Now that the moment of truth was at hand, they stared
uncertainly at each other, not sure how to begin this
discussion. The last time they'd seen each other, they'd
been involved in the most intimate act possible between a
man and a woman. Now that the shock was wearing off, the
change in circumstances suddenly seemed incongruous.
He knew the feel and taste and heat of her body. She knew
what he enjoyed in bed and where all of his scars were.
She had seen him asleep and had slept beside him. Yet,
until today, they hadn't even known each other's names.
"Nice place, Maddie," he said at last, needing to break
the silence.
"Don't call me Maddie," she said.
"Why not?"
She blinked. "Because no one calls me Maddie."
"Got a better reason?"
"Because I don't like it."
"Tough."
"I'm employing you," she reminded him.
"Your father's employing me," he corrected.
"I'd rather you call me Miss Barrington."
He leaned forward and spoke very distinctly. "I don't give
a damn what you'd rather. About anything."
She swallowed. "I take it from your comments in the
elevator that you... had no idea who I was. I mean, who
Madeleine Barrington was."
"I'm beginning to think no one has any idea who Madeleine
Barrington is. Your father, your fiancé, and your
employees sure don't seem to know."
Ransom saw Madeleine's cool features crumble slightly. Her
lower lip trembled, and he suddenly felt like a heel.
Christ, he didn't want to make her cry. Or did he? Did he
want some proof that she, too, felt a lead weight sitting
on her chest right now? This whole thing had just gotten
even more confusing.
"Look," he said at last, his voice softening, "I just
showed up for a routine assignment, okay? I had no idea
until I saw that photograph in your father's office." He
smiled weakly, imagining how she must have felt when she'd
seen him there. "Hell of a coincidence, huh?"
She took a steadying breath. "Not really, I suppose. There
must be a very limited number of people who have business
in Montedora these days."
"Apart from the CIA, the DEA, drug smugglers, the Red
Cross, the Catholic Church, and UN Military Observers,
hardly anyone has business there anymore," Ransom said
dryly. "Which could explain your father's concern for your
safety. I take it you were alone there last time?"
"I can take care of myself." Her chin rose a notch, just
the way it had outside the door of his room that night.
"Oh, really?" Perversely, he said, "Do you know how crazy
it was to go alone to a hotel room with a total stranger
in Montedora City?"
"I'm beginning to realize," she said stonily.
"Anything could have happened to you! And who would have
been there to help you?"
"I regret my actions more than I can say."
"You mean you regret going to bed with me?" he shot
back. "Or you regret sneaking out like a thief while I was
asleep?"
"I didn't steal anything," she snapped.
* * * * *
He forced one eye open. He saw a flat wooden surface. Ah,
so that's what the hard thing under his cheek was. Wood.
Where the hell was his pillow? In fact, where the hell was
his bed?
He blinked his other eye open and picked up his head. He
immediately felt sick.
Oh, shit. He didn't want to be sick. He swallowed and held
still, waiting for the feeling to subside.
By the time it did, he'd realized he wasn't in his room.
He was sitting on a hard wooden chair in the bar, his head
and arms resting on the table.
How the hell had he managed to fall asleep in this
position?
His tongue felt furry, and his mouth tasted foul. His head
hurt. The nausea was fading, but not disappearing. Surely
he hadn't gotten stinking drunk last night? Not only was
that unlike him, but surely he wouldn't have done anything
so stupid while guarding Madeleine?
He thought back. The effort made his head hurt.
No, he'd had only one drink last night—that modest shot of
whiskey. He remembered that the whiskey had been strong
and slightly bitter, but still...
Oh, shit, he thought again, as things started coming
together. He stood up slowly, and the way the room whirled
confirmed his suspicions.
He'd been drugged.
"Buenas días, señor."
Ransom looked over his shoulder and found the source of
the sound which had awoken him. A girl, about twelve years
old, was sweeping the barroom floor. She smiled hesitantly
at him. He tried to smile back, but she apparently didn't
find the effort reassuring.
"Donde está el señor?" He asked for Gutiérrez in a
gravelly voice, his mind working slowly. Who had drugged
the whiskey? And why?
The girl replied that Gutiérrez was outside. Did the señor
require something?
He didn't even hear her.
Why? Why else, you idiot? He was halfway up the stairs
before he'd completed the thought. A wealthy woman,
sleeping alone up there... Oh, God, please, please, please
let her be safe.
He flung himself against her door. It was locked.
"Maddie!" He kicked in the door and barreled into the
room.
She screamed and leapt out of bed.
Safe! Safe, she was safe.
