Once in a Lifetime Read online

  ONCE IN A

  LIFETIME

  ❖

  Ginna Gray

  Chapter One

  The last thing Abigail Stewart expected to find in her hotel room was a man. The sight of two of them pawing through her things jerked her to a halt in the doorway, the plastic key card still clutched between her fingers.

  They apparently hadn't expected to see her, either, for at the sound of the door opening both men spun around. Then-expressions mirrored the shock she felt.

  For the space of perhaps four heartbeats no one moved. Then Chelsea, Abigail's three-pound Yorkshire terrier, poked her golden head out of the side pocket of her mistress's purse and growled.

  The sound shattered the frozen tabloid.

  The man farthest from Abigail, an ugly brute with a broad flat face, reached inside his suit coat and pulled out a gun. Abigail's eyes widened, and her heart lurched. "Get her," Shovel-face snapped out, and the other man hurried forward, drawing a gun from inside his coat as well.

  Abigail hadn't the slightest idea what was going on, but she wasn't fool enough to stick around and find out. Giving a squeaky yelp, she spun on her heel and ran.

  Ingrained habit made her pull the door shut behind her. Almost immediately something hit the other side with a solid thump. A growl of pain followed, then grumbled words in a foreign language, and the doorknob rattled under fumbling hands.

  Fright lent wings to Abigail's feet, but she'd barely covered a dozen yards when the door flew open and the two men came barreling after her.

  She let out another squeak and pelted down the hallway as fast as her long legs would carry her, her canvas shoulder bag bouncing against her hip. Chelsea hung over the top of the side pocket, bristling at their pursuers and making a tremendous racket. Her agitated barks ran together like the choppy wail of a high-pitched siren.

  One of the other hotel guests stuck his head out, scowling, but one look at the two men and he withdrew and shut his door.

  Abigail reached the elevators and punched the Down button, but nothing happened. She glanced over her shoulder, gave a panicked groan and snatched open the stairwell door.

  On the dimly lit landing she paused just long enough to flip the lock before pounding down the stairs. Her leather sandals clanged against the metal treads, and Chelsea's sharp barks echoed off the walls, reaching ear-splitting intensity in the confined space. Adding to the din were the unconscious, desperate whimpers issuing from Abigail with each gasp of breath. They were making enough racket for a deaf man to follow their progress, but she was too intent on escape to notice.

  She tore down the three flights of stairs in seconds, praying all the while that the elevator would prove as poky as it had a few hours earlier when she'd checked in. She was so panicked, she galloped right past the ground-floor exit and descended three more steps before realizing that she was heading for the basement. With a groan she raced back up and burst through the door into the lobby at a dead run.

  Skidding to a halt by the tiled fountain in the center of the lobby, Abigail looked around desperately. The desk clerk' was busy talking on the telephone. Abigail doubted the young woman would be of any help against the two brutes in any case. And there wasn't a bellman or security guard in sight.

  Gnawing her lower lip, Abigail made a frustrated sound. Where was everyone? When she had returned from sightseeing, just minutes before, there had been three men reading newspapers in the lobby. Now all the chairs were empty.

  In the quiet stillness, her pet's barking finally registered. "Quiet, Chelsea. Hush now," Abigail commanded. The tiny dog gave her an offended look but she reluctantly obeyed after one last growl.

  Abigail wrung her hands and turned around in a circle. Oh, Lord. What was she going to do? She cast a worried glance at the floor indicator above the elevator. The light blinked out on number four and a second later the number three lit up.

  Abigail sucked in her breath and bolted for the front entrance.

  She shoved open the heavy glass doors and ran pell-mell down the sidewalk, arms and legs pumping, every muscle in her body straining. The thick brown braid coiled at her nape escaped its pins and lashed out behind her like a whip. Her canvas purse bumped and bounced against her hip. The oversize shirt she wore over her walking shorts molded the front of her body and billowed out in the back like a sail that had caught the wind.

  Just short of the corner Chelsea started barking again. Abigail darted a look over her shoulder. "Ooohh, noooo!"

