“That’s it,” Peterson panted, “fight me.”
Ali writhed against him, her body trapped between his sweaty bulk and the helm.
“Get off me!”
Peterson laughed, his hands assaulting her body, his erection grinding at the small of her back.
Oh, Jack. Help me.
The tortured cry filled Ali’s head, a second before hot, wet lips latched onto her neck and Peterson sucked on her flesh. Ali screamed, black stars exploding in her head. She bucked again, again, lashing out. Struggling to get away.
“Get off!”
But he had her pinned. Brutal fingers were pushing to the very centre of her heat, seeking the folds of her sex. Her shorts were too snug however, stopping the hideous invasion from going further. Snarling in frustration, Peterson jerked his hand from her waistband, pushed her away and for one glorious moment Ali was free.
And then he lunged at her, driving her against the starboard bench seat.
Her head smacked the bench, fresh pain erupting in her head as Peterson landed on her, his cruel fingers snatching at her flailing wrists. He snared them, a wet grunt of triumph heating her face. Jerking her arms behind her back, he rammed his hips into hers, a ramrod shaft of savage steel grinding against her crotch.
“C’mon, Ali,” he panted, thrusting into her even as he fought to hold her down. “You knew all along this is what I wanted.” Her shoulders screamed as he jerked her arms farther behind her back, his fingers scraping at her wrists until he gripped both with one hand. Blazing eyes drilled into hers, a triumphant grin stretching his lips. “What I
will
have.”
“No.”
Ali screamed, bucking and jerking.
But it was no use. He was too big. Too heavy.
Too determined.
Eyes wild, he shoved his bulk harder, harder between the junction of her thighs, grunting with each thrust. Only the denim of her shorts kept him from invading her…
And then, with a laugh and a shove, his free hand yanked open her fly.
Cold terror crashed through her.
Oh, Jack.
Peterson bared his teeth in a hideous smirk. “Ready or not, here I come.”
He raised up his hips, cool air pressing on her fevered flesh as he fumbled with the drawstring of his Speedo.
It was her chance.
With a strength born of petrified desperation, Ali bucked, knocking him backward just enough to thrust her knees up and drive him back farther.
He stumbled, bouncing off the helm. But his stare never left hers, his eyes feverish. Insane with lust. “Oh, I knew you’d be worth it.” He chuckled, regaining his balance as Ali struggled to get to her feet. “So worth it.”
He lunged again.
At the very second Ali kicked out her legs, her heels smashing into his crotch with brutal accuracy.
Peterson squealed. Grabbing his testicles, he crumbled to the cockpit floor, his head striking the helm as he fell.
Ali leapt to her feet, her pulse roaring in her ears. She scrambled away from him, watching blood pool beneath his head as he curled into a groaning, sobbing ball.
Anger and fear surged through her, like molten fire and chilling ice. Oh God, he’d just—
She cut the hideous thought dead. Going there wouldn’t help her now. Sucking ragged breaths in through her nose, she climbed up onto the seat, refusing to tear her stare from the sobbing man on the floor. No way was she taking her eyes off the sick bastard until they were on dry land, quite possibly not even then.
An icy southerly gust picked that exact moment to hammer against
Wind Seeker
, making the boom flay erratically. The helm spun, uninhibited by any hand, and Ali grabbed at it, saving the yacht from heeling to port in a sickening dip.
She wrenched back control, swiftly adjusting the rigging. Hot tears filled her eyes, already stinging from sea spray, but she blinked them away. If only she could wrench back control of her life as easy as she did her yacht.
Fear and fury coated her mouth like bitter slime, choking and suffocating. She pressed her hand against her throat, dismayed at how it trembled. She needed to get herself under control. He could come at her again.
Swallowing, she moved her fingers tentatively to the throbbing bite just below her ear, bile filling her mouth at the slimy residue of saliva her fingertips encountered. Peterson’s saliva.
Oh God.
It was almost too much. A raw sob choked her, and for a dangerous moment the sky spun, her knees threatening to lose all strength.
