Getaway Girl

by Michele Hauf

  As Dove had alluded, yet he hadn’t given me a name.

  “So it was Sacha Vital’s take I screwed up this morning? So sorry,” I said. “I saved one more woman from white slavery.”

  “Vital had every intention of returning her to her family, or so he says.”

  “You believe what some criminal tells you? He’s a professional kidnapper, Fitch. Max told me never to trust—”

  “Yes, yes, Max told you everything. He’s dead, Jamie. And Max’s enemies have now become yours. As well as mine.” Fitch sighed and shrugged a hand across the back of her head, redirecting the red spikes heavenward. “I’m trying to keep my head above water, myself, dear. I like this whole—” she did air quotes “—doing good kick you’re on. Makes me want to do good myself. But I was persuaded most effectively. I didn’t suspect foul play, but I also didn’t arrange—”

  “What made you think it was going to be legit if Vital arranged it? What, did you think it was all going to be roses?”

  “Jamesina MacAlister!”

  She never used my full name unless I touched that one nerve I knew she possessed.

  “Well, if this guy is the father’s son, how do you know Vital is an enemy of Max’s?”

  “Just a guess. But will you listen to me? I didn’t arrange a pickup with Vital, even though he requested it.”

  “Well, he found me. And stuffed me in the boot of my car. Nice talking with you, Fitch. Thanks for nothing.”

  Time to leave. I got what I had come for. The name of the person behind my kidnapping. Not that it was any help. I wouldn’t know what to do with this information until I dug deeper. And did I want to dig and risk tunneling right to my new enemy’s door?

  “Arrivederci and shalom!” Yeah, I deserved the snotty send-off. But Fitch’s tone softened and as I stepped out onto the deck I heard her say, “Keep your head down, kiddo.”

  Anger carried me across the barge deck. Jumping to shore, I twisted to slip by the two men who strolled the quai, but one of them caught me by the arm. Hard.

  Oh, Sunday bloody Sunday. Why had I not immediately been alerted by the standard thug couture?

  Before I could utter a protest, the sweet stink of chloroform filled my senses and blackness took over.

  Chapter 8

  “That is le lapin?”

  Thom nodded. “But he’s a she, boss. La lapine.”

  “I see that.” Sacha hated the French masculine/feminine idiosyncrasy and never did get it right. It was enough to make anyone feel, and sound, like an idiot. And, obviously, place the wrong sex to a person.

  He stalked about the body of the woman tied loosely about the shoulders to the back of a steel chair. He just couldn’t believe…

  Once again, his hired idiots had proved themselves incapable. “You nabbed the wrong woman.”

  “Oh, no,” Thom protested, rather boldly. “We followed her, boss, right after you called. Picked her up as she was leaving the hacker’s barge. She’s the one. The rabbit. Wasn’t so fast when we got our hands on her, though.”

  Sacha stabbed Thom with a piercing glare. The lackey took a step back and suddenly found interest in his shoes.

  “Leave,” Sacha directed, and Thom backed quietly from the room.

  Only when the door closed, and it was he and the unconscious woman, did Sacha let out a breath. Slowly he counted to three. He tapped his thigh, three times, and smoothed a palm over the lapel of his suit coat, taking in the silken detail of the craftsmanship, the fine threading. He eyed the stone on his desk.

  No, don’t need it. I can do this without a focus object.

  Exhaling again, he relaxed his shoulders. Just release it.

  “You?” he muttered as he bent and squatted before the woman.

  Blond hair twisted and wavered from crown to shoulders in a nonexistent style. Long legs sprawled before her, knees bent and ankles crossed over one another. She liked her skirts short, and her body worked the tight top for every inch. The outline of a fine lace bra peeked through the small gap where the button clasped onto the opposite buttonhole. 34B, if he was correct, and he most always was. A nice handful.

  But this particular woman, sitting here in his office, disturbed him in so many ways.

  “I remember you. I hadn’t even thought…You’re la lapine? But—” A shake of his head only further muddled his thoughts.

  How had something like this happened? That their paths had crossed so remarkably?

