Nerd in Shining Armor (Nerds, #1)(31)
Author: Vicki Lewis Thompson

"You’re going to walk over here nice and easy, and hand the cord to our Playmate of the Month. Then you’re going to lie down with your back to her while she ties you up. If you make even one suspicious move, she’s history."

Jack did as he was told. He tried to communicate some hope to Gen as he handed her the cord, but at this point he couldn’t figure out how to get around the damned gun. Moving slowly, he lay down in the warm, gritty sand, his back to them.

Brogan directed the operation, instructing Gen to tie Jack’s hands behind his back and then loop the cord around his right ankle, so he was trussed up like a calf in a rodeo. She did a good job, because Brogan had threatened to shoot her if she didn’t. He felt the quiver of her hands each time she touched him. He wished this was a game they were playing, like last time. But this was no game. So much for catching Brogan off guard.

"Okay, now, sweet peach," Brogan said when she was done. "I want you to go get the water and bring it to me. I’ll have the gun pointed at the back of your hero’s head the whole time, so keep that in mind."

His cheek resting on the sand, the barrel of the gun pressing against the base of his brain, Jack had a fuzzy view of Gen’s legs as she walked to the water bottle, picked it up, and came back.

"Take the top off," Brogan told her.

Jack was getting very thirsty himself, so when he heard Brogan gulping the water, he groaned softly.

"Don’t drink it all!" Gen said. "Then we—you disgusting nightcrawier! You drank every blessed drop!"

"Kiss my ass," Brogan said. "Now go get the suitcase and dump it over here so I can see what else is in there."

Once again Jack watched as Gen walked across the sand, hefted the suitcase, and walked back. When she dumped it, a guava rolled past his nose and lay three inches from his mouth.

"Guavas, huh?" Brogan said. "How thoughtful. Let’s see, in order to eat one, I’ll need to have both of you tied up." He paused. "Genevieve, be a good little secretary and take off Farley’s belt."

Gen walked around in front of Jack and knelt down on the sand. "You okay?" she murmured as she fumbled with his belt.

He thought of the last time she’d unbuckled that belt. "Yeah. You?"

"Yeah. I—"

"Shut the hell up!" Brogan said. "And, by the way, how come there aren’t any clothes in this suitcase?"

"We used them to make an X on top of the lava plateau," Gen said.

"Goddammit! You people are way too much trouble. Now I have to worry about going up there and taking that apart. AD I need is for some Coast Guard helicopter to spot that." Brogan sounded frazzled.

A frazzled bad guy could be a good thing or a bad thing, in Jack’s estimation. He might get careless, but he might get an itchy trigger finger. It could go either way.

Gen pulled his belt free of the loops. She didn’t seem quite as shaky, so he was hoping maybe she wasn’t so scared. Well, the gun was pressed against his head now, not hers. He’d rather have it that way, although if Brogan killed him, there would be no one to watch out for Gen.

She stood, her toes not far from his face. Such nice toes. Everything about Gen was nice. The idea that something bad could happen to her made him sick to his stomach all over again.

"Come around here and loop the belt between his crossed hands," Brogan said.

Gen and her nice toes walked away. Then Jack felt the belt slide over the spot where his wrists were bound with the curling iron cord.

"That’s right," Brogan said. "Now put the belt through the buckle. Okay, now put both your hands through the loop."

The warmth of Gen’s wrists touched his. Then came a sharp yank, and the belt tightened, pinning their wrists together. The belt leather snapped a couple more times, and Jack figured out that Brogan was weaving it in and out of the binding so it wouldn’t pull loose.

"Okay," he said at last. The pressure of the gun barrel against Jack’s head eased and then was gone. "Now I can eat one of the damn guavas. But any funny moves from either of you, and I’ll just shoot you both. I could almost do it with one bullet, you being trussed up and cozy."

Jack got to listen to Brogan slurping eagerly while the other guava remained almost within reach of his tongue. Gen was being forced to listen to Brogan eat, too, and she had to be just as hungry and thirsty as he was. Jack hated to admit it, but as her knight in shining armor, he sucked.

* * *

After they left Kauai bearing northwest, Matt took the helm. Lincoln’s inner radar was guiding them toward the Leewards, a string of islets, shoals, and reefs that were very tricky to navigate and could catch an experienced sailor unaware, let alone beginners like Annabelle or Lincoln. Matt’s gut was in a big old knot.

