Beverly Barton Bundle

by Beverly Barton

  “I’m afraid Ms. Sinclair was unable to sense anything significant concerning Nicole’s abduction and she did not pick up on even the smallest hint of where Nicole might be.”

  “I suppose it was a long shot.” Griff glanced down at Nic’s wedding band where he had slipped it on his left pinkie. Her fingers were long and slender so the ring caught just above his knuckle.

  “We are going to find her,” Sanders said. “Everything possible is being done.”

  Griff nodded, all the while twisting Nic’s ring around and around on his finger. “She’s strong and tough. She’s a fighter. But we both know what can happen to her, what she may have to endure before we rescue her.”

  “Nicole is also a survivor,” Sanders reminded him. “She will not allow anything to defeat her.”

  Griff didn’t reply. He couldn’t. The words died on his lips as pain clutched his throat tightly. Do not think about what could be happening to Nic at this very minute. You have to stay sane if you’re going to help her.

  When the telephone on Griff’s desk rang, he tensed instantly. Sanders didn’t hesitate to cross the room and pick up the receiver. “Griffin’s Rest. This is Sanders speaking.”

  Griff could tell from the expression on Sanders’s face that something was wrong.

  “Yes, Mr. Powell is here,” Sanders said. “Will you please hold?”

  Griff rose from the comfort of the large wingback chair in front of the fireplace. Sanders placed his hand over the mouthpiece.

  “The caller identified himself as Malcolm York.”

  Every muscle in Griff’s body stiffened. “And?”

  “The voice is an excellent imitation. Almost identical to the real York’s.” He held out the telephone to Griff.

  Willing his intensely chaotic emotions under control, Griff reached out and took the receiver. Every call coming into Griffin’s Rest was being monitored so tracing the caller’s whereabouts was possible.

  “This is Griffin Powell.”

  “Hello, old friend.”

  “Who the hell is this?”

  “Don’t you recognize my voice?”

  “No, I can’t say that I do.”

  The man laughed ever so softly. God, how familiar that sound was! If he didn’t know better, he would swear ... No, it wasn’t York. York was dead.

  “I did so enjoy all our little games,” the voice said with just a vague hint of a British accent. The real York had been born in London, but had been educated in boarding schools throughout Europe and had attended college in the United States. “You were always a challenge during our hunts. You became our most popular quarry. And oh how my friends and I enjoyed—”

  “I don’t know who you are or why you’re calling me, but I know you’re not Malcolm York.”

  “And you know this for certain because you think you killed me.” He paused for a moment. “Did you ever ask yourself why my body disappeared off Amara and was never found?”

  “I figured that pack of dogs York kept on the island ate the flesh off his bones.”

  “You didn’t like my dogs, did you, Griffin?”

  Griff shivered. Don’t remember. Push past the memories threatening you. Whoever this guy was, he knew too much about Malcolm York, about Amara, and about Griffin’s captivity not to have been a frequent visitor.

  “You’re very quiet,” the voice said. “Are you remembering what it was like for you and the others on Amara? Or perhaps you’re thinking about your wife. I understand she has disappeared and you’re scouring the Earth to find her.”

  Control. Control. Stay in control.

  “Nothing to say, Griffin? You came so close to rescuing her, didn’t you?”

  “You seem to have all the answers. You tell me.”

  “Of course. Since you want to dispense with the pleasantries, I’ll get straight to the point. If you want to ever see your wife alive again, you’ll do exactly what I tell you to do.”

  “How do I know you have Nicole?”

  “You know that I sent Anthony Linden to fetch her. She played right into his hands when she ran away from you. I had hoped the letter I sent informing you where you could find Yvette’s daughter might prompt you to be honest with your wife and the great revelation would send her scurrying.”

  Whoever he was, he was a clever bastard. Just as the real York had been. Diabolically clever.

  When Griff didn’t respond, the caller said, “Listen very carefully. I will contact you again this evening. Please have Yvette Meng and Damar Sanders there with you. My instructions are for all three of you.”

