LITMIR.BIZ

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Who knew her kidnapper was well-read? “Marcus Aurelius, the ancient Roman emperor-philosopher.”

      “I find him more helpful in such situations than George Clooney.”

      In spite of the grim situation, she couldn’t help but smile. She’d seen rare flashes of il diavolo’s droll sense of humor before, but they always surprised her. “If you get into situations like this often, you might consider a new line of work.”

      His broad shoulders moved against hers in a shrug. “Every profession has challenges. How aggressively you conquer them depends on how badly you wish to succeed.”

      “Exactly how high do your ambitions reach, Signor Dante?”

      “Let’s hope we are not pushed to find out.”

      She didn’t need sight to know that the expression in his eyes mirrored the fierce resolve in his voice. She had spent almost as much time in the past weeks attempting to decipher him as she had her father’s encrypted notes. His bearded face rarely showed emotion. But his eyes gave away far more than he knew. As dark and rich as her favorite caramel espresso, the brown depths reflected a wealth of intriguing moods and emotions.

      “Keep working at the ropes, Ariana.”

      “The knots are too strong.”

      “As you walked to me, did you feel anything that might sever them? Equipment or tools with sharp edges?”

      “No, but I can go back—”

      A door slammed open. A glaring halogen lantern blinded her, and she flinched. Two burly men swaggered in, boasting about their good fortune in a combination of broken English, Greek and Russian.

      Ariana groped for Dante’s hands and clung to him. An uncertain anchor in the storm, he was all she had.

      The lowlifes were big and muscular and scruffy. The Greek flipped open a large knife. She gulped, and Dante’s fingers tightened reassuringly. She and Dante were suddenly united by the common threat. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

      Though Dante was tied hand and foot, he quickly maneuvered her behind him on the crate.

      Knife raised, the Greek stepped toward him. Dante pistoned his legs and rammed the man’s midsection. The knife clanged to the floor as the Greek flew across the hold.

      The Russian swore and slugged Dante in the jaw, and the impact shoved her into the wall. Dante shook his head, but didn’t make a sound.

      The Greek regained his feet, staggered forward and snatched up his knife. “You are wanted up top for questioning. Do not cause trouble, Napoletano. Only your mouth needs to be working. Your body can be broken into pieces.” His blade sliced the ropes at Dante’s ankles. Leaving his arms tied, his captors yanked him from the room.

      The engines growled through the hull and the ship pitched. Ariana huddled alone in the icy blackness, stunned and trembling. When she was growing up, her parents had sheltered her. As an adult, she had ensconced herself in civilized academia. Violence confronted her daily, but in distant images from the newspaper or television. If it was too much, she could turn the page. Switch it off. She’d never been a helpless witness to brutality.

      She couldn’t stop shaking. How could one human being cold-bloodedly abuse another? Your body can be broken into pieces. Nausea roiled in her stomach. Were they torturing Dante? She sucked in a quivering breath.

      Was she next?

      She forced her breathing to slow. Don’t panic. Think. She’d never been a scrapper. Brains trumped brawn in her world. As a librarian, she held fast to the belief that knowledge was power. Even when Dante had kidnapped her, she had hoped passive resistance would lead to negotiation. Her mother and the cruise line would be searching for her. She had planned to talk her way out, or stall until rescued. She bit her lip. Her usual weapons of logic and reason were useless against savages who brutalized first and asked questions later.

      Ariana wriggled off the crate. Why meekly sit and wait? If she was about to be killed, she wouldn’t make it easy.

      She needed a crash course in fighting dirty.

      Squelching worry for Dante, she fumbled through a painfully slow investigation of the dark, swaying chasm. Horrifying images of what the barbarians were doing to him only made her weak and scared. The best way to help him—and herself—was to break free.

      She had no idea how long she wandered in blackness before she stumbled over something and fell. Agony screamed through her limbs as she hit the floor. Every movement stabbed red-hot spears into her strained muscles. Panting, she curled into a ball, tempted to surrender.

      The thought of Dante stoically enduring torture drove her to struggle to her knees. She cautiously felt behind her. She had tripped over a metal spool of chain. The rough edge might fray her bonds.

      Battling the burning ache in her arms and wrists, she scraped her ropes on the spool’s edge. If she had been shown a preview before she began her ill-fated journey, would she have continued her crusade?

      Absolutely.

      Clearing her father’s name was worth any discomfort. He didn’t deserve what had happened to him. He could no longer speak for himself. She would speak for him. Cramping muscles ceased to matter as righteous determination fueled her efforts. She would shout Derek Bennett’s innocence from the rooftops. Make every newspaper that had vilified him print a retraction. She would contact CNN. Oprah. She’d even book a slot on Jerry Springer if he’d give her a platform.

      She didn’t get far before the door banged open again, and cold light fractured the blackness. Dante was shoved into the hold, where he collapsed onto the floor. The Greek and Russian sauntered in behind him. Ariana pushed to her feet and stumbled to Dante, knelt at his side. Her heart jolted. His face was bruised, his lips cut, his beard matted with blood. Any doubts she’d harbored about their jailers being in his employ died a cruel death. Nobody would willingly take a brutal beating.

      Ignoring Dante, the Russian leaned down, fisted his fingers in her hair and jerked her up. Pain burst over her scalp, and she cried out.

      “Do not touch her!” Dante growled as he fought to his feet. He head-butted the Russian and sent him sprawling. His voice was dark with menace. “Or I will remove le tue palle and feed them to you.”

      Though he was tied and beaten, the fierce Napoletano looked entirely capable of his threat. Ariana unconsciously edged behind him as if he could protect her.

      Wishful thinking.

      The Russian struggled upright. To Dante’s credit, the thugs hesitated before they both charged. Dante fought back with limited mobility, but his attackers landed blow after blow on his defenseless body.

      “Stop it!” Ariana yelled. She flung herself between the warring men and received a sharp clip to the jaw. The punch slammed her to her knees.

      Panting, Dante dropped beside her. “Stay behind me!”

      She blinked away involuntary tears. Nobody had ever hit her before. How did Dante take the pain without uttering a sound?

      The Russian knocked Dante flat. Pulse thundering in her ears, she bent over the fallen man. She didn’t have much time. “Dante, can you hear me?”

      “Ariana.” He groaned, turning his head to look up at her. “I have failed you. Perdonami.”

      “There’s nothing to forgive you for,” she whispered. “Save your strength and let them take me. There’s a metal spool, starboard, fifty paces. It might cut your ropes.”

      Concerned respect shimmered in his gaze. “Stay strong, Ariana,” he murmured. “If you tell them what they want to know, you will become useless to them. Capisci, bella mia?”

      She gulped. She understood all too well.

      The Russian reached for her hair and she scrambled up before he hurt her again. She strove to draw their attention from Dante, motionless on the floor. Please, don’t let

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