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harder. Faint nausea churned, and she closed the door, no longer interested in freezing to death. She wasn't ready to face hell just yet.
    Rummaging through the cupboards turned up some coffee and bread for toast. The dirty dishes had piled up, and she was down to the last clean coffee cup. In it was the small suede pouch that held eleven marquise-cut emeralds, each about the size of a dime. They were the reason Beau was dead, the prize Slater had sent her to steal nine months ago. Except there were eleven, not twelve, as Slater had told her.
    Margot didn't know what to do with the stones. She thought about them every day, feeling their presence in the tiny cabin, eleven shimmering reminders that she'd betrayed the only man she had ever loved. They were unfinished business.
    Yet she didn't know how to finish it. She couldn't return them. No doubt, Slater's henchmen were gunning for her, along with the police. Even her altered appearance wasn't enough protection. She needed an ally, someone who could return the emeralds for her.
    Someone she could trust.
    And only one person came to mind.
    Chapter 4
    Meg tried to blink the room into focus. She sensed she was alone but couldn't be sure. The floor rolled under her, and she braced herself on sand-caked hands. As wood creaked and water sloshed, she realized she was on a boat. A very close, warm boat, she thought, pushing hair damp with perspiration back from her forehead.
    Cursing herself for losing consciousness, she got to her feet. Pain flashed through one shoulder and knee, and she took a moment to rest and look around. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark, revealing the outline of a lamp on the other side of the room. She limped over and switched it on.
    She'd thought she might be on a fishing boat, but this was far more impressive. She didn't know much about boats but was certain this classified as a yacht.
    The room was small, maybe ten feet square, with a low ceiling and doors with rounded corners at each end. Drawing a calming breath, she fought down the claustrophobia that threatened to grab her by the throat.
    Storage cabinets ran low along one wall, a narrow bed against another. A fire extinguisher hung by one of the doors. A lamp, a digital clock, and a cell phone sat on a storage cabinet that met the right side of the bed.
    It was nine. Had it been less than two hours since she and Dayle had stepped out to pick up their pizza? Or was it morning? Could a day, or more, have passed?
    Dayle.
    Her heart pounded with fear for her friend as she remem-bered hearing Dayle's scream. She hoped that if Dayle wasn't talking to the cops at this moment, she was at least nearby, perhaps on the other side of one of these doors.
    Footsteps overhead brought her head up, and she looked around for a weapon. As the steps stopped outside the door to her right, she yanked the fire extinguisher out of its bracket and pressed against the wall behind the door.
    Hinges squeaked and a broad back appeared. Meg swung the extinguisher with all of her strength and struck his shoulder hard. He grunted, dropping what he was carrying, and whirled toward her.
    Meg gaped at him. "You."
    Mr. Armani winced and rolled his shoulder to test it. "Ah, shit. That hurt."
    He looked different in jeans and a white T-shirt. No longer corporate, but not a hood. He lacked the greasiness of a thug—and the manners. At the moment, he seemed more concerned about his shoulder than punishing her for hitting him.
    Meg gauged the distance to the door he had just opened. He stood between it and her. She hefted the extinguisher, prepared to clock him again, and calculated the odds of making a break for it.
    He eyed her as she brandished the tank like a fat, red base-ball bat. Long curls of hair had escaped from her ponytail, and sweat plastered them to the sides of her neck. Her arms were tan and taut, her muscles flexing in anticipation of his next move. Even pale with fear, she was a striking woman.
    "Put it down," he said,