“Griff, I wish you were here to share this moment with me.” Only she heard her soft, heartfelt whisper.
A peculiar feeling of contentment came over Nic suddenly, as if somehow she actually was sharing this moment with Griff. She walked over to the chair, picked up the discarded cotton blanket, wrapped it around her like a shawl, and curled up in the chair.
If only she had told him about their baby.
She had no idea why it had taken her years to conceive. She and Griff had undergone testing procedures only to be told there was no physical reason why Nic couldn’t get pregnant.
The first time they had made love, neither of them had been in their right mind. They’d been wild for each other. They hadn’t even made it to her bedroom. There had been no soft music, no candlelight and no sweet words of love. Only raw passion. Afterward, she had reminded herself that it had just been sex.
Nic smiled. Yeah, but it had been damn good sex.
She caressed her belly. “Your daddy is a wild man in bed. And he’s told me I’m pretty wild, too.” She laughed. “That’s not something you’ll ever hear me say when you’re old enough to understand.”
With her arms wrapped protectively around her middle, Nic closed her eyes. She could almost feel Griff’s big hands caressing her, his lips on hers, and then his tongue spiraling down her throat. She shivered.
“I love you, Griffin Powell. I swear that if I live through this captivity and make it back to you, I’ll never leave your side ever again.”
Sanders stood by the grave, his gaze riveted to the monument that Griffin had ordered erected years ago. He had stayed far away from Amara for the past sixteen years. And in the four days since they had returned, he had deliberately avoided coming to this small cemetery where his wife and son were buried. He was here now, at Barbara Jean’s insistence.
“You have to go,” she had told him. “Don’t you think Elora would want you to say good-bye to them?”
“I said good-bye a long time ago.”
“I don’t think you did.”
Standing here this afternoon, with memories whirling around him like hovering spirits, he knew Barbara Jean had been right. He had never said good-bye, had never let go. He had kept Elora alive in his heart all these years, leaving no room for anyone else. And yet, he still couldn’t cut the ties that bound him to his wife. He reached out and laid his hand on top of the white polished marble stone. Even in the warmth of tropical Amara, the monument felt cold to the touch.
He had asked Barbara Jean to come with him, but she had insisted he visit Elora’s grave without her. His bodyguard waited a discreet distance away at the front entrance to the cemetery, giving him the privacy he needed to be alone with Elora ... and their son.
He thought of his wife often, kept her pictured in his mind as she had been the first time he saw her. Young, beautiful, carefree. But he seldom thought of the child, their child. A little boy, born too soon to survive in this hard, cruel world. York had allowed him to see the baby, tiny little thing, so small he could have fit in the palm of Sanders’s hand. And yet perfectly formed. Ten fingers. Ten toes. Angelic features so like Elora’s.
Sanders knelt by the graveside, his eyes dry, his heart gripped with unbearable pain. He stared at the dates and the inscriptions and an excerpt from a love poem chiseled into the face of the stone.
Elora Sanders, beloved wife of Damar Sanders
Infant Boy Sanders
I love thee with the breath, smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.
Yvette had chosen the poem. He vaguely recalled having told her that Elizabeth Barrett Browning had been Elora’s favorite poet.
As he placed his hand on the grave, his mind whispered the final line of the poem. And if God so choose, I shall love thee better after death.
“I still love you,” he said aloud.
And I love you, my darling. He heard her voice as plainly as if she were at his side, a voice from the grave, from the haunting memories that consoled him. She would never leave him.
Sanders rose to his feet. He wouldn’t come here again. Elora was not here. She was in his heart, a part of him forever.
As he turned to walk away, he caught a flash of movement in his peripheral vision. Something or someone had slipped behind a nearby palm tree.
“Who’s there?” he called.
No response.
Perhaps it had been an animal of some sort. He walked toward the enormous old tree, its large fronds gently rustling in the balmy breeze off the nearby ocean. As a woman ran out from behind the tree and rushed away from Sanders, he caught a whiff of her delicately scented perfume.
