“This is what we get for hiring a hoodlum and his derelict of a ship,” Remy fumed.
Jeanne closed her eyes, still trying to grasp the situation. She’d been lost in a dreamless sleep when the little man with the mean eyes shook her awake and dragged her out of the lower bunk, pressing a gun to her ribs. Her first thought had been Where are Gabe and the others?
Without ceremony, Goya shoved her forward, where she saw Manolo forcing Nemo into the head, shutting the barking dog in. Gabe and Remy sat bound back-to-back in the galley, shoved against the kitchen counter like baggage. Within moments, she was taped hand and foot and forced to join them. It still felt more like a nightmare, unreal.
But the men hauling the gold away in buckets and garbage cans from the spare stateroom were very real—and very dangerous.
God, please, save us. I don’t care about the gold. Please don’t—
“I don’t suppose you have any ideas as to how we might get out of this kettle you’ve put us in.”
“If I did, Prim, I wouldn’t announce it to the world,” Gabe snapped. “All I can say is that I’m sorry you and Jeanne got dragged into this . . . truly sorry.” Jeanne felt the anguish in Gabe’s voice.
“You’re not the same man, Gabe,” Jeanne assured him. “This isn’t your fault.” Why hadn’t she told Blaine? If she had, they’d have had armed guards by now. This wouldn’t have happened.
“It is too,” Remy insisted as Manolo carried the Duke’s bust through the galley, refusing to look at them. “And that little traitor is the worst of the lot.” He huffed with incredulity. “These thugs are going to kill us because of association . . . don’t you realize that?”
“Listen, señorita. Your friend is correct.” His pistol tucked into the drawstring waist of his pants, Raul Goya came down into the galley from the bridge.
“It’s not too late to change your mind, Goya. Spare Jeanne and Primston. Put them ashore on the island if you have to blow up me and the boat. With that much gold, you can disappear and live the high life in South America.”
“No, Gabriel. Such would bring you comfort in your last hour.” Passing them, Goya went forward.
“Jeanne, if by some chance we don’t get out of this . . .” Gabe stopped, as if foundering for words.
“God is with us, Gabe. Somehow He’s—”
“I love you.”
Her words of assurance, words she needed to hear herself, fled her mind. “What?”
“I said I love you.”
Here she was, in danger of her life, and yet three little words had her heart doing backflips in her chest. Gabe loved her.
“Oh, spare me,” Remy groaned, before she could summon a reply.
“Put a plug in it, Prim,” Gabe shot back.
“Do you think that you are the only one who harbors feelings for Jeanne?” the professor challenged, emboldened by their circumstances.
Heavenly days, Ann and Mara were right! Remy’s confession shocked her obvious reply to Gabe from the tip of her tongue— that she loved him too. And she did. How and when it had come to this, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps she was lost the first time she saw him, rising like a dark lord from the poker table at the cantina. She’d known even then that, against all logic, something about the man was irresistible. But she couldn’t say it now.
“I love both of you.”
The men swung their heads her way.
Heavenly Father, not now. “Remy, I adore you, you know I do. You’re like fam—”
Goya reentered the galley, pocketing a gold coin that had been dropped during the looting, a pleased look on his drawn brown face.
“A job well done, señores y señorita. So much treasure . . .”
Jeanne gathered her nerve. “Señor Goya, you have no blood on your hands yet. It isn’t too late to take the gold and spare us. Your revenge will give you no more peace than the hatred you’ve held all these years. It takes a courageous man to forgive.”
“Give it up, Jeanne. His likes wouldn’t know courage if it bit him,” Gabe muttered.
“Señorita . . .” Goya leaned close to Jeanne’s face, touched her, and sighed. “Perhaps I might take you with me . . . for pleasure.”
“No!”
“Absolutely not,” Remy added to Gabe’s protest.
Jeanne shriveled under the Mexican’s suggestive scrutiny. Suddenly, his squinted eyes slid to Gabe. “That would bother you, no, Gabriel?”
The answer in Gabe’s eyes was murderous, but his voice was almost a whisper. “Think, Goya. Arnauld knows you were stalking us. Not even he will be an accomplice to murder.”
“Arnauld?” Jeanne echoed in astonishment. “He’s involved?” So Gabe had been right all along. He hadn’t been paranoid. The truth pricked at her conscience.
“Arnauld hired Goya to watch us,” Gabe informed her, “but when Pablo aced him legally, Arnauld gave it up.”
“And I signed his book,” Remy snorted in disgust. “The fraud.”
“But he knows about you, Goya,” Gabe said.
The scrawny man shrugged. “What do I care? I say that he hires me . . . and it is true. I am not as foolish as he thinks me to be. I have his voice on tape . . . everything. He will not say a word.”
One of the other men came down from the bridge, thick-bodied with a broad, low forehead and wide nose. “Vamanos, Raul. It is time.”