  “Before you start issuing orders, you’ll have to prove to me that you have Nic and that she is alive and well. Otherwise, don’t call again.”

  “If I weren’t looking forward to our games, I wouldn’t call again and you’d never know what happened to your wife. But I’ll give you what you want—proof that Nicole is with me and that she is very much alive and, for the most part, unharmed.”

  As fury burned hot inside Griff, the son of a bitch hung up on him. He slammed down the receiver, looked at Sanders, and said, “I want this guy, whoever the hell he is. And when we find him, he’s mine. All mine.”

  Chapter 14

  Locking the door to ensure his privacy, Griff secluded himself inside his study. He wanted a drink. But he needed to stay stone-cold sober. For the past few hours, he had fought the urge to drown himself completely in glass after glass of his best Macallan Scotch whiskey. If ever there was a time he had a right to get rip-roaring drunk that time was now. It wasn’t every day that a man had to face a ghost from his past who presented him with an overdue notice for his sins.

  If only he could go back four years, before he fell in love with Nicole Baxter ...

  He had never meant to fall in love, not ever. How could he have asked any woman to accept the man he had become after four years on Amara? But Nic had been different from any woman he had known. Her strength and courage amazed him. Her kind heart and sense of right and wrong endeared her to him. In the early days of their acquaintance, she had disliked him, mistrusted him, and had told him to go to hell more than once. But from the first moment he had touched her, held her, kissed her, made love to her, she had been his. And God help them both, he had not been able to let her go.

  Before they married, he should have told her everything, the entire truth, and given her the chance to walk away, to run from him as fast and as far as she could. But he had been selfish. He had been desperately afraid of losing her. And so he had told her half-truths, shared just enough information about his kidnapping at twenty-two and his years on Amara to partially explain his complex relationships with Sanders and Yvette.

  How many times had he promised himself that he would be honest with her, that he’d share even the most sordid details of his past with her? If only he had told her about Yvette’s child years ago.

  The letter from the pseudo-York had forced his hand. And that had been just what the devious bastard had wanted. Why hadn’t he tried harder to stop Nic from leaving him? His guilt and remorse had forced him to allow her to leave the safety of Griffin’s Rest.

  If he had it to do all over again ...

  Everything was his fault.

  Four years ago, he should have let her go. Three and a half years ago, he should have told her the truth. Even six months ago, it might have been too late.

  But he had been stupid enough to think that their loving each other would be enough, that he could protect her from the secrets buried in his past without his lies destroying their marriage. Time and time again, when she had been on the verge of leaving him, he had persuaded her to give him one more chance.

  Had it been only months ago when he had taken her away to their own island paradise for a second honeymoon, hoping to prove to her that she was more important to him than anyone or anything? Their time there had been almost perfect.

  But even then Malcolm York’s malevolent shadow had darkened their lives, a faraway threat growing ever closer
.

  Griff heaved a deep, heavy sigh and closed his eyes. Pain welled up inside him, spiraled through his entire body, and held him captive. Unable to endure the reality of Nic’s situation and deal with his guilt, Griff’s mind grabbed hold of a memory. Only by escaping from the present into a past time when they had been together, a past where he could have altered the future, could he hold on to his sanity.

  Four-and-a-half months ago ...

  The past four days had been great, everything he had hoped for when he and Nic had left Griffin’s Rest and flown on their private jet to his Caribbean estate. He had purchased the small island, located southeast of the Bahamas, six years ago and had sent in an architect, a contractor, and a designer to restore the old manor house. During their stay, they had seen no one, other than the two servants he had arranged to remain there to prepare meals and keep the estate running smoothly for the week they would be there. But both Adele and her husband, Horatio, possessed the discretion of highly trained professionals, seldom being seen or heard, blending into the background as if they were invisible. Griff had explained to Adele that this trip was a second honeymoon for him and his wife and the astute lady had understood exactly what he wanted. Privacy and seclusion.

