“You’re really asking what’s in the envelope sitting right in front of you?”
Damned lawyers. Always have to make everything into an argument. Of course, that was why he liked Phil. The bastard had no soul and his heart was made from a money clip. Just. Like. Him.
“Yes,” Roen replied. “If you want to keep your million-dollar retainer, you’ll tell me before I hang the hell up.”
There was a grumble, but Roen knew Phil would answer the question. That was how all of Roen’s relationships worked: Roen asked. People did.
“Look, Ro”—Roen stopped pumping the spring in his hand. Phil only used his nickname when the shit was about to hit—“I get paid to handle your business affairs not your personal bullshit. Otherwise, I would’ve called. I forwarded the paperwork to you as a courtesy because you’re a friend.”
“I don’t have friends. What’s in the envelope, Phil? Last time,” Roen growled. Was it a paternity suit from one of the women he’d fucked? He was always careful, but one thing he’d learned, some of these women went out of their way to create accidents.
“Your father’s will.”
Roen sat down in his black leather chair. “Will?” His father was dead?
“No one told you,” Phil realized. “Sorry. I assumed you knew—the paperwork showed up from his lawyers. I thought you’d been notified.”
Good riddance. Roen was sixteen when he’d said goodbye to that prick, and he’d meant it.
“I didn’t know,” Roen said, rubbing his brow, “but it doesn’t matter. The man was a…” He was about to say a disgrace, an embarrassment, a psychotic lunatic who’d put Roen, his mother, and younger brother through the worst possible torment with his paranoid delusions and environmental crusades that included terrorist-like activities. It was the reason their mother fled Glasgow, along with him and his brother, to the States when he was ten, where they lived under assumed names. His mother did everything in her power to hide them, even making them speak “American” so people were less likely to notice them. But despite her efforts, it wouldn’t take long for their father to find them. He always found them. Then they’d run again. After a few years of trying, his mother eventually gave up. Perhaps that was the beginning of the end for her.
“Never mind,” Roen said, deciding not to waste his time thinking about any of that. “Go back to your meeting.”
“I plan to. And I’m shutting off my cell.”
“Do whatever the hell you like. But if you’re not available when I need you, I’ll find someone who is.”
“You’re a sadistic prick, Roen.”
“Yes. And I’m not losing any sleep over it.”
“That’s because you can’t lose what you don’t have.” Phil referred to the fact that Roen didn’t sleep. He worked all hours of the day and expected the people who worked for him to be available. Period. Lucky for Phil, though, Roen trusted him and that gave the man a degree of latitude when it came to their relationship.
“I run a shipping company. It never sleeps, so neither do I.” Two hours each day would do it.
“Yes, but you have capable, well-paid people who can run the company for you. Not to mention you also have a new, hot piece of ass in your bed every night. Yet, you still choose to work. By the way, is it true you fucked that actress last week and then asked her to leave at two in the morning because you had a conference call?”
It was true. But the call had been pertaining to an important deal in Shanghai, and he hadn’t wanted any distractions. Now, why had she felt the need to tell the tabloids? It was foolish to believe he gave a crap about what anyone thought.
“Women come and go,” Roen said, sidestepping the question about the actress, “but my company took fifteen years to build.” And fact was, beautiful women were a cheap commodity. All Roen had to do was walk into a room and they flocked. “There’s something about you,” they’d say. Or, “Your eyes are such an unusual shade of green.”
Truth was, he didn’t really know why women seemed uninhibited in his presence or aggressively pursued him like hungry animals. Maybe it was a combination of his money and six-six height or his thick light brown hair—hell, who cared?
Roen’s eyes gravitated toward the unopened envelope. “Goodbye, Phil.”
“Wait. Since I have you on the phone, I sent those insurance claims. Make sure you sign them toda—”
Roen hung up. He wasn’t in the mood to talk business now that the envelope had taken on a whole new meaning. It was an official end to a relationship he didn’t want. He only hoped that inside would be vindication—an apology from his father for the pain he’d caused Roen’s now deceased mother and brother. That man had taken away the only two people Roen had ever loved because of his crazed bullshit.
Roen opened the envelope and found a letter paper-clipped to an old map that looked straight out of a ridiculous Looney Tunes episode—a few landmarks and a giant “X” right in the middle of the page. He skimmed the letter—some random garble about an island in the North Pacific. Clearly, his father had been a crazy asshole right until the bitter end. Case in point…
Roen, my boy, this island and its treasures will become yours if you choose to claim it. And I hope you do because there is no greater cause on this earth than protecting it. However, you must always remember, whatever you do, to never turn your back on that which the island asks of you. Never question the island, son, because—
Roen chucked the letter into the wastepaper basket along with the map. He wanted nothing to do with it or his father. Leave the past where it belongs.
He picked up the stack of insurance papers and began skimming through them before signing. Page after page of affidavits, cargo valuations, waivers, and…
“What the hell?” The report filed by the Coast Guard showed the approximate location of where they believed the cargo vessel went down.
He dug his father’s map from the trash. There were no lines of longitude or latitude, but the position was the same: approximately two thousand miles west of San Francisco and a thousand miles south of the Delarof Islands, the most southern point of Alaska.
