Forbidden Captor

Now she realized the men she’d been sent to spy on were equally dangerous.

And wouldn’t take kindly to being spied upon, judging by the numerous security measures she’d seen thus far.

They’d been the only vehicle on the boat, and once it had docked, several armed men had materialized out of the tall, reedy grass on the banks to secure the ferry and tie camouflage tarps across the deck and wheelhouse. Clearly, there wasn’t going to be a return trip to the mainland anytime soon.

The wind off the ocean had whipped her long skirt and coat about her legs. And though the sun was shining and the temperature was several degrees warmer than the frozen home she’d left behind, she’d shivered.

She’d been shaking by the time her short, skinny escort had wrapped his hard fingers around her upper arm to lead her into some trodden grass along what she now realized was an unmarked path. He paused at a tall, wire mesh fence, hidden in a line of scrubby trees at the top of the sandy incline.

The man pulled a walkie-talkie from his pocket and pressed a button. Another man’s voice answered, demanding identification. Even with her limited English, she could tell they were speaking some type of code. Once approved, Tasiya heard a staticky hum from the fence that seemed to charge the air around it and stand the hairs on her arms on end. She started when the hum ended in an abrupt silence. With an “All clear,” the man pulled her beside him through a gate. Then there was another call, and the hum resumed behind her. Tasiya realized they’d passed through some sort of electric security barrier.

Such extreme measures to keep people out. Not that she’d expected a friendly welcome. Not that she’d trust anyone who did make a friendly overture.

No one had welcomed her to America or Devil’s Fork Island or Boone Fowler’s office. No one had asked about her trip or whether she was tired or hungry. No one had said anything beyond, “Show me your passport,” or “Get in,” or “This way.”

She had a feeling Boone Fowler was more used to barking orders than striking up conversations. Tasiya longed for a kind word, a bit of reassurance, a smile, to make her think she could pull this off. Because she had an equally strong feeling that—like Dimitri Mostek—Boone Fowler would have no qualms about taking retribution on anyone who crossed him.

“So we’re not supposed to touch you?”

He tossed the letter onto the gray metal desk and looked up, raking his dismissive eyes up and down her figure. Tasiya kept her own gaze trained to the floor. “No, sir.”

“That’s not a problem for me. I don’t do foreign trash.” He stood and circled around the desk, stopping just in front of her. “But I do like having a woman at my beck and call.”

Tasiya stared at the buttons on his black-and-red flannel shirt. “Minister Mostek said I should help you in any way I can.”

“You a decent cook?”

She nodded, not out of ego, but of honesty. “That is how I make my living.”

“Good. Anything would be better than that slop Bristoe’s been serving us.” Tasiya held her breath as his hand moved toward her chin, but he caught himself before making contact. He snapped his fingers instead. Her breath rushed out in a startled gasp and he snickered in his throat. Understanding the command to submit to his will, she steadied her nerves and tilted her eyes up to look into his. “I don’t want any of that spicy foreign crud where you can’t tell what it is you’re eating. Plain cooking. Nothing fancy. Use the supplies we have on hand. Can you manage that?”

Just like Mostek. “Yes, sir.”

“Marcus!”

She turned away as he shouted the order over the top of her head. An even bigger man opened the thick wooden door from the outside hallway. He had to stand six and a half feet tall, nearly a foot taller than she. He was built like an ox and seemed to share the same personal habits of a beast of burden. His slick, curly black hair and stained hands needed to meet a bar of soap. And the pool of yellowish-brown tobacco juice that swirled in front of his leering smile before he turned and spat his cud into a corner of the hallway nearly made her gag.

Quickly Tasiya closed her eyes and pictured an image of her father’s kind, smiling face. The face of the gentle man who’d read her bedtime stories as a child, and talked about her mother so she wouldn’t be afraid of the imaginary creature she’d thought lived beneath her bed.

She was calmer when she opened her eyes, but the big ox with the suggestive grin and large pistol strapped to his belt was still staring at her.

“I heard we had company,” he drawled, strolling into the room. “I’m Marcus Smith, Mr. Fowler’s newly promoted chief of security. ’Cause I’m so good at what I do. And your name, little lady?”

Little lady? She was five feet, seven inches tall. Of course, everyone must seem little compared to this brute. She fixed her gaze squarely in the center of his chest. “Anastasiya Belov.”

