“Let’s see. You have an MBA in finance and a doctorate in childhood education. That’s quite a mix.”
She didn’t respond.
“You have a summer place in the Carolinas. Drive a cobalt blue Z—six speed.” He paused in his recital to say, “Not many ladies drive a stick. I’m impressed.”
Silence.
He went on as if they were having the most pleasant of conversations. “You worked on Wall Street before you began your school, and according to the SEC you’re rich as Cleopatra.”
That was true too, but Narice didn’t react, instead she said, “All that is public information. It doesn’t prove anybody sent you, let alone the President.”
He took his eyes off the road for a moment to say, “You know, you really should be nicer to me. I’m probably the only one who can get you out of this mess.”
“And that’s why the President sent you, I suppose, as opposed to the FBI.”
“I work for them sometimes, too.”
Narice sighed with frustration. She was in a car with a madman. This night was getting worse and worse. “And the Secret Service? Do you work for them, too?”
“Yep.”
Narice shook her head. “Your nose should be breaking through the windshield any minute now, Pinocchio.”
He chuckled. “Never thought a Wall Street principal would have jokes.”
“You mean that wasn’t in your file?” she asked in mock surprise.
“Nope. It didn’t say you were so fast either. Where’d you run track?”
“MSU,” she volunteered before remembering she wasn’t supposed to be talking to this lunatic. He gave her a knowing smile that seemed to be magnified by the shades, but she ignored it, or tried to by asking him, “So who are you really?”
“Name’s St. Martin. Most people call me, Saint.”
She remembered Ridley calling him St. Martin, so she felt safe in assuming that was his true name. “And who do you work for, really?”
“I told you, the President.”
Narice still didn’t believe him, and she was too upset to find any humor in him or the situation. “Okay. Fine. Where are we going?”
“To Grand Rapids to see a queen.”
Sheer disbelief made her blurt out, “What?”
“We’re going to Grand Rapids to see a queen.”
“I heard that part. Why?”
“She thinks you know where the Eye is.”
“But I don’t,” she said throwing up her hands. “Why won’t anybody believe me?”
He shrugged. “Well, you can tell her when you see her.”
Narice tried reason. “Look I buried my father yesterday. All I want to do is catch my plane, go home, and grieve. I promise you on my daddy’s memory, I will talk to this queen after I have a chance to pull my life back together.”
“My condolences on your loss,” he said in a sincere tone. “But I can’t let you go. So, like I said, grab some CDs and relax. We’ll be in Grand Rapids by sunup.”
“Let me out of this car.”
“No can do. President’s orders.”
Frustrated she slammed her fists on the seat. Her life was spinning out of control. No one seemed to care that she’d lost her daddy and that her grief was still fresh and real. All these men seemed to care about was a damn diamond she knew absolutely nothing about.
Soft jazz whispered melodically from the speakers. Apparently he’d inserted the CD himself. As the sleek black car cut through the darkness with only the green glow of the dash lights illuminating the interior, Narice felt cut off from the world. In another time and place she might have loved a late-night drive in a car as beautiful and powerful as this, but there was no pleasure in this ride, only uncertainty, fear, and the mysterious insane man behind the wheel.
A little over an hour later, they rolled past the city of East Lansing, home to Michigan State University, her alma mater. Memories of the good times she’d had on campus faded under the reality of her present situation. She hadn’t lived in Michigan in over a decade but knew that Grand Rapids was a mere sixty miles west. She had to find a way to escape before then.
“Hungry?” he asked.
“No.”
“I am. Time for breakfast.” He exited the highway and pulled into the nearly empty lot of a fast-food joint. The sky was now pink, signaling the beginning of a new day.
When Narice spotted the police car parked near the entrance of the restaurant, she felt hope rise again. Keeping her voice neutral, she stated, “I need to use the bathroom.”
“All right, but no funny business.”
She didn’t make any promises.
They got out of the car, and when he escorted her inside, she got her first good look at him. He had on a long black canvas coat that fit him like an Old West duster. The heavy fabric was faded and frayed from wear. Under the coat, he wore black jeans, a black turtleneck, and dirty scuffed army boots. His skin tone was light, almost gold, but the color of his eyes were hidden behind the shades. Had Narice met him at a club or the bank she would have to say he was handsome in an unshaven, dangerous-looking sort of way. In fact, all he needed was a six-shooter and a wide brimmed hat and he could’ve auditioned for the male lead in a Hollywood western, but in reality, he was her kidnapper, and there was nothing handsome or cute about that.
The door to the ladies room was a few steps down the hall from the entrance. He walked her there and warned softly, “I’ll be waiting here. In fact, hand me your purse.”
Narice cast a discreet glance over to the two policemen seated by the windows, having coffee. “Why?”
“Just to make sure you don’t go out of a window. There isn’t a sister alive who’ll run off and leave her purse behind.”
Narice saw no problem with making him think she’d given up on escaping. “Well, there’s stuff in there that I need, so how about I let you keep my wallet. I’m not going to run off without my ID or my credit cards.”
“I’ll take the cell phone, too.”
