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Rescued By The Marine
Rescued By The Marine
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Rescued By The Marine

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“If only you meant it any one of those times,” she muttered before slipping into her black-and-white coat and exiting into the hallway.

She barely noticed Brandon springing to his feet. She hated that her eyes were gritty with tears, hated that she cared enough to hurt like this. But her brain seemed to function, even when her emotions couldn’t get their act together. Although Kyle couldn’t get to her through the room they’d shared, he’d be able to reach her through Taylor’s door. No sense risking that he’d be able to break out of the closet and chase after her. She knocked over the side table, spilling it and the silk fern in front of Taylor’s door.

“Um, trouble in Happy Couple Land?” Brandon dodged to one side as she dragged the leather chair in front of the door, building a bigger barricade. “Your mother asked me to remind you—”

“Stepmother, Brandon. Joyce is my stepmother. My real mother died.” And apparently, so had any chance at a relationship. After swiping at the tears that clouded her glasses, Samantha booked it down the hallway toward the elevators, leaving the banging and swearing and shouting behind. “Tell Joyce and Dad something came up. I’m leaving.”

Brandon stayed right with her. “What did that lowlife do? Is he cheating on you again?”

Samantha stopped in her tracks. “Again? You knew he...? This isn’t the first...?” So much for protecting her. She tore her gaze away from the bodyguard’s pitying brown eyes and punched the elevator button. Be angry, not hurt. “I knew something wasn’t right between us. I was trying so hard to make it work. I’m such an idiot.”

“Where are you going? I can’t let you leave on your own. Especially when you’re like this.”

“Like what? Awake to reality? Standing up for myself? Saving what little dignity I have left?” The strain of the evening intensified the rash on her torso. Ignoring the habitual urge to scratch, she dug into her purse. “Fine. Then you’re coming with me. Here are my keys.” She stepped into the elevator, handing them to the confused bodyguard. “Bring my car around back by the kitchen entrance. I’ll meet you there. I’m not walking through that lobby and facing all those people again.”

“Pellegrino will want to know your destination. He doesn’t like changing plans when security is already in place. The rain is pouring—”

“I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t care if I get wet. I just have to get out of here.” She jerked at the crash of splintering wood from down the hallway and punched the first-floor button. “Now.”

Brandon grabbed the door to stop the elevator from closing. “What do I tell Pellegrino and your father?”

“Tell them I’m not feeling well. Tell them I’m flying to the moon. I don’t care.”

“Samantha!” Kyle’s shout reached her through the makeshift barriers she’d put up. The closet door was down.

Brandon pulled back his jacket, resting his hand on the gun holstered there. “You want me to stop him?”

At last someone was on her side. But she needed him to do what she needed him to do. “Either get the car right now, or I’m leaving on my own.”

He nodded and ran toward the stairs, allowing the doors to close. “I’ll meet you under the parking canopy at the kitchen’s delivery entrance in back.” She could hear him reporting in as the elevator dropped toward the first floor. “This is Metz. Be advised that Filly One is...”

Without even a glance toward the lobby, Samantha hurried toward the kitchen area by one of the lodge’s service corridors. With the catering staff out working the party, there was only the chef and her assistant in the kitchen when Samantha pushed her way through the swinging metal door. Ignoring their curious looks and offers to help, she quickened her steps toward the walk-in refrigerator and storage pantry near the back entrance. When the door crashed open behind her and the assistant squeaked in startled surprise, Samantha ran as fast as her aching feet and starched dress allowed.

“Samantha! You have to talk to me.”

Kyle hadn’t stopped to put on his shoes, and his stockinged feet made no noise as he raced up behind her. She yelped when he grabbed her and spun her around, backing her into a stainless-steel worktable, pinning her there with his hips and hands. His chiseled cheekbones were flushed with exertion, his perfect white teeth clenched as he panted in her face. “I thought you were an adult. Running away is what a child does. You owe it to me to listen.”

“I owe you?” His fingers clamped down tightly enough to bruise her skin when she shoved at his chest. “Let go of me.”

“Clear the room,” he ordered the catering staff. When they were too stunned by the argument to budge, he shoved a tray of hors d’oeuvres onto the floor. “Get out!”

Samantha wished she could leave with them as the door swung shut on their backsides. Dishes and pans rattled on the steel table as she squirmed in Kyle’s grasp. “You need to let me go.”

