Nowhere to Run Read online

  Praise for the novels of New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author

  SUZANNE BROCKMANN

  “Zingy dialogue, a great sense of drama and a pair of lovers who generate enough steam heat to power a whole city.”

  —RT Book Reviews on Hero Under Cover

  “Brockmann deftly delivers another testosterone-drenched, adrenaline-fueled tale of danger and desire that brilliantly combines superbly crafted, realistically complex characters with white-knuckle plotting.”

  —Booklist on Force of Nature

  “Readers will be on the edge of their seats.”

  —Library Journal on Breaking Point

  “Another excellently paced, action-filled read. Brockmann delivers yet again!”

  —RT Book Reviews on Into the Storm

  “Funny, sexy, suspenseful and superb.”

  —Booklist on Hot Target

  “Sizzling with military intrigue and sexual tension, with characters so vivid they leap right off the page, Gone Too Far is a bold, brassy read with a momentum that just doesn’t quit.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Tess Gerritsen

  “An unusual and compelling romance.”

  —Affaire de Coeur on No Ordinary Man

  “Sensational sizzle, powerful emotion and sheer fun.”

  —RT Book Reviews on Body Language

  SUZANNE BROCKMANN

  NOWHERE TO RUN

  CONTENTS

  NOT WITHOUT RISK

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  A MAN TO DIE FOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  NOT WITHOUT RISK

  CHAPTER ONE

  EMILY MARSHALL was in the bathroom. No, not the bathroom, the head. On a boat the tiny bathroom was called the head.

  And as long as you’re correcting yourself, Emily thought as she leaned closer to the mirror to reapply her lipstick, this floating castle with sails can’t really be called a boat.

  Boats were unassuming, functional little things you sat in and used oars to row. Or they were things with sails attached that gave you calluses on your hands, sunburn on your face and a healthy lungful of fresh ocean air. Sometimes they took you from point A to point B, but mostly from point A to nowhere, and back again.

  Despite the fact that there was, indeed, no destination for this evening’s sail, there was nothing unassuming about the sailing vessel Emily was standing on. True, the Home Free wasn’t large enough to be called a ship, but somehow the word boat didn’t fit, either.

  Yacht, thought Emily as she adjusted the straps of her new black party dress. Alexander Delmore’s boat really had to be called a yacht.

  She looked at herself critically in the mirror. She’d picked up this dress in a fancy department store’s bargain basement. Even marked down the way it had been, it had put her out nearly half of one of her weekly paychecks.

  Spending that much money was a big deal to her. It meant she’d have to watch her grocery money for the next few weeks, and really try to keep her expenses down. But to real estate tycoon Alexander Delmore, the amount she’d spent on the dress would have been laughably small. When Alex took her out to dinner, he spent that much on one bottle of wine.

  Of course, he made significantly more money wheeling and dealing in real estate than she made as a high school English teacher. That was just one of the simple facts of life. And it was typical of Emily to have fallen in love with a job in a city school system that couldn’t afford to pay a decent salary. Sure, she could have applied for a job in a more affluent district. Or she could have stuck to her original college major and gone into business or gotten a job working with computers. It was her own fault that she never seemed to have enough money.

  Emily made a face at herself in the mirror. But even with her tongue sticking out, she still looked sophisticated, thanks to the elegant lines of the dress.

  Earlier this evening, Alex had asked her out again, for next Tuesday night. He wanted to take her to a party at a local country club. If she spent the other half of her paycheck on yet another expensive dress, she’d be eating pasta or tomato soup until the end of the month.

  Emily didn’t like eating pasta day in and day out. She liked lobster. And veal. And expensive cuts of filet mignon. She liked asparagus, regardless of the season. She liked watermelon in the winter, and imported chocolate.

  She liked houses like Alex’s, houses that overlooked the clear blue water of the Gulf of Mexico. She liked houses like Alex’s, with six bedrooms and four and a half baths. She liked fluffy new towels that weren’t fraying around the edges. She liked cleaning ladies and dinners out. She liked big floating weekend parties on Alex’s yacht—parties like this one that started early in the afternoon on Saturday and didn’t end until late Sunday night. She liked big-screen stereo TVs and state-of-the-art compact disc players.

  She liked the thought of having enough money that she’d never have to worry about the phone bill or the electric payment. She liked the idea of vacations and cruises and trips to Europe.

  She also liked Alexander Delmore.

  But she didn’t love him.

  It was clear that he was interested in her. He had as much as told her that he was looking to settle down, to start a family. He was one of Florida’s most eligible bachelors, and Emily was flattered that he found her attractive.

  But…she didn’t love him.

