During their meal, Yvette had given Suzette condensed information about her own childhood and teen years, left out any mention of her life on Amara, and told the girl about her profession—psychiatrist—without bringing up anything about being an empath who had devoted herself to students with amazing psychic abilities.
Griff kept his own life story confined to a few sentences. Born and raised in Tennessee. Played football at UT. Was now a successful businessman.
“Are you two married?” Suzette asked.
“No,” Yvette replied. “Griffin and I are friends. I was married once, years ago. I’m a widow.”
“And your husband wasn’t my father?”
“No, he was not.”
“Are you married, Mr. Powell?”
“Yes,” Griff replied.
“Do either of you have children?”
“No,” they replied simultaneously.
Suzette concentrated on Griff. “I imagined that my biological father would be very tall, like you. And I have wondered if he would have gray eyes, too.” She turned to Yvette. “I have dreamed of having a mother. In my dreams she was as beautiful as you are, Dr. Meng.”
Moisture glistened in Yvette’s eyes. Griff reached over and clasped her hand. He knew that Yvette would sense what he was thinking, that Suzette might well be their child. But damn it all, his gut warned him that when something seemed too good to be true then it usually was.
“Would you allow Dr. Meng to touch you, to hold your hand?” Griff’s gaze locked with Suzette’s. He noticed a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes.
“Yes, of course.” The young woman reached across the table and held out her hand.
“Do it,” Griff told Yvette.
Hesitantly, anxiously, after nearly seventeen years of waiting and hoping, Yvette touched the hand of the girl she so desperately wanted to be the baby that had been stolen from her, the baby Malcolm York had never allowed her to see.
Yvette took Suzette’s trembling hand in hers and once they connected, the trembling stopped. Griff studied Yvette’s face, waiting for any sign that would tell him if she had emotionally recognized this girl as her child. But the transfixed expression Yvette held in place told him nothing.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand why—” Ms. Hartwood said, but was cut off abruptly midsentence when Suzette snatched her hand from Yvette’s loose grasp.
“What were you doing?” Suzette asked. “I could feel you probing around inside me.”
“No, you did not,” Yvette said. “You were too busy sending me mental messages that I am your mother to have noticed my gentle probing.”
“I was thinking about how much I hope you are my mother,” Suzette cried loud enough to draw glances from several other customers.
“And I hope that you are my daughter,” Yvette assured her in a soft, soothing voice. “I had felt so certain that if I could only see you ... touch you ... that I would know.” Yvette murmured under her breath, almost inaudible, “But even growing inside me, my baby hid from me.”
“But you don’t know if I’m your daughter, do you? Seeing me isn’t enough. Touching me didn’t convince you.” Suzette’s bottom lip trembled. Tears filled her gray eyes.
“I look at you and I see what I want to see, what is so very obvious,” Yvette said. “There is an undeniable resemblance. You could be my child and Griffin’s. And when I touched you, I felt a jolt of awareness, but ... What I was aware of was that you want me to believe you’re my daughter.”
“Then let’s do the DNA test,” Suzette said as she shoved back her chair and stood. “Let’s do it today. Right now. I need to know the truth just as much as you do.”
Rafe didn’t know the man’s real name. In the underground jungle that he frequented, reputations were far more important than identities. And everyone used aliases, and many, like Rafe, used more than one. Over the years, Harry Northcliffe had proven himself a reliable and trusted source of information, unknowingly helping him locate the Amara visitors that he had systematically sentenced to death during the past sixteen years. The curly-haired, dimple-cheeked little black marketeer kept his finger on the pulse of the treacherous, clandestine realm that existed parallel to mainstream society. Harry was a world traveler, popping up in London, Madrid, Paris, Rome, or wherever information meant money. If you became a marked man, Harry could probably discover who had put out the hit and even narrow down the list of possible assassins. If you needed to get a message to someone who flew under the radar, Harry could deliver without endangering the anonymity of either party. So, when Harry had told a friend who told a friend who told another friend that Harry Northcliffe had a message for a guy named Eddie Castell, Rafe stopped by Harry’s favorite London hangout, Frankie’s Italian Bar and Grill in Chiswick.