  “If I had known, then…” he said to the pretty blonde whose parted mouth looked like two soft pink petals.

  Hell, he wouldn’t have changed a thing.

  My noggin had been plundered with a spike-headed mace and then stuffed inside a narrow laboratory glass filled with viscous yellow fluid.

  Or that was how it felt as I fought my way up from the haze thickening my neck and shoulders and pounding inside my skull. My body swayed, but a hand to the side landed on something hard. Hmm…I was sitting in a chair. Stiffening, I pushed upright, pressing my back to the hard slats of a metal chair. It was very uncomfortable.

  I opened my eyes to unbearable brightness. Blinking, I tried to focus.

  “Yes, it is morning,” a male voice announced.

  I winced as each spoken word struck my skull with the dull end of the aforementioned mace. A familiar male voice. American? Where had I heard that voice before? And not too long ago…

  My eyes were closing; they were too heavy to hold open. My mouth felt dry and tasted…what was that taste?

  Situation: grim.

  “I’ve never seen chloroform work so effectively. Knocked you out overnight. But you looked like such an angel while you slept, I couldn’t bring myself to wake you. Now you should be refreshed and ready for the day.”

  Refreshed? The day? Over…overnight?

  The accent was American, most definitely. I scanned my memory for any Americans I might have pissed off over the years. Where to start on a list that stretched for leagues? But a list that bore no names, only memories of pickups, for Max and Fitch had kept the details confidential.

  I’d always thought not knowing the details a good thing. But now that I’d been kidnapped—twice—I was beginning to think the more info I could obtain, the more power I held.

  Hmph. Isn’t that how things go? You never see the light until it’s beaming through your eyelids like an enemy laser. But I did know exactly what I wanted—safety. And safe was the last thing I felt.

  I opened my mouth, thinking to speak, but my tongue was heavy and felt as if I’d licked a cashmere sweater. And not an expensive one, but one of those cheap knockoffs with the pills and…

  Lifting a hand, I realized I was not bound. A lift of my foot slung it upward too quickly and my chunky boot landed the floor with a slap.

  “Nope, not tied up,” the curious male voice verified. Nice, deep and confident. His tenor worked a strange warmth to the surface of my neck—a familiar warmth. Yet I wasn’t ready to open my eyes to the enemy’s laser.

  “You could make a dash for it,” the man offered gaily, “if you dare.”

  Far too much enthusiasm in that remark. He was playing a game? And without telling me the rules?

  “You’re…you’re—” I swished my fat tongue across my palette and drew up a pitiful hint of saliva “—going…to…let me leave?”

  “Of course. Dash now, or sit a spell and we’ll chat.”

  Dash. Right. I couldn’t even lift my eyelids, let alone make my legs move in a dashing manner. What a sick joker, this bloke. Of course, I expected little else from one who hailed from overseas.

  “You’re…an American?”

  “Brooklyn accent that obvious?”

  I think I shrugged, but my muscles were loose and a little twitchy. I didn’t have complete control of my limbs, which frightened me.

  His shoes tapped across the floor—click, click. Must be marble tiles. The soft brush of fabric over my bare knee indicated he stood close, though I couldn’t scent cologne.
/>   “Wha-what do you want from me?” I managed.

  “Ah, my precious little rabbit. You have been running about the city rescuing kidnapped princesses.”

  “A princess? No I…” Dove had mentioned a princess. This plot was growing thicker than my tongue.

  Was the woman from the pickup this morning—was it still the same day, that horribly great day that had seen me dumped in the boot?—had she been a princess? I’d helped the Faction take a princess from this man? Well, there was nothing wrong with that. Especially if he was into white slavery, as Fitch had mentioned.

  Fitch had also said something else…what had it been?

  It all rushed back now. My brain squeezed out from the laboratory glass and plumped as it took in oxygen. I lifted my heavy eyelids. A few blinks restored my vision. I saw the figure standing before me, hands clasped loosely before him.

  I think my heart stopped. For certain, my jaw dropped.

  You’ll recognize him, but you won’t know him.

  “No. Bloody. Way.”