He released her arms to grab either side of her face, pulling at the pins that held her long hair in place and pinching her scalp, forcing her to look up at him. “You and I are getting married. We have an agreement. Your family likes me.”

“Some more than others, apparently.”

“Don’t get snarky with me. Yes, I screwed up. You have to forgive me.”

“Says who?”

“You think there aren’t things I would change about you?” he challenged.

How was this her fault? She blinked back the tears that stung her eyes and fought through her emotions to find the words she needed to say. “I’m not the one who’s cheating.”

“I have a weakness. Okay?”

“No. It’s not okay. You didn’t even pick out the ring yourself. You couldn’t spend that much time on me?”

“I’ve been busy.”

“I can see that.”

“With work! I was a little strapped for cash and couldn’t afford the ring I wanted to get you, so Joyce helped me out.” He was the son of a millionaire and had a good job with the Midas Group. How could he possibly be short of money? Before she could voice the accusation, Kyle touched his sweaty forehead to hers in a supposedly tender gesture, and Samantha wondered how she’d ever found him handsome or charming. “I am committed to us. You know I’m good for you. I help others see beyond the professor and the glasses. We make a good team.”

What about needing her? Or wanting her? Or any other stupid compliment that could make her believe he was ever in love with her? The urge to cry disappeared. She let his lips brush against hers, but the moment he thought he was winning her back and his hold on her eased, Samantha twisted from his grasp.

He paused long enough to curse before pursuing her again. “This is a misunderstanding. You need to clue in to how the real world works. I have needs.”

She whirled around. “You need to keep your pants zipped around other women. If you wanted to get laid, you should have asked me. It’s not like I haven’t wanted you to...teach me more.”

The creep actually smiled. He cupped his fingers against her cheek. “Is that what this is about? Baby, you’re too good for a quickie.”

She slapped his hand away. “But my sister’s not?” She didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted.

“Taylor’s young and fun. But she means nothing to me. You mean everything.”

“Liar. How many others have there been?”

At least he had the good grace to look guilty. For a split second. Then he was reaching for her again. “Look. Truth. You’re learning. Eventually the sex will be great between us, but until you get some confidence—”

She slapped his hand away. “A relationship isn’t just about sex. It’s about trust and caring and respect. You have no clue—”

When she felt his hand on her arm again, Samantha reached for the first weapon she could find, a heavy skillet resting on the edge of the metal table. She swung around, whacking him in the shoulder. He cursed, grabbing his bruised arm. She knew a moment of guilt, sensing she’d gone too far.

“You are not dumping me.” When his eyes narrowed in rage instead of pain, her brain took over.

She had a feeling that escape wasn’t just an emotional need at that moment. Shoving the pan into his gut, she forced Kyle back a step. She ordered him to open the refrigerator door. “Get in there. Get in or I swear I’ll run straight to my father and tell him you were banging Taylor tonight instead of earning your spot as Midas’s newest vice president.”

Kyle raised his hands and moved toward her. “You don’t want to upset your father tonight...”

“Get in!”

If she’d had any doubts that she was nothing more than a means to an end for Kyle, his willingness to step inside the cooler in exchange for her silence confirmed the truth. As disgusted with herself for being taken in by his promises as she was with the man himself, Samantha closed the refrigerator door and slipped the pin into the lock.

Instead of cursing her or shouting her name, Kyle pulled his cell phone from a pocket and held it up to the window beside his gloating face for her to see.

“How did you...?” Had he broken out through their room? Taken the time to retrieve his phone? Did he have a second cell? Whom was he calling?

Samantha dropped the skillet and opened the back door.

“This is Grazer. I need your help.” With the rain beating down on the loading area’s metal canopy, she lost the rest of the conversation until he started shouting. “I mean right now! She’s taking off. Running out the back door. This is plan B!”

Whoever Kyle’s ally was, she wasn’t waiting for his help to arrive. Slightly breathless with the exertion of fending off Kyle, she scanned the row of employee cars on the other side of the driveway for her silver BMW. The rain fell in sheets on either side of the canopy, blackening the night sky and shrinking her world to the lights beneath the canopy and parked vehicles ahead of her. Her steps stuttered to a halt beside the caterer’s van. Where was Brandon? Surely, he’d had time to fetch her car from the lot in front of the lodge to drive back here. “Where are you?”