  Her neighbor, Carly Wilson, said so what if you don’t love him? Love was overrated. A good strong case of like could outlast the most passionate love affair, particularly if it was combined with an enormous bank account. How often does real love come along, anyway? Carly had asked. According to Emily’s neighbor, the answer was usually never.

  Emily stared at herself in the mirror, searching the familiar blue of her own eyes. She was amazed that she could be wearing this gorgeous, expensive dress that made her look like a million dollars, and be standing here, in the bathroom—head—of millionaire Alexander Delmore’s luxurious yacht, thinking about…James Keegan.

  After seven years, you’d think she’d be over the man. And she was over him, Emily told herself firmly. Her affair with black-hearted Jim Keegan was dead and buried, deep in the past. Jeez, it had been over almost before it even began.

  So what the heck was she doing thinking about him?

  Because of love. She was thinking about Jim because she had honestly loved him. As rotten and cruel as he had been, as badly as he had hurt her, the fact remained that Emily had loved James Keegan with all of her heart and soul. And deep inside she knew that never, not in a billion years, would she ever love Alex Delmore even half that much.

  Still— Carly’s voice seemed to echo in her head, as if sh
e were a little devil perched on Emily’s shoulder —who says you have to love Alex to marry him?

  “I do,” Emily said out loud to her reflection, then winced at her poor choice of words.

  She gave the short skirt of her new dress one more yank southward and quickly ran her fingers through the short, blunt-cut of her chestnut hair. She took a deep breath to further exorcise James Keegan’s too-handsome ghost, then turned to open the door that led out into Alexander’s tiny shipboard office.

  She heard the angry voices as soon as her hand was on the doorknob, but it was too late to pull back. The door swung open, and the arguing men immediately fell silent. Alex and another man—Vincent something—looked up at her, and she could see surprise and annoyance in both pairs of eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt….”

  Alexander Delmore shook his head. “No problem,” he said, crossing the tiny cabin with a smile on his tanned, handsome face. “I didn’t realize you were using the head.” He glanced back at the other man as he took Emily’s hand. “If I’d known, we would have gone somewhere else to have our…chat.”

  Emily couldn’t remember the other man’s last name. They had been introduced earlier that evening, when all the party guests first boarded Alex’s yacht. Vincent what? she thought. Martino? Or was it Medino?

  Whoever he was, he was a heavyset man. His dark complexion and body-builder’s physique offset Alex’s golden slenderness. And, unlike Alex, Vincent still looked annoyed at the interruption.

  “If you don’t mind…” Vincent said pointedly.

  Emily slipped her hand free from Alex’s. “I’ll get out of your way,” she said.

  “It’ll only be a second,” Alex promised. “I’ll meet you up on deck.”

  The office door closed tightly behind her.

  Emily was halfway down the hall when she realized that she’d left her purse in the head. She turned back, but when she got to the door to the office she could hear that the two men were arguing again. They were keeping their voices low, but there was no mistaking the underlying current of tension.

  She had just lifted her hand to knock when Vincent’s voice rose slightly.

  “If you don’t like that deal,” she heard him say quite clearly, “how about this one—I waste you and take all of your profits.”

  Waste? Had he said waste? As in…kill?

  Alex’s voice rose enough for Emily to hear him, too.

  “I had a deal with your uncle that worked out fine for years,” he said, his voice shaking with emotion.

  “My uncle’s dead,” Vincent said. “And I’m in charge now. You want to deal, first you gotta deal with me.”

  “Fine,” Emily heard Alex say. “In that case, you can deal me out.”

  Vincent laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You don’t expect me to believe that you’ll get out of the business just like that, do you?”

  Emily could almost see Alex’s shrug. “Believe what you want, Marino.”

  There was a loud thump from inside the office, as if someone’s head had hit the bulkhead, hard. Emily’s heart was pounding, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t run away.

  “I believe,” Vincent’s voice growled, “that I just might break your face. I know that there was a snowstorm somewhere off the Gulf Coast last night, and I know that this pretty little boat of yours was there to intercept. You cut me my share, or you’re dead. That’s your deal. Take it or leave it.”

  A snowstorm? In July? In Florida?

  With sudden clarity, Emily remembered waking up in the early hours of the morning to the sound of a small outboard motor. The yacht’s motorized dinghy had quietly pulled up alongside the bigger boat, and even as she watched out her cabin’s tiny porthole, the gentle throbbing of its engine had been cut.

  Someone had been out on the deck. Emily hadn’t been able to see who it was, but she had heard the sounds of movement. The little boat had been secured to the side of the yacht with a rope, and a ladder had been thrown down. The person in the boat had turned, and in the early dawn Emily had had a clear view of his face.

