Free Relative Strangers by Joyce Lamb

the car."
    She was limp, defeated. He grasped her by the arms, shook her. "Listen to me, damn you. You're going to get into the car, and we're going to get the fuck out of here."
    Opening the door, he shoved her inside and slammed it shut. He ran to the other side as fast as he could, but it wasn't fast enough. Meg fumbled her door open, tumbled out of the car and dashed back into the woods, her only thought to get to Dayle.
    Ryan crashed into her from behind, taking her down in a full-body tackle.
    The crushing weight of his body drove the air from her lungs, and she lay beneath him, stunned and breathless. The edges of her vision wavered in and out. The damp, spongy ground beneath her cheek smelled musty. All around her it was too warm—the air, the ground, the man on top of her— but the heat couldn't ward off the chill that crept through her.
    Ryan scrambled off her, afraid he may have hurt her but more frightened by what would happen to them both if the brutes from the beach found them. He caught her arm, pulled her up. "Get up."
    "You bastard!" She twisted, took a swing at him, and narrowly missed landing a solid punch.
    He seized her wrists, clamped them together and secured them with the white cotton handkerchief he'd offered her less than an hour before when she'd been sick. He felt like a jerk, but he didn't have time to fight with her. "You've got a choice. Either stay here and let those assholes get their hands on you or come with me."
    He didn't wait for her response. He just started off at a fast clip toward the car, his fingers gripping the handkerchief that bound her hands. She kept pace with him, and he took that as her answer.
    Back in the Jag, she sat in silence, staring straight ahead while he did a U-turn and gunned the engine. When he'd put several miles between them and the beach, he glanced side-ways at his captive. Tears were streaming unchecked down her cheeks. "You don't know what that gunshot was about,"
    he said. "It could have been a warning shot."
    "Did they look like the kind of people who are going to just let her go now?"
    He didn't know what to say. She was right. Dayle would have to serve some kind of purpose for them to keep her alive. Now that he had broken off contact with them and had no way of reaching them to negotiate further . . . He stopped himself. Damn it, he refused to feel guilty for something he had no control over. "She wouldn't be in this mess if it hadn't been for you," he said in a low voice.
    Closing her eyes tight, Meg bit into her bottom lip.
    At the marina, she gave him no trouble getting back on the yacht, though he sensed she was waiting for the right moment.
    That moment came when he turned from securing the dinghy. One second his gun had been tucked in his waistband, and the next it was in her tied hands, cocked and pointed at his chest. Not allowing her the opportunity to feel triumph, he kicked the weapon out of her hands. He saw the pain register in her eyes a moment after he had her on the deck, her bound wrists pinned above her head. "That was stupid," he said, his lips inches from hers.
    She glared at him with hatred, scalding tears rolling back into her hair. "She was my best friend." A dry sob escaped before she could choke it back, and she fought the wave behind it.
    Taken aback by the raw emotion, he loosened his grip on her.
    She jerked her hands free and shoved at him. "Get off!"
    As he sat back on his heels, she rolled onto her side, drawing her knees up to her chest.
    Rubbing his hands over his face, he tried to block out the sobs she muted with clenched fists. He'd thought he could handle it. He'd thought his rage at Beau's senseless death would carry him through, make him ruthless enough to get the revenge he wanted. But he hadn't counted on this woman whose claims of innocence were becoming ever more con-vincing. He hadn't counted on more people getting killed . . . innocent people. He had taken on an entire organi-zation, and he was just one