Eye of the Beholder Read online

  A muffled clang vibrated through the plane. It was followed a heartbeat later by the thud-whump of an explosion.

  The pressure of the gun at Glenna’s throat eased. She twisted to look behind her.

  Dark smoke rolled through a hole in the opposite side of the plane. Glenna coughed, blinking to clear her eyes. There was a momentary glimpse of blue sky, then the opening was filled with moving figures. Before Glenna could blink again, a group of men, dressed in black from their boots to the ski masks that covered their faces, burst into the plane, brought their weapons to bear on the hijackers and opened fire.

  After that, everything went by in a fast-forward blur. Bullets thudded into the seats and clanged into the fuselage as the hijackers fired back. Several of the black-clad men advanced on the cockpit. The other half guided the passengers toward the back of the plane, where an emergency exit was opened and an inflatable escape chute unfurled.

  They were leaving. Against all odds, it was actually happening.

  Glenna threw her weight to the side, trying to jerk away from the man who held her. He hooked his arm around her neck and yanked her back, wedging them both into the doorway. Using her body to shield himself, he fired at the retreating hostages and their rescuers. Glenna’s ears rang from the noise of the gun and her eyes were streaming from the smoke, but she continued to struggle, doing what she could to throw off his aim.

  More quickly than she could have believed, her fellow hostages had funneled through the opening at the tail and disappeared, leaving her trapped between the hijackers and safety. Screaming in frustration, the man who held her jammed his gun to her cheek.

  The gun barrel was hot now. It burned her skin. Glenna had another flash of awareness, another moment of clarity when she knew she was about to die.

  But the bullet she expected didn’t come. Instead, a staccato burst of gunfire came from the direction of the cockpit and the arm around her throat went slack. And then Glenna was falling through the air. She had a split second to brace for the shock, but with the blood that was pumping through her body by her elevated heartbeat, she barely felt the impact with the ground. On some level, she registered agony as the pavement ripped the skin from her knees and her right ankle crumpled beneath her, yet the pain didn’t matter. She was alive. She was free.

  But for how long?

  She glanced around. Beyond the belly of the plane she could see the drooping orange emergency chute. At its base, the last of the passengers were clambering into the back of a large, canvas-covered truck. The blond doctor who had arrived in the ambulance helped load the pilot’s limp form, then leaped onto the running board just as the truck pulled away. Clods of dirt flew up from its tires as it left the tarmac and careened toward a gap in the fence that bordered the runway.

  Even at this fast-forward speed, how could it all be happening so quickly? Glenna tried to stand, to run after them, but her ankle collapsed, sending her back to the pavement. Biting her lip, she had started to crawl forward when someone thudded to the ground behind her.

  Panic that she had managed to suppress until now suddenly sed through her veins. Whimpering, she dragged herself another yard, only to stop short when her fingertips struck a black-booted foot.

  “Give me your hand,” a deep voice said. “I’ll help you.”

  Glenna looked up. One of the men who had stormed the plane just minutes ago was standing over her. Like the others, he was clad all in black. If she hadn’t already been terrified, his appearance would have been enough to send chills through her heart. His size, his black clothes, the rifle he held would have made him look menacing in any circumstance.

  But right now, she knew he was her only hope. She grasped his hand and came to her knees, attempting once more to get her feet under her. “I…I can’t,” she said. She hated the weakness that put the quaver in her voice. “My ankle…”

  He didn’t wait for the rest of her explanation. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, he leaned down and slipped one arm under her knees, the other behind her back. “Hang on to my neck.”

  She looped her arms around his shoulders. Beneath the tightly woven black fabric, there was no softness—his muscles were bunched like steel cables. His face was hidden behind the black mask. Only his eyes were visible.

  But oh, Lord, he had beautiful eyes. Vibrantly blue and full of life. His gaze was as solid and confident as the rest of him. It glowed with strength, it made her want to trust him, hold him, perhaps even believe in heroes….

  Glenna inhaled sharply. She was losing her mind. How could she be staring at his eyes while bullets were flying around her?

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Yes, except my ankle.” She glanced toward the rapidly retreating truck. There was no way they could catch up to it.

  He cradled her against his chest and straightened up in one smooth motion. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you out of this. I promise.”

  Normally she didn’t believe men who made promises. She had learned the hard way to rely on no one but herself.

  But the rules she had lived her life by had become irrelevant eight hours ago. His voice affected her like his pure blue gaze. She wanted to believe him.

  “Keep your head down.”

  She did as he said without hesitation. Tucking her head under his chin, she pressed her cheek to the hollow of his shoulder. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet, princess. We’ve got a long way to go.”

  It didn’t seem possible, but the muscles that had felt like steel hardened yet further. Crouching to shelter her with his body, he jogged toward the ambulance that sat abandoned on the pavement.

  A sudden high-pitched whine drowned out the staccato pops of gunfire from the plane. The man carrying Glenna dove to his left. An instant later, the ambulance exploded in a fireball. Black smoke billowed upward while twisted shards of debris rained down.

  “Oh, my God!” Glenna cried.

