Once ensconced in Harlan’s limo, the group of seven settled back as their host popped a fresh bottle of champagne and filled their glasses to overflowing. Rafe sipped the sparkling wine while the others devoured theirs. He occasionally nuzzled Cassie’s neck and laid a possessive hand on her knee, all the while subtly observing the others.
Twenty minutes later, the limo pulled up at the back of a dark warehouse near the Thames. A slightly inebriated Harlan exited first. His guests followed his lead like ducklings waddling behind their mama. After removing a key from his pocket and unlocking a heavy metal door, their host entered the building and led them down a dimly lit corridor to a service elevator. As the clanking elevator ascended, the sound of music and laughter drifted downward from the loft area.
When they reached the top level, two naked, muscular black guards opened a set of double doors to reveal the private club.
Heavy, room-darkening drapes covered all the windows, cocooning the massive loft in shadowy warmth. The diffused lighting, soft pinks and vivid reds, created a mysteriously wanton atmosphere. Small stages set up at ten foot intervals around the outskirts of the huge room surrounded the crowds of onlookers, men and women of various ages and races. On eight of the twelve separate podiums, one or more performers participated in some type of sex act for the entertainment of the club’s patrons.
Rafe had seen this type of club before and knew that for the right price any of the performers could be bought—for the night, the week or indefinitely.
Around the world, people were bought and sold as if they were livestock, some sold into servitude, some into sexual bondage, and others as prey in hunting games for bored sadists who no longer found hunting wild animals a challenge.
He knew only too well the nightmarish hell in which these boys and girls, who ranged in age from preteens to young adults in their early twenties, existed. That world was populated by rich and powerful perverts such as Harlan Benecroft and Yves Bouchard, a world created and perpetuated by men such as Malcolm York. A world from which he had barely escaped with his life. A world that had robbed him of his innocence, his dreams, and his very soul.
This time when he entered the dark underbelly of society, Rafe Byrne entered as a predator, not as the prey. He would keep up the ruse for one purpose and one purpose only—to lure Yves Bouchard into a trap from which he could not escape.
After their brief conversation, Anthony Linden had escorted Nic back into the sleeping quarters of the private jet, instructed her to sit on the bed, and once she was seated, had taken her photo using his mobile phone.
“Your husband will want proof that you’re alive and well.”
Alive maybe. And for now, she was as well as she could be under the circumstances. But more than once during the flight, she had fought the urge to throw up. If she did vomit, she would pass it off as nothing more than motion sickness. She intended to keep the fact that she was pregnant a secret from her abductor. If Griffin Powell’s wife was worth a king’s ransom, what would Griff’s wife and child be worth?
Having gone over half a dozen different scenarios during her seclusion, Nic had come to the conclusion that until they reached their destination and she acquired more information, she couldn’t devise a workable plan of action.
Suddenly she felt the plane begin to descend. Was the pilot preparing to land? Surmising that at least three or four hours had passed since she had awakened from her drugged sleep and found herself on the plane with Linden, Nic tried to think of exactly where over the U.S. they might be. Linden had said they were traveling south. If he had been telling her the truth, then calculating four hours plus however many hours she had been asleep, they could be about to land somewhere in Mexico or Central America or even on one of the Caribbean islands. If she was allowed to talk to Griff, she would find out a way to give him a clue to her whereabouts, assuming she could figure out where they were.
As the plane continued its slow, steady decline, Anthony Linden unlocked the bedroom door and motioned to her. “We’ll be landing shortly, Nicole. It’s time for me to prepare you for departure.”
A short time later, she understood what he’d meant by preparing her. Within minutes of their arrival at only God knew where, Linden yanked Nic to her feet, pulled her hands behind her back, bound her wrists, and then quickly gagged and blindfolded her. With a tight grip on her upper arm, he guided her off the plane. The moment the warm air swooshed around her, Nic sucked in a deep breath. Almost hot except for the balmy breeze, the weather was decidedly tropical. Linden hadn’t been lying. They had flown south.