  He stood on the balcony overlooking the jagged cliffs that jutted out and then dropped like an uneven gray ribbon to meet the turquoise ocean. A series of tiered patios cascaded downward, each connected by a series of stone steps. The house had been built over a hundred years ago on a magnificent spot of land that took advantage of the spectacular panoramic view from the island’s highest point. The estate combined elements of a Southern plantation with a Mediterranean villa, the twelve-thousand-square-foot house built of white stone, with enormous white columns supporting balconies that circled the entire house.

  He had brought Nic here on their honeymoon three years ago and they had spent almost a month in their own private paradise. Until Nicole Baxter had become as necessary for his existence as the very air he breathed, he had never believed that such complete happiness existed, especially not for a man like him.

  Griff turned and looked into the bedroom, his gaze settling on Nic’s sleeping form, her beautiful face buried in the down pillow, her sleek body curled contentedly beneath the sateen cotton sheets. They had made love a few hours ago and both of them had fallen asleep. But his sated rest had been abruptly disturbed by a dream that had quickly turned into a nightmare. In those brief, terrifying moments, Nic had been Malcolm York’s captive, a slave forced to do his bidding. And he had been bound in chains, helpless to defend her. Awakening in a cold sweat, he had quietly gotten out of bed.

  He didn’t know how long he’d been standing there staring out at the vast blue sea, but even now the image of York’s diabolical face hadn’t completely faded from his thoughts. The man had been a cruel, inhuman monster. And as much as Griff had suffered from York’s barbarous treatment, Yvette and Sanders had suffered far more.

  Malcolm York is dead, Griff reminded himself. You know he’s dead. You killed him.

  Then why were there rumors floating around all over Europe about a man named Malcolm York being alive and well and rebuilding an empire he claimed had been stolen from him?

  A shudder of unease drummed up Griff’s spine.

  The man was not the same Malcolm York. He was a fraud, an impostor using another man’s name for reasons that greatly concerned Griff. Why would anyone want to take on the identity of a brutal psychopath?

  When the rumors had first begun spreading, he had gone to Europe and taken Meredith Sinclair with him to help in his search for the truth. Hadn’t Meredith, the most powerful among Yvette’s conclave of gifted residents, sensed that the man was not the real York, that he had assumed the other man’s identity to draw Griffin out for a duel to the death? Winner takes all. And the fake York would use the innocent to achieve his goals just as the real York had done.

  Meredith did not know his true identity or why he had only now “risen from the dead” to seek revenge.

  “Griff,” Nic called to him from the bed.

  His gaze focused on her. He smiled. “Hello, sleepyhead.”

  When she stretched like a contented cat in the warm sun, the sheet dropped below her waist, revealing her full, round breasts. Griff’s body tightened. He wanted her again. And again. And again. If he lived to be a hundred, he would never have his fill of her.

  Without Nicole, his life would be meaningless.

  He would do whatever he had to do to keep her safe, to protect her from the past that he had believed to be long dead and buried.

  If only he had the courage to be completely honest with her. But what if she didn’t understand? What if she could never forgive him? What if she left him?

  The time might come when he would have no other choice than to tell her. But now was not that time.

  He had told her just enough—that there was an impostor in Europe, flying under the radar, who called himself Malcolm York. And he had explained that this was the reason he had made several trips overseas and why he had shared that information with Yvette and Sanders.

  “I didn’t want to worry you,” he had told her. “But instead, by not telling you what was happening, I made you distrust me.”

  “Just don’t keep things from me. No more secrets. Please, always be honest with me,” she had said.

  If only ...

  You’ve told her all she needs to know.

  Who are you protecting, Griffin Powell—your wife or yourself?