She slapped the items into his outstretched palm and walked away.
Inside the restroom, Narice surveyed herself in the mirror. She’d lost a button off the coat of her suit and her hair was a mess. There was a hole in her stockings as big as her fist, and her skirt was twisted and wrinkled. After righting herself as much as she could, and cursing the man responsible, she tried to come up with a plan that would get the attention of the officers at the table. She decided on a direct approach.
When she came out of the restroom, the man she knew as Saint was standing by the door just as he’d promised. She assumed the bag in his hand held the food he’d ordered but she didn’t care. Stepping right past him, she quickly walked over to the seated officers. “Excuse me, but I need some assistance.”
The cops, County Sheriffs, according to the patch on their brown and gold uniforms looked her over with her wrinkled suit and torn hose, and one of them asked, “What can we do for you?”
“I’ve been kidnapped.”
By then her captor was standing beside her and asking, “You’re not bothering these nice officers are you, angel?”
Narice turned around. Angel?! Then she noticed that his shades were gone. His eyes were the most arresting green she’d ever seen. The power in them was so unexpected, she lost sight of her role for a moment.
He took advantage and stepped into the breach. “My apologies, officers. My wife does this a lot—”
“I am not his wife,” Narice stated now that she’d regrouped. “He kidnapped me in Detroit—”
“The hospital lets me take her home once or twice a month. She’s under a doctor’s supervision.”
Narice stared. What?!
The next thing she knew, he was showing the police what appeared to be legal documents. “See,” he said to them, “these are her papers. It gives me permission to take her off the grounds of the hospital where she usually stays. I had the doctors there type this up because every time I take her out, she gets people al
l freaked out claiming to be kidnapped and stuff.”
Narice stood there stunned. Who in the world was this man?! She leaned down so the officers could see her clearly. “I am not crazy. This man is a kidnapper.”
The officers studied the papers. After a few minutes they handed them back. One of the officers patted her on the hand, and said, kindly, “Ma’am, we can’t arrest your husband. Why don’t you let him take you on home. Okay?”
“He’s not my husband!” she snarled.
By now, the restaurant’s employees and customers were staring her way. “He isn’t!!”
Her husband said gently, “Calm down, baby,” then to the officers, “She’s getting herself all worked up. I need to get her to the car so she can take her medication.”
Narice threw up her hands. “I’m not crazy!”
“Come on, angel. Let’s let these men finish their coffee.”
“I am not crazy!!”
But she felt like it. How had he put her into this box so effortlessly? It was quite obvious that the police were buying his bogus story and weren’t going to help her at all, so Narice shook off her captor’s husbandly hold and stormed towards the door. She wiped at the angry tears threatening to brim from her eyes. He caught up with her before she could push through the wide glass doors. He opened it politely and she sailed through. He escorted her across the parking lot and had the nerve to be whistling confidently the whole way. Narice wondered if she could escape long enough to buy some rat poison for him to eat.
Once they were inside the car, he turned her way and asked, “So, what grade do I get for my performance back there, Teach?”
“Oh, you’re conceited, too?” she drawled sarcastically. “Why did I already know that?”
He grinned at her.
“You get an A,” she told him. “The papers were very clever. Hope I get the chance to return the favor someday.”
“Hey, you might.”
He fished a wrapped breakfast burger out of the bag. “Sure you don’t want anything to eat.”
“Real sure.”
He seemed to sense how truly angry she was. “I really am with the good guys.”
“Whatever you say.”
“I’m not going to hurt you, rape you, put you in an underground dungeon, and make you eat mouse burgers—none of that. Okay?”
The part about the mouse burgers almost made Narice smile, but she simply answered, “Okay.”
“Here’s your stuff back.”
She took her wallet. “My phone?”
“I’m going to hang on to it for now.” Without another word he started the engine and drove back to the highway.
Saint was real sorry about having to put her through this. He’d been briefed about her father’s death and assumed she was grieving, but sometimes circumstances were such that personal issues had to be set aside and this was one of those circumstances. Once they found the Eye, she could get back to her life but until then, her life would be tied to his and the search. “Our audience with the queen is this afternoon. We’ll grab a room and hole up until then.”
“I’m not sharing a room with you.”
“Then I’ll lock you in the car.”
She shot him an ugly look.
“No? Guess it’ll be the room then.”
Narice turned away.
Saint chuckled softly.
When they reached the outskirts of Grand Rapids, he pulled the car into the parking lot of an all-suites hotel and cut the engine. Narice’s watch showed the time to be just past 6:30. She could see hotel guests loading luggage into their cars while others trooped over to the building for the chain’s famous free breakfast buffet.
He turned to her and said, “Don’t even think about reaching out to someone. The sooner we get this search underway the sooner you can have your life back.”
Narice didn’t respond. If he thought she was going to stop trying to escape he was crazy.
He got out. She knew if she ran, he’d catch her so she bided her time and watched him remove her suitcase from the trunk. She was surprised to see it. Last time she saw it Ridley’s cabbie friend was placing it in the cab’s trunk. She wondered if it had been put into this car by the same person who’d left her pumps on the seat after her foiled escape attempt.