  It had been Alex.

  When she asked him about it at breakfast that morning, he’d apologized for disturbing her, and told her that he’d been out fishing.

  Fishing? Fishing for what? Something Vincent Marino would threaten to kill Alex for?

  Snowstorm. Snow. Snow was slang for cocaine, wasn’t it?

  God in heaven, was it possible that Alex was dealing cocaine?

  Emily turned and ran.

  CHAPTER TWO

  EMILY SAT at the interrogation room table in the St. Simone police precinct, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.

  The police officer who had first taken her statement had called this the interview room, but Emily knew better. It was an interrogation room. A mirror lined one wall. It was clear that it was really a window, and that people could stand on the other side and observe and hear the conversation without being seen.

  The clock on the wall was covered with a protective grid, like the clocks in the gym at the high school where she taught English. The walls were a drab cross between beige and green, and the tile on the floor was gray. It was pitted and cracked from age.

  Yes, this was an interrogation room. And after three hours, with seven different police officers asking her the same questions, she could safely assume that she was being interrogated.

  The room smelled like stale cigarette smoke—until the police detective she’d been talking to came back into the room, carrying two ceramic mugs of steaming coffee.

  “We have those foam hot cups,” he said, in his gentle Hispanic accent, “but I don’t like to use them—not now that I know what they do to the environment. But these mugs are okay—I washed them myself, and I am very careful to get them clean.”

  Emily could believe it. The detective—Felipe Salazar, he’d said his name was—was neatly dressed and meticulously well-groomed. He was a young man, probably even younger than her own twenty-five years, with short dark hair and a face with high, exotic cheekbones that might have looked dangerous if not for his open, friendly smile. He reminded her of a puppy—a Doberman puppy who had potential, but hadn’t yet learned to be dangerous. With the exception of the few minutes he’d spent getting coffee, he had remained with her for the duration of her questioning.

  Six other police officers had come into the room, and she’d told her story over and over and over again. She realized they didn’t believe her when she told them that Alexander Delmore—one of the pillars of St. Simone society—was running drugs. She knew that was why she had to tell what she had heard and seen again and again—the police were waiting for her to slip up, to make a mistake, to mess up on the details, to change her story in some way.

  All the other police officers and detectives had expressed their doubts about what she was telling them. Some had said she must have misheard the conversation between Delmore and the man she’d ID’d as Vincent Marino. Some had said she must have mistaken someone else for Marino, allegedly the new kingpin of a statewide crime syndicate. Others had implied that her story was a load of baloney. They had implied that she had some dirty, rotten motive for wanting to smear Delmore’s good name.

  Emily had been asked countless personal questions about the nature of her relationship with Alex. Had they recently had an argument, a falling-out? How long had she been seeing him? How long had she been sleeping with him?

  Emily couldn’t see how those questions had anything to do with Alex’s involvement in drug running. But she’d answered them truthfully. And the truth was, she wasn’t intimately involved with Alex. When they went for weekend sails on his boat, his crew had always been on board with them, and she had always had her own cabin. She had not slept with him.

  But she could tell that none of the other police officers believed her about that, either.

  But young Detective Salazar had been nothing but kind. He’d said he did believe her. He’d ask
ed her to be patient and put up with the skeptics. He said that if Delmore was guilty of distributing cocaine, then Delmore should go to jail—regardless of the amount of money the man had donated to the widows-and-orphans fund over the past few years.

  As Emily took another sip of black coffee, Salazar shuffled the pages of notes he had been taking throughout the three hours of questioning.

  “Do they believe me yet?” she asked him bluntly.

  He smiled at her apologetically. “My boss, Lieutenant Bell, will be coming in to talk to you,” he said. “And my partner is around here somewhere. He’ll be in soon, too.”

  The door opened, and Emily looked up to see a woman come into the room. She, like most of the others, wasn’t wearing a police uniform. She was wearing a dark blue jacket and skirt and a utilitarian white shirt. She was short and wire thin, and she could have been anywhere from forty to sixty years old. Her brown hair was streaked with gray, and she wore a pair of half glasses on her thin nose.

  She peered over the tops of them at Emily. “Emily Marshall?” she said. “I’m Lieutenant Katherine Bell.”

  The older woman didn’t hold out her hand to shake, so Emily stayed in her seat and didn’t uncross her arms. Bell sat down next to Salazar and appropriated his notes. “I understand you believe Alexander Delmore is involved in some sort of illegal activity,” she said, looking down through her glasses to read Salazar’s perfect handwriting.

  Emily didn’t say anything. She waited for Bell to finish reading through the notes.