Copyright 1997-2002 by Karen Leabo, all rights reserved. This e-book is available exclusively from BooksForABuck.com. Check out BooksForABuck.com for the best eBooks-at the best prices.

CHAPTER ONE

He sliced noiselessly through dark, murky water on a black night. The only way an uninvited guest could get into Houston's ultra-exclusive Seville Yacht Club was through the water, and that's how Clint Nichols was doing it. Wearing a wet suit, his face blackened with greasepaint, he knew he was almost invisible. Still, he swam mostly underwater, surfacing as infrequently as possible.

Almost there. he thought, his lungs burning. And still the most difficult work was ahead of him. His training at Quantico hadn't prepared him for anything like this. But he was in good shape--better than most of his younger colleagues. He worked like a demon to stay that way, especially since he'd hit forty.

The young Turks might think of him as a dinosaur, but he'd bet not one of them could make it through the grueling physical demands of this task. Too bad the only way he'd ever be able to brag about it was from a jail cell. The Bureau didn't exactly condone kidnapping and hijacking.

Clint carefully counted the boat slips. Most of them were occupied by empty, silent sailboats and cabin cruisers. The wealthy owners paid tens of thousands for the crafts themselves, and thousands more to berth them at the prestigious Seville dock, then actually took them out only once or twice a year.

The whole thing was a pretentious waste of money in Clint's book. Then again, he'd never made enough money to think about owning anything fancier than his 16-foot catamaran, berthed in his garage. How could he understand what motivated rich men, men like Jimmy Gabriole?

At least Gabriole occasionally used his boat. He often arrived without his entourage, believing he was inviolable at the high-security yacht club. This particular weekend he'd brought his sister, Marissa, with him, providing Clint with the perfect opportunity. An eye for an eye.

A little sister for an ex-wife.

Jimmy had raised Marissa from the time she was ten and Jimmy was twenty, when their parents had been killed in a car bombing. Rumor had it that he valued her far above any in his series of wives.

Slip 64. And there was Fortune's Smile, Gabriole's 42-foot cabin cruiser, not an ostentatious vessel by any means. Clint supposed that Gabriole didn't want to draw unwanted attention from the IRS. His official income was enough to allow him to live comfortably, but he wasn't a millionaire. Not unless you counted all the cash that came in under the table.

Fortune's Smile. Gabriole didn't know how ironic the name of his boat was. Fortune was about to frown on the Mafioso. Big time. He'd find out what if felt like have someone he loved disappear into thin air.

Clint found a vantage point behind a slime-covered pier and watched. The water was still a bit chilly on this late April night, and a soft rain was starting to fall, but Clint felt no discomfort. He was on a mission, and he had plenty of time. He wouldn't move until the optimum moment.

Clint had agonized for days about what to do. Rachelle, his sweet, wild little Rachelle, had been missing for almost a week, last seen at the Foxhunt where she worked as a dancer. Police questioning had extracted no useful information. Clint's boss, Neil McCormick, had told him to let it go. Rachelle was a minor player, and pursuing her fate might jeopardize an eight-month organized-crime investigation. Let the police handle it.

But Clint couldn't just sit on his hands, not when it came to Rachelle. She'd once been his wife, briefly. And though that had ended a long time ago, they still shared a bond. He looked out for her, bailed her out of scrapes now and then. And she provided him with useful bits of information. Her entire involvement with Gabriole and the Foxhunt had been Clint's idea. She'd risked her life for him. He could not abandon her now.

Clint pumped his legs beneath the water, trying to keep his circulation going. He didn't know when, or if, Marissa Gabriole would be left alone on the boat. But he would wait. He was good at that.

***

"You're sure you don't want to come?" Jimmy asked his sister for the third time as he fastened a slim gold watch around his wrist. "I was supposed to show you a good time this weekend, and we haven't even left the dock."

"It's okay, Jimmy, really," Marissa Gabriole said, hoping she didn't look as green as she felt. She was actually relieved the lousy weather had prevented them from venturing out on Trinity Bay with Fortune's Smile. She loved her brother, and she'd been promising for a long time that she would spend a weekend on his sailboat with him and his wife, Sophia. Now that tax season was over, she'd run out of excuses, so this was the weekend. But sailing had never appealed to her. In fact she'd discovered, much to her dismay, that she was prone to seasickness.