Roen dialed Cherie. He knew she wouldn’t really go home until he told her to leave because she doted on him like a lovesick puppy. No, he’d never laid a finger on the woman and never would. She was under his employ and that meant something to him. Even selfish pricks needed to draw the line somewhere.
“Yes, sir?”
“What ships do we have on the Seattle to Shanghai route?”
“One moment.” Cherie clicked away on her keyboard. “You’ve got one ship departing Chinese waters now and an empty vessel unloading at port.”
“Here in Seattle?”
“Yes,” she replied.
“Tell the crew I’m sailing with them.”
“Uh…okay. Is everything all right, sir?” It was highly unusual for Roen to ever step foot on a ship, and that was because the motion made him violently ill. Ironic, given his fascination with boats, but maybe it was his disdain for the sea that drove his need to conquer it. He wasn’t sure, nor did he care. Just as long as he didn’t have to go swimming. Or touch any fish. Fish were vile.
“Everything’s fine,” he replied. “Just cancel my meetings the rest of the week. If anything urgent comes up, send it to Orman.” Dylan Orman was president of operations and his right-hand man for the last decade. Orman could handle most anything in a pinch.
“Yes, sir. I’ll do it right away,” Cherie said.
“Good. And make sure there’s a helicopter onboard.” Every ship had a landing pad for emergencies, but rarely carried air transport. They’d definitely be needing one if he was going to find the exact spot on the map.
He hung up the phone and suddenly felt that dark cloud washing over him again. His heart pounded like a goddamned war drum and his gut twisted into excruciating knots. What the hell is wrong with me?
CHAPTER THREE
Lying on a hard floor, her body screaming with pain, Liv awoke
on her back and stared up at a beamed ceiling. Dear God, where am I?
She lifted her head slowly. The room, with quaint French windows, reminded her of a beach bungalow she’d once stayed at. Only, this home, whoever it belonged to, was sparsely decorated. No pictures on the light-gray, wood-paneled walls. No light fixtures, either. Just two hand-carved chairs and a small wooden table in the corner.
Water, I need water, she thought, once again feeling herself drift out of consciousness, the room beginning to fade to black. She knew she only had minutes left if she wanted to live. Her heart rate was rapid, her body shivered, and every muscle spasmed. Maybe you’re dead already. Of course, she’d thought the same this morning when a strange man tore part of a shark’s head off and then towed her raft to shore like some bizarre dream.
Oh, God. I’m so thirsty. Why hadn’t the man given her water? That question was more important than any of the others, but dying did that to a person—made everything else feel trivial. Where she was or how that man had managed to slay a shark with his bare hands were questions that would only matter if she lived.
The front door swung open, and sunlight poured inside from behind the tall, strong silhouette of a nearly naked man.
“Why’s she covered in blood?” said another man with a deep, authoritative voice, from somewhere outside.
“I killed a shark. It got messy.” The man standing in the doorway shrugged. “But you’d better decide about her quickly.”
“Do not push me, Shane,” said the man outside.
Shane. The guy in the doorway is Shane, she thought.
Shane shook his head. “I merely meant to point out that she’s almost dead.”
“I can see that, asshole. But what I cannot understand is how she got here.”
“She was sent to me by the ocean,” Shane said, “which is why I wish to keep her; she is a gift.”
There was a long moment of silence. “Right you are. She is a gift, but who says this pretty package was meant for you?”
“But—”
“Did she come labeled with your name?” the man outside asked.
“No,” said Shane.
“Then you will give her sacred water, and she will be put up for claiming. Tonight.”
There was a low growl from Shane. “She’s not worth dying for. Look at her.”
“Then that’s your choice. But say another word, Shane, and you’ll be spending the night with the maids.”
Maids. Do they have butlers, too?
Liv heard heavy steps crushing rocks and dirt as the man walked away. Moments later, Shane kneeled over her, holding something in his hands. “What a fucking asshole,” he grumbled. “All right, sweetheart, drink up.” He lifted her head and held a leather pouch with a spout to her lips.
The water touched her tongue, and she’d never tasted anything so delicious—better than any chocolate or pastry. Better than any kiss she’d ever experienced.
She opened her mouth and swallowed. The liquid coated her dry, burning throat as it went down. She grabbed his hand and held on, vigorously sucking the life-giving water.
“That’s right,” he said, “drink up.” But the way he said it sounded angry, like he wanted her to choke on it. She couldn’t imagine why, but she didn’t care. The damned water tasted so good.
Within seconds of the water entering her mouth, she felt an odd sensation as her body absorbed the fluid. Her vision immediately cleared, and her mind right along with it.
Holy crap. People didn’t recover that quickly from dehydration. Then again, what did she know? She was half out of her mind, and there were no events in her life she could compare to.
When the water ran out, she looked up at the man, now seeing him clearly. His deep green eyes shimmered with the sunlight pouring in through the open doorway. His beard was short enough that she could see the angular contours of his twenty-something face, and his long, black hair hung in unkempt ropes as though it hadn’t been brushed in a very long while.
He smiled and displayed a perfect set of white teeth. “Better?”
