Untrue Colors (Entangled Select Suspense)

by Veronica Forand

  Where the hell was she?

  After circling through the other rooms in the house, Henry called over to Simon. “She’s gone. You backtrack by foot. See if you can find her at a nearby pub. I’ll take a drive.”

  Oxford wasn’t close to the size of London, but it wasn’t a small village, either. She could disappear easily.

  “I’ll ask around at some of the local pubs about our pink-haired whiz kid. If I locate her, I promise not to interrogate her without her express permission.” Simon pulled his black wool coat from a hook by the door.

  “Permission freely given, not coerced.”

  “I promise. I have enough to do without creating work for myself. Besides, I intend on watching Chelsea take down Reading this afternoon. So find her or not, I’m calling it quits in time to grab a few hours of sleep.” He gave Henry a salute and walked out the front door.

  Henry drove around Oxford a few times. The pubs had closed and streams of people started bumbling home. Most of the women walked in groups after a night out drinking. Gabe would be alone.

  He traveled to the train station, spoke with the ticket office, staked out the automatic ticket machines, and walked up and down the platforms, but she never appeared. Mozart’s Arietta in G blasted out of his mobile.

  “Did you find her?” he asked Simon while heading out of the train station toward his car.

  “No, but when I returned to the house, I noticed your bike is missing from the garage.”

  Henry, finding his breath again, became encouraged. He needed to locate this enigmatic creature who had invaded his life. “Brilliant. I think I’ll take a scenic drive out of the city.”

  “Good luck.” Simon had done his part and was probably headed to bed.

  Two hours later, he was about to give up when he noticed a petite woman in a mud-splattered dress by the side of the road.

  He pulled over and grabbed his umbrella. She didn’t lift her head when he approached. Instead, she remained crouched in a puddle examining a flat tire on a bike. Rain soaked her hair and her sweater, and pasted a thin blue dress to her lean, muscular legs.

  “I’m all set, thank you. I’ll be leaving in a minute,” she called out to him without turning around.

  The familiar voice eased the tension knotting the muscles in his neck. That bike, his bike, would be going nowhere. She needed a lift.

  “Gabe, are you okay?”

  Her head whipped around, and her mouth fell open. She struggled to get on the broken bike and ride away.

  He reached her in three long strides and grasped the handlebars. Her damp body shivered. She could warm up in the car. He didn’t anticipate the backpack that smacked him in the head. The umbrella flew out of his hand as he tumbled into a puddle. The cold water leeched through his pants and shocked his system. He looked up to see her biking away. Damn it. He was trying to help her, not harm her.

  The flat tire impeded her progress. He sprinted forward and caught the seat of the bike.

  “Henry, why are you torturing me? Let me go.” Her voice strained. She swung around, her newly black hair stuck to her cheeks, and glared at him with demonic brown eyes. He caught the bag when she swung it toward him again, yanking it out of her hand.

  “Get in the bloody car. Now. It’s almost four in the morning, and I’m not in the mood to discuss your daft excursion across the countryside on my bike.” His head now hurt. Instead of mud-wrestling with a woman on the side of the road, he wanted a shower and some coffee.

  Gabe’s feet, however, remained planted on each side of the bike. Rain drenched the hair that had been lopped off at the shoulders in a most unflattering way. She must have done it herself. To hide from her abuser or from him? Her eyes glanced beyond him toward Abingdon.

  He slung a strap of the pack over his shoulder before gripping her arm to keep her from running again.

  “I have to leave. Please,” she pleaded.

  Her cheeks glowed red and puffy from exposure to the cold rain. She tried to pull herself free, but he wouldn’t let her go. She was standing drenched to her knickers to evade discovery of some unknown malevolence, all because he’d lost his temper in the art gallery and probably scared the hell out of her.

  “I’m sorry if I scared you earlier. I was upset about the painting, not you. I mean it. I would never harm a woman. Ever.”

