Asign indeed. He hummed a snatch of a song that was popular back home.

His ebullient mood faltered, however, when he reached Horseshoe Highway and had to decide which way to turn. That's when it occurred to him that he didn't actually know what to do with the woman now that he had her. With an uneasy pang, he realized he'd never planned beyond the part where he took her away from the oh-so-high-and-mighty marine.

He turned on his left blinker, deciding to head straight for the ferry dock to catch the first boat off this island. Since the woman most likely hadn't even been missed yet, that would be the smart thing to do. But remembering how long the wait had been on the mainland dock the day they'd caught the ferry coming to the island, he hesitated. It would be the smart thing only if he could drive right on a boat and sail away from here. If he got hemmed in on a crowded dock, that would not be so smart, for the ferry terminal was the first place Taylor was likely to check.

He turned right toward Moran State Park instead. He needed to get off the main road and find a quiet place where he could think.

Lily couldn't repress the shudder that raised goose-bumps all over her body when her abductor pulled the car into a secluded campsite several minutes later. But her reaction had more to do with the memory of her last time in this park than the fear of the man who held her captive. Swiveling to face him, she wondered why she wasn't more frightened. To be calm seemed just plain foolish, for here she was, back in the middle of these darn woods, with the last of the light fading fast, in the power of a young man inclined to do only God knew what.

Yet for some odd reason, although she was certainly apprehensive, she wasn't terrified. Maybe because her captor struck her as little more than a boy, and she didn't get the impression he was bent on murder or rape. Or maybe it had to do with the nagging feeling she'd been snookered. Believing his claim that he had a gun, she'd let herself be bundled into this messy car with its backseat full of empty food wrappers and beverage containers, and its smell of sweaty young man. To compound her error, she'd allowed him to bind her wrists with a grubby length of cord. And all without ever having seen so much as a glimpse of an actual weapon.

His apparent lack of a gun could only be considered a good thing. So why did it feel perilously close to the last straw instead?

Well, gee, she thought with simmering resentment, you think it might have something to do with the fact you've had it up to your back teeth with being deceived by lying men ?

"I hate this place," she muttered aloud.

"What you like," he informed her, "matters not."

Her temper spiked right up to the red zone, and taking a deep breath, she concentrated on regaining control. This was no time to let her emotions get the better of her, but honest to God, it took every iota of willpower at her disposal to keep from venting her spleen. Between Zachariah and this arrogant young man, she was beginning to feel seriously abused and misused.

She quietly exhaled, however, and flexed her fingers.

Then, forcing a pleasant expression, she said in the most appeasing tone she could muster, "Please. Won't you tell me who you are?"

His chest swelled up. "My name is Miguel Hector Javier Escavez."

"That's a lovely name."

" Si . I am—"

"My name is Lily Morrisette."

He stared at her as if uncertain what to do with the information, but she merely met his confusion with a gentle smile. She remembered reading somewhere that the more real a victim became in a criminal's eyes, the more difficult it became for him to harm that person. She was all for that. "Where are you from, Mr. Escavez?"

"Bisinlejo." His chest puffed up another notch. "Where my father is major."

Ah. It explained a lot. The good-looking son of a powerful man—the sense of entitlement was the same the world over, evidently. Keeping her thoughts to herself, she strove to project an air of fragile helplessness by giving him a vacuous smile and a slight flutter of her lashes. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I've never heard of it."

He shrugged. "I would not h'expect you to. Americans' geography skills are very poor, and my village in Colombia is but a small dot on the map." Then he shook his head impatiently. "But that is—how you say—neither there nor here. Master Sergeant Taylor cost me my prometida —"

" Promet —?" Lily's high school Spanish was all but a distant memory. Then it clicked. "As in promised? You're talking about your fiancee?"

"Si."

She frowned. She'd pretty much worked out for herself that this was Zachariah's South American. Funny, though, that Zach had never mentioned anything about a woman when he'd told her that—how had he put it?— he'd had a problem with one of the nationals he'd brought back, but that he thought they'd put it behind them? Then impatient with her internal questions, she shook her head. No sense getting ahead of herself before she had all the facts. "Cost you in what way?"

"He is responsible for the stolen virtue of my Emilita."