Once her feet hit solid ground, she was all but dragged away from the plane and to a waiting vehicle. Not a car or truck. As the driver, who hadn’t spoken a word, jerked the gearshift into reverse and backed up, Nic realized she was seated beside someone—probably Linden—inside a jeep. No seat belt restraint, just the tight grip of a large, hard hand manacled around the back of her neck. Keeping quiet and staying alert, she breathed in the scents and listened to the sounds. She might not be able to see where she was, but she could use her other senses.
She knew only that they were south of the continental U.S., possibly in Mexico or even farther south in one of the Central American countries. She had no idea exactly where Linden was taking her or what awaited her upon their arrival. But she did know that she was a hostage, that she had been kidnapped because she was Griffin Powell’s wife, that she was soon to be the guest of a man who called himself Malcolm York. And she suspected that the odds of her coming out of this alive were slim to none.
Chapter 4
Shortly before dawn, Griffin Powell emerged from his study, an unconscious Yvette in his arms. He had survived the past few hours and come through the darkest moments of his life solely because of Yvette’s sacrifice. After learning that Nicole was missing, probably kidnapped by Anthony Linden, Griff had gone mad. The magnitude of his anger and frustration, coupled with his guilt and anguish, could have destroyed him. He had been on the edge of the abyss, inches from taking an irrevocable plunge. He would have lost his mind had Yvette not used all the power of her unique psychic talents to absorb enough of his emotions to restore his equilibrium. Long ago, she had saved him in a similar manner. He owed her not only his life, then and now, but his sanity.
If only he had explained everything to Nic. If only he had been completely honest with her from the very beginning.
“Sanders!” Griff shouted his best friend’s name. Sanders was far more than a good friend; he was Griff’s right-hand man and his most trusted confidant.
Within seconds, four people appeared, each rushing toward him. Shaughnessy Hood’s hulking form moved with amazing speed and he reached Griff’s side before Sanders, Derek, and Maleah.
Griff looked at Shaughnessy as he placed Yvette in the six-foot-six bodyguard’s huge arms. Then he turned to Sanders. “She needs someone with her until she regains consciousness. Send for Meredith Sinclair. Tell her it’s urgent. She’ll know how to help Yvette.”
“Meredith is with Luke Sentell,” Sanders reminded him. “They’re en route from Paducah, Kentucky. She went with Luke straight from London to return Michelle Allen’s niece to her parents.”
Griff grunted. He remembered now. The child, barely seven years old, would have needed a woman’s tender care after the ordeal she had been through recently. Abducted by Linden from the safety of her own bed, whisked off to England, and held hostage as a means of forcing her aunt to do a madman’s bidding, Jaelyn Allen had been rescued by Luke Sentell, with Yvette’s protégée, Meredith, assisting him.
“Yes, of course, I remember now. As soon as Meredith returns to Griffin’s Rest, send her directly to Yvette,” Griff said. “In the meantime, choose another of Yvette’s students to stay with her, preferably someone with the ability to soothe her.”
Sanders nodded. “That would be Blythe Renshaw.”
“Then send for her immediately and once that’s done, join me in the office. I assume you’ve alre
ady begun—”
“Agents have been dispatched to the cabin and one to speak personally with Cully Redmond’s sister,” Sanders said. “All available personnel have been called in to headquarters in Knoxville and the wheels set in motion to obtain all possible info.”
After assuring Griff that he had followed procedure without any delay, Sanders left to do as he had been instructed.
Griff called out to him, “Send in the housecleaning crew to clean up in there.” He inclined his head toward the utterly destroyed room.
Sanders paused and listened. He nodded once before walking away, without uttering a single word or giving a quick backward glance.
Griff then told Shaughnessy, “Take Dr. Meng upstairs to one of the guest rooms and stay with her until Ms. Renshaw arrives.”
With the utmost care, the gentle giant of a man held Yvette as if she were made of spun glass as he immediately followed Griff’s orders.
