by Lucy Leroux
But all wasn’t lost. Trick had connections in the gambling world. Sure, he’d never used them for something like this before, but his curiosity was piqued. He was going to find that girl.
The night manager waved from the front desk. Trick nodded back, doing a cursory sweep of the luxuriously appointed lobby. Normally, he’d join the front desk crew for a status update. He liked knowing how close to capacity they were each night, and whether the staff had run into any problems. This was their flagship property—the first hotel he and his siblings opened. No matter how many others they added to their prominent hotel chain, the Boston Caislean was their baby, the gold standard against which all others were measured.
But his heart wasn’t in it tonight. The only thing he wanted was a hot shower and bed. Maybe a drink.
Better make it a double, he thought, starting involuntarily as he caught sight of the person who’d entered the doors after him. I’m starting to hallucinate. Tonight’s events had clearly scrambled his brain because if he didn’t know better, he’d say the girl scurrying across the lobby was Maria.
It was her. They were only a few blocks from the card room. She must have come this way after running an errand. There was an extra little bodega bag along with her tiny purse.
The night security guard, Juan, waylaid her before she made it halfway across the marble floor. She was only a few feet away, facing the main doors as if contemplating making a break for it. He hurried over to the pair.
“I’m sorry, unless you’re a guest of the hotel, you can’t cross through here once the hotel bars and restaurants are closed,” Juan was saying. “Pedestrians have to walk around the building.”
“Oh, I…” Maria’s eyes widened as she saw Trick beaming over the security guard’s shoulder.
“Did you change your mind about dinner or are you here for a rematch?”
Her mouth opened, but she didn’t say anything. He enjoyed the shock on her face a little too much. Christ, she’s beautiful.
Juan coughed, his lips twitching. “A friend of yours, sir?”
Trick nodded, excusing the man with a signal of his hand. Juan gave him a knowing glance and melted into the background, leaving them alone in the middle of the Italian marble floor.
“I take it by your expression you’re surprised to see me?”
“Uh…” Maria peeked at Juan, who was chatting with the night manager now. “I am. I was just taking a shortcut. I didn’t realize it was against the rules.”
He folded his hands behind his back. “That’s not a problem as long as you’re with me.”
Her blush deepened. “I guess they know you here.”
“They do.” He waved at the penthouse elevator. “I don’t expect you to come up to my suite or anything, but we could have a nightcap on the roof garden…”
Movement near the door caught his eye. A pair of men started to enter the lobby. They must have realized it was the wrong hotel because they turned around before the doorman could open the wide, brass-lined doors for them.
When he turned back, Maria was standing close to him. She grabbed his hand. “Take me to your suite.”
Trick cocked his head at her. “What?”
She gripped his hand. “I said take me to your room. Now.”
“O-kay…” That was quite a change of heart. He pointed to the manager’s hallway.
“It’s this way,” he said, surprised to find his heartbeat quickening.
Taking one last glance at the doors, she followed him to the private elevator that led to the penthouse floor. The door closed shut behind them, and Maria took a shaky breath.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Her long brown hair swung back and forth as she nodded too vigorously. “I’m great.”
Wondering why she was lying, Trick pressed his thumb to the fingerprint scanner.
He never got the chance to ask. She was gone before dawn.
Chapter 3
Tahlia needed to stop longing for things she couldn’t have.
She knew better—really, she did. But resisting Patrick’s charm tonight had been beyond her abilities. Being with him felt so natural and intoxicating. She’d wanted to be close to him. Very close.
He’d wanted her, too. He hadn’t bothered to hide his fascination with her. The way his eyes would track her and the hunger in them that made her shiver.
Why didn’t I stay?
She wanted to kick herself. They could be having breakfast in that massive suite right now, maybe more.
Patrick had been full of plans. He’d scheduled their entire week…dinner, dancing. It sounded like so much fun. At one point, he’d even offered to fly her to Monaco to see a ‘real’ casino. She almost ran to get her never-been-used passport then and there.
But the fantasy of running away with him melted away with the dawn. As soon as he dropped off to sleep, she slipped out of bed, heading home all alone.
Tahlia couldn’t put a stranger at risk that way. Especially not someone so appealing and engaging.
God, listen to me. Tahlia met the man less than twelve hours ago, and she was already acting like a lovesick schoolgirl. But like all the men she’d been interested in, this one was also off limits—for now. Things might change later. She’d lived in Boston for years, and it had been months since she’d heard from her family. Maybe they were finally backing off?
Except for that pair who’d chased her into the hotel. What about them?
Tahlia shook the idea off. I’m too paranoid. Most likely they were random strangers headed in the same direction as her. She suspected everyone.
Wincing, she climbed the three floors of her Cambridge walk-up replaying the night’s events. She hated the sky-high heels she was wearing, but places like Chao’s had expectations.
Maybe I could call the hotel and ask for Patrick? No, that was stupid. Fancy hotels like the Caislean protected their VIPs anonymity. And Patrick was clearly that. His clothes and manners—not to mention the thumbprint access to his penthouse suite—all screamed wealth and prestige.
