The Midas Trap

by Sharron McClellan

  Mansions like this were built to last and protect the occupants.

  She sank to the floor. She couldn’t go through another incarceration. The beatings. The humiliations. Brazil had almost killed her. Turkey would be much worse and not even Alyssa would be able to buy her freedom.

  Alyssa. She couldn’t give up. Not now. If she did, Alyssa would never forgive her. With a groan, Veronica propped herself against the door and hauled herself to a standing position. Her side hurt, but it felt better than it did a minute ago. She took a slow, deep breath and her rib cage expanded.

  Shuffling over to the desk, she opened the drawers. They weren’t locked, and she flung them to the carpet one by one, but found they held nothing but papers. No key.

  She turned. That left the window.

  Which wouldn’t be a problem if she weren’t four stories above the ground, hurting like hell and running out of time.

  Veronica wiped a hand over her forehead. Not wanting to fall four stories, she’d been bent on trying to pick the door lock with one of the pins from her hair. At the same time, she alternately cursed Simon for not being present, since lock picking was his specialty, and thanking God that he’d escaped.

  One of the tumblers moved. “Come on.” She pressed harder, and the pin snapped off, leaving the tip stuck in the lock. “Damn it!” She kicked the door in exasperation, then winced at the sharp pain in her side

  She went back to the window and leaned over the edge.

  Four stories. Forty feet—give or take a foot—and there was nothing she could use to make a rope.

  She spun about on her heel to survey the room one last time. But it was as useless now as it was thirty minutes ago. The couch was made of leather, the windows lacked curtains, and unless she had scissors, there was no way she could take apart a Persian rug.

  She turned back to the opening that represented both freedom and death. Would she survive the fall if she dangled and jumped? “Not unless you’ve grown some superpowers in the last thirty minutes,” she muttered to herself.

  Even if she lived, there was no way she’d walk away.

  But maybe she could climb down.

  She leaned farther out and ran her hand over the outside wall. The mansion was made of cut stone. It was rough. Textured. And there was almost an inch indentation where the stones were cemented together. Getting a good grip would be difficult.

  But not impossible. When she was thirteen, she’d climbed up the lava cliffs of Santorini on a dare. This was no different.

  She moved fast now that she had a plan. She turned off the lights in the room, breaking the bulbs with a book. The darkness would keep her from being silhouetted to anyone outside, plus would buy her time when Fakhir returned and had to search for her in a dark room.

  Standing back at the window, she rubbed the silken costume between her fingertips. It would have to go. Especially the top. The coins that made it beautiful also made it noisy.

  Unhooking the back, she let it drop to the carpet, leaving her in a red bra.

  As for the skirt…she moved to unhook it and stopped. If, no when, she escaped, she was going to have to go through the public streets. She might be able to pass off the bra as a top, but not if she wore only it and a matching red thong.

  The skirt stayed. She tied the ends around her waist to keep it out of the way, took a deep breath and flung her leg over the edge of the window. “I can do this,” she whispered into the night as she straddled the window casing.

  She pulled the other leg over so she was sitting on the edge of the windowsill, both legs hanging over and into the abyss. For a fleeting heartbeat, she wondered if she could make the descent.

  She looked down at the dark ground below her. Facing the front of the house, there was nothing to break her fall but landscaped grass and a few shrubs.

  “What else are you going to do?” she muttered to herself. “Let them take you to jail?”

  Veronica turned over, legs hanging free, and lowered herself over the edge.

  Chapter 13

  Veronica had only climbed down eight feet when headlights coming up the driveway caught her attention. Her right foot slipped, and she automatically latched onto the stone with the other three limbs. Fingernails tore away from flesh, and her toes scraped the walls as she fought to get a hold with her right foot.

  She found a crack and held it. “Too close,” she mumbled. “Too damned close.”

  She knew she wasn’t going to be able to make it to the ground—not like this. Already her arms were trembling with fatigue, and her side, where Fakhir had kicked her, was screaming for release.