  A block or so behind, the two men raced after her.

  She turned on more steam and skidded around the corner.

  "Quiet, Chelsea." The gasped command silenced the dog's furious yapping but earned Abigail another wounded look. The little Yorkie seemed to have no concept of her diminutive size. Nothing intimidated her—not German shepherds nor Dobermans nor two-hundred-pound men. When it came to defending her mistress, Chelsea was a holy terror. Abigail appreciated her loyalty and protectiveness, but the shrill barks were a beacon for the two thugs.

  Instinctively Abigail headed for the market with its throngs of people and maze of streets and alleyways.

  By the time she'd covered the six-block distance, her lungs were on fire and her legs were aching. She plunged into the crowd, running full tilt, darting and dodging her way through strolling tourists, brightly dressed natives and street vendors.

  The scent of spices and tortillas and frying meat hung in the air, along with the smell of animals, straw, dust, leather and humans. Blending with the pungent aromas came an occasional whiff of heady perfume from the island's profusion of wildflowers. When Abigail had visited the market earlier she had been enchanted and intrigued by the varied sights, sounds and odors. Now she was oblivious to it all.

  Expecting to be grabbed from behind at any moment, almost sobbing with frustration and fear, she shoved and twisted and bumped her way through a crowd gathered around a Mariachi band. Move! Get out of my way! Oh, please, she begged silently. Please!

  She glanced over her shoulder and whimpered when she spotted her pursuers. They were a couple of blocks behind, bat it appeared that they had lost sight of her. Their pace had slowed to a fast walk and both were searching the crowds around them and peering into the shops as they hurried by. Among the casually dressed tourists and Mexican islanders, the gray-suited men stood out like sore thumbs.

  A painful stitch grabbed at Abigail's side. She tried to ignore it but couldn't, and her headlong pace slowed to a halting stumble. She sucked in great gulps of air, but her tortured lungs screamed for more. Oh, God, what was she going to do?

  Clutching her side, Abigail hobbled into a shadowed alley between two buildings and flattened herself against the wall behind a stack of empty wooden crates. The coolness of the adobe penetrated her sweat-soaked cotton shirt, and the rough plaster scraped against her palms and her calves below her walking shorts. Through an opening in the narrow slats of the crates, Abigail watched the street.

  Her heart boomed and her lungs burned. A muscle in her right calf began to cramp. She gritted her teeth, and on either side of her hips her splayed fingers clutched the rough adobe wall. But she didn't move.

  Seconds ticked by. Minutes. Out in the sunlit street, people meandered by in a constant stream, amid a babble of Spanish and English voices, distant strains of Latin music, the occasional bray of a donkey and rattle of a vendor's cart. Abigail's chest heaved. The rasp of her labored breathing sounded so loud to her ears, she was terrified that everyone could hear it above the drone of activity.

  She waited, motionless.

  Her heart leaped when the pair stepped into her narrow line of vision. Abigail pressed back harder against the wall and held her breath.

  Chelsea growled low in her thro
at.

  "Shhh." Abigail clamped her hand around the dog's muzzle. Her eyes never left the two men.

  One had his head turned away, searching the other side of the street. The man nearest to Abigail peered into the alley as he went by, but his steps barely slowed. They moved on, disappearing from sight as quickly as they had materialized.

  Closing her eyes, Abigail released her breath and slid down the wall. Her bottom bit the ground with a jarring bump, and she collapsed, knees bent, her head tipped back against the rough adobe. Her hands lay limp at her sides, palms up. She breathed deeply, her galloping heartbeat gradually tapering off.

  Some great vacation this was turning out to be, she thought, on the verge of hysteria. She'd been on the island less than five hours and already her room had been ransacked and she'd been chased by armed bandits.

  She had known when she booked the trip that Alhaja Verde was just beginning to develop as a vacation spot so she'd been prepared for the local customs and conditions to be a bit behind the times. But she certainly hadn't expected such uncivilized behavior!

  What did those awful men want with her, anyway?