Get a grip, Alissa. Now!
Cold dread flooded through her. If Peterson saw her flounder he’d be on her just as quick, just as hard. She had to stay on her feet. She had to stay strong. Dragging in a ragged breath, she forced aside her fear. It would not help her. Not at all.
A dull moan came from her feet and, with instant ice, terror tried to engulf her. Peterson was moving. She stared at him, ready to lash out, ready to break his neck if he reached for her. But he didn’t. All he did was crawl on his belly down into the cabin and across the floor into the stateroom, leaving a thin trail of blood and a pool of urine on the cockpit floor. Ali wiped at her mouth, her stomach lurching. The sick prick had peed himself. He’d tried to rape her and then peed himself all over her clean cockpit floor.
Oh, Jack. Oh God, Jack—
Moving to the companionway, Ali studied him lying in a ball on the bed. He didn’t move, just lay there groaning, his hands pressed to his groin, his face distorted in pain. When she was totally convinced he wasn’t going to move from that spot, that he wasn’t trying to lull her into a false sense of security, she stepped into the cabin. Her diver’s knife was on the shelf below the nav station and she damn well wanted it. Still keeping her stare on Peterson, she pulled the knife from the shelf and unsheathed it. It felt solid and real in her hand, far more real than the nightmare she’d just experienced. More real than the situation still to come.
Holding her knife in a death grip with her right hand, she retrieved
Wind Seeker’s
master key set from its hook, her stare remaining locked on Peterson as she did so. Her belly twisted, her pulse thumping. A prickling wave of icy heat crawled over her flesh and she swallowed, stealing herself for what she was going to do next.
Just do it, Ali. Don’t hesitate.
She stared hard at Peterson, her eyes burning as she walked toward the stateroom, each step drawing her closer to her attacker.
Her heart hammered. Her breath refused to leave her body.
She was one step away from the stateroom when Peterson lifted his head and looked at her, the side of his face smeared with blood and tears. “Ali,” he rasped, “I’m hurt.”
Ali clenched her jaw. “I don’t care.”
Before he could respond, she reached into the stateroom, wrapped her fingers around the door handle and pulled the door closed. She heard Peterson groan something through the polished mahogany, something that sounded like sorry. It made no difference. With a quick flick of her wrist, Ali locked the door.
She returned to the helm in six quick steps, her body a mass of aches and pains. Tucking her diver’s knife into the waistband of her shorts, she quickly corrected
Wind Seeker’s
course. It was only a day and a night to the Solomon Islands and she wasn’t going to rest until she moored at the yacht club and had Peterson off her boat. Even if he was locked in the stateroom, she wasn’t going to rest. And she sure as hell wasn’t going to sleep.
Reefing on the sails, she steered towards land. She would do everything she could to get to her destination as quickly as possible, even if she had to defy physics and the laws of sailing. She would get to the Solomons ASAP, she would get Peterson off her yacht and she would turn around and sail home. And under no circumstances would she allow herself to acknowledge the fact how deeply, utterly and profoundly she longed for Jack McKenzie to be there with her. Not for protection. Not for help.
But just because.
The plane touched down on the runway, tires squealing on the tarmac like a banshee on death row.
Jack looked out the window, his throat tight and his chest heavy. Honiara. The Solomon Islands’ capital. Ali was here—or would be any day now. He was going to find her, wring her pretty, devious little neck and then drag her back to Australia. What happened after that, he didn’t know.
Returning his attention to the piece of paper in his hand, he read the words scrawled there once again. It was the same piece of paper he’d given to Mike to read eleven days ago. The same piece of paper that had tortured him every one of those days since.
You seem to be making a habit of losing your women to me. My thanks. Z.P.
Clenching his jaw, Jack crumpled the paper into a small ball.
Accompanying the note had been a check signed by Zane Peterson for fifty-five-thousand dollars, a check now folded in Jack’s wallet. When he next saw the bastard he was going to stick the small, folded piece of paper where the sun never shone.