Although she was out of the elements, the moisture in the air dotted her skin. She shivered with a chill that was part Wyoming springtime and part apprehension. Samantha took out her own phone and pulled up Brandon’s number. Should she call him? Give him a few more seconds?

A powerful engine revved nearby. Too big to be her car. Tires screeched against the wet pavement somewhere out in the darkness. Two headlamps came on, their bright lights crystallizing every raindrop, blinding her. Shielding her eyes, Samantha drew back to her side of the driveway so she wouldn’t be run over.

Just as she punched in her bodyguard’s number to get her out of this madhouse, a black van erupted from the wall of rain and skidded to a stop only feet away, sending a wave of dirty water splashing over her feet. “Hey!”

The side door opened and two men in dark camouflage gear and ski masks jumped out. One was carrying what looked like a machine gun.

Samantha screamed.

“Shut her up!” a growly voice ordered.

She spun around and slammed into a third man. Where had he come from? Strong arms snugged around her like a vise, knocking the phone from her hand. “Let go of me!”

“Get that phone!” someone shouted.

Someone tore her purse off her shoulder. She kicked. Clawed. Twisted. “Brandon! Help! Help me! Ky—!”

A gloved hand slapped an oily cloth over her mouth and nose, forcing her to breathe in some nasty fumes, making her dizzy. Rough hands lifted her off her feet. Her knee cracked against the running board of the van before she was shoved inside. “Help me,” she wheezed. The hands let go and she rolled across the floor of the van, slamming into the opposite side. “What’s happening? Who are you?”

“Samantha!” Help. Brandon was coming for her. She heard two sharp pops, and jumped inside her skin at the metallic clank of two bullets striking the back of the van.

A man in the front seat thrust his hand out the window and fired a gun that made a whup, whup sound. A silencer. Her would-be rescuer wouldn’t hear the man returning fire.

She pushed herself up, tried to warn him. “Brandon!”

The side door slammed shut. The van lurched forward and she fell.

“Glasses.”

Cruel hands pulled them off her face, blurring the world around her. “Please... I can’t see—”

“I said shut her up.” She felt the prick of a needle in the side of her neck. “Get the tracking device.” The man giving orders cursed. “Drive!”

Those same cruel hands tugged at her coat. A sharp blade pierced the back of her shoulder. Her world blurred into a woozy haze of faceless men and squealing tires.

Kidnapped. Just like her mother. Michelle Eddington had been taken on a raw night just like this one.

Samantha’s brain went dark on one final thought.

Kyle’s betrayal, seeing his daughter used and being played for a fool himself, might anger her father.

But this would break him.

Chapter Three (#u763d1fd9-adff-54dc-9b52-253f97212a2b)

A beer bottle sailed through the air. Jason dodged the flying projectile and watched it shatter against the wood door frame behind him at Kitty’s Bar.

He halted a moment to brush off some of the beer that had sprayed his jacket and quickly assessed the combatants of the fight he’d just walked in on. Looked like locals versus outsiders. Located on the outskirts of Moose, Wyoming, Kitty’s was usually a quiet hole-in-the-wall where a man could get a drink and meet a friend without running into too many people. But at o-dark-thirty on a Friday night, this place had more people in it than he’d ever seen—and half of them were throwing punches.

“Stop it!” Kitty Flynn yelled from behind the bar as a table tipped over, spilling playing cards and poker chips over the warped floorboards.

He spotted a familiar search and rescue ball cap sliding across the floor before zeroing in on a head of curly red hair. Sure enough, Marty Flynn, Kitty’s nephew and Jason’s coworker, was right in the middle of it, landing a punch on a blond guy in a three-piece suit before pulling a dark-haired waitress out of Blondie’s arms and pushing her toward the bar and his aunt. “You get out of there, Cathy, before you get hurt.”

Marty shoved at a dark-haired twenty-something wearing jeans and a flannel shirt. That was one of the Murphy boys, twins who ran a gun shop with their dad. He never could tell Cy and Orin apart. The kid shoved right back, trying to get at a tall, lanky man who already sported a black eye. Jason pulled off his knit cap and shook the rain from the dark hair that dripped onto his collar. He never should have answered his phone.

“Hey, Captain. I’ve got a woman we need to track down in the Tetons.”

“Missing hiker?” Jason had asked, thinking the woman was a fool to risk going up into the high country in the spring before the upper elevations had thawed. But he was already grabbing his go bag to load into his four-wheel-drive truck. Night was the worst time to be lost in the mountains. And all this rain and snow, depending on where she was on the mountain, made this a particularly miserable night.

