Because I don’t know if I can trust him. I don’t know if he’s telling me the truth about my father’s death. I may never know the truth. If I give in to Daimon, it will be because I’ve accepted that I’ll never know for sure whether he killed my father in self-defense. I don’t know if I can accept that explanation, much less believe it. I suppose it comes down to whether Daimon truly loves me. If he loves me, he wouldn’t lie to me about something so important.
I writhe against the mattress, my emotional disquiet manifesting in my physical struggles. I yank my arms and legs in every direction, attempting to loosen the thin ropes that tether me to the bedposts, but it’s no use. I’m no match for Daimon’s military and law enforcement background. No doubt he knows at least a dozen ways to tie someone up.
This thought makes my body flood with a warmth and longing for his touch. I shake my head, trying to clear away thoughts of Daimon pleasuring me while I lay immobilized. His tongue sliding over my flesh, searching for my clit. Oh, God. Just the thought of it has me on the brink of orgasm.
I need to get out of here, away from Daimon, where I can think straight.
“Alyssa!” I open my eyes and Nick is standing in the doorway. “Are you hurt?”
I shake my head adamantly, thinking of how I was just imagining my captor giving me head. I’m definitely not hurt. At least, not physically. I can’t say as much for my mental health.
“Please release me,” I plead, and he rushes to the bed to untie the ropes.
“Did he hurt you?”
“No,” I insist. “He just wanted to talk to me.” Why am I defending him?
Once I’m released from the restraints, my heart begins to thrum painfully against my chest. I know we have no more than a minute or two before Daimon returns. Part of me wants to wait for him, but I don’t know if I’d rather punch him in the throat or leap into his arms and kiss him.
“We have to get out of here,” I whisper frantically.
Nick takes my hand. “I know where to go. Come.”
I pause for a moment, staring at our hands clasped together. “Are you a bounty hunter?”
“What?” His reply is high-pitched, but his mouth hangs open making him appear a bit dopey. “Why would you say that? Did he tell you I’m a bounty hunter?” He throws his head back and laughs. “That is very funny. A guy who makes sunglasses is a bounty hunter? He is desperate if he’s trying to convince you of something so ridiculous.”
Looking into his shiny green eyes with the clock ticking down in the back of my mind, I try to figure out what I’m missing. Someone is hiding something from me. But I can’t decide if it’s Nick or Daimon. And I don’t have time to ponder this question.
“Let’s go,” I reply with a nod.
He nods back and pulls me out into the backyard where I spot the black man who followed me for days, dead in the overgrown grass. That’s Daimon’s associate, Crow? Why was he so dispensable to Daimon?
I don’t have time to contemplate this question as Nick yanks me into my neighbors’ backyard. The neighbors Crow didn’t kill. Their yard is neatly manicured with stone pathways snaking through the space between their citrus and stone fruit trees. The air smells sweet and fruity. The warm humidity clings to my skin and fills my lungs, suffocating me.
“Where are we going?” I whisper as we tiptoe toward the other side of the neighbor’s house.
“To the marina.”
We creep along the north side of the property and stop at the front corner. Nick inches his head forward to peer into the street. His eyes widen as the sound of frantic footsteps fall on my ears. It must be Daimon racing away from Nick’s house toward my cottage. We wait a couple more seconds, then he yanks me forward and we dart toward the steps leading down to the harbor.
My whole body aches with every step I take as if every cell of my being wants nothing more than to reject this path I’m taking. Go back, my body is screaming. Go home to the one man who truly loves you.
We reach the dock and find a gentleman who’s tying up his speedboat for the evening. My heart screeches to a halt when Nick pulls a Glock 22 and points it at the man.
“Suelta la cuerda!” Nick shouts at him. The man’s wrinkled eyes widen as he drops the length of rope and slowly raises both hands in the air. Nick waves the gun toward the boat. “Metate en el barco!”
The man scurries into the boat and Nick keeps the gun trained on him as he climbs in behind him. Nick reaches up, offering his free hand to me.
“Alyssa, we have to go!”
I inch forward until the toes of my sandals hang over the edge of the dock. I gaze into the dark water, glistening with moonlight.
“Alyssa!” Nick barks at me.
I reject his offer of help and climb into the boat myself. At once, he wraps his free arm around my waist and pulls me close to him.
“Maneja!” Nick shouts as the man sits in the drivers’ seat.
The man steers the boat away from the dock and punches the gas pedal. The inertia pulls Nick and me backward, and we fall back onto a cushioned bench seat in the rear of the speedboat. Nick continues to bark orders at the man and I’m almost positive he just told him to take us to Tenerife, a neighboring island with a large international airport.
I look over my shoulder and my stomach clenches when I see him. Daimon races along the dock, frantically searching for something. Nick looks over his shoulder just as Daimon disappears behind a mid-sized sailboat, as if he jumped into the water. My heart pounds and worried thoughts race through my mind. Seconds later, another speedboat roars out from behind the sailboat and heads straight for us.
Nick shouts at the man again and our boat shoots forward, flying over the rippling seas. I sense I’m being torn in two. My body is here in this boat, sitting next to Nick. But my heart is behind us with Daimon.
I glance over my shoulder a few times, half-hoping I will see his boat gaining on us, but he seems to be falling behind. This boat must be more powerful than the boat he’s driving. At this speed, we’ll reach Tenerife in thirty minutes, at least ten minutes before Daimon. Plenty of time to get a head start and get to the airport. I can’t help feeling disappointed.
I don’t love Nick. In fact, the only thing Nick has going for him is the fact that he didn’t kill my father.
“Why do you have a gun?” I shout over the roaring squeal of the boat’s engine.
“I brought it from my house after they drugged me,” Nick replies, his eyes locked on the driver as he keeps his gun pointed at him.
“Why did you have a gun in your house?”
“For protection, of course!” he shouts impatiently.
Is it normal for a man who manufactures sunglasses to apply for a gun permit? It’s not as easy to get a gun in Spain as it is in America. I know. I looked it up before I booked my flight to La Palma. You need to be able to prove a legitimate reason: hunting, target shooting, collection, personal protection. Protection from what?
Maybe Nick works in law enforcement. Or, as a bounty hunter.
I have to think this through. I begin by listing the facts as I know them:
Daimon killed my father.
Daimon shot someone in a gold Mercedes right in front of me.
My parents kept me locked in a basement for eighteen years.
My parents needed to protect me to make sure they didn’t lose their annual hush-money payment from the princess.
My father never let me out of his sight.
My father knew the princess would send someone to get rid of her dirty secret.
I haven’t spoken to my mother in months.