Perfect Victim, The (55 page)

A talon-like hand clamped over her arm and spun her around. The blow came out of nowhere with mind-numbing forc
e
. A starburst of light exploded behind her eyes. Pain cut through her cheek, jarring the side of her face all the way to her sinuses.

She
was aware of him releasing his grip on her arm. Her knees buckled. She caught the doorknob barely in time to keep herself from falling.

"Stupid bitch
.
"

Every muscle in her body tensed at the sound of his voice
.

Clinging to the
knob, Addison shook her head, swallowing the bile that had risen into her throat
.
She'd never been subjected to violence, and it left her feeling sickened and helpless. She
'
d never thought of herself as physically weak, but
at the mercy of such a violent man, she felt utterly powerless.

Unable to move, she let the door support her, giving her senses a moment to regroup.

"Get up."

Using the knob for balance, she rose. Fear coiled inside her, but she forced herself to meet his gaze. "Who are you?"

He stared back at her, his face expressionless. "I'm going to have to put you in another room," he said. "Let's go."

She knew firsthand his strength and didn't want to cross him. But she couldn't bring herself to obey. "Let me go," she said. "I don't know who you are."

His smile sent a chill skating up her spine. "Move."

Her only thought was that this man wasn't human. There was no emotion behind the dull eyes, no compassion, nothing she could reach. When she didn't move, he grasped her biceps and forced her toward the door.

Addison balked only enough to slow him down. She needed time to think, to plan her next move. "At least tell me where I am," she said as he guided her down a narrow hall.

"You don't need to know." The hall opened to a small bedroom. "Get inside," he ordered.

When she merely stared, he shoved her roughly through the door. "If I hear so much as a peep out of you, I'll be back." A grin split his face. "Next time, I won't be so nice."

Addison started when the door slammed. She listened to his departure before turning and taking a quick inventory of the room. It was small, perhaps six feet square, with no windows. The furniture consisted of a bunk bed and a night table. A narrow pocket-door opened to a functional bathroom.

Absently, she touched the cut on her cheek. She'd never been so afraid, felt so threatened or so isolated from the rest of the world. Needing to move, to expel some of the adrenaline rushing through her, she began to pace. She tried to imagine what might transpire in the coming hours, realizing she couldn't fathom such insanity. She tried to come to terms
with the possibility that her life may very well end on this horrible night
.
But the thought of dying with so many things unfinished, without ever seeing Randall again, nearly sent her over the edge.

She loved him. And she knew the power of that love would see her through this. If need be, her love for him would see her through to the end
.
In those black minutes as she contemplated her own death, she drew strength from him, knowing in her heart that, if he was able, he would come for her
.

Clinging to that thought, she made her way to the bathroom and switched on the light
.
Her eyes scanned the room for something she m
i
ght be able to use as a weapon, but there wasn't much. No plunger
,
no can of hairspray, not even a water glass. On impulse, she opened the medicine cabinet
.

Her heart jumped when she spotted the black leather manicure kit
.
She reached for the case and unzipped the cover
.
A pair of gold manicure scissors gleamed lip at her
.
Knowing they could mean the difference between life and death, she pulled them out
.
Checking the point with
.
the tip of her index finger, she found it razor sharp. She was in the process of tucking the scissors into the waistband of her slacks when the bedroom door swung open
.

Randall hit the interstate at eighty miles per hour. Clint's antiquated Toyota vibrated as the speedometer's needle slipped past ninety, but he kept his foot down, oblivious to the danger
.
He'd discovered the keys on the kitchen counter and found the small pickup parked in the alley garage. He hadn't needed any prodding to steal it.

Desperation drove him now, hurtling him along the outer fringes of control
.
He no longer considered the repercussions of his actions. He did what he had to, his only, single-minded goal to find Addison in time to save her life. Because he knew Tate was going to kill her.

If he hadn't already
.

Randall knew he was skating a thin line. It was as if the same sinister resolve that drove men like Tate had been unleashed inside him. The need to kill. To enact the ultimate revenge.

At the crook of his neck, he cradled Clint's cell phone. A map of Baltimore lay spread out on the seat beside him. With one eye on the interstate, he dialed the hospital number and waited to be transferred to Jack's room.

"What do you have?" he asked when his older brother's voice rumbled through the line.

