The Stolen Bride

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Cara

I just found out what absolute despair feels like, and I never want to feel that way again. Discovering that there were multiple holes in the damn life raft—s***h marks, probably deliberate s***h marks at that—was the last straw.

I did all right once I escaped upstairs. I found the damn raft, got it inflated, looped the rope around the railing, and threw it over the side. Then I grabbed my stuff, jumped in—and the raft started deflating the moment my weight settled into it.

For about a minute, as water started to trickle into the raft and soak into the cuffs of my shorts, I thought of going under with it. Just letting myself slip under the waves, into the cool darkness, where I wouldn’t have to deal with the ugly revelations about the world that I had just gone through seemed like a good idea at the time.

But then I thought no and grabbed the rope, which held its knot just long enough for me to haul myself over the side. I found the anger at the bottom of my despair and used it as fuel. My teeth gritted the whole way up, crying and sniveling but still forcing myself to climb, to pull, to swing over and drag my beaten body back onto the deck.

I might have to face Richard again after all. There is no way off the yacht. And unless I find some way of killing him, I’ll have to go through the hell of playing nice with him until I can get away.

I cried with frustration when I discovered that the slashed up mess slowly sinking into the water was the only life raft on board, but I didn't let myself give up hope. I hate the idea of even looking at Richard's face again unless I am watching him be arrested, but I also know that letting myself die is not an option.

I will survive. I will find a way. And then I will find a way to get revenge on Richard for his lies, his cruelty, and his thinking that he can treat me any damn way he wants.

My tears are catharsis, not a sign of weakness. I’m getting rid of some emotional poison so I can move on and start putting my plans in motion.

I'm still sitting there when I become aware that someone else is on the deck. A complete stranger, quietly standing there watching me.

I look up...and see a lean, muscular form; lithe and tall and dressed in a loose black tank top and pants, staring back at me curiously. His eyes look black in the moonlight, and his spiky hair reflects glints from the tips of each strand like the pelt of a wolf. He's handsome in a roguish, stubble-chinned way and doesn't move when he notices me looking at him.

Richard didn't bring any crew, I realize, and stiffen up, staring at him wide-eyed. “Who the hell are you?” I hiss, trying to sound angry and dangerous.

I probably look more like a terrified kitten to a man his size, but he just looks startled, his mouth opening and closing like he's not quite sure what to say.

"Look, if I have to yell for help, you’ll be dealing with an angry drunk with a g*n," I start. No way for him to know straight off that it's an empty threat. I’d rather die than call for Richard.

"No!" he says in a hushed voice that is deep and has a faint French-sounding accent. Cajun maybe? I can't tell. "No, don't." He holds up a placating hand. "I don’t mean any harm. I just was out doing some stargazing, and I saw the, you know, completely dark boat in the middle of the water and that deflated lifeboat."

It's very likely bullshit, and I feel myself bristle inside. I'm getting sick of men lying to me—especially older ones who should know better. "And?"

"And, I wanted to make sure that everything's all right here." His eyes search my face—and take a detour into my cleavage. He's nervous, but not so nervous that he isn't acting like a typical dude.

I look at him and then take a deep breath and decide on something crazy. "Do I really look like everything's all right?" I growl, flaunting my face at him. He flinches slightly, and I get right to the damn point. "You've got a boat?"

He smirks a bit weakly. "Well, I didn't swim here."

I nod. "Good enough. I'll give you twenty thousand dollars for a ride to Miami."

He hesitates, but I can see from the way his eyes flick from my face to my engagement rock and my designer purse that I’ve caught his attention. "What's the catch?"

"I can't even access it until I've made a phone call and can visit a branch of a US bank." It's bullshit, but not by much. My father is co-signed on all but one of my accounts, and he'll know if I draw out any money and where I was when I did it. Until I have had a chance to warn him about Richard, Richard might weasel that information out of him in the guise of a concerned husband with a missing wife.

The hunk with the dubious backstory frowns, considering me. "How about a compromise? I'll get you to Cuba and make sure you are able to get a plane back to Miami, for ten thousand, payable in advance."

I feel my heart sink—and then remember the contents of my purse. "What form will you take it in?" I pull out Richard's wallet and open it.

He's got a bankroll in there, but it can't be more than a thousand. But his cards...his watch...the ring he gave me, which I want to unload as fast as I can—those have to be worth something.

"Cash or jewelry." His eyes flick over the contents of the wallet. "Can't use those cards, they track 'em."

"What about this?" I pull out the platinum and diamond blinged-out watch that he wore for our wedding. It looks like something a pimp might wear, and I can only guess how much it costs.

His eyes widen, and he licks his lips. "Holy s**t. Yeah, I would say that just its materials would cover it." Then he looks at me again. "You want to tell me what happened?"

I want to ask him why the hell he would care, but I can see concern in those deep black eyes, and it stops me short. I wasn't expecting it and feel a lump forming in my throat. I swallow it down, irritated with myself.

But before I can say anything further, I hear a clatter in the cabin below decks.

"Cara," Richard calls in a thick voice, and I feel my blood run cold.

The stranger sees the look on my face and his eyes widen. "He did this?"

I nod mutely and barely manage to mouth the words "We have to go." I hold out the watch—and after a moment's hesitation, he takes it.

"Deal," he mutters.

"Cara! You little b***h, where the hell are you? I want my f*****g wedding night! Come out from wherever you’re hiding, get your clothes off, and get on the f*****g bed!"

My stomach boils at the sound of Richard's voice. I get up and look over the railing—and see a very plain-looking black speedboat tied up alongside the yacht. A knotted rope hangs down to it from a grappling hook.

"Can you climb?" the stranger starts, but I'm already throwing my aching body over the railing and forcing myself to clamber down the rope. It seems to take forever, knot by careful knot, my arms trembling by the time I lower myself to the rocking deck of the speedboat.

A second later, I see him cut the ropes, grab the grappling hook, and leap down to me. He lands as easy as a cat just a few feet from me, rocking the boat a little. I sit down hurriedly, and he throws himself into the cockpit and starts up the engine.

"Cara? Cara!" The sleepy demand turns into a shout of outrage as I hear Richard come clattering up the stairs. Terror washes through me like icy water; I gasp for air, tears starting in my eyes. But then I look at the man at the helm—and freeze in shock.

The man pulls out a heavy caliber pistol, a grim look on his face. For a moment, as Richard's yelling gets closer, I almost think that he's going to shoot my abuser as soon as he shows his face, but he doesn't aim up past the railing.

Richard reaches the edge and leans on the railing, looking down at us, his face a slowly darkening oval in the faint moonlight. "You little w***e! Where do you think you are g—"

The stranger fires. Richard lets out a yelp and ducks back away from the railing. I clap my hands over my ears, which ring from the shot. The pistol fires twice more—putting two more bullets in the hull just below the water line. The fourth goes into the engine.

"Don't think he'll be following anytime soon," the stranger says with a naughty glee in his tone as he swings the powerful, surprisingly quiet boat away from the yacht and off into the night.

Staring at him in amazement, I feel a sense of hope start to trickle back—along with baffled curiosity. Who is this man? And what have I bought into by trusting him?