“Not exactly.” Either the woman needed their help, or she didn’t. Jason waited for the younger man to explain. “Meet me at Aunt Kitty’s place. I’m not calling in anybody else on the S&R team because the guy who wants to hire us says this rescue needs to stay off the books. Hell, I’m not even filing a report with the boss, just getting clearance for a flight plan from the airport. I don’t think we need anybody else. And we could make some good money. A lot of it.”

Jason didn’t care about the money. What he cared about was living with his conscience. Letting another woman die when he could do something to help was his Achilles’ heel. Letting anyone die in those mountains when he knew them better than just about anybody in a hundred-mile radius wasn’t something he could hide away from, although he tried damn hard to hide from the world as much as it would let him. He’d found that five-year-old kid who’d wandered off from his parents last summer. He’d tracked down a mountain biker who’d had a run-in with a cougar, carried the guy on his back to clear ground so he could be life-flighted to the hospital. There’d been skiers and snowboarders who’d needed his help, and he’d been there, too, for them.

But it was never enough. The debt was still there. He’d lost too many lives over in Kilkut. No matter how far off the grid he got, that need to balance the scales—a life for a life—demanded that he answer Marty Flynn’s call. Maybe one day the score would be even, and the losses he’d suffered in the Corps, the anger and the guilt, wouldn’t be able to find him anymore.

And so, he was here. At Kitty’s Bar on the outskirts of Moose after midnight, walking into the middle of a bar fight.

Looked like Marty was actually trying to stop the fight, and was getting cursed and dinged up for his trouble. Four more locals, judging by their boots and jeans like Jason wore, were going after four guys in suits who seemed to be toying with them. One of the suits, an older man with a square face and silvering hair, hung back behind the tall guy and a bruiser with a handlebar mustache. Although he seemed mature enough to avoid duking it out with men half his age, he wasn’t above shouting orders, or answering taunts about getting the hell out of where he didn’t belong. Mustache Man had training. He blocked every punch, braced his feet when another drunk local charged him and used his attacker’s momentum to shove him off to the side.

Blondie wiped a trickle of blood from his mouth and grabbed the older man’s arm, pulling him away from two men who knocked over a bar stool and toppled to the floor. “Stay out of it, Walter. Let the professionals handle these yokels. That’s what you pay them for.”

“I’m not afraid of a fight.” While the older man didn’t dive into the thick of swinging arms and wrestling men, he did shrug off the young man’s grip, stepping forward while Blondie waved him off with a dismissive curse and pulled out his cell phone.

Marty looked a little outnumbered, since neither side seemed interested in backing down. But Jason’s priority was the missing hiker, not bailing Marty out of a tough situation because someone had made a joke with the wrong person, or the city dude had made a move on one of the small-town country girls.

Sure, Jason could handle himself in a fight. The Marines had trained him to do that better than most. And the fact that he was built like a tank and stood almost a head taller than anyone else in the room generally dissuaded all but the drunkest or most stupid from picking a fight with him in the first place.

But he didn’t wage war anymore. Only the one inside his head. Not even for a friend from the Corps. Jason backed toward the broken bottle and swinging door. Marty could call in a different favor on another day.

Jason was big, but he wasn’t fast. Not fast enough to make his escape, at any rate.

“Captain! Jason. Thank God. This is the—” Another local boy with a dark crew cut and tats lunged past Marty, trying to get at the old man. He recognized Richard Cordes Jr., the son of a militia leader who’d led a remote compound in the area back when Jason had been a boy. “Damn it, Junior, I said back off!”

“Mind your own business, Marty.” More glass smashed. “Eddington!”

“Jase!”

Putting every emotional survival instinct on hold, Jason squeezed his eyes shut, inhaled a deep breath and answered Marty’s plea for help.

He grabbed the young man who was picking himself up off the floor and shoved him down in a chair with a warning to stay put. Kane Windisch—he was Junior Cordes’s cousin. Jason captured the next punk in a neck hold and twisted him out of his path to reach Marty and Junior, who was wielding a broken bottle, ready to cut anyone who got too close.

And that’s when he saw the guns. The bulges inside their suit jackets indicated Mustache Man and the lanky suit guy already sporting a black eye were both carrying.