The first time Rafe had met him at the family-style bar and restaurant, he’d found it amusing that a fellow like Harry would have chosen a pub that possessed a 1930s art deco glamour, a place you could bring your mother. But he didn’t know the real Harry Northcliffe any more than Harry knew the real Eddie Castell, although he suspected Harry might know him by several of his other aliases.
From the street, the pub wasn’t impressive. But the entrance, through a Mediterranean-style terrace with overhead trellises, floral cloths on the round tables, and bright pink chairs, welcomed customers with flair. Once inside, Rafe surveyed the long, shiny black bar, lined with stools, for any sign of Harry. Then he searched the cozy bar rooms, with black-and-white tiled floors, red-checkered tablecloths, and disco ball–type light fixtures. After a brief search, he found Harry in the dining room, sitting at a table near the back wall lined with mirrors.
The moment Harry saw Rafe, he threw up a hand and waved.
Rafe took the chair across from Harry and said, “You’re looking well.”
Harry grinned. “Clean living. No smoking. No drugs. Just wine and good food.” He lifted his glass, saluted Rafe, and finished off the remaining drops of wine.
A waiter appeared almost instantly, proving what Harry always said about Frankie’s well-trained staff being topnotch.
“I’ve ordered us a couple of pizzas,” Harry said. “And we have this bottle of Chianti, but if you’d prefer something else to drink ... ?”
“Chianti is fine.”
Harry dismissed the waiter. He poured wine for Rafe and then refilled his own glass. “Are you staying in London for a while?”
“You tell me,” Rafe said.
Harry shrugged. “You never stay anywhere for very long, Mr. Castell.”
“Nor do you, Mr. Northcliffe.”
“No money to be made in rooting yourself in one place.”
“So, how are your finances at present?”
“Quite nice. Thank you for inquiring.”
“A recent investment payoff?” Rafe asked.
“Through recommendations from friends, I’ve reconnected with a former client, one who pays extremely well.”
“Good for you.”
“He’s a billionaire from the U.S.”
Rafe didn’t have to ask the man’s name. He knew.
“I believe he’s someone you’ve done business with in the past,” Harry said. “According to his associate, a Mr. Sentell, he is interested in going into a joint venture with you and would like to negotiate terms as soon as possible.”
Rafe had not seen Griffin Powell in sixteen years, not since Rafe’s release from the Royal London Hospital. Griffin, Sanders, and Yvette had reached out to him, asked him to join them, but he had refused. Nearly six years later, millions of dollars had shown up in a Swiss bank account in his name, a gift from his old Amara comrades. The money had been dirty. Filthy. Soaked in the blood of countless victims. But he had kept it, put it to good use, washed it clean with vengeance. Griffin had collected Malcolm York’s ill-gotten billions, through legal and illegal channels for York’s widow, and apparently she had turned the bulk of the enormous fortune over to Griffin.
“I assume he wants
to set up a meeting,” Rafe said.
“At your earliest convenience.”
“I’m not sure this is a joint venture I’d be interested in.”
Harry shrugged. “Suit yourself. It’s nothing to me one way or the other. But if I’m not mistaken, you’re indebted to this gentleman. I’d think you would want to repay him.”
So that’s how it was. After nearly two decades Griffin Powell was calling in his marker. If that was the case, it could mean only one thing—the rumors about Malcolm York rising from the dead were true.
Chapter 18
Griff and Yvette left the restaurant in Biddenden shortly after Suzette and Ms. Hartwood said their good-byes. Despite being in tears, Suzette had managed to be polite following her emotional outburst.
“How shall we proceed?” Suzette had asked. “Do I spit in a cup? Or give you a lock of my hair?”