He pulled in a slow breath, struggling to keep his relaxed composure. Eleven days ago he’d been close to going mad, consumed by guilt and fury and jealousy. Pride had stopped him from jumping on
Suspicious Ways
the day he’d discovered them gone and sailing after them. Stupid pride. But if he’d been able to get his hands on Ali or Peterson that day he’d most likely be locked away now, charged with murder. It had taken another day for him to realize, no matter how angry he was, he was also petrified. For Ali’s safety. Pride was all well and good, but it wouldn’t keep him sane. He’d arranged a one-way flight to Honiara straight away. Ali may have sailed to her destination with Peterson, but she was returning to Sydney with Jack. Even if he had to tie her to the mast and helm of
Wind Seeker
himself.
Three days later, almost out of his mind waiting until he would fly out, he’d gone to visit Jenny, hoping she had heard from her daughter. Talking to Jenny may also give him some kind of insight into Ali’s relationship with Peterson. However, after ringing the doorbell so many times he’d lost count, he’d finally accepted that Ali’s mother wasn’t home. It wasn’t until a car drove into the driveway and a family of four alighted that he’d learnt Jenny hadn’t lived there for over a year. It also explained why she never answered her phone. For whatever reason, she was as unreachable as her daughter.
Now here he was on the Solomons, still as frustrated as ever.
Stepping out of the airport and flagging down a taxi, Jack ignored the stunning tropical location and the suffocating humidity folding around him. The sooner he tracked Ali down the better.
Waiting this long before finding her had been hell. He’d barely slept since their confrontation at the marina and the knowledge he couldn’t see her until she docked here today had only made it worse. His mind had offered too many scenarios to consider, too many scenarios where Peterson made love to Ali, where Ali moaned the fat prick’s name as orgasm after orgasm consumed her. Scenarios that tortured him as much as Peterson’s taunting note. Still, Jack was here now and he knew when he saw her, when he could hold her and talk to her, sanity would return. He hoped.
He hadn’t allowed himself the luxury of examining his feelings. He
was
angry with Ali, furious in fact, but was it because she’d stood him up or because he’d discovered her with Peterson? The fact she’d taken
Wind Seeker
—technically
his
yacht—was just the icing on the cake. Yet, beneath his fury something else nagged at him. Something he didn’t want to acknowledge yet.
If Ali
was
with Peterson romantically, how was he to live without her? How was he to spend the rest of his life knowing the woman he loved was with someone else? A lackey for a drug-dealing asshole?
He couldn’t. Plain and simple.
Checking into the nearest hotel, he proceeded to call the Point Cruz Yacht Club. The club’s commodore would know of any incoming vessel, its time of arrival and the pen in which it would berth. Every detail he needed to find her. Find her and bring her home. To his house. Where she was meant to be.
Five minutes later however, he disconnected the call, his chest so tight he could barely draw breath.
Wind Seeker
was due to arrive in approximately three hours,
Wind Seeker’s
captain already arranging accommodation at the Honiara Hotel. One solitary room. The executive suite.
Cold rage laced through his blood. Cold rage and burning jealousy. He crossed his hotel room and stared out the window at the endless expanse of ocean beyond, his knuckles cracking as he clenched his fists. One solitary fucking room.
He was going to kill her.
Kill them both.
Point Cruz Yacht Club was busy. Luxury motorboats and sleek yachts constantly moved in and out of its clear waters as Ali motored through the marina traffic. She’d had never been so happy to be somewhere she didn’t fit it. Maneuvering into the empty pen assigned to
Wind Seeker
, she shot Peterson a furtive look. She’d unlocked his door an hour ago and thirty minutes after that he’d emerged. He hadn’t said a word. The blood was gone from his face, his clothes were fresh, his expression composed. And yet, he still watched her. Still studied her with greedy eyes. It was enough to make Ali sick, but at least he hadn’t come near her. She hated the constant scrutiny, the mental undressing, but as long as he kept his distance she wouldn’t do anything.