In Too Deep (34 page)

Her father asked no questions. As the other boats aimed for where they stood on the beach, Trevor's men opened fire. Tally flinched as she saw the face of the driver seconds before a bullet hit him in the forehead, leaving a small, neat, black hole. She looked away and shuddered at the casual violence.

Without a driver, the speedboat went up the side of the rocks at full-throttle. Bodies flew as the boat looped, ass over prow, and landed upside down in the surf like a pregnant turtle.

Tally turned away and looked at her father, trying to reconcile this man with the person she'd seen in London several years ago. He'd changed, and not for the better. Or perhaps she was suddenly seeing the real man.

Trevor Church had always been large, tall, and robust, but in the last few years he'd packed on a good fifty pounds, which strained his white shirt across his belly. The shirt was open to mid-chest, exposing a glint of gold chains against his tanned chest. Fleshy jowls hung from his square jaw. The change made him appear dissipated, like a man who spent too much time hovered over a whiskey bottle. He'd shaved his head, and now sported a small gold earring in his left ear.

Emotion poured through Tally at the sight of him. Hope. Pain. Anger. Relief.

Before she got near the small cluster of men, Michael grabbed her arm and pulled her back sharply. Off-balance, her body slammed into his chest. "What are you doing? Let go." She tried to tug herself free.

Michael pulled her up hard against him with one arm around her waist. She felt the steady thud of his heart against her shoulder. "Stay with me," he said grimly.

Tally wriggled to get free. "Don't be silly. That's my fathe—"

"What the
bloody hell
are you doing here?" Trevor Church demanded, his British accent crisp and as cutting as broken glass. Eyes distant, mouth grim, he remained where he was.

At her father's words, Tally stopped struggling out of Michael's hold. "I—what?"

"I can't believe your stupidity. Why are you here, Tallulah?"

His reaction wasn't unexpected, but her heart pinched all the same. Tally lifted her chin. "Gee, it's good to see you, too."

"I repeat. Why are you here?"

"You know, I've been asked that question so many times, by so many people lately, I'm beginning to think I'm just not welcome," Tally said tartly. She and Michael weren't touching, but she could feel him right behind her, only inches away.

Her father scowled. "We meet where and when
I
say. You have never been welcome here." He glanced past Tally and smiled unpleasantly at Michael. "Came back for more, I see, Lieutenant. This time will it be my daughter you kill instead of your partner?"

"You're a real prize, Church."

"And you're a dead man." Trevor jerked his head, and his goons strode forward. Three circled behind Michael, one roughly grabbing hold of Tally's arm.

Michael's arm tightened about her waist, pulling her hard against him. "Tell your people to back off," he told her father.

"Or what, Lieutenant?"

"Or someone is going to get seriously hurt."

"Are you going to stand there using a woman to shield you?"

"This has nothing to do with Tally. Tell your apes to back off, then let her go. This is between you and me. No one else."

"As much as I'd relish finishing what I started last year, Lieutenant, I don't have time today." Church jerked his chin.

His men grabbed hold of Michael from the back. Tally felt his body jerk, and heard his grunt of pain as he was hit from behind.

The man beside her tried to pull her free, almost ripping her arm out of its socket.

"Hey! Do I look like a damn wishbone?" Tally twisted and kneed the man holding so tightly to her left arm. With a shriek he doubled over, holding his groin. She jerked herself free of Michael's hold and stepped away from him, then glared from him to her father, encompassing all the men in their audience. The testosterone level in the air was as thick as pea soup.

At the end of her emotional and physical rope, Tally snapped. "Stick a fork in me, guys, I'm done. I'll just stand here and watch while you shoot one another. Last man standing can help me get off this damn island."

"You'll do what you're told," her father said.

"Or what?" Tally countered, planting both hands on her hips and glaring at the man she'd waited so long to see. "You'll kill me? Big deal. Right now, a bullet to the brain sounds like a vacation!"

"Tally."

"Shut up, Michael," she snapped, never taking her gaze off her father. "I've been burgled, choked, pushed down stairs, nearly strangled, chased by a speedboat, shot at. Who knows what's next? If you think you can scare me now,
Daddy
, you don't know me any more than I know you."