  He wrapped his arms tight around her waist and lifted her from the broken bike. As soon as her feet hit the ground she pushed away, but he was ready and held on. She sighed, almost admitting defeat. After a few seconds, her forehead fell into his chest. She needed him. He could feel it in the way the muscles in her back softened in his arms.

  He kissed the top of her head, ignoring his yearning to kiss her lips. Her body shivered as her arms circled his waist, and she hugged him close. Nothing had ever fit his body so perfectly. Nobody had ever fit his body so perfectly. She’d have a hard time getting rid of him. She needed a guardian angel, and he’d just appointed himself to the task.

  “It’s late, and you look exhausted. I can help you. Trust me.”

  The beautiful enigma, who had crashed his party and his life, lowered her voice to a faint whisper. “I don’t need Margaret Mead, Henry. I need an intrepid warrior with an underground lair.”

  He escorted her to his car. “Does the lair have to be underground?”

  Chapter Seven

  Henry, still dressed in his tuxedo, struggled to place his old bike in the car. He’d managed to fit it in, but the entire backseat was now covered in mud. Her clothes matched the car’s drenched and filthy interior. She clenched her teeth, trying to ignore his humming along to Bach’s Violin Concerto movement in D major. Cold, wet, clammy, and covered in goose bumps, her body felt as uncomfortable as her ears.

  He’d provided her with a blue wool blanket before driving back toward the house. Her body warmed, and the exhaustion from her failed escape weighed her down. The loud music allowed her to avoid speaking to him.

  She didn’t want anything to do with him. His presence, however, relaxed her. She stared out the window through the darkness at fields and an occasional farmhouse, her eyelids becoming heavy. A blue highway sign caught her attention. She sucked in her breath.

  What the hell?

  “Henry?”

  “Yes.” He stared ahead at the road.

  She tried to keep her voice calm. “Where are we going?”

  “To my house.”

  “We’re north of Oxford. Are we taking the long route?”

  Still looking ahead, he responded, “Not that house. My house in Ripon.”

  “Ripon?”

  “It’s north of York. Remember the women’s shelter I told you about?”

  He still wanted to help her, even after she’d stolen his bike and messed up his evening? The thought lingered for a second and then evaporated. Everyone had motivations for their actions. She needed to learn Henry’s. Even if he was helping her for purely altruistic reasons, she couldn’t risk his safety or the safety of the other women at the shelter. Luc’s brand of evil made Satan seem like a Tibetan monk.

  Her eyes closed again, and she allowed herself the luxury of a light sleep.

  When she awoke, the sun was trying to burst through the thick gray clouds. Henry turned the car off the main highway and onto a smaller rural lane. Fog covered the ground and cast a gloomy undercurrent across this otherwise peaceful location. She imagined flocks of sheep and herds of cows grazing in pastures around them, and perhaps a traitor to the queen strung up and left for the buzzards as a warning to the rest of the local village.

  Henry continued to look straight ahead. Was he taking her directly to the shelter? The idea that he had more power over her life than she did made her uncomfortable. She needed to get her head together and plan her next move.

  They sat in silence for a few more minutes as she pondered her next step. She could hop a train for the Lake District and disappear. It would cost less from Ripon than from Oxford.

  “I thi
nk I can manage on my own now. If you’ll drop me off at the nearest train station…”

  Henry yawned. His hair had curled after its soaking in the rain and fell over his temples in darker waves, giving him the appearance of a sexy playboy after a night on the town.

  Damn, he looked amazing.

  “Too late. We’re home. You might as well enjoy a warm meal and have some rest in a real bed.” He glanced toward her with a grin.

  A person in control of another’s destiny. Not if she could help it. She couldn’t hand the reins over to him, no matter how much she desired assistance. Matt had died trying to be her hero. Hiding from Luc needed to be an individual sport.

  A stone wall came into view in front of them. Henry drove under the huge stone archway in the center of the wall and continued over a drawbridge. Alex, who was never shocked, was shocked. She sat up, returning her feet to the floor. A medieval castle rose out of the steaming earth in front of them. Not the largest one Alex had ever seen, but not the smallest, either. She counted four turrets visible in the light and small glass windows in each of them. The condition of the building was extraordinary, as if they’d driven the Jaguar back seven hundred years into the past. He drove into the back and turned into the garage.

