Restless, he got up and paced the terrace. It was still early, not even nine o’clock, but the thought of working to take his mind off the woman probably now cl
imbing into what used to be their bed didn’t appeal. Wanton images of the rapture they’d shared there filled his mind, making him grow hot and hard.
Shit. He’d already had one cold shower today and foresaw quite a few more before things got better between him and Belle.
Action. That’s what he needed. He looked toward the western part of the island, where three of the twelve-man security crew were camped. Taking out his phone, he called Jameson.
“Everything all right?” he asked, almost wishing there was something, anything to sink his teeth into, help him burn off the irrational anxiety roiling through him.
“A couple of boats sailed by a little too close earlier. But we dispatched them quickly. It’s all quiet here.”
Nick rang off. Then he activated his phone again and checked his messages.
Buried in the sea of business-related questions and requests for his time was one that made him frown. Closing the app, he pressed three on his speed dial.
His executive assistant answered on the first ring.
“This Richard Francis, when did he call?” Nick asked, the hairs on his neck rising. He didn’t believe in coincidence. Never had. And a Central Africa-based reporter sniffing around so soon after Belle’s capture didn’t sit right with him.
He heard the faint sound of keys being tapped, then Spiros said, “Two hours ago. I tried to direct him to the press office, but he was insistent that he be put through to you. I refused, of course.” He paused. “Should I have done otherwise?”
“No,” Nick murmured, his mind churning. “What did he want exactly?”
“He said he works for the Daily Bugle in London, and that you’d want to talk to him. Oh, and he asked me to mention a name to you.”
“What name?”
“Mwana.”
Nick barely managed to hang onto his glass as cold dread spread icy fingers through his body.
…
Belle fought against the ties that bound her, but the harder she fought, the tighter they got. Her wrists were raw and bleeding, but she pulled harder.
The fire drew closer, clogging her throat, blocking her airways.
No!
Terror exploded within her as the flames morphed into a giant figure, the acrid blaze reaching out like a colossal hand to capture her.
No!
She reeled backwards and opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came. The figure came closer, its volcanic heat scorching her. Twisting wildly, she whimpered.
“Wake up.”
The sinister voice of her captor made her fight harder.
“Pethi mou, wake up, you’re having a bad dream.”
She heard a muffled oath as her arm struck hard flesh. The sound spurred her on. With one last, choking gasp, she screamed.
Belle came awake instantly, her panting breaths harsh in her ears as she opened her eyes. She couldn’t move. Her nightgown and legs were tangled in the sheets, and strong arms were wrapped around her. Still caught in the remnants of her nightmare, she tried to pull away.
“Shhh, it’s all right. I’ve got you now,” a much softer voice than the one in her dream murmured.
Slowly, the familiar seeped in—warm bed, soft glow of bedside lamps, the steady hum of the air-conditioner. And a firm, bare chest pressed against her cheek.