And how would it be to live with-hell, date-one of them? A man who was her chauffeur, for heaven’s sake? The talk would be incessant, the censure obvious at every gathering. She didn’t give one solitary damn, as she’d never fit in anyway. But what about her father?

He cared so very much. His life was a monument to wealth and everything wealth brought. Including this.

While Michael insisted on blaming himself, she looked elsewhere. As much as she loved her father, her kidnapping now seemed inevitable. After Lisa, it had only been a matter of time.

He’d instilled in her a number of wonderful things: her social responsibility, her respect for hard work. But he’d also raised her to be a victim.

That she had spent so much of her time in captivity not feeling like a victim was a tribute to Michael. And herself. She couldn’t forget that. She’d done remarkably well, considering.

There was a brief knock at the bathroom door. “Tate?”

This was it. She had to go out now, leave Michael behind, act her ass off. She had to be strong and there was no one to depend on but herself.

She took a deep breath and opened the door.

Ed was there along with Jazz. They looked her over as if she were a prize pony. She felt the heat rush to her face, but she kept it together. Head up, shoulders back, an air of detachment. At least that part was easy.

“You look good. Now all you have to do is keep your mouth shut and sign the papers.” Ed touched her hair and she didn’t even flinch. “Make it look real, sweetheart, and you’ll live to see another day.”

Ed turned to Jazz and gave him a nod. Ed stepped closer to her and pulled a gun from the back of his waistband, while Jazz went to Michael’s side, next to the bed.

“What’s just as important,” Ed continued, positioning the barrel of the gun in her side, “is that your boyfriend here might live, too.”

Before she could even take a step or be scared about the gun, Jazz pulled Michael’s right arm straight out, laid it palm up on the edge of the bedside counter and smashed it with the butt of his weapon. She heard the bone snap like a twig, followed instantly by Michael’s sharp cry.

The blood drained from her head and she gasped for breath as she struggled not to throw up. She could see exactly where it was broken at the wrist.

She turned on Ed and slapped him across the face, the sound not nearly loud enough.

He lifted his weapon, his whole face red and furious. She knew he might pull the trigger, but all she wanted was to punish him for what he’d done, then turn her wrath on Jazz.

“Tate, no!” Michael, holding his arm tight against his side, stepped forward, his left arm out to pull her away.

Ed trembled as he stared at her and she could see the war in his eyes. He wanted so badly to kill her, but it would cost him dearly. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“You have no reason to hurt him. I’ve agreed to give you my money. That’s what you’re after. Not him.”

Ed took another step closer, and now the barrel of the gun touched her temple, the same place Michael had kissed so tenderly. “If you try anything stupid again, I’m going to give Jazz here a call. He’s going to break the other hand and then he’s going to shoot out the right kneecap, then the left. By the time Jazz is finished there won’t be a bone in his body that isn’t broke. You got that?”

The thought brought up the bile in her throat, but she couldn’t break down. Not now. “Yes.”

“Good.” He put the weapon back in his waistband, then covered it with his brightly colored Hawaiian shirt. “Let’s go.”

She looked at Michael’s hand, already swelling. “He needs a doctor.”

“When it’s over,” Ed said. “He’ll get all the attention he needs. Come on.”

He led her to the door, but just before she stepped through, Michael said, “Wait.”

She turned.

“I love you,” he said. “I think I have for a long time. Just know that, okay? Know it.”

WALKING OUT OF THE room was like death. The sun shone warm on her skin, the water sparkled blue and the wind smelled of the sea-and it was all gallows.

She kept hearing that sickening snap over and over in her head. All she wanted to do was kill Ed Martini and Jazz and, yes, Charlie, too, and get back to Michael. It hurt her that he was in pain, that Jazz could injure him so easily.

Too easily.

God, Michael had let that horrible man hurt him to protect her. Because Ed had the gun on her.

Her steps slowed, but Ed’s hand on her back led her onto the small sea taxi, where he sat her down so close to him his aftershave filled her nostrils. She stared at the shore, at Seven Mile Beach, while Ed told her he was now her uncle Ed-Ed Martini, her father’s best friend. That the money was being transferred to his account temporarily and that William would come soon to make different arrangements.

Then he made her repeat everything he’d said. By the time she’d done so for the fifth time, they had docked. As she stood, he touched her arm, her back, then her arm again, and it was all she could do not to slap him over and over until he took her back to the boat, to Michael.

She’d never felt this before, this rage so bright and hot that she knew without a doubt she could take his gun and blow him away. She’d never even guessed she had this murderousness in her. Her vivid imagination hadn’t been enough. She’d always pictured herself as the victim, not the killer.

Although she hadn’t been to Cayman in years, she remembered the soft white beaches here and how she’d enjoyed playing with the turtles and snorkeling. This memory would forever be overshadowed, however long forever turned out to be.

They walked, the two of them, past the seaside cafés and shops, toward the center of town. Toward her bank. He held on to her each step of the way, hurting her as she passed one khaki-dressed police officer after another.

She said nothing. She obeyed and would obey. There was only one chance in a million she could get herself out of this, but she wasn’t going to try even that. Not with Michael’s well-being at stake.

He slowed her down as they crossed the street in front of Grand Cayman Bank. “Who am I?” he asked.

“Uncle Ed.”

“Say it again-and smile this time.”

She forced her lips to curve up. “Uncle Ed.”

He walked into the shade on the right side of the street and took out his cell phone. With one push of his button he was on the phone with Jazz, and she was trembling. “Jazz, let’s see what you can do to his left hand.”

“No!” she said, but he yanked her back, close to a pastry shop window.

“Say it again.”

She looked at him through a red haze of hatred, but she made herself smile, pretend this wasn’t death, that Michael wasn’t being hurt this very second. “Uncle Ed.”

“Again.”

“Uncle Ed.”

“Better. Just don’t forget I have the phone right here.” He patted his pocket. “There’s only one way he doesn’t die, and die ugly.”

IT HAD TAKEN MICHAEL too long to wrap his hand in the bathroom towel, to swallow half the bottle of aspirin. He knew Jazz would be coming back any minute, and when he did, there were going to be some changes.

Now that Tate wasn’t directly in harm’s way, he could do what he’d wanted to when Jazz had grabbed his wrist.

He went back to the bedroom. He could still unlock the door, even with his dominant hand out of commission. But that wasn’t the plan. He needed Jazz to come in here.

Once he’d taken that prick out, he’d move on, but slowly. Each member of the crew had to be taken out before he’d blow the whistle on Martini.

On the one hand, he wanted Jazz to hurry the hell up. On the other, a few more minutes for the aspirin to take affect wouldn’t hurt.

He cursed his luck for the hundredth time. Why had he bailed out Charlie so many times? Why’d he have to promise his father he’d watch out for that loser? And why the hell had he fallen in love with Tate Baxter?