“Yvette?”
“It’s nothing,” she assured him. “For a fleeting moment, I felt what you were feeling. You love her desperately, don’t you?”
Griffin couldn’t respond, could barely breathe.
Held captive by his own emotions, he couldn’t manage to focus on the repetitive noise he heard, but when it continued, he realized that his phone was ringing. His gaze met Yvette, each of them fearing more bad news, and then he put the phone to his ear and answered the call.
“Griffin Powell speaking.”
“Mr. Powell, this is Tomasina Hartwood, the counselor at the Benenden School. By any chance is Suzette York there at the hotel with you and Dr. Meng?”
“No, she isn’t. Why do you ask?”
“I’m afraid Suzette is missing.”
“What do you mean she’s missing?”
“No one has seen her this morning. We have conducted a thorough search of the school and grounds. She isn’t here. We had hoped she might be with her mother ...” Ms. Hartwood cleared her throat. “With the woman she believes may be her mother.”
“Has this ever happened before?” Griff asked. “Has Suzette ever run away?”
“Never! She was at Benenden last year and not once—”
“Dr. Meng and I will let you know if we hear anything from Suzette. I’d appreciate it if you would return the courtesy.”
“Most assuredly, Mr. Powell.”
Griff slipped his phone into his pocket and turned to Yvette. “That was Ms. Hartwood. Suzette York has disappeared. No one has seen her this morning.”
“This is York’s doing, isn’t it?” Yvette said. “He’s taken her away. He’s stolen my child from me again.”
Uncaring of the consequences for either of them, Griff pulled Yvette into his arms and held her. “Don’t jump to conclusions. We don’t know that York took her. And even if he did, remember two things—she may not be your child and we know for certain that he isn’t the real Malcolm York.”
Chapter 20
Nicole had no idea where they were—what country, what city or town. They had gone by motorboat somewhere out to sea, staying within sight of land the entire trip. Concentrating completely on doing everything within her power to keep Jonas MacColl alive, she had paid little attention to anything else, but she felt certain the boat had docked within an hour. Wherever they had initially landed had been an isolated cove and not a conventional harbor of any kind. Armed men had met them and escorted them off the boat, two of them lifting Jonas and carrying him ashore. She had tried to pull free from York to go with Jonas, but York had kept a tight hold on her.
“You can see him later,” York had told her. “If he lives. They have a doctor here who’ll patch him up.”
Once inside one of the small, shabby buildings only yards from the shore, York had locked her in a tiny, dark room, no bigger than a broom closet, and left her there. Feeling grimy, her dress ripped to shreds, Jonas’s blood all over her, and dying of thirst, Nic had sat quietly and tried to meditate. What else could she have done?
Hours later, York had sent one of the guards to fetch her. She’d been given a change of clothes—cotton slacks and shirt, both men’s clothing and a size too large—a bottle of water, and a couple of slices of stale bread.
They had traveled by jeep caravan—four vehicles, each with an armed driver and an armed soldier riding shotgun. During their journey, she had searched the heavens for any signs of direction, but thick clouds overcast the sky, hiding the stars. She catnapped on and off until they had reached their next destination—a small plane. Nic had recognized the aircraft as a Piper Seneca V, a six-seater, with piston twins and Hershey bar wings.
Sometime during the night, they had landed and had once again traveled by jeep to a wall-enclosed house in the middle of nowhere. Another island retreat? Or a vast compound in Colombia or Venezuela or somewhere in Central America, South America or the Caribbean?
She had asked about Jonas, but had been given no information. York had turned her over to a guard who had escorted her to a room on the upper level. Completely exhausted, she hadn’t bothered with checking out her accommodations. She had known that there would be time enough for surveying her prison later, after she rested. Fully clothed, she had dropped sideways onto the bed and fallen asleep instantly.
