, if you’re at all interested in living, please don’t get into moral fights with Julio Garcia!”

  She stared at him, then tossed her head. From the corner of her eye she glimpsed the island she had seen before—and the massive pleasure craft anchored right before it.

  “I, uh, won’t argue with Garcia anymore,” Mandy said absently.

  “Good. I don’t think he wants to harm anyone. I—”

  He broke off, frowning, as excited shouts suddenly came from the aft deck.

  “Let’s see what’s up,” Miguel murmured, and he started back. Mandy didn’t follow him. She stood dead still where she was, feeling the ocean breeze, feeling the sun on her face.

  The boat wasn’t far away. No more than three miles, she was certain. And she really was a good swimmer. Her captors were so excited about whatever was happening off their own craft that she could probably be halfway to that other vessel before anyone even noticed that she was gone.

  She hesitated just a second longer, thinking of Miguel. She didn’t want to worry about him, yet she did. She had the sneaking suspicion that his presence had saved her from sexual abuse by the leering Roberto, and she didn’t want him harmed on her behalf.

  But he had managed to make himself one of them. They wouldn’t kill him. At least, she convinced herself in those moments that they wouldn’t. And if he was a cop, he would know how to take care of himself. She had a chance to escape, she didn’t dare risk losing it.

  She moved at last, staring forward. They were all there now: the two women, Roberto, Juan, Julio—and Miguel.

  “A bloodbath!” she thought she heard someone say. But she wasn’t really listening—or thinking.

  Quietly she moved portside, stepped to the rail and dove into the water.

  It was a good clean dive. The gray robe bulked around her somewhat, but to obtain her water safety certification every three years she’d had to swim a mile in her clothes—shoes, too—so the robe shouldn’t be that bad. And of course she could always ditch it. And arrive at a strange boat stark naked. What a thing to think of at a time like this! Swim…

  She broke the surface and took a breath, stroking smoothly, aware that she would have to pace herself to make the distance. Stroke, breathe, stroke, breathe. The sun was high in the sky, warm; the water was almost as warm as that sun, and very blue here, where it was deep. It felt good to swim, to feel the salt against her face, to feel the promise of freedom….

  She cocked her head, inhaling, stroking, and heard shouts distantly from behind her. She clenched her teeth in dismay, having hoped to gain more distance before they discovered her absence.

  She paused for a second, treading the water, to see what was happening. She was shocked to see that they were all watching her—not angry, but pale as a troop of ghosts.

  “Stop, Amanda! Stop!”

  It was Miguel shouting, and as she turned to begin swimming again with stronger strokes, she swore inwardly. Damn him! He’d said he was on her side, but he was the one standing on the rail, ready to dive after her and recapture her.

  The salt stung her eyes; she felt like crying as she heard the splash of his body entering the water. He was coming after her. She renewed her strokes, still hoping she could outdistance him. She was good, she reminded herself. She really was a good swimmer….

  But so was he. And he was stronger. In a matter of seconds he was almost at her feet.

  “Amanda! Get back!”

  His hand slid around her ankle, a vise that jerked her under water, then into his arms. She choked and gagged and came up against his chest, gasping.

  “Damn you! Damn you!” she shrieked, furious and ready to cry. She could have done it except for him. “I hope you rot in hell for all eternity. Liar! You son of a bitch. You—”

  He still looked white and grim. He shook her. “Get back. Now!”

  He gave her a strong shove back toward the boat. The terry robe seemed to be locked all around her now, hampering her movements. She couldn’t seem to swim at all anymore; she couldn’t untangle her arms.

  And Juan and Julio had already climbed into a little dinghy with no motor. They reached furiously, desperately, for the oars, then began coming toward her.

  Miguel gave her another shove.

  “I can’t!”

  He jerked at her robe; she tried to hold the sodden material while struggling to stay afloat.

  “Take it off!”

  She’d never heard such a fervent command. The robe was suddenly gone. “Swim!” he bellowed, shoving her.