“
The name of the boat is
Anastasia
. Eighty-three-foot President 830 motor yacht. D.C. registry."

"Where does he keep it?"

"He usually winters it in Fort Lauderdale. The Bahia Mar Hotel. But he didn't move it this year. It's at a country club in Baltimore."

"What's the name of the club?"

"Sparrows Point Yacht Club."

In the background, Randall heard Van-Dyne barking out orders that were ridiculous at this point. He wondered if he was going to get any help from the police. "Has Van-Dyne contacted the Baltimore PO?"

"He won't touch it."

Randall cursed in frustration. Dammit, he needed backup. He didn't have time for policy and procedure. He sure as hell didn't have time for departmental politics or political correctness. "Jack, see if you can get the Baltimore PD interested. Tell them anything. Just get a couple of black-and-whites out to Sparrows Point."

"I'll do it."

Randall disconnected and switched on the dome light. Folding the map, he squinted at the image of metropolitan Baltimore. If Addison was being held in Tate's yacht, that ruled out north and west Baltimore. He creased the map, catching the steering wheel just in time to jerk it off the shoulder of the highway.

He backed the speedometer down to eighty as his eyes
scanned the myriad inland waterways that made up the city's coastline
.
The Patapsco River to the south. The Back River to the east
.
Curtis Bay. Frustration clawed at him.

"Where the hell are you?" he asked in a voice so strange it frightened him
.

Tossing the map aside, he snatched up the telephone, punched city information, and asked for the number to Sparrows Point Yacht Club. He dialed. A recorded voice told him the club's office hours were between eight A.M. and six P
.
M.

Muttering an oath, he snapped open the map. "Come on, you—"

At the tip of his
thumbnail lay Sparrows Point
.
Just past the Francis Scott Key toll bridge at Bear Creek
.
Silently, he began to pray
.
That he wasn't wrong. That he wasn't too late
.
That God would spare the only woman he'd ever loved
.

He couldn
'
t stop thinking of what she must be going through. They'd discussed Tate enough in the last week that she would know what she was up against. She knew what the odds were of her coming out of this alive.

The thought tore him up inside.

Knowing he was at least ten minutes from downtown, he pressed the accelerator to the floor.

Chapter 26

The sight of him stunned her. Addison’s breath jammed in her throat. A surge of adrenaline jolted her. Terrified and somehow amazed, she stepped back, half expecting him to strike at her like an angry viper.

Garrison Tate stared at her through steel gray eyes. Her last living relative. Her birth father. The only human being in the world with the power to terrify her.

His stare touched her, with an almost physical force, intruding into places she didn't want him to see, places that made her feel unprotected and powerless. In the last hours, her defenses had been shattered. As much as she hated the thought, she sensed he drew some sort of twisted satisfaction from her fear.

He appraised her without emotion, the way a prospective investor assesses a ten-thou sand-dollar piece of horseflesh. He was taller than she'd imagined. Well over six feet. His European suit was tailored to a physique that bespoke of personal trainer finesse. But he had just enough softness around the middle to tell her he was a man accustomed to
fine dining. His hair was dark with a hint of gray at each temple. His presence was commanding. His posture spoke of power and status and arrogance. But it was his eyes that unnerved her most
.

Her only thought was that there was no resemblance between them. With that realization came a bizarre sense of relief that meant little in light of what she faced in the coming hours.

"You're quite a resourceful young woman." He motioned toward the narrow door that led into the hall. "Shall we go into the salon?"

The cold amusement in his expression chilled her. Had there been a route of escape, she would have used that moment to flee. But she knew there was no escape. Addison felt that acutely as she stared at his outstretched hand. She was trapped within this monster's lair. A murderer in disguise. A man who'd fooled a nation of millions.

She refused his handshake with the best go-to-hell look she could manage.

He smiled. "Ah, you impress me, Addison. I knew you would. I'm very, very pleased with you."

"You son of a bitch
.
" Her voice shook, but she didn't care.

"This will be much easier for both of us if you stay calm and cooperate." Frowning, he reached out and touched the cut on her cheek .
"I see you've met Kyle."

Addison endured his touch without reacting.

"I'll have a word with him about ... his tendencies."

She wondered what he could possibly have in mind for her
.
What he could possibly have to gain. What sort of twisted game he was playing. The only thing she knew for certain was that her life was at stake
—
and she didn't intend to lose.