Running Hot

the entrance to the small harbor.
    Like many who moved in the stratospheric circles inhabited by those of great wealth, Martin owned several houses and kept a number of apartments in various locales around the world. The Miami mansion was his main residence but the place he considered home was the small island he had purchased a few years ago. The only way to get to it was by boat. There was no landing strip, just a single dock.
    Unlike his other residences, which were always maintained in a state of readiness, Martin kept no staff on the island. The house was much smaller and far more modest than his other dwellings. He considered the place his private retreat.
    Once past the stone pillars that marked the harbor entrance, Martin revved the engines. The boat picked up speed, slicing eagerly through the turquoise blue water. He was busy at the wheel, not paying any attention to her as he concentrated on piloting the craft. She heightened her other senses and took another look at his aura. The dark energy was stronger now. He was getting jacked up.
    The boat felt very small around her. There was nowhere to hide; nowhere to run.
    She had known for days—weeks, if she was brutally honest with herself—that Martin was planning to get rid of her. She was even sure she knew why. Nevertheless, some small part of her had clung to the slender thread of denial, even as it unraveled. Maybe there was some logical explanation for the disturbing changes in his aura. Maybe the new darkness was the result of mental illness. As dreadful as that possibility would be, at least it would allow her the comfort of knowing that he was no longer in his right mind; that the real Martin would never plot her death.
    But her own finely honed survival instincts had refused to let her deceive herself any longer. Martin might have had some affection for her at one time, but deep down she had always known that their relationship was rooted in her usefulness to him. Now he had concluded that she had become a liability so he was going to get rid of her. In his mind the situation was not complicated.
    She stood at the stern and watched the harbor and the small town grow smaller and smaller. When they became tiny, indistinct blobs, she turned around. Martin’s private island was very close now. She could make out the house perched on the hillside.
    Martin slowed the boat and brought it neatly alongside the wooden dock.
    “Get the lines,” Martin said sharply, his attention on maneuvering the boat.
    That did it. For some inexplicable reason the simple, routine order flipped the last switch somewhere in her head. The unholy brew of pain, sadness, disbelief and mind-numbing fear that had been swirling through her in alternating currents for days was suddenly swept away by icy-cold rage. Her other senses leaped violently in reaction to the adrenaline rush.
    The son of a bitch was planning to murder her. Now. Today.
    “Sure thing, Martin,” she said, amazed by how cool and controlled she sounded. But then, she’d had a lot of practice concealing her emotions and reactions behind a gracious, exquisitely polite façade. She could have given a geisha lessons. But she was no geisha.
    She grabbed the stern line, stepped lightly out of the boat and onto the narrow dock. It didn’t take long to tie up. She had done it countless times in the past.
    Martin left the wheel and came back down the steps.
    “Here, take this,” he said, handing her the computer. “I’ll get your suitcase and the supplies.”
    She took the computer from him and waited while he swung the suitcase and the two bags of groceries up onto the dock. He glanced around, making sure he had everything he wanted out of the boat. Then he stepped onto the dock.
    “Ready?” he said.
    Not waiting for a reply, he scooped up the bags of groceries with an easy motion and tucked one into the crook of each arm. His aura flashed with impatience and a really scary excitement. The pulses of dark energy were becoming increasingly agitated. This wasn’t just business, she realized. He was actually looking forward to murdering her. Her own fury flared higher.
    “Of course.” She gave him her best professional smile, the one she used to greet his guests and business associates. She thought of it as her stage smile. “But just out of curiosity, when do you plan to do it?”
    “Do what?” he said. He was already turning away from her, heading toward the small SUV parked at the end of the