The sight of him coming around to her side of the car brought her back to the situation at hand. He opened the door and she got out.
The all-suites hotel belonged to a national chain Narice often stayed in when she traveled. There were so many buildings on this particular site, the property resembled an apartment complex. Since her keeper didn’t head towards the building housing the registration desk, she assumed check-in arrangements had already been made. Sure enough, he led her up a short flight of wooden stairs to one of the upstairs units and stuck a key in the door.
“Wait here,” he told her, then added firmly, “and I do mean, wait.”
Narice’s chin rose. As of now, she’d been up a straight twenty-four hours and after all she’d been through since leaving her daddy’s memorial, the fatigue had taken its toll. Her body felt like limp spaghetti. She wasn’t giving up on escaping, but at this particular moment, she didn’t have the strength to do anything but wait.
Inside, Saint drew his gun and searched the place from stem to stern, looking for intruders. The suite had two floors. The first level held a well-stocked kitchen, complete with stove, refrigerator, dishwasher, and microwave. To the right, lay the living room area with couch and chairs, and an intimate fireplace. The bed stood near the wall.
He stepped back outside. “Come on in. I’m going to put you upstairs.”
The upper level held a big bed, a television, and a bathroom. He set her suitcase by the bed.
“Get some sleep.”
Narice had one question to ask. “Did you have anything to do with my father’s death?”
He looked her in the eyes and answered without hesitation. “No.”
And he left.
Two
Narice awakened around noon to the smells of coffee and bacon. Turning over in the bed, she snuggled deeper, intending to sleep longer but the brief brush with consciousness made her remember where she was, and then it all came back—the encounter with Ridley, her kidnapping, her father’s burial. She wondered if things could get any worse? Probably, said the cynic inside. Probably.
She got up and walked the short distance to the bathroom. On the way she saw that she’d slept in her suit and shrugged it off. She’d been so drained this morning the moment her head hit the pillow, she’d immediately fallen asleep. The six-hundred-dollar ensemble was a wrinkled mess, but she didn’t care; she just wanted a shower.
Before stripping off her clothes, though, Narice made sure the lock on the bathroom door worked. Satisfied, she took care of her morning needs, then stepped into the glass stall. The spray was hot and powerful, a perfect combination for a woman trying to pull herself back together.
Dressed in a pair of jeans, a white silk Tee, and carrying the blue silk jacket she’d picked up in Barcelona last year, Narice came downstairs. Saint was at the stove tending bacon frying in a skillet.
“Hello,” he called out. “Hope you don’t mind having breakfast. I’m cooking enough for two if you want some.”
A kidnapper who cooked breakfast at noon, and in sunglasses, no less. She noted that at least he’d taken off the High Noon coat. The navy turtleneck and the worn pair of jeans showed off the lean fitness of his six-foot-plus frame. The army boots were as dirty as they’d been earlier and he still hadn’t shaved.
“Do you eat bread?” he asked, now standing by the toaster.
She found the question odd. “Yes, why?”
“Fashion types like you don’t always eat bread. Didn’t want to waste it.”
“Fashion types?” she asked skeptically, coolly.
“Yeah.” He dropped the bread into the slots, then went back to the skillet where the bacon was frying nicely.
Narice too
k a seat on one of the counter’s stools and drawled, “And here I thought I was just a kidnap victim.”
He grinned a bit. “Just going by the way you dress.”
“And if I judged you by the way you dress, what would you be, besides a kidnapper?”
“Ouch,” he yelped. “You’re hard on a brother.” Using a long-handled fork he lifted the now-done bacon from the pan and laid it on a paper towel–covered plate. “My sister says I look like an outlaw.”
“Does she know you kidnap women?”
He made an elaborate show of thinking that over, then said, “Nope.” He added, “Did I mention that I’m with the good guys?”
“You did.”
“You’re not acting like you believe me.”
“Maybe, because I don’t.”
“You think a bad guy would cook you this kind of breakfast, at this time of day?” he asked, stirring what appeared to be a small pot of grits. “Bad guys would feed you mouse burgers.”
She couldn’t help it. She smiled.
He paused for a moment to watch her. “I wondered if you knew how to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Smile.”
Narice tried to shrug it off. “Okay, so you’re charming. Proves nothing.”
“You think I’m charming?”
“I think you’re fishing for compliments.”
“Am I?”
He set a plate before her that had on it scrambled eggs, bacon, and a small steaming helping of grits. She looked into the dark glasses and did her best to ignore the pure male essence he exuded. “Yes, you are, but thanks for breakfast anyway.”
“You’re welcome,” he replied, then went to fix his own plate.
The meal was surprisingly good.
He asked, “How’s my cooking?”
“Not bad. They teach you this in kidnapper school?”
“Yep. First day.”
She met his shaded eyes. “You get an A.”
“Thanks.”
“Why do you wear sunglasses indoors?”
“I’m nocturnal.”
Her voice was skeptical. “Nocturnal.”
“Yeah, sorta like a cheetah.”
She shook her head. A nocturnal kidnapper.
The Edge of Dawn Page 2