The deadbolt should have been a clue. Tahlia always double-locked her apartment door. Opening it required two full revolutions, but this time, the door unfastened after one. Unfortunately, that detail didn’t register until after she kicked off her heels in the middle of the living room.
“Time to go home, Tahlia.”
Starting violently, she spun around, clutching her purse to her chest.
Her cousins were standing just past the doorway of her tiny bedroom, far enough out of sight to ensure she didn’t notice them right away.
They were wearing black and grey, just like the pair following her earlier.
Her heart thrummed loudly in her ears. “What the hell are you doing here? How did you get in here?”
Cain peeled himself off the doorframe, making a production of pivoting to examine her apartment and furnishings with disdain. His brother Dante crossed his arms and stayed where he was. He always let Cain do the talking.
Cain wrinkled his nose as if he smelled something bad. “We came to take you home.”
“I am home.” Out of the corner of her eye, Tahlia began looking around for a weapon.
“C’mon, Tahlia,” Dante said. “This place is a shithole.”
Her temper flared. “It is not.”
Her furniture was utilitarian and no frills, but she hadn’t picked it off the street. I got it at Ikea! That may have been bargain basement to her cousins, but it was perfectly respectable in the real world.
“It is compared to what’s waiting for you,” Cain said. “Come, your father wants you home. Pack your things.”
She shook her head. “I don’t believe you.”
If her father truly wanted her home, then he would have called. He knew she wouldn’t disobey him. He also knew the last way to gain her cooperation would be to send these two to fetch her.
Cain tsked, tilting his head to sneer her. “Poor little cousin. Still clueless after all this time.”
Striking with a lightning-fast move, he reached out to grab her again, but Tahlia was ready. She drew out her handheld Taser from her purse, fingers on the button trigger. It caught in the smooth fabric of his shirt, but the voltage went through the folds easily.
Contorting and jerking wildly, Cain fell to the floor.
Dante shouted, an incoherent roar, leaping over his brother. He rammed into her like a football player making a tackle, but she bounced off him, falling backward onto the couch.
Tahlia gasped, the wind knocked out of her as Dante’s fell on the floor after catching his foot on the throw rug.
Heart racing, she raised the stun gun for a second discharge, but he yanked it from her grasp.
“You’ve always been such a little bitch.” Dante sneered, finally speaking. “I told Dad we should have done this a long time ago.”
With a swipe of his massive paw, he slapped her across the face. Then he hit her again, his fist closed this time.
The right side of her face exploded with pain. She fell sideways with a cry, holding her hand to her cheek and eye. It felt as if her eyeball was going to fall out of her skull—the skin around it was starting to swell shut.
Blindly, Tahlia stretched her hand out, reaching under the couch cushions.
The kitchen knife she’d hidden in her sofa was one of many stashed all around the apartment. The man at the thrift store believed she was opening her own restaurant. She let him think that. It had been easier.
Dante didn’t see it coming. When he yanked her shoulder, she clutched the knife against her chest.
Tahlia stopped thinking. All she could hear was her own heartbeat as she lunged, driving the thin blade into Dante’s leg. Her hand lost its grip, her own momentum driving it over the handle.
There was a burning sting as the knife slashed her hand open.
Swearing viciously, Dante batted her away. The knife pulled out of the wound as she was driven back. Blood flew all over the floor and her clothes.
Dante swore. “You know, I almost felt bad about what was going to happen to you, damn bitch.” He spat on her as he reached into his pocket.
He held up a syringe filled with a yellow-tinted liquid.
“No!” She scrambled away, half-crawling, half-dragging herself to the door. Her fingers were on the doorknob when he caught her, pulling her by the hair with a vicious jerk.
Tahlia shrieked, twisting and squirming to break free. The needle bit into her neck, flooding her with a cold darkness that seeped into her veins, sapping her strength.
The last thing she saw was the scratched wooden floor as it flew up to meet her face.
Tahlia knew where she was before she opened her eyes. The smell and the way the cloth coverlet felt under her hands were too familiar to mistake.
I’m home.
Wincing, she sat up. The Spartan lines of her childhood bedroom came into focus.
Everything was the same. The plain furnishings and scant decor hadn’t been touched. The only thing she had in abundance was books. They lined the shelves and littered the tables.
The volumes hadn’t been bought for her. There was no Sweet Valley High or Babysitter’s Club in the bunch. Most of them were at least fifty years old. She’d pilfered them all from their library, up until her father caught on and made her stop. He didn’t like how the gaps on the shelves appeared. But he hadn’t made her put these, her very favorites, back.
Her clothes were different. Her blue dress was gone, replaced by a pristine white one. There was even a pair of white slip-on shoes set on the floor by the bed to match.
Tahlia shuddered, wondering who undressed her. She hoped it was a maid, but the unceremonious way she’d been brought here meant all the maids and lower-level staff had been dismissed for the day. That was what her father always did when he hosted a special ‘family event’.
Her stomach roiled as she tried to stand, but her legs could barely support her. Aching all over, she shoved her feet into the shoes and pulled herself up with the aid of the bedpost.
