Kim's claw-hands trembled as she reached up, hooked her fingertips over the lever, and pulled down. The bar moved – too easily – and it didn't pop the lid.

She tried again, pulling repeatedly, frantically working against her certain knowledge that the release bar had been disabled, that the cable had been cut – when Kim felt the car wheels leave the asphalt. The ride smoothed out, and that made her think the car might be rolling over sand.

Was it going into the ocean?

Was she going to drown in this trunk?

She screamed again, a loud, wordless shriek of terror that turned into a gibbering prayer, Dear God, let me out of this alive, and I promise you – and when her scream ran out, she heard music coming from behind her head. It was a female vocalist, something bluesy, a song she didn't know.

Who was driving the car? Who had done this to her? For what possible reason?

And now her mind was clearing, running back, flipping through the images of the past hours. She started to remember. She'd been up at three. Makeup at four. On the beach at five. She and Julia and Darla and Monique and that other gorgeous but weird girl, Ayla. Gils, the photographer, had been drinking coffee with the crew, and men had been hanging around the edges, towel boys and early morning joggers agog at the girls in their little bikinis, at the wonder of stumbling onto a Sporting Life swimsuit shoot right there.

Kim pictured the moments, posing with Julia, Gils saying, “Less smile, Julia. That's great. Beautiful, Kim, beautiful, that's the girl. Eyes to me. That's perfect.”

She remembered that the phone calls had come after that, during breakfast and throughout the whole day.

Ten freaking calls until she turned off her phone.

Douglas had been calling her, paging her, stalking her, driving her crazy. It was Doug!

And she thought about earlier that night, after dinner, how she'd been in the hotel bar with the art director, Del Swann. It was his job to oversee the shoot and be her chaperone afterward. But Del had gone to the men's room, and somehow he and Gils, both of them as gay as birds, disappeared.

And she remembered that Julia was talking with a guy at the bar, and she'd tried to get Julia's attention but Julia wouldn't make eye contact? so Kim had gone for a walk on the beach.? And that was all she remembered.

Her cell phone had been clipped to her belt but switched off. And now she was thinking that Doug had flipped out, rage-aholic that he was – stalker that he'd become. Maybe he'd paid someone to put something into her drink.

She was getting it together now. Brain working fine.

She shouted, “ Douglas? Dougie?”

And then, as though God Himself had finally heard her calling, a cell phone rang inside the trunk.

Kim held her breath and listened.

A phone rang, but it wasn't her ring tone. This was a low-pitched burr, not four bars of Weezer's “ Beverly Hills,” but if it was like most phones, it was programmed to send calls to voice mail after three rings.

She couldn't let that happen!

Where was the damned phone?

She fumbled with the blanket, ropes chafing her wrists. She reached down, pawed at the flooring, felt the lump under a flap of carpet near the edge, bumped it farther away with her clumsy? oh no!

The second ring ended, the third ring was starting, and her frenzy was sending her heart rate out of control when she grasped the phone, a thick, old-fashioned thing, clutched it with her shaking fingers, sweat slicking her wrists.

She saw the illuminated caller ID number, but there was no name, and she didn't recognize the number.

But it didn't matter who it was. Anyone would do.

Kim pushed the Send button, pressed the phone to her ear, called out hoarsely, “Hello? Hello? Who's there?”

But instead of an answer, Kim heard singing, this time Whitney Houston, “I'll al-ways love you-ou-ou” coming from the car stereo only louder and more clearly.

He was calling her from the front seat of the car! She shouted over Whitney's voice, “Dougie? Dougie, what the hell? Answer me.”

But he didn't answer, and Kim was quaking in the cramped trunk, tied up like a chicken, sweating like a pig, Whitney's voice seeming to taunt her.

“Doug! What do you think you're doing?”

And then she knew. He was showing her what it was like to be ignored, teaching her a lesson, but he wouldn't win. They were on an island, right? How far could they go?

So Kim used her anger to fuel the brain that had gotten her into Columbia premed, thinking now about how to turn Doug around. She'd have to play him, say how sorry she was, and explain sweetly that he had to understand it wasn't her fault. She tried it out in her mind.

See, Dougie, I'm not allowed to take calls. My contract strictly forbids me to tell anyone where we're shooting. I could get fired. You understand, don't you?

She'd make him see that even though they'd broken up, that even though he was crazy for what he was doing to her, criminal for God's sake, he was still her darling.

But – and this was her plan – once he gave her an opportunity, she'd knee him in the balls or kick in his kneecaps. She knew enough judo to disable him – as big as he was. Then she'd run for her life. And then the cops would bury him!

“Dougie?” she yelled into the phone. “Will you please answer me? Please. This really isn't funny.”

Suddenly the music volume went down.

Once again, she held her breath in the dark and listened over the pulse booming in her ears. And this time, a voice spoke to her, a man's voice, and it was warm, almost loving.

“Actually, Kim, it is kind of funny, and it's kind of wonderfully romantic, too.”

Kim didn't recognize the voice.

Because it wasn't Doug's.

A new kind of fear swept through Kim like a cold fire, and she started to pass out. But she got a grip on herself, squeezed her knees together hard, bit her hand, and kept herself awake. And she replayed the voice in her head again.

“It is kind of funny, and it's kind of wonderfully romantic, too.”

She didn't know that voice, didn't know it at all.

Everything she'd envisioned a moment ago, Doug's face, his weakness for her, her learning how to win him over when he got out of control – that was all gone.

Here was the new truth.

A complete stranger had tied her up and thrown her into the trunk of his car. She'd been kidnapped – but why? Her parents weren't rich! What was he going to do to her? How was she going to escape? She was – but how?

Kim listened in silence before asking, “Who is this?”

The voice was mellow and calm when he spoke again.

“Sorry to be so rude, Kim. I'll introduce myself in a minute or two. It won't be very long now. And don't worry. Everything's going to be fine.”

The line went dead.

Kim blanked when the phone call cut off. It was as if her mind had been disconnected, too. Then the thoughts tumbled in. She found hope in the stranger's reassurance. So she clung to it. He was acting? nice. He'd said, “Everything's going to be fine.”

The car took a hard left, and Kim rolled against the side of the trunk, braced her feet against the wall of the compartment. And she realized that she was still gripping the phone!

She held the keypad close to her face. She could barely read the numbers by the pale light of the faceplate, but she still managed to punch in 911.

She listened to the three rings, then four, and then the operator's voice. “ Nine-one-one. What's your emergency?”

“My name is Kim McDaniels. I've been -”