  In those first few seconds it had flashed through her mind that she had walked in on a burglary. Now, given their determined pursuit, she wasn't sure. Surely common thieves would have run away when they had the chance—not given chase.

  It didn't make any sense, but they appeared to be after her. Why?

  Oh, why had she let her friends talk her into making this stupid trip? she lamented, swiping at her sweaty brow with the back of her hand. Normally she would never have come to such an exotic place. Especially not alone.

  But turning thirty and receiving the inheritance her parents had left her had seemed to call for a celebration of some sort.

  Do something wild! her customers at the bookstore had urged. Something you wouldn't ordinarily dream of doing. Live a little, Abigail!

  Deep down, she had craved a little excitement, and the trip had seemed like a harmless adventure. So she had let herself be persuaded.

  And look what it had gotten her. Here she was, all alone, sitting in a filthy alley on a remote foreign island, hiding from two thugs who wanted God knew what from her, fearing for her very life.

  Unbidden, all of her late Aunt Harriet's dire warnings about white slavers and unscrupulous men who prey on unprotected women flashed through her mind. Abigail shuddered.

  Aunt Harriet had never held with foreign travel. Of course, to her that had meant anything outside the Texas state line.

  Abigail could just imagine what her aunt would have had to say about this mess. She could almost hear her.

  "Humph! I could have told you no good would come from traipsing off to some heathen place. Excitement is for fools and sinners. You, my girl, are getting no more than you deserve."

  And she would be right, Abigail silently wailed. If she had stayed home in Waco, none of this would have happened.

  Exhaling a weary sigh, she looped her arms around her updrawn legs and let her head droop forward, resting her forehead on her knees. At once something cold and wet nudged her elbow.

  "Oh, Chelsea." Abigail straightened and picked up the little dog, who was trying to burrow her way onto her mistress's lap. "What are we going to do?"

  Cuddled close against Abigail's chest, the tiny animal answered with a soft whine and offered comfort in the only way she knew how—licking Abigail's chin and gazing up at her, her button eyes concerned and adoring.

  "We don't dare go back to the hotel," she murmured, stroking Chelsea's long coat. "Those two men might be watching it. And there isn't an American embassy or consulate office on Alhaja Verde that we could go to for help." Abigail thought longingly of the airline ticket in her purse, but she couldn't risk going to the airport, either. They might be watching it as well.

  One thing was certain, she couldn't stay there. She'd already wasted too much time feeling sorry for herself as it was. Those two thugs might decide at any moment to double back for a more thorough search.

  She got to her feet and brushed off the seat of her walking shorts. Still holding Chelsea close against her bosom, she edged to the alley entrance and peered out into the street.

  It was getting late. Soon the market would close. Already the crowds were thinning. She had to do something, and soon.

  The logical thing would be to report the incident. But to whom? Abigail hadn't seen anyone who even resembled a policeman since arriving. Alhaja Verde was the largest in the chain of small, underdeveloped islands off Mexico's eastern shores, but even so, San Cristobal was its only town. But surely there had to be some sort of local law enforcement?

  What she needed was some help. The problem was she didn't know anyone on the island... except...

  Abigail's expression grew thoughtful as she recalled the nice couple who owned the cantina where she'd had lunch. Pepe and Constanza Morales had been about to close for the afternoon siesta and the cantina had been deserted when she'd walked in, but they had graciously served her anyway. While she'd eaten, the friendly couple, along with several of their relatives who worked for them, had sat at her table and chatted.

  It was presumptuous of her, Abigail knew, but she had to ask them for help. She had no other choice.

  Gathering her courage, Abigail deposited Chelsea in the side pocket of her purse and eased out into the street, looking cautiously in every direction.

  The shadows were lengthening, and already some of the vendors were packing away their wares and closing their shops and stalls. Abigail hurried over to one who was still open and purchased a floppy brimmed straw hat and a large embroidered shawl. As a disguise, it wasn't much, but it was the best she could do.