“You two, come with me,” he said, sliding his gaze hurriedly from Derek to Maleah. “Once I place several calls to my contacts in D.C. and around the world, we will begin receiving a tremendous amount of information. Ninety-five percent of it will be worthless. It will be up to us to figure out which five percent can actually help us locate Nic.”
Griff forced himself to look directly at Maleah, to face her and accept her wrath. No doubt at this very moment, she hated him almost as much as he hated himself. Maleah Perdue was his wife’s best friend. She had stood by Nic, shared confidences with her, and possibly knew her better than anyone on Earth. Knew her even better than he did.
“I’m going to find her,” Griff swore to Maleah.
She stared at him, tears moistening her eyes, her teeth clinched tightly. He sensed that she wanted to physically attack him, to claw his eyes out, to damn his soul to hell.
Mercy God, didn’t she know he was already in hell?
Derek Lawrence grasped Maleah’s hand.
“And we’re going to help you find her,” Derek said. “We’re a cooperative team working together for the duration of this all-out manhunt. We have one goal—find Nicole and bring her home safely. Nothing else matters.”
Morning sunlight poured into the room like melted butter over hot pancakes—soft, warm, and golden. As she roused from sleep, Nicole blinked her eyes several times, all the while her mind slightly muddled. At first, she wondered why Griff had opened the blinds when he usually kept the room dark until after they were both awake. Still in that relaxed state between sleep and becoming fully alert, she turned over in bed and ran her hand out in search of her husband.
She was alone in bed. Griff must have gone downstairs already. He would bring her a cup of coffee soon, sit down on the bed, and give her a morning kiss.
Nicole’s eyes snapped open wide.
She was not home at Griffin’s Rest. This was not her bed. Griff was not downstairs.
After flipping over on her back, Nic gazed up at the white ceiling. In the quiet stillness of the room, she listened and heard the delicate hum of a motor. Easing herself into a sitting position in the center of the large king-size bed, Nic glanced up and down and then circled the entire room. A large ceiling fan with palm leaf–shaped blades rotated slowly, sending whiffs of cool air downward. The twenty-by twenty-five-foot room, tastefully decorated with ornately carved dark furniture—four-poster bed, highboy, and large chest—was in direct contrast to the pale white and cream drapes, bed linens, and brocade material covering the armchairs and the chaise longue.
Where am I?
And then, once again, it all came flooding back, her memories like a tidal wave. Her abduction from the cabin in Gatlinburg. Her conversation with Anthony Linden aboard the private airplane. Being bound, gagged, and blindfolded upon arrival before being transported via a jeep to—? Where was she?
Linden had guided her from the jeep onto a boat. At that point everything was fuzzy, but she vaguely remembered being carried inside a building and ... And what?
Damn it, he had drugged her again.
While sitting blindfolded on the boat, she had felt a sharp sting on her arm. Now, she realized that sting had been caused by a hypodermic needle. Apparently after she had fallen into a semi-unconscious state shortly before the boat docked, Linden had removed the gag and the blindfold and untied her wrists.
Nic scooted to the edge of the bed, slid her feet off onto the floor—her bare feet—and stood on the highly polished wooden floor. Someone had removed her shoes. She glanced down at herself and gasped. She was completely naked.
Who had undressed her?
What, if anything, had Linden—or anyone else—done to her?
Seeing a large gold-framed cheval mirror in the corner of the room, Nic ran straight to it and inspected herself from head to toe. No blood. No bruises. No sign of being abused. But then she had been unconscious. With cautious deliberation, she ran her fingers over her mound and between her thighs. Nothing there to indicate she had been violated.
As she searched the room for an exit—a way out—she discovered a luxurious white marble bathroom, a balcony overlooking an inner courtyard—lush with greenery and flowers, a pool in the center—and one locked door. Draped on a pink padded hanger on the back of the bathroom door, as if it had been placed there just for her, she found a cream satin robe. Without hesitation, she jerked it off the hanger and put it on, eager to cover her nakedness. Just as she knotted the satin belt around the robe, she heard the sound of a door opening and closing.