  That meant she’d have to get back into the house. Out of the corner of her left eye, she spied a window below and almost beside her. Good enough.

  The incoming car stopped in front of the house. Veronica froze. Her section of the house was in shadow, but it would only take a tiny movement to draw attention. As long as she remained motionless, chances were they would not look up. The police? She wasn’t going to turn her head to find out, but it was a sure bet. Who else would be coming over at one in the morning?

  But if it were the police, then her time was running out. Quickly, her muscles screaming, she climbed down another foot, her grip tenuous. She stopped. The ledge was close. She stuck her left foot out. Not close enough. She inched sideways. One. Two. Three inches. A little more and she’d be able to get her foot on the ledge.

  If Alyssa could see her now, she’d have a cow. Her sister hated heights almost as much as Veronica hated sharks.

  Below her, the front door opened and Veronica recognized Fakhir’s voice. He was telling whoever had arrived that he had the murderer locked safely away upstairs—that’s what you think—and would they like a cup of tea?

  Thank God for Middle Eastern hospitality. She closed her eyes and clung to the stone like ivy. Sweat poured down her spine. Come on. Take the tea.

  Whoever replied spoke softly and she couldn’t make it out. There was some laughter as the door closed.

  Then nothing but the sound of the city that lay beyond the grounds and the slamming of her heart in her chest.

  If the cops accepted the tea offer, she had, maybe, ten minutes. If they didn’t, then ten seconds would be more accurate, and the last place she needed to be found was on the side of the building.

  If they caught her here, they’d simply wait for her to come to them and then they’d haul her to prison. And hauling it would be. There was no way she’d go without a fight. Not this time.

  She moved another inch and her thighs and calves cramped. She gritted her teeth against the pain and eyed the window ledge. Could she make it? Was she close enough? There was one way to find out.

  She gripped the stone as hard as she could, every muscle in her back and arms protesting, and extended her leg. Her toes touched the wide stone ledge, then her arch and her heel. Solid footing.

  She wedged her calf against the side of the sill for stability, and her arm followed the same path, except it gripped the side of the opening. Hanging on, she heaved the rest of her body over, both feet planted firmly on the ledge and her arms gripping the sides of the window.

  Oh, God. She faced the window, resting her cheek against the cold glass. Her knees shook, and for a moment, she thought she’d pass out from sheer relief.

  But now was not the time. She wasn’t safe. Not by a long shot.

  She pushed against the closed window with her hand and it swung open. She wanted to sob with relief that something had finally gone her way.

  Pushing the heavy curtains aside, she dropped into the darkened room. Her knees gave way as they touched the carpet, and she sunk to the floor, catching herself with her hands before she made a noise.

  Rising to her hands and knees, Veronica gave her eyes a moment to adjust. In the dim light that came through the window, she saw she was in a bedroom.

  Perhaps even the master one. Or one of them.

  There was king-size bed with a massive headboard. A few c
hairs and a flat panel television.

  And there were artifacts. Idols. Standing up, she picked up a box. It was made of alabaster, and she’d bet it was a thousand years old as well. Veronica set it back down where she found it.

  What a creep. All of this deserved to be in a museum. Her eyes narrowed as she realized that the artifacts were probably why Michael was at the party tonight. He was one of Fakhir’s suppliers.

  The scum. She should have given them Michael’s name and damn the consequences. That would have been entertainment. Who knew what Fakhir would have done when he found that one of his suppliers stole from him? Maybe then Michael would be here instead of her.

  Once again, she’d played the fool for Michael. “No more,” she vowed, slamming a closed fist into her open palm, solid as granite in her conviction to escape, find Simon and get the Eye back.

  Careful not to knock anything over, Veronica threaded her way past the furniture and to the door on the other side of the room.

  Leaning her ear against it, she listened for any noise to indicate that the hallway was occupied.