Nic had awakened when a young girl of no more than twelve had entered the room, placed a tray on a bench at the foot of the bed, and pulled back the heavy curtains to reveal the luminous morning sunshine. When Nic spoke to the girl, the girl stared at Nic with big, round, frightened eyes and scurried from the room as if being chased by demons.
So, there she was in another gilded cage, albeit somewhat smaller than the first one Linden had placed her in several days ago. The stucco walls were a vibrant ocher, the furniture dark mahogany, the floors rust red tiles, and the long, narrow windows draped in decorative black iron bars. No doubt behind one of the two interior closed doors was a bathroom which hopefully contained a shower. She felt as if she could stand under a warm, cleansing spray for hours. But before trying the first door, her stomach growled, which prompted her to glance at the tray the girl had set on the bench. A brightly painted metal tray held a variety of fruits, a half loaf of crusty brown bread, and a glass of what appeared to be juice. And lying there on the edge of the tray, a rectangular-shaped padded envelope caught her eye.
Despite longing for a bath, Nic delayed finding the bathroom. She picked up the envelope and inspected it. Her name had been hand-printed in large bold letters across the width of the package. As she lifted the open flap and reached inside, her hand trembled ever so slightly. She pulled out a thin stack of photographs and stared at the one on top. The date was clearly stamped at the bottom of the picture. If her calculations were correct, it was yesterday’s date. But since she couldn’t be a hundred percent sure what day it was today, the pictures could have been taken several days ago. Or the stamped date could have been forged.
What did it matter?
Nic stared at the photo of Griff, his hand splayed across Yvette Meng’s slender back as they entered what looked like a restaurant. She flipped the photo over and noticed a hand-printed notation: “The West House, Biddenden, Kent, UK.”
What was Griff doing in the UK?
Oh my God!
Gripping the photos, Nic slumped down onto the floor. She stared at the top snapshot, her gaze lingering on Griff’s big hand touching Yvette so tenderly.
Damn him to hell! Instead of manning a search for her, his wife, Griff had escorted Yvette Meng to England to find her daughter.
Their daughter?
Nic guessed that she now knew for sure exactly what Griff’s priorities were. And they sure as hell didn’t involve locating his missing wife.
Emotion rose inside her, clenched her throat and threatened to choke her. Her worst fears had been confirmed.
Stop it! You are jumping to conclusions. You are assuming the worst. Who do you think orchestrated this little drama? Who ordered the photographs taken? Who provided you with copies?
Forcing herself to look at the other photos, she flipped through them quickly. She stopped abruptly and stared at the young woman standing in front of Griff and Yvette, a woman Nic didn’t recognize at the girl’s side.
So this was Yvette’s daughter, Suzette York. The resemblance was obvious, and not just a resemblance to Yvette, but to Griff, too. The girl was tall, probably close to six feet, and her eyes were the same strikingly beautiful blue-gray as Griff ’s.
Nic clutched the photo tightly, wrinkling the corner, as she studied the girl more closely. Griff’s child. His daughter.
She dropped the photos to the floor, wrapped her arms protectively around her belly, and vented her frustration and rage with an ear-splitting scream.
The call Griff had been expecting came in shortly before noon. He had spent the past few hours alternating between trying to keep Yvette from going off the deep end, working with the local authorities
in their search for Suzette, and consulting with Thorndike Mitchum at Powell’s London headquarters. It seemed that no one had seen Suzette since bedtime last night. Apparently, she had simply disappeared sometime before daybreak this morning. Vanished without a trace.
“Mr. Powell?” the unfamiliar voice asked.
“This is Griffin Powell.”
“I have instructions for you from Malcolm York.”
“I’m listening.”
Yvette rose from where she had been sitting on the edge of Griff’s bed, rushed over to him, and mouthed the question, “Who is it?”
He shook his head.
“Something that Dr. Meng wants very badly has been misplaced,” the man said. “To locate this prized possession and keep it out of harm’s way will require ingenuity on your part. If you fail to make the correct choices, all will be lost.”
