Extreme Danger (McClouds & Friends #5)(33)

“Becca.” He gripped her shoulders. “I am trying to help you.” He enunciated each word so that they punched into her head. “But the timing’s not right yet. You have to go back. I need…more…time.”

Vibrating with fear, she didn’t fight back.

“Do you want to live?” he hissed.

She stared into his eyes. She mouthed one soundless word. Yes.

“Then buy me more time. Serve the fruit, the coffee, the dessert. Stay sharp. Keep your eyes open. Be ready for anything. And whatever you see me do, don’t scream. Got that?”

He waited a few seconds, and gave her shoulders a tooth-rattling shake. “Got that?” he hissed.

“Got it.” The words came out in a halting whisper.

He snatched the wet napkin out of her hand, and swiped it roughly over her face, beneath her eyes. She felt like a bewildered kitten being groomed, knocked and battered around by its mother’s tongue.

He pushed back the hair that clung to her damp face, spun her around and gave her a push towards the door. “Get on with it.”

She shuffled like a robot to the kitchen to collect the fruit and crème. Her mind looped and spun around like a carnival ride, struggling to derive hope from what he’d said. Trying to help her? That was good, as far as it went. Buy him time? Did he mean by letting those men have sex with her? She stumbled down the corridor, tried to picture it.

Could she…? To save her own life?

No.

She pushed open the door, let the emergency generator kick into action. Smile, smile, smile. Her heartbeat was deafening in her head.

Becca began serving the fruit plate with practiced grace, the fan of pineapple here, gleaming strawberries there, the fleshy strips of mango, the pyramid of raspberries. She drizzled crème over the berries, letting some puddle to the side. A suble turn of her serving spoon mixed berry syrup into the puddle, creating a delicate butterfly-shaped swirl.

Voices booming, fading, swelling in volume again. “…structure is completely outfitted with state-of-the-art equipment, and the waiting list is already growing. I’ll conduct one last round of testing before we—”

“We can talk business onboard,” the Spider cut him off.

His guest’s eyebrows rose. “I beg your pardon?”

The Spider slanted his eyes meaningfully toward Becca and back to his guest. “I wish to avoid electronic eavesdropping. My boat is under constant guard. We’ll go out a hundred meters from the shore, and discuss the practical details there.”

“Ah. As you wish,” the man replied doubtfully.

“Focus upon pleasure, rather than business,” the Spider invited, as his hand slid up Becca’s thigh, his fingers digging into her groin.

Becca’s hands jerked. A strawberry fell, bounced off the Spider’s powdered-sugar-dusted plate and onto the table, leaving an unsightly streak that stained the linen with a smear that looked horribly like—

Blood. She fished the berry up, murmuring an apology. His fingers slid into her pubic hair, groping.

“Before we take the boat out, would you like to have her?” the Spider offered, as casually as if he were offering his guest a drink.

“But I—but—” Her protest choked into a squeak as his hand turned to a claw, and his long fingernail dug into her clitoris.

The pain was awful. Faintness rolled over her. If only she could just let go, fall back into the dark. Forever. She stared at the obscenely red, wet, gleaming fruit on the plate. Hung on to consciousness.

“You could have her right here, or there are bedrooms upstairs, if you require privacy,” the Spider said. “Whatever you prefer.”

The other man cleared his throat. “My. I am tempted.”

She looked into the man’s eyes. It was true. He was considering it. She could tell from his flush, the slackness in his mouth, the emptiness in his eyes, that he was imagining it. That he was aroused. He looked right at her, but he still didn’t know she was there. All he saw was himself, using her.

The hatred she felt was so intense, she wanted to spit into his eyes, grab a knife, stab it right into his throat.

She could never endure that smug, self-satisfied face, reddened with wine and lust, hanging over her as he humped away. Her stomach lurched. Good thing she’d emptied it. Or maybe not. Projectile vomiting was one sure way to kill a man’s sexual buzz.

On the other hand, the Spider would be unamused.

Buy me time, Mr. Big had said. But what would she have to pay for it?

She focused on the Spider’s pudgy face. “What about dessert?” The voice that came out of her was pure restaurant robot, breathlessly feminine. “I’m flattered at the attention, gentlemen, but you don’t want to miss my Grand Marnier Angel’s Fall cake. It’s a flourless but tender chocolate torte that melts in your mouth, flavored with orange liqueur, layered with mousse, and enveloped by a thick layer of dark Belgian chocolate.”

At the mention of dessert, the Spider released her clit. Her knees almost buckled in relief. He gave her buttocks an approving squeeze. “Perhaps we’ll wait then, my dear. Just long enough to sample your masterpiece.”

The other man blinked. “Certainly,” he muttered. “Whatever you wish. A very small piece for me, please.”

Smile, smile, smile. “I’ll go prepare the dessert tray.”