  The man staggered sideways and muttered a curse. Where did that shell come from?” He recovered his footing, then glanced toward the airport gate. “Oh, hell.”

  Glenna saw the answer to his question at the same time he did. Two olive green pickup trucks, their cargo areas filled with armed men, sped toward them from the direction of the airport gate. At first she thought more help was on the way, but then she saw that the weapons were aimed directly at her and her rescuer.

  He veered in the opposite direction, increasing his speed from a jog to a sprint. Glenna tightened her hold on him, doing her best to keep from flying out of his grasp as he lunged into a zigzagging path toward the fence.

  Puffs of dust burst from the ground on either side of them. Glenna felt something whiz past her ear. They were almost at the fence when she felt the man jerk. A shudder went through his body and his grip on her slackened.

  Desperately Glenna clung to his neck. Would this nightmare never end? Had she put her trust in the wrong man again? “Please. Oh, please, don’t leave me now. We’re nearly there.”

  He grunted. “I’m not leaving you, princess,” he said. “I’ll keep you safe.”

  Behind the black mask, his expression was invisible, yet his eyes shone with determination. He spared her only a glance.

  It had the same effect on Glenna as before.

  He managed another three limping steps before his leg buckled in midstride. He shifted as he fell, taking the impact of their combined weight on his back, then rolled over, rose to one knee and thrust Glenna behind him. While she pressed as close as she could to his body, he unslung his rifle from his shoulder and faced the trucks full of armed men that were bearing down on them.

  Chapter 2

  After the heat of the day, night brought a creeping clamminess that chilled straight to the bones. The air was thick with the musty odor of damp cement. Glenna hunched her shoulders and huddled closer to the motionless man on the floor, as much to share her warmth with him as to draw comfort from his.

  No more than a sliver of lamplight
came through the crack beneath the door. It was enough to distinguish shapes and outlines, but the shadows swallowed any color. For that, she was grateful. She didn’t want to see whatever small creatures were making the scurrying noises in the corners. She didn’t want to look at the swelling on her ankle. And she didn’t really want to see the blood that seeped onto her hand.

  The bullet wound in her rescuer’s leg had opened up again when their captors had tossed them onto the floor of this storeroom. In the darkness, she wouldn’t have discovered he was bleeding if she hadn’t felt the sticky warmth on her palm. She had done what she could to help, ripping up her suit jacket to wrap around his thigh as a makeshift bandage, but her knowledge of first aid was minimal. For lack of anything better, all she could think to do was press her hand to his thigh over the bandage to help stop the bleeding.

  Even slack with unconsciousness, his body was rock solid. He emanated an aura of strength that was as tangible ahis warmth. Whoever he was, he must be in superb physical condition to have survived the treatment he’d received. It had taken seven men to overpower him and knock him out when the trucks had reached them. Glenna suspected that if it wasn’t for her, he never would have allowed himself to be captured. Despite the wound in his leg, he probably could have made it to the fence and gotten away from the airport altogether, but he’d remained by her side, willing to risk his life for a complete stranger.

  What kind of man did that?

  Her gaze moved to the pale blur of his face. His black mask, along with some kind of radio headset, had been removed when he’d been dragged onto the pickup truck, but he’d been lying facedown during the trip here, so all she had been able to see was the back of his head. The transfer to this room had been short and rough—she hadn’t gotten a good look at him then, either.

  He had carried her in his arms. He had sheltered her with his body as bullets had hissed past them. Yet she didn’t know his name. And if she passed him on the street, she wouldn’t recognize his face. After what they had been through, it seemed…wrong somehow.

  Keeping her palm on his thigh, she lifted her free hand to his face. His skin was taut, with a hint of roughness from the day’s growth of his beard. She ran her fingers along his jaw, exploring the contours. It wasn’t enough to build a picture in her mind, but it did reinforce the impression she already had. He was lean, hard and uncompromisingly male.

  A smooth ridge of skin interrupted the sandpaper beard stubble on the right side of his jaw. It had to be a scar, she thought, tracing the ridge to his cheek. The scar branched there, scattering into a network of furrows and more patches of raised skin that curved upward to his right temple. She swayed closer, curious, running her fingertips over the pattern. She didn’t need to see it to realize how bad it was. He must have suffered horribly.

  Was he a policeman? A soldier? Did he storm hijacked planes and rescue women for a living? Had he obtained these scars while he was being a hero for someone else?

  Whatever had caused it must have happened years ago—the skin had the firm smoothness of an old injury, like the tiny line on her own index finger that was a souvenir of a childhood mishap with a crystal water glass. She felt a surge of sympathy for him. What courage he must have, to continue to brave danger despite the pain he must have endured.

  Compared to him, she had been a cringing coward, afraid to fully live, to take a chance on life.

  Yes, well, she intended to change all of that.

  She moved her fingers along the ridges and grooves that crossed the rise of his cheekbone until she reached the corner of his eye. The scar didn’t extend this far, or it would have showed at the edge of his mask. The only lines on his skin here were laugh lines, too fine to feel, but she remembered them perfectly.