Since the weather had made sailing impossible this evening, Jimmy wanted to go out on the town.

"But it's lobster, Marissa," Sophia said. "How can you turn down a lobster dinner?" She pronounced the shellfish as "lobsta." Sophie was young and cute and unsophisticated, Jimmy's third wife. Still, Marissa couldn't help liking her. She was as ingenuous as a puppy.

"I just want to curl up in my bunk with a book," Marissa said. And some Pepto-Bismal. She'd downed a gallon of the pink stuff since her arrival at the Seville Yacht Club this afternoon. "Y'all go out and have fun. Don't worry about me, I'm fine."

"Okay, sissy," Jimmy said with a shrug. He'd never claimed to understand his sister's low-key ways. "We'll be back around midnight, maybe a little later."

Marissa breathed a sigh of relief as the hatch closed behind Jimmy and Sophia. She grabbed on to the edge of the fold-down galley table as the boat listed to one side, then the other, announcing the couple's disembarkment. Closing her eyes, she waited for the rocking to stop before she tried to walk.

What she really needed right now was some down time. This spring had been the busiest tax season ever for her growing accounting business. For weeks she'd been working twelve-hour days, seven days a week. Then, when the end had been in sight, Jimmy had shown up at her doorstep with a chicken-scrawled ledger book and a box of receipts, begging her to do a Schedule C for his restaurant, the Foxhunt. His regular bookkeeper had quit in a huff.

She'd done it, because she had a hard time saying no to her older brother, who'd always done so much for her. But she'd barely finished the paperwork in time for Jimmy to make the April 15 tax deadline.

Thank God that insanity was over. Now all she wanted was to kick back, relax, be bored.

Marissa wiggled out of her sticky clothes. The sailboat didn't afford much privacy, so it was a relief to have the place to herself for a few hours. In deference to the muggy night, she wandered around in a beige silk camisole and paisley boxer shorts. She wouldn't make it on to anyone's Best Dressed list, but who would see her?

Some graham crackers and a glass of milk served as her dinner. After tidying up the tiny galley, then washing her face and brushing her teeth in a bathroom too small to turn around in, Marissa headed for her cozy--some might say cramped--quarters in the V-berth. She stretched out on clammy sheets and cracked open a mystery she'd been dying to read.

With a sigh, she decided that this wasn't paradise, but it wasn't half-bad, either. No phone, no computer, no aggravations. Just the gentle sound of waves lapping against the hull, the murmur of a gentle rain, the occasional sleepy call of a water bird, and--

What was that noise? The boat abruptly leaned to one side, the way it did when someone boarded. Were Jimmy and Sophia back so early? It wasn't even ten o'clock. Maybe the weather had dissuaded them. It was supposed to be stormy later on.

She didn't hear any familiar voices. Tense with fear, Marissa put the book aside and felt around at the side of the mattress for her gun. Ever since she'd passed her test to carry concealed, she never went anywhere without her old Colt revolver.

It's a lady's gun, she remembered her father saying when he'd presented the weapon to her mother. Marissa had been seven or eight at the time. Small, fits easily in the purse, but accurate. Not like some of them pea-shooters your Bridge Club friends carry.

Her mother, who had never favored impractical furs or jewelry, had been pleased with the gift.

Now the gun belonged to Marissa. It was considered old-fashioned today, but she didn't care. She knew how to use it, and it would do the job if she ever had to pull the trigger, which she fervently hoped would never happen. She quickly loaded all six chambers from the box of ammunition in her overnight case.

The hatch at the opposite end of the boat rattled. Had Jimmy locked it behind him? Probably. Jimmy took matters of security very seriously.

A loud creaking noise shattered the quiet. Oh, Lord, someone was breaking in! Marissa rolled onto her stomach, closed the privacy curtain that separated the V-berth from the rest of the boat, then trained her eye and the muzzle of her gun through a crack. If she could keep her presence a secret, she would. Maybe her uninvited guest would quickly canvass the main living area of the boat for valuables, then leave.