In his hand were two bundles of plastic, each with a timing device of some sort. At least that’s what Jeanne assumed the wires were. She’d give anything if Tex had remained on board. Even if she could get loose, and she thought she could . . .
“Leave enough time for us to clear the reef.” He gave Gabe a humorless smile. “Although, thanks to our friends, the markers are back in place.” At Gabe’s glower, he chuckled. “Only a little fun, no?”
“We laughed our heads off,” Gabe quipped dryly.
The man placed one of the charges in the kitchen sink and then headed forward with the other. When he came out, it was at a jog. “Vamanos, Raul, vamanos,” he ordered.
Jeanne thought Goya was leaving them when he turned way, but upon reaching the stairwell, he appeared to have a second thought. He spun on his heel and headed straight at Gabe, a small knife in hand.
“No, don’t—” Before she could finish, the madman slashed Gabe across the cheek.
“Adios, amigo,” Goya said, wiping the blade on his white pants as he turned and sprinted up the steps.
“Gabe . . .” Jeanne’s stomach curdled at the sigh of blood seeping from the gash on Gabe’s jaw.
“Barbarian!” Remy shouted after him. “A cowardly one at that!”
Without so much as a glance for her compassion, Gabe began to scoot away from Remy. “Come on, Prim, work with me. I need to let Nemo out.”
“The dog?” Remy was stupefied. “You want to let that worthless dog out?”
“To fetch my knife,” Gabe snapped at the man. “Now, move.”
Remy fell in, grunting and complaining with each scoot. “Some fix . . . we’re . . . in.”
Jeanne focused on relaxing, not an easy task given they were about to blow to bits at any second. And why didn’t she hear ticking. “Don’t bombs usually tick?”
“Remote,” was all Gabe managed in explanation.
As the men reached the hall, the gun of engines outside heralded the exit of the their prospective murderers.
“Now lean forward, Prim, as far as you can so that I can ease back and get my feet up to the handle.”
“If that dog fetches a knife, I shall personally buy him a prime filet,” Remy gasped, following directions.
It had been years since Jeanne had done the Houdini act that had often enabled her to escape from her brothers’ games of cowboy and Indian. Being the youngest, she’d always been the Indian by default. It required extending her arms fully and scrunching up her body so that she could pull her bound hands beneath her bottom and over her feet just . . . like . . .
Except she’d been shorter of limb then. The length of her legs gave her trouble. She contorted her bare feet in ways they were not designed to go, but by the time Nemo bounded out of the bathroom, right over Gabe and Remy, she was working on the duct tape with her teeth.
“Nemo, fetch the knife, boy,” Gabe called after the dog, as he shot up to the deck, barking ferociously.
“Wonderful,” Remy drawled. “He’s let them know he’s escaped.”
“Something tells me they won’t come back to see.” Gabe raised his voice. “Nemo! Fetch . . . play fetch!”
Remy dropped his head to his chest in exasperation. “Something tells me he can’t carry a knife and bark at our retreating murderers at the same time.”
“Why didn’t they duct tape your mouth?” Gabe lamented in exasperation.
Fortunately the thugs hadn’t done a seamless wrap. The twisted, wadded tape made it easier for Jeanne to unwrap. There was one layer left when the barking stopped. Just as Nemo descended the step with the large sports knife in his mouth, Jeanne pulled the last of the tape away.
“Here, Nemo,” she called out, extending her hand for the blade at the same time that Gabe hailed the animal.
“Nemo, here boy.”
The dog paused, confused. Jeanne scooted across the short distance and retrieved the knife. “Thank you, Jesus, and Nemo.”
“How did you—” Gabe stared, incredulous, as she cut through the duct tape binding her ankles.
“Tell you later.” She made short work of setting Gabe and Remy free, praying the whole time. Father, just give us a little time. Just a little more . . .
“We could toss the bombs over the side,” Remy suggested.
Gabe grabbed Jeanne and hauled her toward the companionway. “No time, Prim. Move it. Come on, Nemo.”
Jeanne reached back for Remy, who clearly preferred the alternative of tossing the bombs over the side. “Remy, hurry. There are two bombs at opposite ends of the vessel,” she reminded him.
Gabe practically pulled her off her feet as he dragged her across the bridge to the side rail. “Over you go, now!”
It was hardly the most graceful water landing she’d ever made. She came up in time to see Gabe toss Nemo over the side.
“Come on, Prim!” With that, Gabe leapt into the water a few feet away.
Jeanne started swimming away from the boat for all she was worth. Her jog suit slowed her down, but she kept on, stroke after stroke. Suddenly, it felt as if the world exploded, driving her under the water. Or had someone shoved her under . . . someone with a fist of concrete? Dazed, she struggled with the current, air burning in her lungs, air she dared not let go . . . not yet. Not yet.