For one split second, she thought she saw a flash of—something, was it pride?—in Trevor's eyes, but by this point, she couldn't have cared less. "So tell you what. Why don't you just have one of your goons shoot me now. Or better yet, give me the gun. Your guys keep screwing it up!"

"Damn it, Tally."

She spared Michael one quick glare. It had taken four men to hold him. They had his arms strained behind his back in what looked like an extremely uncomfortable position. "I am not speaking to you."

"Lucky man," one of her father's henchmen muttered.

"If you're not going to shoot me, color me gone." Tally turned as sharply on her bare heel as sand would allow and started down the beach. As tempting as it was, she didn't run. She pulled back her shoulders, lifted her head, and kept her eyes focused on Auntie's hotel in the distance. One phone call would bring the charter plane back. All she had to do was put one heavy foot in front of the other and keep walking.

Tally couldn't tell which hurt more, her battered and bruised body, or her heart. She was one giant ache from head to toe, inside and out. But beyond the hurt, she was extremely pissed off. The brilliant white beach ahead blurred, and she angrily dashed the moisture from her eyes.

Neither man was worth crying over.

One of her father's men came up behind her swiftly and jerked her off her feet. She stumbled in the sand. "Let go of me," she snarled, trying to twist out of his hold. His fingers gripped her upper arm where she had bruises on top of bruises. She turned to her father. "Tell your goon to let go of me. Right now!"

"Where do you think you're going?" He might have been talking to a stranger for all the emotion in his voice and features.

"Why the hell do you care? I've been walking without assistance for twenty-seven years. I can certainly do so now. Believe me, you don't need to have me escorted off your precious island. I'm more than happy to go. Thanks for the familial welcome. I feel warm and fuzzy all over. Good-bye."

"Take them up to the house until I decide what to do with them."

"Trust me," Tally said coldly, "
you
don't need to decide anything. I'm leaving."

Her father, flanked by his men, walked up to her. He paused to rake his gaze from her head, to her toes, and back again. He shook his head. "Pity you didn't get Bev's looks."

"I'm surprised you remember my mother's name. She wouldn't look twice at you now, Jabba the Hurt. Eat your heart out."

He hit her.

She fingered her bleeding lip. "I guess we're both disappointed."

Four modified golf carts waited on the other side of the rocks. Church and one of his men got into the first one; the rest of the crowd filled the remaining vehicles. "You drive," the goon told Michael, and motioned with his weapon for Tally to get into the passenger seat.

Michael shot her a glance. For all her bravado, her face was pale, her jaw set. Here was a woman about to blow.

Behind them sat two men, Uzis trained on the backs of their heads.

"Drive," the back, left goon ordered. Michael engaged the stick, and the convoy headed across the beach.

The fact that he had no weapons was no big deal. He could make a weapon out of a paper clip. And, fact of the matter was, he'd been prepared to die completing this last op.

Tally had put a whole new spin on things.

He
might've been prepared to die. But he found himself vehemently opposed to any more harm coming to Tally.

It was hotter than hell. The sun bounced off the white sand, causing shimmering mirages in their path, reminding him of the op in Somalia back in '93. He'd had backup, weapons, and a hope of getting out alive. Right now, things weren't looking so hot.

Sweat ran down his temples. He wiped his face on his shoulder as he drove, keeping both hands on the wheel in plain view. Tally's hands were clasped so tightly in her lap, her knuckles shone white.

Michael glanced at her pale face. Jesus, she'd been thrilled about the invitation, and even when she'd learned it had all been a ruse, she'd still been delighted to be here. She'd anticipated a happy reunion with her father. He'd watched her flinch with each verbal bullet from Trevor Church.

Damn, he was proud of her chutzpah for returning fire.

The idea that such an unfeeling, callous bastard could've fathered a daughter as warm and caring as Tally was inconceivable.

The tide was coming in, which narrowed the beach to a white strip. They traveled in silence along the dappled shadows under the tree line at the back edge of the sand, where there were more rocks and roots to contend with.

