Merrick's Eleventh Hour

He had never once laid a hand on her, never hurt her in any way, and yet her fear of him was indisputable. He had more than one good reason to inflict pain on her, but that was Cyrus’s MO, not his. Not that he wasn’t angry enough to let his rage fly.

He did it now, raised his hand and drove the knife blade into the back of the driver’s seat. She cried out and tried to scoot away from him.

“Keep your ass nailed down.”

He saw her glance at the white card, silently mouth the words. Game on. Your move.

“What’s that?” Her voice hollow and full of trepidation.

“A gift from Cyrus. He left this and your ring in Washington for me a few days ago.”

“Washington?”

“Did he forget to mention it?”

She looked dumbfounded. Didn’t answer.

Merrick took her wallet, slid the white card inside and tucked the wallet into the hole he had sliced in the leather seat. Then he opened the door and climbed out. “Get out.”

“If you kill me, Cyrus will come after you. He’ll—”

“I didn’t come here to kill you, Johanna. I only learned that you were alive a couple of days ago.”

“I don’t understand.”

“That makes two of us. I never expected you, of all people, would betray me. I’m usually a better judge of character. Now get your ass out of the car.”

She slid out and leaned against the back quarter panel of the cab. “You’re the one who tried to kill me, remember?”

“No more lies, Johanna. You helped Cyrus fake your death, then ran off with him.”

“I didn’t fake anything, and I ran to save my life from the men you sent to kill me.”

“That’s bull.”

She jerked away from the car. “I was there. I heard every word. Those men were acting on your orders.”

“I never sent anyone to kill you, Johanna. If I had wanted you dead, I would have done it myself. I could have blown your head off any day of the week. We shared a house for five years, remember? A house miles from the closest neighbor. I could have buried you in the backyard under a rosebush in broad daylight and no one would have been the wiser.”

That comment rendered her speechless for a moment. “If you’re not going to kill me, where are you taking me?”

“On a little boat trip.”

Her eyes shifted to the blue water and the harbor crowded with boats riding the tide.

Her hesitation made him say, “Rule number two. Never forget rule number one.”

He had no idea how close Cyrus was, and as much as he wanted to face the bastard, he wanted it on his terms. He motioned for her to start walking, and he followed three steps behind her down the pier where the Aldora waited. When they reached it, he said, “Get in and go below.”

He followed her down the companionway, swung the door open to the stateroom and, when she walked inside, he didn’t say another word, just pulled the door shut and locked her in.

As he headed back up the companionway he noticed his hands were shaking. For the first time in months he wanted a drink. If he had a bottle on board he would have broken rule number three: Never let your emotions navigate a mission. Getting stink-ass drunk wasn’t on his agenda, and he didn’t trust the man he might find at the bottom of a bottle. He’d never been an angry drunk, but there was always a first time for everything.

The morning he’d woke up at sea after leaving Amorgos, he’d gone over everything Melita had told him, and within an hour he’d arrived in Naxos on the hunt for Zeta Poulos’s daughter. Melita had said that Sonya wasn’t living in the house the last time she’d visited.

He’d used every resource available to track her down believing there was no reason why she would have changed her name. In the end he’d resorted to his old government assassin tricks to find her. It had taken him thirty-six hours.

Sonya was eighteen and enrolled in a private school in Hora. Dressed as a priest bringing bad news he had met with the girl. His roll as kidnapper came late that evening once he’d gotten her away from the school. She had been more than willing to go with him after he’d told her that her mother was on her deathbed.

The glitch came after he had Sonya on board the Aldora. He’d revealed to her that her mother was very much alive and well, and what he wanted from her was the location of Krizova’s most recent hideout. But the girl didn’t know where Cyrus had moved his family after leaving Naxos—it was part of her agreement to be allowed to stay in Hora and go to school.

He’d told her that was unfortunate for her and, afraid for her life, she’d offered him a phone number where she could reach her mother in case of an emergency.

This was definitely an emergency, he had told her—a life-sustaining emergency, and she wouldn’t want to end up at the bottom of the sea.

Moments later Sonya called her mother. On speakerphone Merrick had waited for the concerned mother to take a breath, then he’d taken over the conversation, giving Zeta Poulos explicit instructions—her daughter would die by three o’clock if she didn’t follow them to the letter.

It was two o’clock when the plane from Athens had landed at Hora’s airport. Merrick had watched the passengers exit the plane. It was the first time in almost twenty years that he had seen Johanna, but he spotted her easily. She wore white pants and a green satin blouse, her hair, still as long as he remembered, twisted in a sexy knot.

He’d stood numb beside the taxi, his dark sunglasses shielding his eyes as she guided her housekeeper toward him. Melita was right. Johanna’s years in Greece had been kind to her. She looked far younger than forty-six.

Merrick climbed into the cockpit, and with a clear sky overhead and a million miles of azure sea to get lost in, the Aldora sped away from Hora recklessly.

It was his silver hair that signified the passing of time, but it was the handsome face and amazingly fit body, his voice and those penetrating gray eyes that had turned back the clock.

She should hate him. Most days she had convinced herself that she did. But that was a lie. What she hated most was that she didn’t hate him, and seeing him again only confirmed what a fool she still was.

She’d spent years in exile, hiding out like a criminal because of him. She had chosen a new life, or perhaps it had chosen her, but the memories of the old days with Adolf Merrick had continued to haunt her. They had spent five years together and she still couldn’t forget how happy she had been.

Curled up on the berth in the stateroom, Johanna forced herself to relive that day so long ago. In the beginning all she had wanted was for it to have been some kind of horrible mistake. For days she had rejected the idea that Adolf wanted her dead. Night after night she had prayed he would come for her. That he would explain it all away, but it had never happened.

Forced to accept Cyrus’s truth, her prayer had changed. She had prayed she would never see Adolf again and that the memories would die, as he had wanted her to die.

Please, God, kill the memories, and let me wake up hating him.

But God hadn’t been merciful. The memories were branded in her mind with visions of what might have been. And now he was here, reminding her of all the pain she’d lived through. He was here tearing her heart apart for the second time.

Unwilling to surrender to emotional suicide, Johanna wondered what the significance was behind the white card. Adolf said Cyrus had been in Washington a few days ago. She wanted to refute that, but she had recognized Cyrus’s handwriting on the card. At least it had looked like his.

Game on. Your move.

What did that mean?

She glanced down at the ring on her finger. The only person Adolf could have gotten the ring from was Cyrus. She’d worn it for weeks after her flight from Washington. The night she’d decided to take it off she was sitting on a veranda in Athens. Cyrus had come to sit with her, and after a long drought of silence, he’d said, “That ring on your finger belittles your intelligence. Why suffer the sight of Merrick’s betrayal any longer? Give me the ring and I’ll get rid of it.”

Had he sent the ring back to Adolf long ago, or was Adolf telling her the truth? Had Cyrus been in Washington days ago?

It made no sense for him to bait Merrick. They had been living in hiding for years to keep from being discovered. It would be like calling up the devil and inviting him to tea.