“She’s a gift from our benefactor for a job well-done,” Fowler explained. “He’s impressed that we were able to neutralize the strike force.”

“I’m the one who’s impressed.” The man called Marcus Smith reached out and twined his thick, grubby fingers into the long curls of hair that fell across her left breast. “Nice. Prettiest damn thing I’ve seen in weeks.”

Tasiya curled her toes inside her boots to keep from bolting.

But, surprisingly, Boone Fowler saved her the trouble.

“Hands off, Marcus.” He shoved the big man back a step. “She’s not that kind of gift.”

Tasiya winced at the pinpricks of pain that danced across her scalp before Marcus let go of her hair, but she refused to cry out. This was nothing. Her father might be suffering much worse than this. She could endure a few unwanted gropes for his sake.

But apparently Boone Fowler intended to follow his instructions to the letter. “The note says we’re not to touch her. Our contact wants her in pristine condition for himself. And since his people are funding our operation, I don’t want to jeopardize that relationship. Yet. We have business to attend to, anyway. Or have you forgotten our purpose?”

Marcus bowed his gaze like a chastized child. “I haven’t forgotten. I just thought maybe, since you seemed so pleased with my performance lately, that—”

“Keep it in your pants for a few days, okay? We’ll use her to free up some manpower to increase security patrols and interrogations.”

Keep it in your pants? Another strange Americanism. She might not understand the words, but she had no problem recognizing the lechery in Marcus Smith’s eyes, or the blame she read there for being reprimanded by the boss.

“I’m sure you can find other ways to entertain yourself. After all, I intend to break every one of Cameron Murphy’s team. I want them begging to do my bidding when we make that videotape and broadcast it.”

Breaking someone seemed to have a reviving effect on Marcus Smith’s mood. He was smiling as he looked up again. “Murphy’s men have been pretty stubborn so far. But I like a challenge.” He glanced down at Tasiya, giving his statement a double meaning. “I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve to try, if need be. This old pirate hideout is proving to be a very resourceful place.”

Fowler nodded, pleased with the answer that Tasiya couldn’t quite understand. “I don’t care how you get the job done. I just want results.”

“You’ll have them before we shoot the video next week.”

Tricks? Video? Were these the sort of things she was supposed to report to Mostek?

She hadn’t yet come up with an answer when Boone Fowler stepped beside her and demanded her attention. “I’ve got thirty men here who all need to be fed three square meals a day. When you’re done with that, in the evening, we’ve got seventeen prisoners. You’re to take them bread and water. Marcus will show you your room, the kitchen and larder, and the route you’re to take when you feed the prisoners.”

Three square meals versus bread and water? Compassion had her looking up into those cold, dark eyes. “Only one meal for the prisoners?”

Those dark eyes sneered. “Rule number one around here, Ms. Belov. Never question my orders.”

“No, sir.” Tasiya covered the unexpected flare of sympathy for someone besides her father by quickly lowering her gaze. “I just wanted to be clear on my duties.”

“You’re not stupid, are you?”

She had no trouble comprehending the insult. But she ignored it and made an excuse. “English is not my first language, sir. I only asked because I wanted to make sure I understood correctly. Three meals for your men. One meal for the prisoners.”

“In between, you can clean my office and the latrine. But I don’t want you in here without myself or a guard present. As a matter of fact, I don’t want to see you anywhere but your room, the kitchen or making your rounds to the prisoners unless you have a guard and my permission.” He bent his knees and brought his face level with hers. “Do you understand that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you’re dismissed.” He straightened and returned to his seat behind the desk.

Tasiya swallowed her anger and the urge to blurt out that he wasn’t a god. And that if he was as smart as he seemed to think he was, he’d realize he had a traitor in his midst. Standing in his office. A black-haired sheep in wolf’s clothing, to put a twist on one of those childhood stories her father had read to her.

Fowler was a lot like Dimitri Mostek. Full of himself and high on power. No qualms about being cruel and manipulative. The only thing lacking were the lusty overtures, and she had a sick feeling that Marcus Smith would be adding that dimension to this living hell.

“This way, sugar,” said Marcus, turning sideways in the doorway instead of stepping aside, so that her shoulder had to brush against his chest as she exited into the hallway.