She could hope, anyway.

The hatch slowly lifted. Marissa held her breath as a silhouette descended the five steps that led into the living area of the boat. The man--and clearly, it was a man--wore a shiny black wet suit that outlined every sinew of his body. He looked hard and muscular, at least six feet tall. When his face came into view, Marissa saw that it was painted black, and she stifled a gasp. He looked like the bad guy from a James Bond flick.

Not some garden-variety boat-breaker, then. If possible, Marissa became more frightened. What was going on here?

***

All right, where was she? Clint wondered as he descended the steps, grateful that someone had left a light on. He hoped Marissa was asleep. If she'd slept through his break-in, he stood a much better chance of avoiding injury to either of them while he subdued her. For intimidation purposes he had only a knife, so the element of surprise was essential.

Clint surveyed the boat's interior, taking a moment to appreciate the tidy, space-efficient living area. Some designer had done a number on the place. The pale pastels, warm wood tones and gauzy upholstery made the minimal space seem larger than it was. Ultra-modern appliances in doll proportions defined the galley. He supposed there was some appeal to yachting. He could stand this for a few days.

Marissa was not in plain sight, nor in the tiny bathroom, which left the two sleeping cabins. He'd studied the plans for this model of boat, and he guessed that Gabriole and his wife would take the larger rear cabin, leaving Marissa the smaller V-berth, wedged into the prow.

That's where he headed, as quietly as possible.

A movement caught the corner of his eye. He jerked his head around, scanning the area, but didn't see anything. He was way too jumpy.

He continued toward the V-berth. He slid the curtains open.

He saw it, but he didn't believe it. Marissa Gabriole, her huge brown eyes filled with fear, lay on the bunk, pointing a gun at him.

"Freeze," she said calmly, deliberately. "One step closer and I'll pull the trigger."

He would have laughed if he hadn't been so scared. Who did she think she was with that ancient Colt pointed at his heart? Still, just because the gun was old and the woman scared out of her wits didn't mean he couldn't be just as dead if she shot him.

"I'm not here to hurt you," he said softly, imagining what a vision he must have presented her with his black-painted face.

"I don't care what your intentions are," she said. "Just leave the way you came."

He didn't have to think about what he did next. Years of training shaped his actions. With one lightning-quick motion he rotated his body, giving her the smallest possible target, and reached for the gun, deflecting the barrel away from him as he wrenched it out of her hand.

Marissa was propped on her elbows, so there was no way for her to react with any speed. The gun went from her grip to his in the blink of an eye, and she was left staring at Clint, first in disbelief, then with fear.

"You ought not to carry a gun unless you know how to use it," he said with a lazy drawl while he emptied the spin gun's chambers, dropping the bullets to the floor. "For this very reason. Ten seconds ago I wasn't armed with a gun. Now I am."

"Spare me the lectures!" she said hotly. "I've had training. I have a license to carry a concealed weapon."

"Not trained well enough, obviously," he said, searching for a place to dispose of the gun. He thought briefly about keeping it for his own purposes, then rejected the idea. When he'd planned this operation, he'd promised himself he would do it without a gun. He didn't trust himself not to shoot Gabriole, the bastard.

He opened a porthole and started to toss the revolver overboard.

"No!" Marissa objected.

He paused and looked at her.

"It was my mother's gun," she said almost sheepishly. "It has sentimental value. Don't throw it out. Please?"

Clint didn't believe her for a second. But he couldn't seem to make himself ignore her plea, either. Instead of pitching the gun out, he bent down, scooped up the bullets, and threw them out. He took a couple of steps backward into the galley and shoved the gun into a drawer. His gaze remained trained on Marissa.

He studied her then, really looked at her, and he had to admit he liked what he saw. Before, he'd seen her only at a distance. Other than coloring, she bore no resemblance to her short, stocky, snub-nosed brother. Marissa Gabriole had the face of a cosmetics model along with the eyes of a frightened fawn--an undeniably appealing combination. Her tousled hair was thick, shoulder length, gently curved under so the ends barely tickled her graceful neck. As for the rest of her ...

