Flood Rising (Jenna Flood #1)

There, she thought. The seed is planted. Without breaking her stare, she turned her body away from his, as if preparing to leave.

“Hey baby, don’t run off. Of course I can take you to Miami. First thing in the morning. And you can crash here if you want. Or come back to my place.”

“No. I have to go tonight. Right now, before he realizes I’m gone.” It’s not working, she realized. It was a stupid idea. Time to go.

In the moment she looked away, preparing to step off the porch, she felt a hand close around her arm. The grip was firm, and it sent a throb of pain through the wound she’d sustained when Zack had shot through Mercy’s door. She jerked away.

“Wait,” Raul implored, drawing his hand back and holding it up in a disarming gesture. “I can help you. I’ll take you.”

Jenna studied his face again. He was doing his best to project sympathy, but his eyes could not hide a predatory gleam. You knew this might happen, she told herself. You knew you would be playing with fire. She took another deep breath and managed a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

“I’ll go grab my keys. Meet me around back.”

As she watched him leave, Jenna felt no sense of victory. The most dangerous part of the game, she knew, was yet to come.





14



10:01 p.m.



Any sense of physical relief Jenna might have felt at sitting in the plush seats of Raul Villegas’s 2006 Corvette was squashed by the stress of maintaining her fa?ade of innocent helplessness and hiding the sheer terror she felt. She was ignoring a sacrosanct command that had been drilled into her head by Noah, Mercy, her teachers and innumerable public service announcements: don’t ever get in a stranger’s car. But Raul Villegas wasn’t actually a stranger. With a stranger, there was the possibility that the ride was merely an altruistic gesture. She tried, with limited success, to comfort herself with the knowledge that there would be no surprises where Raul was concerned.

When Raul had turned the key in the ignition of the red sports car, the upbeat rhythms of Caribbean music assaulted Jenna. He moved to turn the volume knob, but Jenna waved him off. “I love this music. Turn it up.”

Any louder, and the stereo system would become a sonic weapon, but the strident music made casual conversation impossible. She endured the pulsing beat and managed to bob her aching head in time with the relentless rhythm of the congas. Raul stared at her sidelong and smiled, then put the car in gear.

With Raul’s attention occupied by the drive, Jenna finally allowed herself to relax a little. She figured at some point Raul would try to make a move on her, but if she played him right, he would wait until they reached Miami, where she would find a way to give him the slip. She could not ignore the possibility that he might pull off on some deserted side road and try to take what he wanted by force. If it came to that, she would be ready to do whatever it took to stop him.

What she was not prepared for was the snarled traffic on the Overseas Highway leading out of Stock Island. Jenna silently berated herself for not taking it into consideration. The only road to Miami led right past the place where the pickup had overturned. The emergency response was going to take time. She tried not to think of the incident in terms more specific than that, but it wasn’t easy.

As the Corvette slowed and stopped, taking its place at the end of the long line of brake lights, Jenna considered jumping out and abandoning this dangerous game. But the traffic jam was a grim reminder that Raul was the least of her enemies. Noah’s last message—what she had come to think of as his ‘fire alarm’—had directed her to Homestead. She felt sure that reaching the coordinates he had left behind was the only way to end this ongoing threat. Or at least get answers.

The music went silent. Jenna opened her eyes to see Raul staring at her, his expression more bemused than lascivious. “So what are you going to do in Miami?”

She gave a careful shrug. “Whatever I have to.”

He nodded. “What are you, nineteen?”

It took all her willpower not to laugh aloud. He knew damn well that she was jail bait, and probably assumed she would be flattered at any suggestion otherwise. “Something like that,” she replied. The line advanced a couple of car lengths, then it ground to a halt again.

“I thought so,” he continued in the same smooth voice. “I’ve got a friend who runs a modeling agency in South Beach. You’re going to need money to get started, am I right?”

She considered the question carefully. What response would satisfy Raul, keep him on her side? “A modeling agency?” she said with a tone of awe. “That’s so cool. But I’m not pretty enough to be a model.”