It couldn’t be. His senses were playing a trick on him. He only thought he could smell Elora’s perfume.
Acting on impulse, he followed the woman who managed to keep at least twenty feet ahead of him. She was slender and petite, her shoulder-length reddish blond hair shimmering in the sunlight.
“Wait,” he called out to her.
She seemed not to have heard him.
His mind was playing tricks on him. Just because he had thought he smelled Elora’s perfume ... just because the woman reminded him of Elora ...
Sanders walked faster, trying to catch up with her. He called out to her again just as she reached the iron gate on the far side of the small cemetery. And then just as she opened the gate and walked out onto the crowded street, she paused and turned and looked at him.
It was Elora!
But that was not possible. This woman could not be his Elora.
“Elora.” He cried her name.
She ran away before Sanders could reach her. He stood by the open gate and searched the busy street. She had simply disappeared.
His bodyguard caught up with him. “Mr. Sanders, are you all right?”
“I am ... yes, I am all right. I thought I saw someone I knew.”
Whoever the young woman was, she was not Elora. Just because she had been wearing Elora’s perfume ... just because she looked like Elora ...
He had been thinking of his wife, remembering her, and he had allowed himself to see what he wanted to see. There was no other possible explanation.
Chapter 30
Ten days in solitary confinement had taken a toll on Nic. She had seen no one except old Sourpuss, who had brought a basket of food items to her every morning. But as she marked off the days, counting sunrises each morning, she had reminded herself that there were much worse fates than being alone. Little had she known just how prophetic that thought would be.
Nic looked at the costume Sourpuss had delivered, along with specific instructions. “You are to bathe and then dress in those garments. Do so immediately.”
She had showered, washed and dried her hair, and left her dirty clothes lying on the bathroom floor. Now, standing naked by the bed, she picked up the first item of clothing. Initially, she thought it was a blouse or jacket of thin white cotton, but after slipping it on, realized it was meant to be a dress. The material was soft to the touch and so sheer that it was almost transparent. The gold braid-edged hem fell to mere inches below her butt and the one-shoulder bodice had been constructed so that her left breast remained uncovered. No matter how she rearranged the material, even flipping the dress from front to back, it had not altered the configuration. If she wore it backward, her right breast was bare.
The other items lying on the bed were not technically garments. She picked up the two gold armbands and snapped each around a bicep. The next item was a pair of gold-studded, fingerless white leather gloves. She laid them aside and lifted a gold helmet, amazed at how lightweight it was. It set on her head like a hat, sculpted to reveal her ears, leave her entire face visible, her forehead untouched, and it draped around the base of her head in the back.
My God, was she supposed to be decked out as if she was going to a Halloween party? The dress was a provocative version of an ancient Greek gown and the armbands and helmet reminiscent o
f a female warrior.
Damn! That was it. York had sent her an Amazon Queen costume. That fact alone told her one thing—tonight was the night she would be introduced to The Ring. But where was Jonas? Wasn’t he supposed to be her partner?
Nic ran her hand over her body, from full bare breast to the nicely camouflaged swell of her stomach. The dress’s loose, flowing construction adequately hid her round, slightly protruding belly. At almost five months, she was fortunate not to be twice this size. But was she too small? Shouldn’t she be showing more than she was? If the baby inside her wasn’t moving occasionally, she would worry that something was wrong.
“Little one, I’ll do everything I can to protect you tonight.”
The bedroom door opened without warning. Nic expected to see Sourpuss, but instead of the prune-faced old woman entering, Anthony Linden strode into the room. She should have known that York would send his rabid alpha dog to get her.
“You look rather fetching,” Linden said as his gaze slid over her, pausing to appreciate her large, naked breast. “I had forgotten just how voluptuous you are.”
“I’m disappointed. I thought you’d never forget anything about me.”