"Put some clothes on," he said crossly, irritated that he was responding to her as a man. He didn't know much about Marissa other than that she was a Mafia princess, daughter of the late, great Lido Gabriole. But that was enough to disgust him. He shouldn't be attracted to such a creature, no matter what his hormones thought of her.

At his terse command, Marissa had grabbed an oversized T-shirt from her bag and dragged it over her head. Clint breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn't sure how much longer he could have looked at her breasts, barely covered in a layer of thin silk, without some noticeable reaction.

Now it was time to do something about his own attire. The wet suit was hideously uncomfortable. He unzipped it and peeled himself like a banana, conscious of Marissa's frightened gaze riveted to him. When he was done, he wore only a pair of Speedo swim trunks.

It hadn't occurred to him that his skimpy attire would be so awkward. He felt much too vulnerable with so much skin showing. Bare skin could all too easily be raked with fingernails. "Got another T-shirt I can borrow?" he asked, as amiably as if they were friends at the beach.

Marissa visibly swallowed and licked her lips. She shoved her suitcase at him. "I think there's a blue one in there that might be big enough to fit you," she said grudgingly. "Otherwise, you can wear one of my brothers'. His bag is in the other cabin." Her gaze never left him. "You know, he'll be back any time. And he's not someone you want to mess with. He's got some pretty nasty friends. I'd leave if I were you. Really."

"I'm well aware of Jimmy's collection of friends. And I know he's dangerous. That's why I'm here." Clint sifted through pastel underthings--far more interesting to him than they should have been--before finding the blue T-shirt. He quickly donned the shirt. "I'm not planning to hurt you," he thought to add. Terrorizing women, even crime-family women, wasn't his goal. "If you'll just cooperate, we'll be done with this thing before morning."

"You're going to kill him," she said, her voice a monotone. "Oh, God, I knew some day they'd catch up with us."

"They?" Perhaps Marissa would prove to be a wealth of information.

"You," she clarified, malevolence burning from her eyes. "You're the one who killed our parents."

Now this he found almost laughable. Marissa thought he was another gangster! All right, so maybe at this moment he wasn't acting like an FBI agent. If his superiors ever found out about this stunt, he'd be not only out one job, but serving time in the pen as well. But desperate circumstances called for desperate measures. He would do what he had to do to get Rachelle back safely. And if she was already dead, someone would pay.

Jimmy Gabriole. The man had featured prominently in all of Rachelle's info drops. He'd issued veiled threats against her. Clint had cautioned her to be careful, that giving herself away could lead to her death. But she'd become more and more reckless with her snooping into Jimmy's personal affairs.

Then she'd disappeared. Her apartment door had been bashed in, the furniture tossed about. And no sign of Rachelle during days of searching.

Clint had never stopped caring for Rachelle, never mind that she'd been unfaithful to him during their brief marriage, that she'd wiped out his bank account to buy drugs, that she liked to dance semi-naked in front of strange men. There was an innate sweetness about her, a genuine desire to make the world a better place. He'd lost count of the number of excellent tips she'd given him, tips that led to arrests and convictions. None of her lowlife friends had ever guessed that she cooperated with authorities.

Marrying her had been a huge mistake. He'd been younger then, more naive. After she'd taken a bullet in a dark alley, a bullet meant for him, he'd been overwhelmed with gratitude. He could turn things around for her, he'd thought, give her a stable life. Rachelle had turned into his project.

He'd failed--miserably--to rehabilitate her, but he'd never, never stopped caring.

Maybe she didn't live a sterling life, but she'd never hurt anyone. She didn't deserve whatever Jimmy and his cohorts had done, or were planning to do, to her.

He shook off the dismal thoughts. Maybe his boss didn't think Rachelle's life was worth the effort it would take to find her, but Clint disagreed. Even if this caper got him into a lot of hot water, he owed it to Rachelle to do whatever it took.

"I've never killed anybody," he said to Marissa. "I'm not a criminal."