  Nic tossed back the sheet, rose from the bed and onto her feet—in all her glorious nakedness—and then walked out onto the balcony. His gaze traveled from the top of her head, down her silky neck, and to her luscious breasts. His sex tightened. He scanned her slender waist, her softly rounded hips, the triangle of dark hair between her trim thighs, and then from her sleek legs all the way down to her ruby red toenails. When she drew close, he pulled her around in front of him, pressed her back against his chest, her buttocks against his arousal, and wrapped her in his arms. He lowered his head and kissed her neck.

  “I love you,” he whispered against her ear.

  God, how he loved her!

  She sighed as her body relaxed into his. “Tell me that we’ll always be this happy.”

  He nuzzled her neck. “We’ll always be this happy.”

  For her sake, dear God, let it be true. You do your part, Big Guy, and I’ll do mine. I swear I’ll do everything within my power to keep her as happy as she is right now.

  “How long has he been in there alone?” Yvette asked as they approached the locked door of Griffin’s study.

  “All day. He insisted on being alone,” Sanders replied. “After the phone call, he told me to contact you. According to the man claiming to have kidnapped Nicole, he has instructions for all three of us—you, Griffin, and me—when he calls again this evening.”

  “I should have come sooner, but ...” She hated to confess that her own selfish concerns had delayed her, that she had gone against her own rules and requested one of her protégés use his “remote viewing” talent as a favor to her. “I asked Adam to help me by trying to project himself to the Benenden School. Since I can’t go to England right now and meet Suzette, I thought perhaps ...” She turned from Sanders’s disapproving glare.

  Her dear old friend knew her better than anyone else, even better than Griffin did. Sometimes she thought Sanders knew her better than she knew herself because he had the ability to see her for who and what she truly was. He understood that her survival depended on her ability to maintain the alternate reality in which she existed. She visited the real world whenever necessary, but kept her home base secure within the tranquil, unemotional inner peace she had created for herself.

  She did not love. She did not hate.

  She devoted her life to her students, the young men and women who, like she, were gifted psychics, and because of their special talents were outcasts and misfits in a world that did not trust the transc
endental part of mankind’s nature. Her only goal in life was to help others, be that the residents of her sanctuary or those associated with the Powell Agency.

  “Please do not look at me with such stern censure,” Yvette told Sanders. “You, of all people, should understand my need to see this girl, to discover for myself if she is my child.”

  “I do understand.” His gaze softened, his expression one of empathetic sympathy. “But if this girl is your child, which I do not believe she is, she will be at Benenden a week from now, a month from now, even a year from now. But Griffin needs you today.”

  “Of course, you are right. You are always right.”

  “This man who calls himself Malcolm York will use your desire to find your child to manipulate you,” Sanders told her. “Surely you realize he wants to punish you and me as well as Griffin. He has abducted Nicole to punish Griffin. He will find a way to use your missing child to punish you. And I am sure he has something in mind for me also.”

  “Who can this man be?” Yvette struggled to maintain her composure as memories threatened, like dark ominous clouds before a destructive storm. “Why is he pretending to be Malcolm York? And why is he seeking revenge for York?”

  “Those are questions that you should concentrate on. You have six students with various abilities that they can use to help us. Instead of asking Adam to try to transport himself to Benenden, ask him to search for Nicole.”

  “I asked Meredith for help,” Yvette said defensively. “As you know, she went to Nicole’s cabin with Luke Sentell this morning and came away without picking up on any leads. She tried, but she and my other students are still learning to control their talents, and I know from experience that it can take a lifetime to master such powerful skills.”

  “I did not mean to criticize you or imply that you aren’t willing to do all that you can to help us find Nicole. I simply thought you might need a reminder about prioritizing your goals.”

  She longed to lay her hand on Sanders’s arm, to simply touch him as an act of kindness, a “thank you, dear friend,” expression. But for her there was no such thing as a simple touch. Even when she deliberately blocked other people’s feelings, she was never able to completely avoid connecting with them. The more powerful their emotions, the more easily they overrode the barrier she projected between them and her.