He glared at Nic. “Still have a smart mouth, I see. I’d have thought being hunted like an animal would have taken you down a peg or two. Apparently not. Perhaps tonight’s event will. You won’t be running to survive. You’ll be fighting to survive.”
“I assume that means I’ll be introduced to The Ring this evening.” Whatever you do, don’t show him any fear. You know that you’re scared half out of your mind, but he doesn’t.
“How astute of you.” Linden grinned.
She hated his vicious smile.
“Mr. York is quite eager to see how well you perform,” Linden said. “The tickets for tonight’s event sold for ten thousand each and required an invitation from either Mr. York or one of his trusted friends. I’m told there will be a hundred and fifty people there tonight.”
A hundred bloodthirsty people wanted to watch a fight to the death between two sets of warrior opponents and had paid dearly for that right. Nic knew she shouldn’t be surprised by how viciously depraved some humans were, others like York and Bouchard whose wickedness set them apart from the average sicko.
“Put on your gloves, Amazon Queen,” Linden told her. “We have a limousine waiting.”
Nic picked up the gloves, slipped them on, and marched out of the room, her head held high as she prayed she wouldn’t throw up all over her pretty little costume.
Griff’s patience had run out days ago. They had been in Amara for nearly two weeks. No word from York. If the son of a bitch didn’t contact him soon ... He’d do what? York had him right where he wanted him. Caught by the short hairs and going slowly out of his mind. The waiting had gotten to them all, even the normally cheerful Barbara Jean and the ever calm and composed Yvette. But the person Griff worried about the most was Sanders.
“I saw a woman at the cemetery,” Sanders had told him the first day he had visited his wife’s grave. “I swear to you that she looked like Elora. I know my mind was playing tricks on me, but she was even wearing Elora’s perfume.”
If seeing the Elora look-alike had happened only once, Sanders could have chalked it up to a trick of the mind. But it had happened again at various places around the island. The second time had been at the hotel’s Olympic-size swimming pool. The third time, the woman had been getting into a car that drove away from the hotel. And then it had happened again today. This time Griff had seen her, too. Sanders had joined Griff for his afternoon walk-off-steam jaunt away from the hotel, through the busy tourist market, and back around by the western beach. But each time the woman had appeared, she had disappeared before Sanders could reach her.
This evening, Griff had ordered dinner for four to be delivered to his suite. Not only did they need one another’s companionship now more than ever, but they needed to demystify the Elora sightings. Griff and Sanders had a pretty good idea what was going on, but Sanders hadn’t discussed their theory with Barbara Jean.
“I think you should return to Griffin’s Rest,” Griff told Yvette. “There’s nothing you can do here except waste your time. That seems to be all we’re doing.”
“I would prefer to stay,” she replied. “After all, how much longer can he make us wait? He is simply building up the tension so that he can make a big production of issuing you the next challenge. Like the real York, this man seems to love the dramatic.”
“Do as you please,” Griff said. “I can’t leave nor can Sanders and Barbara Jean. We’re trapped here until York decides it’s time to end the waiting game.”
“We have a delicious meal waiting for us.” Barbara Jean indicated the feast spread out on the dining table, and then picked up the open bottle of merlot and poured the rich, red liquid into four glasses. “I’m hoping we can get through one meal without any mention of York.”
Sanders reached over and grasped her hand. She snapped her head around and stared at him, and when he said nothing, she burst into tears.
“Please, don’t ...” Sanders rose from his seat, leaned over Barbara Jean’s wheelchair, and put his arms around her.
She pushed him away and buried her face in her hands.
“This is York’s doing,” Sanders said. “The woman who looks like Elora. He sent her here to torment me. It’s all part of his elaborate scheme.”
“Sanders and I agree on this,” Griffin said. “In some way, this phantom Elora is part of whatever York has planned for us here on Amara.”