  She didn’t have to swim; the dinghy was right behind her, and Julio and Juan were bending over, grasping her arms. Naked and humiliated she was lifted from the water and cast to the rotting floorboards of the tiny dinghy.

  Instinctively she brought her knees to her chest and locked her arms around them, and only then did she realize that they weren’t paying her the least attention—they were pulling Miguel into the dinghy after her. He landed half on top of her, dripping wet. There was nowhere to move, and when she tried to shrink closer within herself, he opened his eyes and stared at her with such grim fury that it was as if his eyes had become a glittering inferno that meant to consume her.

  He was still gasping for breath, but he threw the robe over her as he shook his head in disgust. “Stupid woman!” he muttered.

  Julio muttered a few words to Juan, gesticulating with a sharp intake of breath, and it was then that she realized the awful danger she had almost encountered. Surrounding the little dinghy was an assortment of at least five fins. Shark fins…

  And the creatures were still swimming about, thrashing, nearly upsetting the tiny dinghy.

  “Sit!” Miguel snapped, and the other two men instantly obeyed.

  Mandy shivered miserably beside him as he fumbled for the oars and slowly, carefully, rowed the dinghy toward the sailboat.

  Oh, God! She’d nearly swum into the middle of a school of sharks! She would rather be shot ten times over than die such a gruesome death. This man had actually dived after her, pitting himself against the same danger….

  “Up, and carefully!” he told her tensely when they reached the boat. Julio and Juan went up the rope ladder first. Julio looked very gray, and she thought that he might be a kidnapper, but he hadn’t wanted to see her die—not that way! “Up!”

  Somehow she was touching the wet rope ladder. Clinging to it. She didn’t feel as if she had any strength at all.

  He was behind her, using the force of his body to protect hers against its own weakness. She closed her eyes, fighting dizziness.

  She could still hear the sharks thrashing in the water. She turned back and froze in renewed fear. The water was red now. Blood red. The others had turned on one of their own kind and were ripping it apart with their huge jaws and razor teeth….

  “Amanda, go.”

  One foot after the other. Again and again. Julio was there to drag her over the rail. She pulled the robe about her shivering body and lay on the deck, spent, exhausted, and still in shock.

  She saw the sun above her, slowly sinking into the west. She felt the chill of a night breeze coming on. The sky was becoming pink and crimson and beautifully gold, and the moon, pale but full, had risen even before the sun could set.

  Twenty-four hours…it had been
a full day, she thought numbly. A full day since she had been taken, and suddenly none of it mattered except for those last few minutes. She had always thought that she would never really be afraid to die, but she was. And she would have died. In her furious quest for escape she would have stirred up the water to such an extent that the mindless beasts would have found her—except for him.

  She was dimly aware that he had come aboard the boat, dimly aware that tense Spanish was being spoken in bursts all around her.

  She opened her eyes. Maria, her huge almond eyes ablaze, was staring down at her. She spat on the deck, then began speaking again.

  Puta. That was one word Mandy recognized. Maria was screaming because Miguel had almost died to save his Anglo whore. She was trash; she was not worth it.

  Julio said something curtly; Maria started to speak again, but he slapped her.

  Mandy knew she had acquired a serious enemy. She couldn’t even care about that. She felt totally exhausted and numb, and she shivered with spasms she could not halt.

  She opened her eyes once again in startled surprise when someone leaned down to her, wrapping strong arms around her.

  She met glowing orbs of green: Miguel’s eyes. She was too entangled in the robe to fight him, nor did she even think that she should. She stared at him, unable to find the words for an apology, unable even to form a “thank you” on her trembling lips.

  Spanish broke out all around her again, but she didn’t worry about it. In absolute exhaustion she laid her head against his chest and closed her eyes again.

  “I am taking her below,” Miguel said determinedly, breaking into English.

  “Sí. Do it then, amigo,” Julio agreed.

  “Madre de Dios!” Juan swore, but Julio interrupted him.

  “She will do us no good dying of pneumonia!”

  Miguel walked past them with Mandy in his arms. She opened her eyes just before they came to the steps.