someone lurking in the parking lot. But the club was deserted. As for intervention by law enforcement, that was a desperate hope. Even with Reed's prodding, the cops would be searching for Gordon Mallory, not Dennis Kincaid. There was no way they'd make the connection in time.
Douglas's regal yacht loomed just ahead. It was illuminated by the first rays of moonlight, and Taylor winced as she saw the name Fair Adrienne printed across its bow.
"My sentiments exactly," Gordon muttered.
He reached the edge of the dock and, doing a careful balancing act, swung Taylor onto the yacht,
placing her in a half-sitting position on the main deck. Then he followed, stepping aboard himself.
He squatted down, stared into her eyes. "I'm going to untie you so you can turn around and back down the ladder to the berth deck. I'll be right behind you. Don't try anything stupid."
She nodded. Whatever she planned to try, now was not the time. Nor was the rebellion she'd been displaying the right approach. She had to get past her panic, use her brain. She knew what made
Gordon tick. She had to press the right buttons, not those that would make him retaliate, view her
even more as Adrienne.
She had to bide her time—and thereby gain some.
She sat very still, leaning forward as Gordon unbound her wrists, then sitting back as he unbound her ankles. She rubbed them vigorously, nearly weeping with relief as pinpoints of pain signaled the return
of her blood flow. She shook out her hands, then pointed mutely to her mouth with a questioning look.
"Good girl." Gordon seemed genuinely pleased. "You asked. Yes, you can remove the gag."
Taylor pulled out the handkerchief. Her mouth felt like cardboard. She licked her lips, then began to cough.
"There's water down below. You can have some if you continue to behave."
"Thank you," she managed.
"Time to get moving," Gordon instructed.
It took Taylor three attempts to stand. She succeeded only when Gordon yanked her to her feet.
"Regain your balance," he commanded.
"I will." She wobbled around for a minute or two. More than that would be pressing her luck.
"I'm okay now."
"Good." He gestured toward the ladder.
Without argument, Taylor descended, going as slowly as she dared without arousing his suspicions. She reminded herself that she was dealing with a very clever man. Any hint that she was manipulating him
and she'd be brutalized.
The berth deck was luxurious, with a kitchen, a sitting area, and Lord knew how many bedrooms.
She found out soon enough.
"The master suite's in the stern," Gordon informed her, stepping off the bottom rung onto the deck. "There are two other bedrooms up front, but they're smaller and not as lavish. I've chosen the master
for you."
Taylor fought back her shudder. "May I have that water now?" she asked.
"To put off the inevitable?"
"No. To get the taste of dry linen out of my mouth."
"Fair enough." His eyes narrowed assessingly, and he pointed to the bench in the kitchen. "Sit down
over there where I can see you."
"All right." She did as he asked. "I'm not an idiot, Gordon." Her gaze was unwavering as it met his.
"I realize who I'm dealing with. It would be pretty stupid on my part to make a dash for the ladder
while you're pulling out a bottle of water. I wouldn't make it to the third rung before you grabbed me."
"True." One brow rose. "I'd forgotten what a challenge you are. Intelligent. Subtle. An exciting blend
of fineness, sensuality, and psychological manipulation. You're right. I don't think you'd make a break
for it now. You'd wait for a better time, one where your chances of success were high. Too bad that
time won't come." He walked over and got her the water. "Here."
"I appreciate it." She drank, rested, then drank again. "May I use the bathroom?"
He waved his arm in that direction. "Feel free. There are no portholes in there. Oh, and don't bother looking for your cell phone. It's gone, as is your purse."
No surprise there. She'd hardly expected him to provide her with a link to the outside world.
She used the toilet, then washed her hands and face. Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she barely recognized herself. Her eyes were huge and frightened, with dark circles beneath them. Her face was sheet white, and her hair was a tousled mess. She gazed around the bathroom, willing there to be some hidden vent she could crawl through, some panel in the ceiling she could hoist herself out of in order to reach safety.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Her mind was running wild. She was grasping at absurd straws, and she knew it. But she was alone with a killer. And she was terrified.
Hands balling into fists, she faced the cold, hard facts.
This wasn't a question of buying time. No one knew where she was. This was a question of saving her own life. Because she was the only one who could do it.
Quietly, she opened the medicine cabinet and rummaged through it. No razor. No scissors. Not even a pair of tweezers she could arm herself with. Discouraged, she shut the cabinet door and leaned her
elbows against the sink, resting her head in her hands. She couldn't give up. She'd leave the bathroom, return to the kitchen, and check out the rest of the berth deck as unobtrusively as she could, keeping Gordon talking all the while. And, God help her, if it came down to it and he forced her back there,
she'd scrutinize the master bedroom. There had to be something, somewhere, she could use as a weapon.