“More,” she said, relieved to hear the sound of her own voice again—clear and smooth, not rough and scratchy from lack of moisture.
“That was enough to keep you from dying.” He stood and headed for the door. “Not that it matters now since I don’t get to have you,” he grumbled under his breath. “I’ll be back in a while to check on you. And if you value your life, you won’t leave this dwelling.”
Liv’s brain tried to process Shane’s words, but her body felt overwhelmed with a burst of tingles and heat.
She looked at her cracked, blistered hands. The skin began healing right in front of her eyes. What in the…?
“Wait!” she yelled at the brawny, shirtless man closing the door. “What did you give me?”
He stopped and shot her a look. “Water,” he said with a voice so frigid that she knew he didn’t welcome her question, nor would he be providing further details. But it was more than water. She’d just watched her body spontaneously heal.
“Can you at least tell me where I am?”
He flashed a sinister grin. “I already told you, on the island of El Corazón.”
“Where is that?” She’d never heard of it.
“It’s the center of the ocean, the center of everything.”
That made no sense. In fact, it sounded downright creepy. “Do you have a phone? I need to call my family and tell them I’m okay.”
He stared at her as if she were the daftest person on the planet.
Oh, God. The two men had just talked about keeping her. Yes, now that her mind cleared, they’d said they were going to put her up for something they called “claiming.”
“You’re not going to let me leave here, are you?” she asked, having already realized the truth.
He laughed. “There is only one way off this island—for a woman, that is. As you’ll see soon enough.”
Oh, Jesus. She assumed he meant a body bag or stuffed into a drum or some other hideous form of body disposal. Of course, that would come after they did stuff to her—that’s what this “claiming” had to be.
“Just so you know, I’d slit my own throat before I’d let anyone rape me,” she said evenly, meaning every word. Liv volunteered at a battered women’s shelter near her apartment in Seattle—where she attended college and lived during the school year. The work had started out as a three-week commitment as part of a class assignment related to a women’s issues course. But three weeks became four and then five and then a year. It wasn’t always easy finding time to volunteer, while holding down a part-time job as a professor’s assistant and working on her PhD, but from day one, Liv couldn’t turn her back on those women. They came to that old brick building near the marina broken, desperate, and looking for salvation. The brutality of men was something Liv would never understand. And with every face she saw—some with small children in tow—and every hand she held, Liv began hating the men who preyed on women. With every fiber of her being. It was an unspeakable atrocity to use a woman’s love against her like that, distorting it into some sort of psychological noose. She’d rather die than let one of those disgusting excuses for a man touch her.
Shane raised a brow and grinned sadistically. “In the island’s five thousand years of recorded history, not one woman has ever been forced. They always give willingly. You’ll be no different once you’ve been claimed.”
Does he think I’m an idiot? Whoever these men were, they had no intention of treating her like a human being.
Shane grabbed the handle to close the door. “Like I said; if you value your life, you’ll stay here until I come for you.”
“If I don’t?” she asked to test him.
He flashed an ominous smile over his bronzed bare shoulder. “We have all sorts of monsters on this island. You wouldn’t want to make one angry.”
He closed the door behind him, and Liv hopped from the floor, scrambling to the window to watch him disappear into the thic
k vegetation of the forest.
She looked down at her now perfectly healed feet, running the men’s conversation through her head. She would be put up for some kind of grabs they’d called a “claiming” tonight. No, she had no fucking clue where she was or where she’d go, but sitting in this cabin, waiting for them to return was stupid. Whatever “monsters” were out there would be better than facing the monsters who’d “rescued” her. Then there was the fact that he’d ripped the jaw off of a shark. A shark. Ten feet long.
Her head whipped around, and she headed for the doorway that led to a small kitchen with shelves on one wall opposite a grimy fireplace. Another small table occupied the center of the room, and on it, she found a small cloth sack with a cinch next to a bowl of apples. She grabbed some fruit and stuffed them inside the bag. On the wooden shelves, she saw bunches of dried herbs—tea perhaps—bottles of what smelled like rum, some preserves, a few mugs and…
She picked up a clear bottle and gave it a sniff. Odorless. Was this that stuff Shane had given her? Because having more of it probably wasn’t a good idea. On the other hand, if she found nothing else, she might be forced to drink it anyway. She placed it in the little sack and tied the cinch around her wrist.
She then charged back out to the living room and upstairs, where she found a small bedroom with a hammock in the corner and a few narrow shelves just opposite. A copy of The Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud lay next to a stack of black linen cloths.
Okay. That’s strange. What would he be doing with that book? Liv grabbed one of the cloths and held it up, realizing this was what Shane wore around his waist. Other than that, she found nothing. Not even a bathroom. He lived like a man from the 1800s—nothing modern, everything made by hand.
She grabbed two of the cloths and tied one around each foot in lieu of shoes before bolting downstairs and out the back door of the kitchen. Sprinting for her life into the forest and following the distant sound of waves, Liv ducked sharp branches and weaved through thorny bushes. The forest reminded her of home with the crisp pine-scented air and dense, hardy foliage. Her home was also an island, but they had snowcapped mountains, bears, and salmon, not gargantuan psychopaths.