  Her whole body quivered as she made her way back toward the waterfront. Pepe's Cantina was on the beach road a block from San Cristobal's harbor. Clutching the shawl around her so that it covered her purse and Chelsea, and most of her body as well, Abigail kept her head lowered and peered out from beneath the floppy hat brim.

  With every step she expected to be accosted. By the time she reached the cantina her nerves were so taut, her breath was coming in choppy little sobs.

  Abigail slipped inside and stood against the wall, letting her eyes adjust to the dim interior.

  It was early yet for the evening crowd. There were a few customers at the bar, but only a couple of tables and one booth were occupied by diners. Two of Pepe's cousins were playing the guitar and mariachi in the far corner, and other relatives scurried around, setting up tables.

  As Abigail removed her hat, Pepe looked up from drying glasses and spotted her. His mustachioed face lit up in a beaming smile.

  "Senorita Stewart. How nice to see you again so soon. Mama! Senorita Stewart, she has come back to see us," he called over his shoulder to his wife as he came around the end of the bar. "Come. Come sit. We will have a little wine, a little talk, and then my Constanza, she will cook something special for you, si?"

  "Pepe, I—"

  "Ah, senorita, so you are back." Constanza bustled out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. "Muy bien. We are most pleased to see you again."

  "Th-thank you. I hope you will still be when I tell you why I've come."

  Constanza's black eyes narrowed with concern on Abigail's pale face. "You have troubles, senorita?" At Abigail's nod Constanza guided her toward the corner booth. "Come. Tell us. Pepe, bring some wine. Pronto! Pronto!" she snapped at her spouse, and rattled off a string of Spanish that sent the little man scurrying.

  In moments he returned with the wine and three glasses. "Here, senorita, you drink this. Then you tell Pepe and Constanza why you tremble so. You see. Even the little one, she is worried about you," he said When Chelsea climbed into Abigail's lab, whining.

  Abigail stroked her pet, and with a shaking hand she lifted the glass of red wine and gulped it down. The Mexican couple exchanged a concerned glance. In a halting voice that shook with nerves, Abigail explained what had happened.

&n
bsp; "iPobrecita!" Constanza commiserated when she'd finished. "Such a terrible thing. No wonder you are upset."

  "I... I was hoping that you could tell me what to da I know I should report the incident, but to whom? Is there a local police force?"

  "Si. But if I were you, senorita, I would stay away from the policia," Pepe advised gravely, and Constanza nodded her agreement. "They are muy bad."

  "Bad?"

  "Si. The policia, they are mixed up in everything crooked on Alhaja Verde. On all the islands."

  "Then... what can I do?"

  Pepe's mouth pursed as he considered the matter, his narrow, debonair mustache turning down at the ends. After a moment he sent a furtive look around the cantina, then leaned across the table toward Abigail. "Go to Sefior David Blaine," he whispered. "He can help you."

  "Who is David Blaine?"

  Another furtive look, and Pepe's voice dropped another notch. "If I tell you, you must promise not repeat it to anyone. Ever. You understand?"

  "Yes, of course," Abigail agreed, wide-eyed.

  "Senor Blaine, he owns a boat, which he keeps here. He comes to Alhaja Verde four, maybe five times a year. For the deep-sea fishing, he says. He also claims to be the, uh... how do you say... the head of security for Telecom International, but it is all just a cover."

  "A cover?"

  "Si. You see, senorita..." Pepe paused and cut his eyes around once again before continuing the hush-hush conversation in a dramatic whisper. "Senor Blaine, he is really a G-man."

  "You mean..."

  "iAiyiyi!" Constanza threw up her hands. "Spies and secret missions! That's all this hombre ever thinks about." She shook her fist at her husband. "Pepe, how many times I tell you—you read too many books! See too many movies!" Her mouth twisted. "James Band! Ha!"

  Pepe drew himself up. "Bond, Mama. The name is James Bond. And it is true about Sefior Blaine. He told me himself."

  "You mean he really is a government agent?" Abigail asked hopefully.

  "Si. He is with the CIA, and he is here working on a top-secret mission. So you must be very careful not to blow his cover," he cautioned, smugly pleased at his knowledge of the slang term.