More of York’s sick games.
“Continue,” Griff said.
“You will find what you are looking for in London. If you follow directions to the letter, do exactly as instructed, you and Dr. Meng can save what she values so highly.”
“And if we don’t—?”
“I’m afraid the object will be destroyed.”
Griff’s gut tightened. Would York kill Suzette, a girl he claimed was his beloved ward? Of course he would. Think how much sweeter her death would be to him if she truly was Yvette’s child.
“Tell me what we need to do,” Griff said.
“For now, check out of your hotel and go to London. Check into the Lancaster London. There will be a package for you at the front desk.”
“What do I do with the package?”
The man chuckled. “The contents will be self-explanatory.”
“Very well.”
“I’ll contact you again at seven this evening with further instructions.” The caller ended the conversation.
Griff turned to Yvette, hating the fear he saw etched on her lovely face. He slipped his phone into the pocket of his jacket, and then grasped Yvette’s shoulders. She sucked in a soft, unsteady breath.
“Were you speaking to York? Did he take Suzette?”
Their gazes met and locked. “Yes, more than likely York is responsible for Suzette’s disappearance. But the man on the phone was just a messenger for York.”
“Why did York do this?”
“It’s all a part of the games he’s playing with us.” He squeezed Yvette’s shoulders. “Listen to me. First of all, you need to remember that we have no proof that Suzette is your daughter. We can’t trust York. He wants to see us, me in particular, jump through hoops, and that’s what this is all about. Understand?”
Yvette kept her gaze focused directly on Griff as she nodded. “Yes, I understand. But even if Suzette is not our child, she’s an innocent in this horrible game York is playing.”
“Is she? Are you one hundred percent sure?”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that, given enough time to dig deeper into Suzette York’s past, we might discover that not only isn’t she your child, but she is no wide-eyed innocent.”
Averting her gaze as she shook her head, Yvette pulled away from him. “What does he want us to do?” she asked, her voice little more than a quivering whisper.
“Our instructions were to leave here, drive to London, and check into the Lancaster London. I’m to pick up a package there and wait for further instructions.”
With her back to him, her slender shoulders hunched as she bowed her head, Yvette asked, “If we do not obey his commands, he will kill her, won’t he?”
“I’m afraid so. But even if we do as he wants, we can’t be sure he won’t issue an order to kill her anyway.”
Leonardo Kasan, aka Rafe Byrne, arrived at Harlan Benecroft’s London residence in Regent’s Park, an elegant multistory home boasting six-and-a-half-thousand square feet of luxurious, elegant living space. Harlan had purchased the property twenty-five years ago and done an extensive renovation. The Hanover Terrace home was only one of several that Sir Harlan owned, but it was where he spent more than half his time each year. In certain circles, the old reprobate was known as a superb host, catering to his guests’ every need. Rafe knew that he would be sucked into a quagmire of aberrant, perverted pleasures this evening and no doubt offered his choice of human delights. Over the years, he had become an excellent actor, pretending to be one of the men he greatly despised, a connoisseur of monstrous debauchery on a level only the very wealthy could afford. His chameleon-like abilities to present himself as the type of person each occasion required had aided him these past sixteen years in his search-and-destroy missions. But he had paid a price—perhaps too high a price—for his brand of justice. With each passing year, he had lost more of his soul, as his heart hardened so much so that his only reason for living was revenge.
An apathetic uniformed butler opened the door and ushered Rafe from the twenty-foot-wide foyer into the massive drawing room on the first floor. Apparently Rafe was not the only guest to arrive early. More than a dozen people populated the twenty-by-thirty-five-foot area filled with upscale blond furniture and decorated in varying neutral shades from palest cream to rich gold. Rafe recognized only three of the other guests—a Savile Row designer who had attended Harlan’s dinner party at the Savoy, a well-respected, middle-aged MP whose face appeared regularly in the society columns along with his wife, an American heiress, who had accompanied him tonight. Rafe had hoped Yves Bouchard would have returned to London by now. Bouchard was his main reason for accepting the invitation.