Her breath caught in her throat. Garnering her courage, she forced herself to walk out of the bathroom and back into the bedroom. Not knowing who had entered or what she would find, Nic stopped suddenly the moment she saw the dark-skinned woman, dressed in a colorful muumuu, carrying a large silver tray.
“Good morning, missus.” The woman smiled at Nicole before she placed the tray atop the large table between the two armchairs.
“Who are you?” Nic tried her best to keep her voice calm, not an easy task considering the predicament she found herself in at the moment.
“I am called Lina,” the woman replied. “You want I pour tea now?”
“No,” Nic said and then added, “No, thank you.”
“You want I make bath now?”
“No.” She walked straight toward the woman who appeared to be in her early twenties. “Lina, I want you to tell me where I am.”
Lina looked at her as if she didn’t understand the question. “You are here at Sea View.” She pronounced the two words as if one, sounding like zee-few.
“Sea View? Is that the name of the town or this house?”
“You are hungry,” Lina said, obviously ignoring Nic’s question. “I bring you fresh fruit, tea, and bread. You sit. Eat. You feel much better.”
“I feel fine.” Nic skimmed her hands over her body from neck to waist. “Did you undress me?”
Her large brown eyes wide, Lina stared at Nic and shook her head.
“You didn’t undress me? Then who did? Who took off my clothes?”
“Your clothes?”
“My shirt.” She patted her upper torso. “My pants.” She slid her hands over her lower torso. “Who took them off?”
Lina smiled. “I take. You rest good.”
Nic sighed with a combination of relief and frustration. The girl’s accent sounded neither Spanish nor French. She had no idea what Lina’s native language was.
“Where is Mr. Linden?”
Lina’s expression changed immediately, going from warm and friendly to somber and quiet.
“Mr. Linden, the man who brought me here. Where is he?” Nic repeated her question.
Without saying another word, Lina hurried away from Nic. She beat her fist against the door and called loudly, “I go now.” The door opened instantly. Nic rushed across the room as Lina walked out into the hall, but before she could follow the woman, a muscle-bound man with dark hair, beard, and mustache closed the door in her face.
Nic pressed herself, forehead fi
rst, her open palms following, against the wooden door. She curled her hands into fists and beat repeatedly against the locked door. After venting her vexation, she pushed aside her anger and fear and faced the facts. At the present moment, there was absolutely nothing she could do to free herself. There was no point in wasting her energy on useless emotions. In order to survive today and in the days ahead, she would be forced to adapt. She had to stay alive. And she had to protect her unborn child.
Lifting herself away from the locked and guarded door, Nic marched straight toward the silver serving tray. After taking a seat, she removed the covers from the dishes and poured herself a cup of hot tea. She was hungry. She hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday. That wasn’t good for her or her baby. Even though she was slightly nauseated, she forced herself to eat. First a piece of the delicious bread that she smothered with butter and jelly. After finishing off the bread and first cup of tea, she picked up a fork and speared a chunk of fresh pineapple.
All the while she nourished her body and the child inside her, Nic tried to remember everything from the moment she had left the airplane until she had been drugged and later locked in this room. She thought about the sounds she had heard, the scents she had smelled, the feel of the road beneath the jeep. The road had been bumpy, as if it were gravel or even dirt, and filled with potholes. Apparently the plane had landed somewhere on a private airstrip out in the middle of nowhere. There had been no distinct sounds or scents coming from a town or even a village they might have passed through on their journey from the jeep to the boat. She recalled only ambiguous nocturnal sounds, the feel of hot, muggy air and the smell of ripe vegetation. Nic suspected they were somewhere tropical, somewhere more than four hours from Knoxville, Tennessee. The warm, balmy breeze and the scent of saltwater suggested that they were near the ocean. A heavy floral perfume blended with the feel of humidity against her skin added weight to her supposition that they were in Mexico, Central America, or the Caribbean.
Beverly Barton Bundle Page 85