“I’ve arranged for someone from a reliable lab to come to the school for a sample,” Griffin had explained to Suzette before speaking directly to the counselor. “If you need to contact Mr. York, please do so. I’m sure he will give his permission.”
Whatever game York was playing, this young girl had a starring role in it. As much as Griff wished, for Yvette’s sake, that the girl was her daughter, he remained skeptical. What reason would York have for handing Yvette the thing she wanted most in this world?
As they rode along toward Cranbrook, Yvette in silently composed, eyes-closed state of meditation, Griff concentrated on the man who had kidnapped Nic, the man who had ordered him to bring Yvette to England to meet her long-lost daughter. Why would anyone assume the identity of a monster like Malcolm York? A friend? A relative? An admirer? The real York’s closest friends had been as sick and evil as he had been. But only one of those bosom buddies still lived—Yves Bouchard. Griff remembered Bouchard well. Griff had been the man’s favorite quarry when York arranged his special hunts. And Rafe had been Bouchard’s favorite boy toy. But Griff couldn’t imagine Bouchard embracing someone else’s identity, not when his own ego was astronomical. If ever a guy was in love with himself, it was Yves Bouchard.
The sadistic Amara guards were all dead. He had made sure that not one of them survived. And only six captives had left Amara alive. Two of the men were dead; at least Griff had been sent copies of their death certificates. But death certificates could be faked, bodies could be switched, mistakes could be made. Would either Fletcher or Papandreou, if actually still alive, have any reason to metamorphose into a Malcolm York clone? They had hated York, had been as abused as the other slaves, and had helped in killing the guards. Unless one of them was still alive and had snapped and become mentally unstable, and for some unknown psychological reason woke up one morning and decided to become Malcolm York, then Griff could rule out both men.
As for relatives, York had a number of distant cousins, but there were no records of siblings or children. His nearest kin was Sir Harlan Benecroft, a wicked old pervert whose depravity reinforced the theory that personality disorders such as insanity and a penchant for evil did indeed run in families. Sir Harlan had produced one offspring, a son named Ellis. Griff had a copy of his death certificate, too. Ellis Benecroft, renowned as a worthless, womanizing playboy, was last seen alive with a famous supermodel. His and his female companion’s charred bodies had been found at the bottom of a ravine in Italy, where Ellis’s Lamborghini Gal-lardo had crashed.
Had Griff overlooked someone? Did York have an unknown sibling? An illegitimate child no one knew about? An admirer who hadn’t been a frequent visitor to Amara? If not, then the only possibilities were Yves Bouchard, Sir Harlan, and three dead men.
Griff didn’t even notice that the car had stopped until their chauffeur said, “We’ve arrived at the George Hotel, Mr. Powell.”
“Thank you.” Griff glanced at Yvette, who had opened her eyes and was looking at him. “Are you all right?”
“I am confused and disappointed,” she replied. “But I will be fine.”
The chauffeur opened the back door and assisted Yvette out and onto the sidewalk in front of the historic building housing the boutique hotel. Well maintained, the old brick structure sported new windows, the framework painted gray, as were the entrance door and the decorative metal railing around the narrow awning that extended from one end of the hotel to the other. A gray sign stating the establishment’s name and depicting a gray knight atop a gray steed hung from a second-story pole.
The interior was warm and welcoming and check-in a quick and easy task. Upstairs, Griff found his room to be more than adequate, with a large bed and a private bath. He placed his suitcase on the luggage rack at the foot of the bed and left the unpacking for later. Yvette’s room nearby was smaller than his, with a double bed, crisp white linens, and a dark brown duvet. She had left the door open as if she was expecting him. Standing by the window overlooking Stone Street, her back to him, she apparently sensed his presence.
“Please, come in.”
Griffin stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him. “I’ve been promised the DNA results within a few days. The lab understands that no expense is to be spared to expedite the tests.”
Unmoving, her slender shoulders straight, her head unbowed, Yvette continued looking out the window. “I was so certain that I would know if she was my daughter.”