The optimist in him had wanted Lincoln’s radar to beam them to some lavish resort in Kauai where Nick and Genevieve were kicking back, drinking mai-tais. In this scenario the two lovers had convinced Jackson to be a pal and go along with their little game of hooky. Nick had bribed somebody at the airport to say the Rainbow Systems plane hadn’t landed there.

Although Matt would have been furious to discover all of that was true, he’d rather uncover that kind of hanky-panky than to be headed toward the most remote part of the island chain. Any plane that went down out there was in very serious trouble. Except for a couple of wildlife stations, the area was uninhabited until you got to Midway. Matt was no pilot, but he couldn’t believe there would be viable places to land until Midway, either. And that would put Nick more than a thousand miles in the wrong direction. Not possible.

This boat didn’t have that kind of range. Matt hadn’t said so, but he’d decided privately that they’d go as far as a small piece of land about three hours away, a place so small it barely qualified as an island. By then the light would be starting to fade, anyway. They could anchor there for the night, but then they were heading back. Enough was enough.

If Matt had been worried before, he felt dry-mouthed with terror now. He was afraid to ask either Annabelle or Lincoln if they still "knew" that Genevieve was alive. Even if she’d survived some kind of crash landing, she and the others would be stuck with no food, no water, no shelter of any kind. They could be injured and have no way to tend their injuries. The more Matt thought about it, the more scared he got.

Lincoln was still in the cockpit with his earphones on, doggedly listening to Harry Connick Jr. Annabelle had gone below to make them an early dinner that Matt couldn’t imagine being able to eat. While they’d taken on fuel in Kauai he’d treated them all to fast-food hamburgers while he’d tried to talk them into going back to Honolulu.

He’d had no luck selling that program. Lincoln had insisted they had to keep going this way. The kid had said it with such urgency that Matt finally had agreed, for the time being. If the plane was out here somewhere, time would be of the essence. Yet he couldn’t imagine how they’d ever find it, despite Lincoln’s radar.

Before Annabelle appeared in the cockpit, Matt could smell the coffee she was bringing him. He could fall in love with her because of her coffee alone. Theresa made bad coffee, partly because she didn’t drink it herself, so she didn’t know good from bad. Matt should have taken over the job, but he’d accepted the bad coffee the way he’d accepted all the other disappointments in his marriage.

Now that he was on his own he’d still been wimpy about his coffee, buying a bargain preground instead

of pricey beans and a grinder. After tasting Annabelle’s coffee, he was ready to make the switch.

"Here you go." Annabelle handed him a mugful of heaven.

"Thank you, Annabelle." He said her name because he liked using it. You could smile and say her name at the same time. He’d never known an Annabelle before, and he couldn’t imagine the name suiting anyone else.

"You’re welcome." She looked so serious. No smiles for her.

He’d tried not to communicate his concern, but she was no dummy. She had to know this was a desolate place for a crash landing.

He longed for some way to make her feel better. "You make the best coffee."

"Thanks." She handed Lincoln a can of Coke.

Maintaining his cool-guy slouch, he took it and thanked her.

Matt wondered if posture was another thing Annabelle had decided not to hassle the kid about. Every time Matt noticed the curve of Lincoln’s spine he fought the urge to tell him to sit up straight. That was probably another reason Annabelle didn’t date, so she wouldn’t have to deal with guys thinking they could step in and demonstrate their own brand of parenting.

"I’ll be back with the rest in a minute," Annabelle said. "I made ham sandwiches so you could eat and drive at the same time."

"Perfect." Matt vowed he’d choke down that sandwich. Not eating it would let her know that worry had taken away his appetite. That could only upset her more.

While she was down in the galley getting the sandwiches, he sipped his coffee and allowed himself a small escape from reality. In his world, he’d have married someone like Annabelle the first time around, someone who cherished good coffee and understood kids. Then Matt would be sitting here with his son, Lincoln. His son of the wild and crazy hair and the gentle heart.

Genevieve didn’t fit into the picture very well, though.

Annabelle had admitted during lunch that she’d had Genevieve when she was fifteen. Matt had been raised not to get fifteen-year-olds pregnant. He’d always heard that teenage pregnancies screwed up everything and everybody, yet Annabelle and Genevieve seemed to be fine, so there went that theory.