  There was nothing but silence.

  She took the sheets off the bed, slit them in half and began knotting the ends together. It was a clichéd escape, but sometimes the oldest ideas were the best ones. The living space of the house was a guarded deathtrap. Leaving by way of makeshift rope would give her a fighting chance.

  She started a tear in the satin bedspread, pulling it the rest of the way to rip the expensive fabric into two pieces.

  Next came the drapes.

  Within minutes, she had her makeshift rope. Quickly, she anchored the end to the bedpost. Hurrying to the window with the rope in her arms, she peered over the ledge. A guard walked below, making his rounds.

  A thump came from the room above them.

  Her eyes widened in alarm.

  “Fakhir!” Veronica murmured, her voice cracking.

  A shout sounded and there was crashing and running about. They were searching the room. Good. It would buy her more time.

  Below her, the guard turned the corner, and she dropped the sheet over the ledge.

  Adrenaline fueling her, she gripped the rope and went over the edge of the windowsill. She clung to the rope, her arms straining from supporting her dangling body.

  Quickly, she slid down the sheet, using it less as a rope and more as something to break her speedy fall. Her feet hit the ground hard, but the grass was soft as she rolled and came up on her knees.

  How the hell was she going to escape the compound?

  Above her, the window to her makeshift cell opened and Fakhir peeked out. “Durdurmak!”

  Her heart was like a hammer in her chest, and she ran toward the darkness on the side of the house.

  She’d just cleared the bushes and only made twenty feet when a muscular hand yanked her to a sudden stop.

  She lashed out, her fists clenched.

  “Stop it. It’s me,” came the urgent, forceful command.

  She froze. “Simon? What the hell?” He wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be gone. Safe.

  But he’d waited. She warmed at the thought.

  “Are you okay?” he blurted out, his hands roaming over her, checking for injuries.

  “Fine. Fine. A little bruised.” The voices grew closer. She pulled away, anxious to be gone. “Can we talk about this later?”

  He grabbed her hand. “Let’s go.”

  “You have a plan?” she asked, his pulse pounding against her fingertips.

  “Keep up” was all he said, then he was pulling her along and back toward the front of the mansion.

  She didn’t know what he had in mind, but there wasn’t time to question—just trust that he had a plan.

  They reached the police car in the driveway and he stopped. Yanking the door open, he pushed her in. She slid over and he slid in behind her.

  Using the butt-end of his knife, he knocked off the ignition switch. Jamming the end of his knife where the key used to go, he turned it and the car roared to life.

  Simon slammed it into gear and they sped down the driveway toward the giant wrought-iron gate. “Hang on” was all Simon said as he gunned the engine. Veronica ducked in the seat and braced herself. There was a great bang, and the car jerked and slowed but didn’t stop.

  When she raised her head, they were on the narrow road that ran in front of the mansion, and there was nothing trailing them but angry shouts that died away as soon as they turned the corner.

  Simon cruised down a dark narrow side street while Veronica kept a lookout behind them.

  “Anyone?”

  “Not unless their headlights are turned off,” she replied, twisting around to face the front. “I think we lost them.”

  “I’d still feel better doing a little more backtracking.” He glanced in the mirror, squinted with concentration, then turned way, obviously judging whatever he saw behind them to be a nonthreat.

  She gave his thigh an affectionate pat. “We’ve switched cars three times. I think we’ve ticked off enough people in Istanbul tonight.” She could imagine the headlines in the morning paper: Wave of Car Thefts Terrorizes City.

  Maybe not terrorize, she thought with a yawn. But at least annoy. Stretching in an attempt to stay awake, she turned on the radio, but there wasn’t much besides static and an early-morning talk show.

  “Anything interesting?” Simon asked.

  She’d forgotten he didn’t speak Turkish. She turned the radio off. “Nothing about us. Maybe later.”