  “Home?” she asked. “You live in a castle?”

  “I like to think of this as home. Yes.” He hopped out, remarkably agile for a person who had driven over three hours nonstop, and came around to open her door. His bow tie still sat perfectly straight at his neck. Alex, with her hair sticking to her scalp and her outfit wrinkled and damp, pulled her sneakers back on and wrapped the blanket around her shoulders.

  He started toward the castle’s side door, but stopped and looked back to where she had planted herself. “Coming?”

  “I need my backpack. Feminine stuff. I could go into detail, but I don’t want to bore you about the storage and use of tampons.”

  Henry, grinning as though this kind of talk amused him, returned to her side. “You’d be surprised at what interests me and Margaret Mead.” He opened the trunk, held the bag in his hand for a few seconds, and then tossed it to her. “That’s a lot of tampons. Expecting a shortage?”

  “A girl should always be prepared.” She hitched it over her shoulder and followed him into the house.

  Okay, he’s charming and handsome and loves art and lives in a castle. And I’m not interested. Not at all.

  They turned a few times through several passageways and arrived in a massive foyer with a gray stone staircase that could accommodate three large horses shoulder to shoulder. Vivid tapestries in blues, greens, and a pale yellow hung down the high walls. They were made within the past fifty years, but the workmanship and detail revealed a talented artisan.

  She turned her attention back to Henry. A castle? Old money? That would explain his choice of profession. He could afford to muck about in Oxford. Summers off. Long holidays. It made sense.

  Henry climbed the stairs. Halfway up, he turned around and looked down at her. “Let me take you to bed.”

  Why was he looking all seductive and adorable? Paranoia warred with her gut feeling that he was one of the good guys. Her stomach tightened. Luc had ruined intimacy for her. He’d taken her virginity by force and twisted sex into a four-letter word.

  “I can crash anywhere. An oversize couch or maybe a bathroom floor.” Still wrapped in the blanket, she slowed her steps. The bag hung by her side.

  Henry walked back down the stairs, but stopped a step above her. He extended his hand until she took it. His grip was warm, but not overwhelming. “Relax. I’m bringing you to your own room. My room is in another wing.”

  So much for his seduction of her. Embarrassment coiled in her chest. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I just don’t want to be a bother.”

  “You’d never be a bother, Sunshine. Never.”

  Henry showed her to a bedroom on the third floor, second floor to the English. After smiling and thanking him for the hospitality, she glanced around at the simple furnishings, more appropriate for a youth hostel than a medieval castle.

  She threw her only piece of luggage on top of a red duvet. Red also dominated the art in the room. Mostly framed posters. A field of poppies. The Eiffel Tower in black and white accented by a woman in a red dress. Some sort of red surreal paint blob. What did she expect? A silk screen by Andy Warhol?

  Locking the door, she scouted around for cameras, but since there wasn’t much of anything in the room, there weren’t many places to hide one. Comfortable with her security, she unzipped the backpack, dumping her few clothes on the bed. She removed her iPod Shuffle, hooked it up to a small set of speakers she traveled with, and turned on her favorite Sting album. Sultry, rhythmic, and loud enough to mask her movements.

  The cardboard liner in her bag was glued to a thinner piece of cardboard on three sides, creating a perfect hidden pocket for her two passports. The first passport, now expired, was embossed with the seal of the United States. The owner was born in Boston, Massachusetts, twenty-eight years ago, with long dark brown hair and bored, flippant brown eyes. An immature version of Alexandra Cushing Northrop had let it expire to prevent her father from finding her and dragging her home. The depressing part of her youthful rebellion was his failure to ever come looking for her. Her only contact with her family involved sporadic emails with her mother and sisters telling them she was happy.

  It was for the best. Luc had no idea her family existed, and that kept them all safe.