  A handsome lift of dark brow affirmed my bleary, sorry head shake.

  I did recognize this man. And as for knowing him…

  I’d met him on the eve of my twenty-fifth birthday while celebrating at DV8. I recalled being riveted by his greenish blue eyes, charming sweep of dark hair and retro sideburns. And a grin that suggested he knew more about someone than that person could ever imagine. Man, had that been some incredible sex.

  But I had never gotten my mystery lover’s name…

  “Oh, my God!” the words spewed out like vomit. I instinctively knew the answer, but I stupidly had to ask, “Who the hell are you?”

  He made a quaint little bow and said, “Sacha Vital.”

  My world crashed, one hundred and thirty kilometers an hour, into a brick wall. Don’t bother to sort through the wreckage; it’s a fatal hit.

  “You’re Sacha Vital?” That was the least American name I had ever heard. And why did a stupid name bother me?

  “You don’t sound pleased. You sounded immensely pleased months ago. As I recall, your exact words were: ‘Let’s do it again. Quicker.’”

  I gaped, unable and unwilling to put to voice my sudden shock and disgust. Quicker. My modus operandi. My need for speed. And if it’s pleasure, then give it to me quick and long. And who wouldn’t be pleased when a man was touching every body part just so?

  Everything Fitch had said about Vital came rushing back to me. I had made it with a kidnapper? “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “Really?”

  “Maybe. What do you care? Ohhh.” I swallowed back my bile. “The floor is just so…spotless.”

  Vital paced the immaculate white marble floor before me, Dior-clad and styled to the nines. To my left, a silvery suit jacket had been tossed over a white chaise. No, not exactly tossed; it looked as if it had been precisely laid there, wrinkles smoothed and sleeves aligned neatly. Everything was clean and white and minimal.

  If I did get sick, I guessed it would have been more devastating to the man—messy floor, you know—than a threat from a gun.

  The entire room, perhaps a small office, was white. White windows and walls and desktop and furniture. Even the plants were silver. Pale granite balls—yep, they were rocks—sat upon the desk, each spaced precisely. Anal decor for the modern-day kidnapper.

  I felt instantly inappropriate in my purple blouse and chunky Doc Martens. And the fact I was worried about my couture made me even woozier.

  Following the wave that sloshed about inside my brain, I tilted my head to the left.

  “Tell me,” Vital said, as he tapped one of the round stones with a forefinger, “what is it about me you think you know? That would make you feel so ill?”

  “You’re a kidnapper.”

  “Propaganda.”

  “Propa—” I managed to right my dizzy head. “You’re a known criminal who kidnaps and sells helpless women into white slavery.”

  “My father. Not me.” The denial was so quick and adamant I blinked. This man wasn’t about to charm me a second time.

  “Criminals, by nature, are liars.”

  “Oh?” He turned and leaned against the glass-topped desk, palming the dustless glass to each side of his thighs. “And this coming from the ever-so-saintly la lapine?”

  He had me there. My past record wasn’t spotless, nor would I be in line for sainthood any time soon. But I’d never sold women into slavery.

  Is that pitiful excuse supposed to clear away all your other sins?

  No. But, oh hell, this turning over a new leaf was so complicated!

  “You are a renegade vigilante,” he offered in that sly Brooklyn accent that was beginning to offend my European ears. “Playing Robin Hood to the bad guys, eh?”

  Comparing me to a folk hero? Sounded good to me. I shrugged.

  “You, Mademoiselle La Lapine, rescued a princess from the rail station and then turned her over to the bad guys.”

  “I’m just the driver. And I didn’t turn her over to the bad guys. The good guys got her.” Though, I wouldn’t speak the Faction’s name; they were keen with me. “Princess or not, she’s safe now. Though, I expect the thugs firing at us were your men? In which case, glad to meet you, Sheriff. Just call me Robin Hood.”

  I did a double take on his glittering green-blue eyes. Yes, damn it, they actually glittered, like those of a gleeful child who holds a secret and won’t tell unless you give him a cookie.

  “Interesting, very interesting.” He tapped a finger against his lower lip. “You think you’re playing with the good guys?”