This time as Annabelle climbed the steps to the cockpit, Matt smelled her perfume and got hard. Certainly inappropriate under the circumstances, and yet emotions were running high with all of them. Sexual urges could be closer to the surface now, at least for him, maybe even for her.

He glanced over at Lincoln, afraid that the kid would sense something and check out Matt’s fly. Having an adolescent around as a chaperon meant no public displays of lust. Knowing the adolescent could be psychic ruled out private lusting, too. Matt started reciting baseball statistics in his head and finally got his erection under control right before Annabelle approached with her plate of sandwiches.

"Can you manage a sandwich and your coffee?" she asked.

"Sure." He set his mug into a cup holder and picked up a sandwich.

"Yikes!" Lincoln bolted upright. "What is that!"

Annabelle dropped the plate of sandwiches. "What, Lincoln? What?"

Heart pounding, Matt looked in the direction Lincoln was pointing.

"That big freakin’ bird! It looks like a seagull on steroids!"

Matt gazed up at the large gray and white bird gliding in the sky just ahead of them. Then he sank back against the seat and gulped for air. "It’s an albatross. They’re more common out here in the Leewards than back in Honolulu, so I guess you’ve never seen one before."

"Lincoln, you got us all excited about a blessed bird?"

Annabelle sounded all choked up. "I ruined this whole plate of sandwiches for a gol-danged bird>n Then she turned and ran down the steps.

Lincoln pulled off his earphones and looked miserable. "Aw, geez. I didn’t mean to—"

"Go after her." Matt couldn’t leave the cockpit, couldn’t even slow the engine and let Lincoln take over.

"But I didn’t think she’d—"

"Go after her, damn it! She’s hanging on by a thread, and I think the thread just snapped. She needs somebody to hold her and tell her it’s gonna be okay. I can’t do it or we’re liable to end up on a reef somewhere with a hole in the side of this boat. So it’s up to you."

"Right." Looking shaken, Lincoln headed down the steps.

Left with sandwiches underfoot and an albatross flying ahead of the boat as if showing the way, Matt shivered as a chill ran down his spine.

He’d picked up the old superstition about albatrosses from his father and his father’s sailor friends. It wasn’t logical, and it wasn’t modern, but many old salts still thought of the big birds as the reincarnated souls of dead seamen. Matt had been indoctrinated early, and the sight of the bird always gave him the creeps. He wished to hell they hadn’t run across this one.

Chapter 19

Genevieve wished Nick would choke to death on the guavas. He’d already eaten three of the five they’d brought in the suitcase. He reminded her of a hog with his snout in the slop bucket. To think that she’d once thought he was the spitting image of Cary Grant. Right now he looked like Frankenstein.

He didn’t scare her as much as Frankenstein would, though. When he’d first grabbed her, she’d about jumped out of her skin, but she’d found out that a person couldn’t stay scared forever. Sooner or later the feeling wore off, and now she was busy calculating how to get out of this fix.

Cousin Festus down in the Hollow used to like to jump out and grab folks like Nick had, until the day Lyda Mae kicked him in the balls with the heel of her army-issue boots. Genevieve had meant to practice that move herself, but she’d left the Hollow and forgotten all about it. She could have used that move when Nick grabbed her.

Except Cousin Festus never came at anybody with a gun. Maybe kicking Nick in the balls wouldn’t be such a good idea. But she needed to think of something, because once he figured out how to dispose of their bodies, he’d kill both her and Jack. He could feed them to the sharks, but Genevieve had seen Jaws and she knew you couldn’t count

NerJ in <5hinin§ Armor 2Q5

on a shark to eat everything. A shark could leave the exact body part with a bullet in it that would incriminate Nick.

No, if Nick was thinking straight, which he might not be, the only way to dispose of two bodies was to tie a rock on them and sink them out in the ocean. That would require a boat, so logically Nick shouldn’t decide to kill them until his pickup men arrived.

Genevieve was worried that Nick might not be logical, though. When she looked into his eyes, which she mostly tried not to do, he reminded her of Uncle Rufus’s old hound dog Sour Mash, who got bit by a rabid skunk.

Anybody using logic wouldn’t drink all the water and eat all the food. All three of them could be stuck here for a while, and although Nick certainly didn’t care if she and Jack died of thirst, he ought to have sense enough to save something for himself. Genevieve thought maybe the strain of being so dose to getting all that money and not being able to finish the job might have affected Nick like the skunk bite had affected Sour Mash.