"Oh, right. That's why you broke in here looking like Al Jolson," she said with a brazen toss of her head. "What are you planning to do with the knife, slice up some mushrooms for pizza?"

She had nerve, he'd give her that. Most women in her position would by now have been reduced to trembling hysterics. She was trembling, a little, but she was not in the least hysterical.

He wanted to reassure her further, tell her the knife was for intimidation purposes and self-defense only. He wasn't about to kill someone in cold blood, not even scum like Jimmy. But he didn't want his hostage to get too cocky. If she convinced herself he wouldn't hurt her, she might brazen her way out of this.

He couldn't allow her to do that. "If you cooperate, you won't get hurt. I'm not a criminal," he said again, realizing he sounded like Richard Nixon.

"Then why are you doing this?" Now she sounded scared, too scared to smart-mouth him further.

His conscience pinched him. Maybe some version of the truth would calm her. "Your brother made a lady friend of mine disappear. I need a little leverage to convince him to tell me where she is."

"I don't think I understand."

He dispensed with the sugar coating. "My friend learned a little too much about Jimmy's business dealings. Now she's gone. Do I need to draw a picture?"

"You're saying Jimmy ..." Marissa surprised Clint by laughing. "That's ridiculous. He can't even swat a fly without feeling guilty. If you believe he hurt your girlfriend, you've been sadly misinformed."

Clint shrugged. "Think what you will." If she deluded herself into believing Jimmy's hands were clean, that was her business. "Do you have a scarf, or maybe a pair of pantyhose, in that bag of yours?"

"Why?" she asked warily.

"I have to tie you up. Sorry."

"You've already pawed through my things," she said, shoving the open duffel bag toward him with one delicate bare foot. Her toenails were painted a pearly pink, he noticed. "Help yourself."

Guiltily he rifled through her things again. He found a box of bullets, and his life flashed before his eyes. Who'd have thought she would carry a whole box with her? How many people did she plan on shooting over the weekend?

He'd almost made a costly mistake by not getting rid of Marissa's gun. She might have managed to get hold of the thing, reload it, and blow his head off.

Not that he really believed she was that ruthless. She might have settled for his kneecaps. Nonchalantly he took the box of bullets and tossed it out the porthole. It gave a satisfying plop as it hit the water.

She made no comment.

He selected, then discarded, a leather belt as a possible instrument of bondage. Finally he settled on a bra--lacy and shell pink, like her toenail polish. He idly wondered if she had panties to match.

"Turn around and face the wall," he ordered, his voice rough.

She obeyed, thank God. He wasn't sure what he would do if she resisted. Violence toward women wasn't one of his specialties.

"Cross your wrists behind you. Higher--yes, like that." He knelt beside her on the bunk and tied her wrists together with a half hitch. This close to her, he discerned the faint scent of peaches. Lord, the woman smelled like his Aunt Aggie's peach orchard! Expensive perfumes had never done much for him, but this ... damn, she was turning him on. Of all the annoyances.

"Scoot over here." There were a couple of built-in drawers at the foot end of the bunk. He secured her wrists to one of the handles. "Is that comfortable?"

"Of course not," she snapped.

"Is it survivable for a few hours?"

"This is really going to take hours?"

"If we're lucky. If your brother comes through like I think he will."

"What if I have to go to the bathroom?"

"We'll deal with it." That was one of the oldest tricks in the book, and he wasn't about to fall for it.

She sighed. "I suppose this won't cripple me for life or necessitate any amputations, but if you think it's comfortable, you try it."

"I'll take your word for it." He checked the bonds one final time, resisting the urge to run a comforting hand down her bare arm. He doubted his touch would be the least bit comforting to her. "Now, any idea where the ignition key is?"

"You're going to hijack my brother's boat?"

"More importantly, I'm hijacking you." Jimmy probably wouldn't be easy to intimidate. He'd no doubt seen or been a part of his share of violence and threats, starting with the murder of his parents, which had never been officially solved but which everyone knew was the result of some kind of gangland territorial dispute. But he would not stand still while he thought Marissa was in danger. Jimmy Gabriole would either give Clint what he wanted ... or kill him.

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