What the hell was in that syringe? She wrapped her arms around her middle, trembling from head to toe. The remains of whatever drug had been pumped into her were making themselves felt.
Why was she here alone? Dante and Cain dragged her all the way from Boston only to dump her in a room without a guard. They hadn’t even bothered to tie her up.
Maybe the drug was supposed to last longer?
Tahlia wobbled to the door unsteadily. Whoever put her in bed hadn’t even bothered to close it. Voices sounded somewhere in the distance, but she couldn’t make out what was being said.
Unlike the other bedrooms in the house, hers was on the ground floor. She paused at the threshold, listening.
“It’s too late!”
Sucking in a sharp breath, Tahlia shrank back. That was her uncle Lucas.
The impulse to run and hide was overpowering. Calm down. She needed to speak to her father. There must be a reason he’d allowed Dante and Cain to kidnap her from school.
She squeezed her eyes shut and counted to three, willing her feet to move forward. The numbness started wearing off, sending pins and needles shooting up her soles. People were moving around, but she got lucky. No one ran out to tackle her.
Inching her way down the hall, she peeked through door after door. The only visible person was outside, a fast-moving figure dressed in a suit passing one of the windows. It could have been any of her male relatives or one of the estate’s many bodyguards.
The figure passed out of sight, and she unfroze. Get moving.
She had a tentative plan. There was always cashed stashed in the drawers of her father’s desk. Her purse was long gone, along with her identification, but she’d regroup in Boston. Getting back there was imperative. There was money stashed there, and another fake ID.
Like her bedroom, the door to her father’s office was open a crack. He must have been out because it was usually kept it closed.
She hurried inside, running behind the desk, hastily pulling drawers open. It wasn’t until after she found the money that she glanced up. The beige and green patterned Persian rug was soaked red with blood.
Her father’s sightless eyes stared straight at her.
The ringing in her head was back. It drowned out all other sound. Even the bright sunlight in the room felt like it was pulling back, leaving her in the dark.
“Get that room fucking cleaned up now!”
Tahlia jumped, her head whipping to the door. That was Lucas again. He was closer now.
Go.
She bolted for the window, shoving the open sash wide. Her feet hit the ground with a little thump. Praying no one was close enough to hear, Tahlia turned and ran for the distant glitter of the private beach, the adrenaline fueling her flight.
She didn’t look back.
Chapter 4
Six months later
Trick dodge Liam’s fist and pivoted on his feel, somehow managing to keep his balance while hopping a few feet away. He was back to back with his brother, as planned. Blood pumping in his ears, he reached out, taking hold of Liam’s gi. He used it to get a better grip before flipping the much larger man over his shoulder.
Liam crashed to the floor with a grunt. He rolled and was back on his feet in a flash, but he couldn’t dodge Trick’s fist.
He hit him hard, and Liam went down again.
“What the hell, man?” Liam’s heavy brows drew down as he frowned at him.
Trick relaxed his stance, backing away. “Sorry,” he muttered.
His brother stood, cocking his head at him. “It’s okay, but what happened to the light workout you wanted?”
“Upset I got in a shot?” he asked, circling Liam cautiously.
It wasn’t all that common for Trick to get the upper hand in a match. Technically, he was faster than his brother, but not by much. With his superior body mass, Liam could use raw power to overwhelm his opponents, although he rarely used brute force indiscriminately. He was too s
killed for that.
“No.” Liam’s lips thinned. “I’m just wondering what’s eating you. You’ve been quiet lately. And you were short with Hector yesterday when he came into the office to clean out the trash cans.”
Trick sniffed. “I was not.”
Liam crossed his arms. “Well, you didn’t snap at the guy, but you barely looked at him. You hardly speak with any of the staff anymore, even though it’s part of the job. All you do is hole up in your office, taking calls from your poker buddies. Have you even checked on the architect on the Sydney renovation yet?”
Shit. “I’ll do that after the service.” Trick scratched his head. His mind wasn’t on his job, but he’d believed he’d been covering better than this.
His brother didn’t move. “Is that what’s bothering you?”
Trick leaned back in his chair. “What?”
“The memorial service for Maia’s friend,” Liam said. “I know it’s sad. But we didn’t know the girl. Did you even meet her before she went missing? Was she here with Maia or Peyton?”
Maia MacLachlan was the wife of Liam’s oldest friend Calen. Her friend Tahlia, another graduate student at Harvard, had gone missing months ago. Today some of Tahlia’s friends and colleagues were gathering at their hotel at Calen’s behest. Though there was still an open investigation into Tahlia’s disappearance, Calen thought having a service would help his wife with deal with her loss. Maia, on the other hand, thought getting Tahlia’s friends together might spark something in their memories that would help find her.
“No. I never met Tahlia,” he said, a guilty flush creeping up his neck. How could he tell his brother he was upset over someone he’d encountered once months ago? Especially today.
“We better hit the showers,” he said, changing the subject. “The service starts in less than an hour. Peyton will have our hide if we’re late.”
His brother grimaced. “Yeah, she already read me the riot act about the decorations earlier. Said it was too funereal.”