  He had beautiful eyes, so blue and piercing. Would the fine lines at the corners crinkle when he smiled? Was his laugh as deep and rich as his voice? Would she get the chance to hear it?

  Before today, the sensible, levelheaded Glenna Hastings wouldn’t have wasted one moment considering those questions. What possible relevance could the sound of his laughter or the color of his eyes have to her li

  But that was the whole point, wasn’t it? She was alive, and she hadn’t forgotten what she had vowed when she had believed she was going to die. Every extra minute she lived was a gift. Every detail about her rescuer was relevant. The sound of his breathing, the scent of his skin, even the warmth of his blood against her palm…at this moment those things were more important than any of the thousands of trivial details that usually filled her days.

  Her knees nudged against his hip. She winced at the stinging from her scraped skin and the ache in her ankle, but her injuries were nothing compared to her rescuer’s. She moved her hand to his hair. In the shadows it was leached of color, but on the ride here she’d seen it gleam golden in the sunshine. It was cropped short in a no-nonsense style that had appeared stiff, but as she slid her fingers into it, she discovered that his hair was as fine as a baby’s. It tickled her fingertips in a caress of silk, and for the first time since she had left the airport in Montego Bay, she felt her lips relax in a smile.

  It was a little thing, to be sure, but taking pleasure in the texture of a strange man’s hair was something Glenna simply didn’t do. She might do lunch with a man. Or dinner and the theater, when her schedule allowed. Nice, sensible functions with no commitment, no expectations and no messy demands. She had found the situation completely satisfactory.

  But it all seemed so impossibly faraway now, another world, a previous existence.

  There was a furtive scrabbling along the far wall. Glenna’s smile faded as quickly as it had formed. Her situation was worse now than it had been hours earlier on the plane. She should be thinking about ways to escape instead of mooning over her fellow hostage.

  Is that what she was doing? Mooning over a man, like some teenager with a crush?

  Hardly. There was nothing juvenile about what she felt for this stranger. With one hand in the sensual softness of his hair, the other slick with the heat of his blood, Glenna had never felt more intimately connected to another human being in her life.

  For however long that lasted.

  Rafe came awake with brutal swiftness. His leg was on fire, and someone was slamming a sledgehammer into his head. His eyes had barely snapped open when he sensed a figure leaning over him.

  Why was everything so dim? Had the blows to his head messed up his vision? Either that, or night had fallen. How long had he been out? Where was he? The questions buzzed through his brain as his hands shot out to grasp his assailant’s wrists. With a twist of his torso, Rafe reversed their positions.

  There was a startled gasp. “Ow! What are you doing?”

  The voice was female. It didn’t take Rafe more than a second to realize that the body he’d pinned to the floor was female, too. More than that, she felt familiar. She smelled familiar, a blend of sunshine and citrus that had his nostrils flaring for more.

  Rafe blinked, trying to focus on the face beneath his. It was impossible to see anything more than a blur, yet he knew who this was. He might not be able to see her, but his other senses had no trouble recognizing her. It was the woman from the plane—the tall, classy r

  He knew the chances of rescuing her had been slim when he’d seen her fall to the tarmac. He should have remained with Flynn and the team to cover Sarah’s retreat with the other hostages. This woman who lay beneath him was a stranger, he reminded himself again. No less and no more important than the others…but the decision to go after her hadn’t been made by his brain, it had been pure gut-level instinct.

  He breathed shallowly a few times, striving to control his pain the way he’d been trained to do. The pounding in his head retreated. The burning in his thigh settled into a deep throb. Bullet wound, he realized. He’d been hit five yards from the fence. He replayed the final moments, searching for an explanation for their present circumstances, but he must have been unconscious while they were transpor
ted here.

  Wherever “here” was.

  “Where are we?” he asked, careful to pitch his voice low enough not to carry. No point alerting anyone else that he was awake.

  “I don’t know.”

  He put his mouth close to her ear. “Keep your voice down. Is it a house? A factory? A warehouse? How big is it?”

  “It’s a house,” she whispered. “It was hard to tell how large because it was already dark when they brought us here. They dumped us in this room and left.”

  She had said it was already dark. That meant his vision was probably undamaged. One piece of good news. “They? How many?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Try to remember.”

  She paused. He could feel her body tremble. She was struggling for the control she’d exhibited before. Her terror was there, just under the surface, but she was fighting it down. “There might have been six or seven men on each truck,” she replied finally. “There are more in this place.”

  “We’re still on Rocama then?”

  “Rocama?”

  “The island where your plane landed.”

  “Yes. We must be.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “What is it?”

  He hadn’t liked the setup of this mission from the start. This proved his misgivings had been justified. “The locals were in on it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “At the airport. Had to be. How else could the hijackers have gotten reinforcements through the police cordon and pulled off a raid of this scale?”

  “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

  “We weren’t allowed backup. That has to be why.” He squinted in the direction of his left wrist, but he saw no sign of the luminous dial of his watch. They must have taken it along with his gun and the knife he’d strapped to his calf. “How long did it take to get here?”