“But you’re not sure. I have to admit that when I first saw her ... Damn, but she looks like us, doesn’t she? At least superficially. Her Eurasian heritage. Her gray eyes. Her height. The fact that she’s beautiful.”
“If you were my child’s father, I imagine she would look a great deal like Suzette.”
Griff walked across the room and stood beside Yvette.
“We have no way of knowing my child’s true paternity.” She turned and looked up at him. “I would like to believe that she is your child. And if not yours, then Lunt Anderson’s. I believe he was a good man.” She inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. “Before we left Griffin’s Rest, Sanders asked me how I would feel about my child if I knew that she had been fathered by Yves Bouchard.”
“And what did you say to Sanders?”
“I had no answer for his question. I refuse to believe that Bouchard ... No, not him. Never.”
“Then what about—?”
“No, not him either.”
Griff understood her reluctance to accept the possibility that her child, be that child Suzette York or an almost seventeen-year-old boy or girl out there somewhere still unknown to them, could have been fathered by Yves Bouchard.
Just as York had been, Bouchard was a monster.
But why did she have such strong negative feelings for the only other person who could have fathered her child? Had something he didn’t know about happened between them on Amara? If so, then Yvette would tell him if she wanted him to know.
“I’ll leave so you can rest for a while,” Griff said, regretting that there was nothing he could say or do to make the situation easier for her. When she didn’t respond as he turned to go, he added, “I need to contact Sanders for an update about our ongoing search for Nic.”
“I hope he has some positive news for you.” Yvette continued staring out the window.
Sanders had never lied to Griffin.
“You can’t tell him,” Maleah Perdue warned. “Not yet. Not until you know for sure that Nic is on the Isis.”
“If I do not mention anything about the yacht owned by Kroy Enterprises, I will be lying to him by omission.”
“Then, by God, lie to him. For all we know, York wants us to think Nic is aboard the Isis. He could have deliberately allowed us to discover that the yacht is owned by Kroy. This could all be part of his game. He could be out there somewhere laughing his head off because he believes that Griff thinks we’re on the verge of rescuing Nic again.”
“Maleah could be right,” Derek Lawrence said. “York is playing a game, one where the only rules are his rules. He sees himself as the puppet master, the one pulling all the
strings. He had a reason to send Griff and Yvette to England. For all we know, he’s setting some sort of trap, either an emotional trap or an actual physical trap.”
Sanders owed Griffin far more than his life and he would spend the rest of his days repaying the debt. He had spent the past sixteen years at the man’s side, devoting himself to helping Griffin use the vast wealth he had claimed in Yvette’s name—York’s blood money—to right as many wrongs as possible. In the beginning, the Powell Private Security and Investigation Agency had been little more than a sideline for Griffin, one more small way that he could use York’s wealth to do something good. And it had allowed Griffin a diversion from his numerous other enterprises, but more importantly, playing the billionaire playboy detective had been an excellent façade. Each in his or her own way, he—Griffin—and Yvette existed in two worlds at the same time—the past and the present—and only they truly knew each other.
Griffin Powell loved his wife. Sanders understood, as few others possibly could, the living hell in which Griffin now existed. Sanders had loved his wife. Elora. Kind, gentle, sweet Elora. And like Yvette, an empath.
“I will wait.” Sanders looked at Derek. “If Griffin contacts me before we find out what is happening on the Isis, I will not tell him. But if Nicole is aboard the yacht, I will inform him immediately, no matter what happens.”
“I believe you’ve made the right decision,” Derek said.
“Absolutely,” Maleah agreed. “Now, if only we’d hear something from our Colombian contacts.” She checked her wristwatch. “The operation should be going down right now, shouldn’t it?”
“If all is going as planned,” Sanders told her.
Nic had just finished dressing for dinner, a command performance, when she heard what sounded like gunfire.
What the hell?
Shouting.
Frantic commands.
The rumble of feet tramping rapidly in a fury of activity.
Repeated gunfire a constant backdrop to every other sound.
Dead By Nightfall Page 19