  Someday, someone might call her Alex again, but her best hope to get out of the country was taking on the identity of Luc’s sister Danielle, a twenty-four-year-old woman with short brown hair and hazel eyes.

  She’d taken Danielle’s French passport just in case. Danielle wouldn’t need it anymore, not since being murdered with her boyfriend. Luc wouldn’t report them missing in order to avoid be implicated in their deaths. She hoped to use Danielle’s identity to board a plane out of Europe. If Luc realized she had it in her possession, however, the passport could be used as a beacon guiding him straight to her.

  She pulled the bottom drawer out of the poor-quality dresser and tossed it onto the bed. At the bottom of her backpack, she located a roll of duct tape, a fugitive’s best friend. The stuff easily secured a plastic bag with her passports and a few hundred pounds on the back side of the drawer. No one should find it. Henry seemed smart, but not street-smart.

  The dark shadows from the rainy morning hung over the window, making her drowsy. She stripped to nothing and crawled between the sheets. After staring into space, at the ceiling, and toward the window, she disappeared into her dreams.

  Someone banging and banging on the door jolted her out of her hazy fog and roused her completely. She stretched her arms over her head and then rolled away from the noise.

  “Get up, Sunshine. Time to start the day.” His voice was cheerfully annoying.

  She pulled the duvet over her head. “Go away, Henry. I’m sleeping in.”

  “You’ve slept for almost five hours. We have plans. Get up.”

  The banging continued. It wouldn’t stop. Henry didn’t seem the type to stop until he got what he wanted. And he wanted her out of bed. She could have withstood his attack for another few minutes, but her stomach growled. Food trumped sleep.

  She jumped up and threw on her jeans, a black T-shirt, and a hoodie. She’d left the combat boots in Oxford, so she put on the red sneakers. They felt slimy on her bare feet. They wouldn’t be dry for another day.

  She unlocked the door and glared.

  Henry stood in front of her with a stupid grin on his face, wearing a pair of tan khakis and a camouflage jacket.

  His darn smile spread to her lips, like a contagious disease. “Off to the hunt?”

  “Not today. We’re off to breakfast, or brunch to be more exact, since it’s almost noon.” He stood in the door waiting for her to exit and then strolled next to her. “Did you have a good sleep?”

  “I did, actually.”
As they turned from her wing into what looked like the main section of the house, she noticed the change in furnishings. A change for the better. “Are you restoring the wing I stayed in?

  He slowed. “I’m in the process of renovating that area, but I’m a bit short of funds right now.”

  Fantastic. Insult the host. Her past few months dressed as a kid with an attitude must have ingrained itself into her personality more than she would have liked.

  “I didn’t mean…”

  “It’s fine. I should have given you one of the Edwardian bedrooms next to me, but I figured you’d prefer having some space between us.”

  “I appreciate it. Everything, actually.”

  He continued down the hall a few steps ahead of her and then descended a secondary staircase toward the back of the house. At the bottom, they arrived in a large modern kitchen graced with a huge stone fireplace and plaster walls. An attractive, middle-aged woman in a navy skirt and a yellow knit sweater was at the stove cooking. She wore her long auburn hair in a loose bun. Several strands had fallen out around her face, and no wedding ring graced her finger.

  “Morning, sir. How was your drive?” Her smile revealed a warm affection for Henry.

  “Uneventful.” He strolled through the kitchen with his hands behind his back, stopping to sniff the morning meal. “Smells wonderful.”

  Alex inhaled the delectable aromas. Her stomach grumbled in response.

  “Martha, I’d like to introduce my colleague, Ms. Gabrielle West.”

  “Nice to meet you.” She nodded toward Alex and then continued with the meal preparation.

  Henry led Alex into a dining room with large oak beams in the ceiling and an medieval iron chandelier created around the year 1300 and retrofitted with electric light fixtures. Several framed landscapes by John Robert Cozens decorated the dark wood paneling. In the center of the room, someone, probably Martha, had set a beautifully preserved William IV rosewood table for two. Alex examined the four rosewood side chairs with red silk cushions. Exquisite detailing.