  “Doubtful. The cop whose car we stole probably doesn’t want anyone to know he lost it,” Simon mused as he turned a corner. “I can’t blame him. He’s got to feel like an idiot.”

  “True,” Veronica chuckled. “I’m sure he didn’t think you knew how to hot-wire a car, but then, neither did I.” She turned in the seat. “Part of the past you won’t tell me about?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Is that also how you managed to hide and make your way upstairs without getting caught?” she asked, not really expecting a reply.

  “Yes,” he replied, surprising her.

  But she didn’t miss the way his hands tightened on the steering wheel or the way his lips thinned and his face closed down, locking her out.

  She shut her eyes in disappointment and leaned against the window. She didn’t want him to close off. They’d been through too much for that.

  An inner demon whispered that it was for the best. Simon had secrets and secrets killed. Remember Michael?

  But there was another part, a stronger, optimistic area of her heart that forgave the secrets. He had them. Maybe he’d tell her sometime. Maybe not. That didn’t matter anymore. Whatever his past was, good or bad, he was a good man now, and that was enough for her.

  She opened her eyes and looked at Simon through a new lens. He was beautiful.

  He rubbed his hand over his chin, obviously tense and frustrated with the line of questioning.

  Granted, he appeared the same. Thick, dark hair. Scruffy chin. Strong hands. Strong shoulders that looked like they could hold the world and, she suspected, sometimes tried.

  Oh, he was the same man. But she’d changed. She was no longer the woman who didn’t trust.

  She trusted Simon. With anything. Including her life.

  He ran a hand through his thick hair, catching her attention. She wanted to see what those hands could do. Those hands that picked locks, loaded a shotgun and touched her cheek when he told her to be careful. “Pull over.”

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  If he didn’t hurry, she wouldn’t have the nerve. “Nothing. Just do it.”

  Simon slowed and pulled into a darkened alley.

  The car came to a halt and Simon hung his head. “Veronica, I can’t tell you what I was. Who I was. We’ve had this discussion.”

  “I know,” she replied, pulling her hair to one side and wishing he’d catch on. “I’m not asking.”

  In the stre
etlight, she saw the confusion in his eyes. “Then why did you have me pull over?”

  Leaning forward, Veronica grabbed him by the collar and guided him to her. “For this.” She kissed him. Kissed him hard. She wanted him to see the change in her and this was the only way she knew how.

  For a moment, he stiffened, startled. She didn’t relent. With a groan, he wrapped his arms around her waist.

  She opened her mouth, and he took the invitation with a boldness that surprised and thrilled her. His unique taste flooded her senses, bringing back every memory of him touching her.

  Shifting in the seat, she was aware that he had unbuckled his seatbelt. The seat of the Mercedes slid back, startling her. “What are you doing?” she murmured against his mouth.

  “Making room.”

  “For what?” she asked, opening her eyes. She knew what she wanted, but how about him?

  “Whatever you want.” His gaze was honest. Open. She knew he meant what he said. This was her call.

  She knew what she wanted. She rested a hand on his cheek. He was an enigma. His past was a mystery.

  She didn’t know anything about him, but what she knew was what mattered. He was intelligent. A doer. Most of all—he had come for her despite the risk to himself. He had not thrown her to the wolves.

  He was nothing like Michael.

  Oh, yeah, she knew what she wanted. She ran her other hand through his hair, winding the long strands through her fingers. His breathing deepened.

  “I want you,” she whispered.

  They met in the middle, a clash of lips warring for dominance. Neither offered quarter nor gave it.

  Once again, Veronica opened to him. He tasted like musk and sweat. Like heat. Like deep, dark sex.

  He murmured her name and left her mouth, trailing small kisses along her jaw. It felt right. Erotic. Better than her dreams, and while she knew she should savor the moment, she didn’t think she could. The need was too great. Gentleness could come later. She wanted him. Now. She rose, her back to the windshield, and braced her arms on the back of the seat. “Move over,” she demanded, her libido making her hurry.