Shock feathered icy fingers down her spine. "You're saying Zach had sex with your girlfriend?" No . The denial was pure knee-jerk instinct, but she didn't care. That couldn't be right. Any fiancee of this youth would have to be pretty darn young, and she simply could not see Zach messing with any woman younger than his own sister.

"The master sergeant didn't, no. But he was in charge, and he did nothing to punish the one who did." He spat out the window, then turned back to glare at her. "Instead, he stood in front of the entire village and told me she welcomed his soldier's filthy attentions."

And there was the rub, Lily guessed. Thanks to good old Tactful Taylor, Miguel had lost face. God deliver me from young men's egos . "So you have a beef with Zach. What does it have to do with me?"

"He is responsible for the loss of my woman. I am taking his from him in return."

What was she, a bone for a couple of scruffy mongrels to snap and snarl over? She felt the anger she'd banked flare back to life. But she managed to meet his gaze with reasonable calm. "I hate to burst your bubble, Miguel, but having me in your possession is unlikely to gain you what you want. Zach and I broke up tonight."

Outrage flared in his eyes. "I do not believe you!"

She shrugged. "Can't say as I blame you, since I can barely believe it myself. Yet, sadly, it's true. Why do you think I was outside without him?"

He sat and scowled at her for a moment. Suddenly, his gaze dropped to track over her figure, and she could practically see the lightbulb flash on over his head. "Then I will defile you."

" Excuse me?"

"Perhaps you are no longer his woman. But he would dislike it, I think, if another man were to make you his."

"Not half as much as I would, pal." A quick glance at his lap reassured her that the idea didn't have him all whipped into a lather either. But he was just arrogant enough to decide that since he'd decreed it so, the plan had merit, and darned if she intended to wait around for him to talk himself into the mood. Casually, she bent down and began fumbling with the ankle strap of her high heel.

He leaned over as well, peering down suspiciously as she clumsily unfastened the tiny buckle. "What do you think you are doing?"

She kept her head down to prevent him from seeing the rage she feared was much too close to the surface to disguise. "Taking my shoes off. My feet are killing me." The buckle came free, and she slid her right pump from her foot.

"That's because they are estupido . No self-respecting Colombian girl would wear chews so dangerous and ugly."

"Excuse me?" She slowly straightened, turning the shoe between her bound hands as she sat back up. "Did you say ugly !"

" Si ." His lip curled up in a sneer. " Muy ugly."

"You know," she said sweetly, "this has been a really crappy night. I put up with being dumped by my boyfriend, and I've been quite the sport, if I do say so myself, about being trussed like a turkey and thrown into this pigsty of a car by a self-important little chauvinist barely old enough to shave."

He blinked, clearly confused by the disparity between her words and the tone in which she spoke them.

"You think these shoes are dangerous?" she asked softly, favoring him with a great big friendly smile. "Let me show you just how dangerous they can be." And gripping the shoe between her hands like a high-fashion sap, she swung it with all her might at the young man's head.

He threw an arm up, blocking a fraction of the impact. She figured that was probably a good thing— otherwise she might have driven the spiked heel clear through his temple, and that was simply too gross to contemplate. As it was, it still connected with considerable impact, making a nasty, meaty sound that made her stomach roil, and she watched him collapse like a sack of wet cement over the steering wheel. Dropping the shoe into her lap, she grabbed a fistful of his hair and hauled his head back, gratified to see he was out cold but still breathing. She let his head drop, and reached to pull the keys out of the ignition. Then she bent at the waist to work the shoe back onto her foot, but didn't take the time to try to fasten it. Straightening, she twisted to reach for the door handle.

"Ugly, my Aunt Petunia," she snapped at his unconscious form. "I might've had to take all the other crap you idiots dumped on me tonight. But nobody, but nobody, junior, mocks my shoes and gets away with it."

Zach checked the magazine in his pistol as he headed along the second floor hallway. Seeing the group in the foyer as he started down the stairs, he shoved in the clip, slid the safety on, and tucked the nine millimeter into his waistband at the small of his back. His departure from the parlor in the wake of his conversation with Magnusson had been more than abrupt, and he halted at the bottom of the stairs in front of his sister.