Mentally, she reviewed the self-defense techniques Reed and Mitch had taught her. The whole circling thing wasn't going to work—not in such close quarters. And running? Forget it. Especially once she was backed into the master suite. Escape would be an impossibility. She'd never get past Gordon. Not unless he was physically incapacitated.
Swallowing hard, Taylor accepted the inevitable. The victim was going to have to become the assailant.
It was the only way she'd get away. And given Gordon's cunning mind, superior strength, and more advanced martial-arts skills, there was only one interval during which she'd have the upper hand to the point where she could pull it off.
When he got her onto that bed.
He'd be distracted. His physical capabilities and mental focus would be compromised.
That's when she'd act. With or without a weapon. She wait for Gordon to put his filthy hands on her. Then she'd strike like a coiled cobra.
Bile rose in Taylor's throat, and a wave of panic seized her again. How could she do this? How could
she survive him touching her? And how could she pull off this whole Superwoman thing? She'd had
only a handful of self-defense lessons, and an equal number of practice sessions.
How in God's name could she translate informal workouts into the real thing—saving her own life?
The answer was simple. She had to. Because the alternative was unthinkable.
8:12 P.M.
Reed stared out the window of the NYPD's Bell 206 Jet Ranger, watching the lights of the town below, as if by doing so, he could make them grow closer, make the damned helicopter fly faster.
As it was, the bunch of them were already operating at lightning speed.
The Sag Harbor police had called in a report five minutes ago. They were surrounding the yacht club, waiting for Hadman's instructions. Gordon had just arrived and carried Taylor onto the yacht. Her
wrists and ankles were bound, but she seemed alert.
That was then. Reed couldn't bear to think what was going on now.
He slammed a fist against his leg. He felt so goddamned helpless. But he had to have faith in the detectives. Hadman's instincts were good. As for Olin, his time frame had been dead-on from the
get-go.
It had taken them eight minutes to get to Yankee S
tadium. The pilot had just put down the helicopter when Reed, Mitch, Hadman, and Olin ran across the field to climb in. They'd left Jonathan behind—
and not just because the helicopter had seating for only four passengers. The guy was an emotional wreck. He'd be a detriment, not an asset. Even he'd admitted he wasn't sure he could control himself when he first saw Gordon, masquerading as Dennis or not. After everything his brother had put him through, he might just lunge for his throat.
For Taylor's sake, for everyone's sake, Jonathan had gone back to his apartment, where he was glued
to his cell phone. When there was news to tell, he'd hear it.
According to the pilot's last announcement—which had come a minute and a half ago—they'd be
landing in nine minutes flat. Olin had been right-on again. The Sag Harbor cops were poised and waiting. So far, Hadman had them on hold.
Reed prayed that was the right decision.
"This is interesting," Olin commented, glancing at the report that had been handed to him as he ran out the precinct door.
"What is?" Reed asked numbly.
"Our background check on Dennis Kincaid. The real Dennis Kincaid died fifteen years ago in a little
town in Nebraska. No family. No ties. Gordon picked a winner. He must have dug up Kincaid's information from old copies of local newspaper obituaries. Small towns tend to put lots of personal data
in their obits. You know, the deceased's survivors— or lack thereof—his age, date of birth, cause of death, parents' names— the works. Once he dug up Kincaid's mother's maiden name, he'd have everything he needed to request a duplicate birth certificate, money order enclosed. He probably got himself a hot social-security card and photo ID. With those, he could go to the passport office and get himself a passport. And, voila, a whole new Dennis Kincaid. All he had to do was have some new
photos taken after his surgery, and he'd be good to go. Or return, in this case."
"Great," Reed muttered. He was only half listening.
"After he got back to the U.S. from Thailand—which was in November, incidentally, not September—our friend Dennis Kincaid hit the Midwest, where he did a few monthlong radio stints to build his resume. And guess what? No record of any head-on auto collision in either of the towns he worked in. Not in September, October, or November. In fact, there was no accident at all involving a Dennis Kincaid. The funny thing is, he doesn't even have a driver's license. No roots, no credit cards,
no friends. Gee, it's like he wasn't planning on staying in the country."
"Surprise, surprise," Hadman replied in disgust. "Gordon planned on waiting for Jonathan to be
convicted, for the Berkley estates to make their way through probate, and for Alison to inherit the
whole kit and caboodle. Then I bet they'd be leaving the country ASAP."
"They?" Olin arched a dubious brow. "More likely, he. At that point, Ally would become expendable."
"True. But, hey, let's give the guy the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he planned on giving his wife a
belated honeymoon before he bumped her off somewhere halfway around the world. You know—a
great international tour as a final send-off."
"It touches the heart."