“Mr. Kasan,” a bone-thin woman of an indiscernible age said as she approached. Decked out in an obscenely revealing dress worn to expose her rather large, surgically enhanced breasts, she alternated between sipping on a cocktail and puffing on a cigarette. “Please join us.”
As she came toward him, Rafe plastered on an I’m-thrilled-to-be-here smile and said, “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. Have we met before, Ms... . ?”
Her laugher was as dry and brittle as she looked. “I’m simply crushed, dear boy. Cassandra introduced us last year at one of her intimate little soirées.”
Click, click, click. The pieces fell into place. The lady had dyed her hair, going from jet black to platinum, and appeared to have gone under the plastic surgeon’s knife once again in a vain effort to maintain a youthful appearance.
“Countess Orlov, I’m delighted to see you again.” Rafe kissed the woman’s hand with all the gallantry he could muster. The countess was as fake as he was, but no one questioned her authenticity as the widow of a descendant of Russian royalty.
“Come and meet everyone.” The countess crushed out her cigarette in a crystal bowl on a nearby table, then laced her arm through Rafe’s and led him into the fray.
While she introduced him to the others, he studied each face for any sign of recognition, any connection to Amara, to Malcolm York or to Yves Bouchard. The seven men and five women were all strangers to him, except for the countess, the MP and his wife, and the fashion designer. Doing more listening than talking, acting as if he were interested in their idle chitchat, Rafe zoned out, his mind focused on his recent conversation with Harry Northcliffe.
... someone you’ve done business with in the past ... is interested in going into a joint venture with you and would like to negotiate terms as soon as possible.
Griffin Powell wanted to see him.
He had already booked a flight out of Heathrow for Monday. He would have left for the States sooner, if not for Harlan’s party tonight, an event that could easily continue through most of the day tomorrow. Ingratiating himself to Sir Harlan, gradually gaining the old bastard’s complete trust, would eventually give him what he wanted—unrestricted access to Yves Bouchard.
But until then ...
Apparently, Griffin Powell needed something from him.
If the Malcolm York rumors floating around Europe for the past couple of years had any basis in facts, then Griffin would
be amassing an elite army to do battle. Rafe could think of no other reason his Amara savior would have sent for him.
When they had arrived at the Lancaster London, a four-star hotel opposite Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens, the clerk at the check-in counter had given Griff the package he had been told to expect.
“I believe you requested one of our Embassy Suites,” the clerk said.
Griff had nodded in agreement. Apparently York had booked the suite for them.
Once they were alone in their elegant private lounge, Griff ripped open the envelope and found one digital snapshot of three young women and a cryptic typed message. He and Yvette recognized only one of the threesome—Suzette, her hands and feet bound and her mouth gagged. The other two girls, approximately the same age as Suzette, had been given the same treatment. Terror radiated from three sets of eyes, clearly discernible in the photo. Oddly enough, the other two girls bore more than a vague resemblance to Suzette.
The note consisted of a single sentence, a comment that Griff had replayed in his mind a thousand times in the past few hours.
One is your daughter, two are her clones, and all three will die tonight unless you make the right choice.
Griff wanted to take the snapshot away from Yvette, but she clung to it as if keeping it near her could somehow save Suzette’s life. Standing over Yvette where she sat on the sofa, he clamped his hand down on her shoulder.
“You’re making yourself crazy. Put the picture down and stop looking at it. There’s not a damn thing we can do until York’s guy calls us.”
“It’s already five past seven,” Yvette reminded him. “He said he would call at seven. What if something has gone wrong? What if—?”
The phone rang. Yvette jumped. Griff released his hold on her shoulder, picked up his phone from where he had placed it on the coffee table, and answered on the second ring.
“Griffin Powell.”
“You received the photograph and the message?”
Beverly Barton Bundle Page 102