Past the marina. The
Beautiful Dreamer
was sailing into port. Michael wondered absently how Church would react to the news that he and Tally had absconded with the detonator to the pulse generator. If nothing else, it would buy them some time.

"Don't slow down," the man behind him snapped.

Michael took the buggy over a gnarled root protruding from the sand. The vehicle shuddered and shimmied over the obstacle. "This thing isn't qualified for the Indy 500, pal."

He guesstimated the boat would dock in twenty minutes. He eased the cart onto the shell path in front of the hotel. There was no sign of either Auntie, or Henri. Hell, Michael wasn't sure whose side they were on, anyway.

The higher up the base of the volcano they traveled, the more dense the vegetation. The English Tudor-style mansion rose above a garden running wild with tropical plant life. The sun was high in a cloudless blue sky, the heat shimmering and reflecting off the stark white walls of the house.

"Stop here," the guy behind them instructed, rapping the back of Michael's head with the barrel of his weapon. "Keep your hands where I can see them, and get out."

Michael brought the vehicle to a halt. There wasn't much time. Church would want them out of the way before his buyers arrived. It was a given
this
time he'd kill Michael. He wouldn't give him a second chance to get away. Not with this many guards and firepower. Not with this much at stake.

Regardless, Michael had to figure out a way to get Tally to safety, preferably off-island, before that happened. Bouchard and Cruella De Vil's arrival might facilitate her escape.

Church and his men entered the house. The front door yawned open in expectation. Michael stepped out of the cart and waited for Tally. He brushed her arm as she came around the front of the vehicle, and she flinched as though he'd poked her with a cattle prod. Head high, she preceded him up the shallow front steps and through the carved wooden front door.

He wanted to touch her. To reassure her. But of course he was the last damn person she'd want reassurance from. And frankly he couldn't tell her much. "Run like hell, honey," seemed inadequate for their circumstances.

Two men came up from behind him, holding him until the other cart arrived, then accompanied by six bodyguards, Michael strode up the stairs and followed Tally into Church's house.

The dim, cavernous entry hall felt cool as they crossed the green-and-white-checkered marble floor. Tally waited for him beside a pair of ten-foot-high mahogany doors guarded by two more of Church's little army.

Her eyes met his, then she turned and went through the door one of the men shoved open.

They walked into the English study, which was done in dark woods and plush jewel-colored velvets. Although unsuited to the tropical climate, everything Church had imported from his home country was top of the line. The large room looked as contrived as a stage set, and as inappropriate as a hula dancer at high tea.

Church stood with his back to them looking out the window.

Michael glanced around, assessing everything in the room as a potential weapon. On their left, ceiling-high bookshelves were filled with heavy, gold-etched, leather-bound books. A large library table. A ladder. Plenty of throwable knick-knacks.

"Did you hope some of your decorator's class would rub off on you?" Tally asked her father sweetly.

Church turned from the window. "Sit down and shut up. Don't take your eyes off either of them," he instructed the six men who'd accompanied them silently into the room. "Not over there. Right here." He indicated the two low-backed chairs before the desk. Michael followed Tally, and they sat down. The men closed in behind them, weapons trained on their heads.

"A hell of a family reunion," Michael said, crossing his ankle over his knee. The desk was a couple of feet away. It appeared heavy and solid, but with enough force, Michael figured he could kick it hard enough to pin Church to the wall.

"Think I'll pass," Tally said flatly. "This whole armed-guard thing is ridiculous, you know. I don't want to be here. You don't want me here. What's the point?"

"The point is, your presence has put me in a tenuous position. I have guests arriving any minute. I have to decide what to do with you before they get here."

"I have several suggestions," Tally said flatly. "None of them involve sitting here with six guns pointing at my head."

"She's right." Michael wished to hell he could see out of his left eye. He knew the guy was right there, inches away, but he would've liked to
see
him. With this much firepower up close and personal, there was no way he was going to make a move without ending up dead. He had two things to accomplish before that happened: Church and Tally. He settled back in his chair, relaxed, but ready. "This has nothing to do with your daughter. Let her g—"