  “What do you want, Vital?” I was fresh out of cookies, and even if I’d had some, I wouldn’t have shared them with this guy.

  “You took something that was mine.”

  “I am just—” I spoke succinctly “—the driver.”

  I spread my legs so the hard rubber soles of my boots were to the outside of each of the chair legs. An easy dash to the door. Three running strides. But the shadows of large man-shaped objects outside the whitened windows told me to play it cool. And I couldn’t spot my black duffel bag with the gun in it—which should have been easy to see in this white-on-white room—so I sat tight.

  “No one takes my princess from me and gets away with it!”

  I cringed at the volume of his shout. So the man had a temper.

  He leaned over me. His top two shirt buttons undone, and the view offered a peek at what I knew were firm muscles. I tilted my head down and to the side. Not by choice; I was still so groggy. What the hell had been in that chloroform? I’d slept the entire night?

  “Why did you take the princess away from me?”

  Breathing through the obnoxiously delicious scent of his cologne, I managed to sound halfway forceful. “She wasn’t yours to take. No one told me she was a princess. Not that her title should matter…”

  I’d definitely been overlooking the value of details. I wanted to survive on my own? Pay attention, Jamie. The players are serious, so I’d better start taking names, position and death threats just as seriously.

  “She is Alleria el Sangreito,” Vital explained, “princess of an obscure Spanish land.”

  “If it’s so obscure, then why kidnap her?”

  “Even the most insignificant souls have been loved at some time or another. Her father is willing to pay millions to get her back.”

  I felt, more than saw, the fist wringing below my jaw. I wouldn’t argue with the man until I knew his capacity to violence. I already knew his capacity to sexual hijinks, and that was—

  “That princess was going to net me three million euros. Until you stuck your sassy little chassis into the mix.”

  “It is rather sassy, isn’t it?”

  The sting of an open palm to my cheek didn’t hurt so much but sounded awful. Bones crunched and spit splattered. I spat—onto the immaculate floor, very near onto an immaculately shined black shoe. “I don’t recall you liking it rough.”

 
; “I don’t recall you saying you were involved with criminal liaisons. I thought you were just another—”

  “Easy lay?”

  “Exactly.” Sacha ground the word out in a curdling rumble.

  He twisted and paced back to the desk where he again tapped the middle rock. Thinking? Or just trying to hold back his anger? Oh, wait. He’d already failed on that one.

  “I didn’t know the princess was—” I sucked in spit, but then realized it was blood “—yours.” Bastard.

  “I want her back. ”

  I laughed. Couldn’t help it.

  True, I wasn’t bound, but I guessed a dash for the door would earn me lead in the spine. Though I’d yet to see a gun, including mine. Where was that bag?

  Sucking back a swallow of blood, I attempted the blasé act. “Just kill me and get it over with.”

  “Fine.” Sacha stopped before me. I coached myself not to look up into his devastatingly gorgeous eyes. “Bullet or blade?”

  Sunday bloody Sunday. The man was serious.

  “Bullet. Less messy. I’d hate to ruin the decor. It’s just so…pristine.”

  “Thoughtful of you. But the bullet would be a lot messier than a carefully placed blade. Flying debris, you know. But you’re in luck, first I’ve got a few questions.”

  “Naturally.” I focused on his shiny black leather loafers so I wouldn’t have to drown in his eyes. Been there, done that, on to the next adventure, please. And if it involved escape, I was on it. “No,” I said on a sigh. “You were not the biggest or the longest or even the hardest—”

  The second slap served to stir me up from the depths of grogginess and put a sharp focus on the face above me.

  Sacha smoothed a finger along his palm. Easing away the ache from the assault?

  “You were the best fuck I’ve ever had,” he said and turned to stroll, hands behind his back, a few paces away.

  The rocks on the desk remained untouched, but I sensed he stared at them with a Captain Kirk-like intensity. Must resist touching!

  “The best, eh?” I said. “You don’t get around much? Sorry for you.”

  “Had I known you were la lapine…Hell, had I known le lapin was really a woman…”