"Maddie!" He scooped her up in his arms while she was
still flailing in the tangled bed sheets that twined
around her legs.
"What? What! What?" she cried breathlessly, squirming in
his arms, trying to see what was in her room or beyond her
door that had caused him to terrify her like this.
"Jesus, oh, Jesus, oh, thank you, God," he murmured
incoherently, hugging her with bruising force.
"What? What? Ransom, what's going on?" she demanded,
shoving at him.
He ran his hands over her possessively, still needing to
assure himself that she was safe. "I thought... I
thought... Oh, hell, I don't know what I thought, but—"
"You don't know? You don't know?"
"Well, no, but—"
"What's going on?"
"I'm not sure."
"Is something wrong?"
"Um. I'm not sure." He was starting to feel very stupid.
"You're not sure?" She looked like she wanted to hit
him. "Have you gone mad? You scared me half to death!"
Realizing that he wasn't behaving very sensibly, he
mumbled, "I'm sorry."
"Sorry? You're sorry?" She seemed at a loss for words. Her
pretty nightgown molded to her body as she slumped down on
the bed and repeated, "You're sorry." She rubbed her side
and said, "I think some of my ribs cracked when your gun
rammed into them."
He glanced down, so accustomed to the feel of his
holstered Glock that he'd forgotten he was wearing it.
Yes, he must have hurt her. Shit. He had to pull himself
together. He ran a hand through his tangled hair and tried
to think. "Look, it's been a hell of a night, and—"
"I nearly had a heart attack!" She pressed a hand to her
chest and threatened, "In fact, I may still have one!"
"Not now," he ordered absently, drawing a withering glare
from her. "I've got to figure out why someone drugged me
last n..." Then it hit him like a ton of bricks.
* * * * *
Madeleine felt the blossom of hope wither inside
her. "What's wrong?
"Don't you recognize them?"
"Recognize..." Suddenly, she did. "Those are the three men
who ate at the pensión the night we arrived there," she
whispered.
"Uh-huh."
Their young captor gestured to them a moment later,
explaining how he had discovered Madeleine in the bushes.
The moment the leader of the group—El Martillo—looked at
them, Madeleine knew he recognized them. His expression
hardened with hatred.
"What were they doing there?" Madeleine wondered.
"Probably coming back from the capital after looking for
another way to hit the President," Ransom muttered.
"This is bad," Madeleine said with dread.
"I can't believe the week I'm having," Ransom said
wearily.
El Martillo and his two companions came forward and
studied Madeleine and Ransom. The Hammer's Spanish was as
clear as Madeleine remembered it, enabling her to
understand what he said; it occurred to her with some
surprise that he must be an educated man. His comments,
however, were discouraging. He said that he had met these
two oligarchic pigs before, and he congratulated his men
on capturing them.
"Now wait a minute," Ransom began in Spanish.
"You think I do not remember?" El Martillo sneered. "You
had an arrogant lackey with you then, a silly young
braggart who openly boasted of his association with that
murdering swine Veracruz and the whore he calls his wife."
He prodded Ransom with his rifle. Ransom didn't react. El
Martillo loomed over him and snarled, "He also boasted of
your association with Veracruz."
The two men who had captured them looked stunned, then
appalled, then positively venomous. Madeleine became very,
very scared. The two men started speaking simultaneously,
excited and bloodthirsty now. Upon realizing that they had
captured a man who was not only a friend of Veracruz, but
one who had actually made him harder to kill, the rebels
demanded the honor of killing their captive.
"Oh, my God," Madeleine moaned, terrified beyond rational
thought.
One of the men who had been at the pensión grinned and
said something to his companions that made them all look
at Madeleine and laugh. Then he reached out and traced the
neckline of her poncho with the barrel of his rifle. Cold
terror immobilized her as he leered at her while fondling
her with his weapon.
Ransom said something so insulting and vulgar to the man
that all laughter ceased immediately. The man forgot about
Madeleine and hit Ransom. Ransom barely blinked. He said
something else to them all that made El Martillo furious,
though Madeleine didn't understand the vernacular. The
youngest rebel, flushing with insulted manhood, kicked
Ransom. Madeleine screamed and flung herself across his
prone body even as struggled to sit up again.
"Please," she begged them, "please don't do this!" Her
meager Spanish deserted her, so she begged Ransom, "Don't
make them hurt you!"
The Hammer said, "I have no time for this. Kill him now."
"No!" Madeleine screamed, clinging to Ransom. It took two
men to pull her off him. They hauled her to her feet and
dragged her several yards away.
The boy raised his rifle and pointed it at Ransom.
Madeleine went still with horror.