Barbara Jean lifted her head, brushed the tears from her face, and looked at Griff. “I’m not sure I can do this, whatever it is. I thought I could, but ...”
Sanders’s hand hovered over Barbara Jean’s shoulder, but he did not touch her. His gaze met Griff’s and Griff felt his old friend’s pain and frustration.
Sanders was a man torn between the past and the present, between the ghost of the woman he loved and the flesh-and-blood woman who loved him.
“You can do whatever needs to be done,” Griff told Barbara Jean. “You’ll do it for Nicole, not for me or for Sanders.”
Barbara Jean looked right at Griff. “You’re right. I’ll do whatever I have to do to help Nic.”
Griff smiled. “I know you will. That’s why we’re all here, allowing York to torment us with the waiting and the not knowing. None of us are in a good place mentally or emotionally.”
“Thank you for trying to make me feel better.” She returned his smile. “I’m afraid I’ve lost my appetite.” She wheeled herself away from the table. “I think I’ll go back to my room and rest for a while.”
“I will go with you,” Sanders said.
“No, you stay here,” she told him. “I’d like some time alone.”
The moment Barbara Jean’s bodyguard closed the outer door of Griff’s penthouse suite, Sanders slammed his right fist into the palm of his left hand. “It is this goddamn fucking island. It’s cursed. That’s why he made us come back here.”
“The island is not cursed,” Yvette said. “We are.”
Rafe Byrne had watched the first gladiatorial battle with cold detachment, feeling little sympathy for the competitors and only a vague interest in the spectacle. As Sir Harlan’s guest, he was one of a select group attending tonight’s debacle—the slaughter of two human beings by two superior combatants. He was present tonight for one reason and one reason only and that was to further ingratiate himself to Benecroft.
The first event had pitted two men against two other men, each in costume, the pairs equally matched. They had fought for nearly an hour, with a three-minute rest period every fifteen minutes. The match had ended with all four men wounded, but no one dead.
The ringmaster made an announcement, explaining that since there was no obvious winner—no one dead—the guests would be allowed to choose which couple lived and which couple died. Within minutes the decision was made, the spectators obviously having a c
lear favorite. The winners stepped aside as four guards entered the ring and forced the losers onto their knees. Holding each man in place with his head yanked backward, the guards then motioned to the winners to strike their deadly blows. A chant rose up from the observers and grew louder and louder with each passing second.
Kill. Kill. Kill.
While the audience’s excitement built into a frenzy of anticipation, their voices shaking the rafters, the champions plunged small stilettos into the doomed participants’ jugulars. As the blood gushed, spraying the guards and the champions, the crowd went wild with shouts and cheers.
“Quite a show, my boy, quite a show.” Sir Harlan slapped Rafe on the back. “Didn’t I tell you that you’d love it? Nothing like it to get the juices flowing.”
Rafe forced a smile.
“I have arranged for us to meet Bouchard for a late-night snack after tonight’s main event. We’ll have our pick of some choice little tidbits.”
“You’re always the consummate host, Sir Harlan.”
The old bastard laughed with gusto, enjoying himself immensely.
“I didn’t know that Monsieur Bouchard was here tonight,” Rafe said.
“He arrived back in London only this morning. Came in for tonight’s entertainment.” Harlan indicated with a wave of his hand, his index finger halfway pointing the direction, where Bouchard could be located. “Yves has a front-row seat. He relishes an occasional blood splatter. I’ve heard him remark how much he enjoys the smell of fear and excitement that he can experience only if he’s close to the ring.”
Rafe’s gaze followed the trajectory of Benecroft’s finger as he searched for Bouchard. Sitting in the center front row, the debonair Frenchman threw back his head and laughed at something his companion had said. The man sitting beside Bouchard cocked his head to one side, giving Rafe a clear view of his face. For a split second Rafe didn’t believe his own eyes.
It can’t be!
He stared at the man’s familiar face.
Beverly Barton Bundle Page 112