Reed wasn't amused by the banter. In fact, he was about to jump out of his skin, when he felt the helicopter start to descend. "We're landing." He was already unbuckling his seat belt.
"Get ready to jump when the chopper touches down," Hadman instructed. "The pilot's been told to get outta here ASAP so if Mallory hears the whirring sound, he'll figure it's a passing aircraft on its way to
the airport."
"I doubt he'll be listening," Reed responded grimly, watching the docks come into view. "His mind's on other things—like killing Taylor."
CHAPTER 37
8:31 p.m.
FAIR ADRIENNE
SAG HARBOR YACHT CLUB
The moment of truth had arrived.
Taylor saw it in Gordon's eyes as they walked hack into the kitchen area, having returned from a
minitour of Douglas's yacht.
The tour had been a mistake. Taylor knew it the moment Gordon announced he was conducting it.
And if it hadn't been essential for her to check out the boat for something to arm herself with, she
would have stopped his walk down memory lane before it began. She knew what it would do to his
state of mind, coming face-to-face with his past, reliving specific moments when Adrienne had
degraded and exploited him.
And she'd been right. He was now angrier, more hostile—in a worse place psychologically than he
had been before.
This wasn't going to play out well.
Gordon grabbed a bottle of Scotch from the liquor cabinet and poured himself a double.
He downed it in a few deep swallows, then slammed the old-fashioned glass on the counter.
"I'm not drunk," he informed Taylor, his stare hard, filled with rage. "I'm in top form, mentally and physically. My reflexes are well trained and fast. So don't get your hopes up."
"I'm not. I'm thinking."
"About what?"
"About what she did to you."
"How touching," he mocked.
"Look, Gordon, I'm not Adrienne," Taylor stated simply. "And, whether or not you believe it, I'm sickened by how she abused and used you."
"Are you?" One dark brow rose. "Sickened enough to understand?"
He was testing her. She knew it. And she wouldn't give in to the urge to lie. Because that's just what
he expected.
"No. The crimes you committed turn my stomach. You killed innocent people. One of those people was my cousin and my very best friend. She was all I had. So if you're asking if I forgive you, the answer is no. But if you're asking if I'd deny you the help you need, the answer to that is no as well."
Gordon tipped his empty glass to her in tribute. "I keep forgetting how refreshingly honest you are—most of the time. When you're not involved in some self-serving pretense. Like playing the unspoiled flower who's really rolling around in bed with Reed Weston. Or the frightened victim who shut me down by taking off on a supposed much-needed vacation."
"Neither of those was a pretense." Taylor came right back at him. "I was a frightened victim. Your stalking scared the hell out of me. I went to Palm Beach as a last resort. As for the unspoiled-flower image, it was all in your mind, as was your assumption that I was saving myself for you. My relationship with Reed is real, not a charade."
"It's also over," Gordon snapped.
He whipped out a handkerchief, wiping his fingerprints off the bottle of Scotch and the glass, then
setting them back on the counter.
"What about Ally?" Taylor blurted out the first thing that came to mind as she tried to stall him.
"If you were so obsessed with me, why did you marry her? Or does she even exist?"
Those questions seemed to amuse Gordon, and he paused for a moment, that smug gleam back in his eyes. "You haven't figured out that part yet, have you? Ally very much exists. She's a Berkley. The
last remaining one, in fact. As for why I married her, that was a matter of necessity. After Jonathan
gets his life sentence or lethal injection, she inherits everything. At which point, so do I."
Of course. Taylor blinked in realization. That's what Gordon had meant in the car, when he'd said
he'd become Dennis Kincaid to get everything that was coming to him when Jonathan was convicted
of double homicide.
The man was deranged. But he was also brilliant. And if he pulled off this scheme of his, Taylor
doubted Ally would be around much past the trial and the disbursement of her inheritance.
"You're impressed," Gordon observed.
"Speechless is more like it."
"What can I say? I'm a genius." He walked over, plucking the empty Poland Spring bottle from her
hand and tossing it on the bench. "No need to wipe the prints off that one. I'll recycle it on my way out, like the good citizen I am." He seized Taylor's chin in a cruel grip, forced her gaze up to meet his.
"By the way, now you're stalling. I know it. And I don't like it."
She winced at the pain, nodding mutely at his accusation. She was treading in uncharted waters now. There were no instructions for what lay ahead. She'd kept Gordon talking as long as she could. But
his need to vent and to gloat had been satisfied. Now he had other, more pressing, needs in mind.
Sexual gratification. Domination. Vengeance. And finality.
"It's time," he announced, as calmly as if he were telling her dinner was about to be served. "Shall
we adjourn to the bedroom?"
Taylor scarcely heard him. Her gaze had darted to the counter, and was now focused on the nearly