“No. Not so lucky.”
“You’ll find someone. You’re adorable. How are your parents? Still have that gorgeous house on Martha’s Vineyard? You were the envy of everyone when the Kennedy boys decided to crash your sixteenth birthday. What a group of hunky guys. Remember?”
“Fun times. Are you staying for the auction? I’d love to catch up, but I need a minute in the ladies’ room.”
“Absolutely. I’ll be with Sam by the blue boxy painting two rooms over.”
“The one by Georges Braque?”
“Yes, that one.” The style was cubism, not boxy. Holly may have inherited a trust fund, but she’d never acquired the brains to go along with her wealth.
“See you soon.” Alex waved and started toward the bathroom.
Three steps away from Holly, she saw Luc coming toward her. Like a predator stalking his prey into a corner, all of his attention focused on her. He had to have heard her conversation. Shit.
He strode with a confidence that had once controlled Alex’s thoughts and actions. His eyes penetrated her calm facade, and a tsunami of terror almost knocked her off her feet.
A crowd of thirty people separated her from him. He was closing the gap. The doorman would never let her pass now, especially if Luc told him to detain her. Pushing off panic, she searched for another way out.
One chance. That’s all she had. Throngs of people crowded into the foyer waiting as the gallery staff brought two new groups of auction items into the next room. The chaos of the crowd and the servers and the men moving the art seemed like an accident waiting to happen. When she brushed against one of the waitresses carrying the trays of champagne, a plan formed in her mind.
She pivoted toward Luc and stared into his callous blue eyes. He sneered. She shot back her own brand of confidence. Not today, Luc. Volleying back a wink and a smirk, she pushed her stiletto into the toe of the closest waitress’s foot and gave her a hip check; the girl yelped, drawing all the attention in their direction.
As the girl fell, Alex attempted to save the tray of champagne flutes but instead, she launched them toward Luc and another cocktail waitress carrying another tray. At least forty Baccarat crystal stems soared into the air in Luc’s direction. Everyone scattered back, except Alex. The crash of the crystal on the tiled floor drew more people into the foyer. She ran straight past Luc, temporarily blinded by the champagne dripping from his eyes.
Slowing to a graceful pace, she moved from room to room searching for an exit and trying to avoid Luc, Brian, and Henry. A few of the waitstaff hurried out the kitchen door, probably to clean the mess. She darted inside.
The kitchen was deserted except for two college-age boys who were dressed in kitchen whites and arranging dessert trays. With a drunk wobble, a grab for the counter, and a display of her breasts, Alex caught the attention of the two young men.
“Hi guys, is there a bathroom here? The main bathroom has a line five women deep.” She danced foot to foot and bit her lower lip.
“Down the hall, but it’s kind of gross.” The shorter of the two pointed toward the food pantries.
“Trust me, it will be grosser if I don’t find a bathroom.” She gave them a simpering laugh and waddled away.
Luc would be searching for her and blocking exits in a matter of minutes.
After closing the bathroom door, she glanced around at the cleaning supplies and the hooks with employee belongings displayed for her selection. Her chance of escape had just increased significantly.
Alex angled her arm behind her and tugged the zipper of the gown. The gown ripped from the force she used, but she’d never wear it again after tonight. She stuffed it and the shoes behind a pile of cleaning supplies. With luck, no one would find it until the next day.
She ripped off her heels and rummaged around. A pair of jeans and a stained white T-shirt left in the corner of the room fit her needs perfectly. She wet her hair down, pushed it behind her ears, and placed a Braves cap on her head. The contents of her small purse fit easily into her pockets. She hid the purse with her dress. Her feet would have to remain bare in order to move as quickly as possible.
With a small prayer for Henry’s safety, she bolted out the door and made her way to an illuminated exit sign. Stairs. An alarm system linked to the exit door could announce her location, but this was not the time for cowardice.
Pushing it open without pause, without hesitation, she hustled through and ran down the stairs. No alarm rang out in her ears, but that didn’t mean a silent alarm hadn’t been triggered in an office at another location. She spun down the stairs floor after floor. Forty-five floors needed to be covered as quickly as possible. Her chest hurt from running at top speed, and the dusty air of the stairwell dried her throat. Around floor twenty, she tripped. Her body fell five stairs to a landing. She remained on the ground as the energy that had motivated her down the stairwell evaporated. Standing, she dusted herself off to soothe her nerves and then continued. Her legs hurt from the exertion, but she didn’t stop until she was one floor below the lobby.
Completely out of breath, she placed her hands on her knees, inhaling and exhaling until her legs stopped shaking and she could exit the stairwell. The door opened easily into a nonpublic area.
“Hello?” a voice called out from across the maintenance room.
Alex remained silent for a moment, tucked behind a stack of wooden crates. Her father repeated his philosophy of life so often, it had engraved itself into her psyche. Success comes to people who don’t panic in a crisis. One lesson from him she took to heart.
Taking several deep breaths, she calmed her fears and gained a jolt of energy. A security guard passed her hiding spot on his way to the stairwell. She counted to three, then bolted.
A large loading dock stood as a beacon to her freedom. She blasted through the plastic barrier and hopped off the platform. Clenching her fists to get control of her fear, she slowed as she turned onto the main road and then strolled by the entrance to the building and into the night.
Chapter Twenty
Henry ran toward a loud explosion of crystal in the foyer. Everyone else had the same idea. Where was Gabe? He pushed his way through the crowds. Shattered glass hindered his path. Champagne coated the floor among the remnants of crystal flutes. Several individuals had cuts on their legs. The clumsy waitress sat on the ground weeping among shards of broken glass. No sign of Gabe.
A dark-haired man, screaming expletives in French, had the most damage to his outfit. The champagne had covered him from his head to his feet. God help that waitress who couldn’t keep her balance.
“Merde.” He called to someone Henry recognized as the man Simon joined for a late-night drink in Edinburgh. “Brian, trouves Alex rapidement.”
Several new servers approached the guy to help him. He waved them all away, clearly upset he couldn’t find this Alex fellow. Alex? It couldn’t be a coincidence. His presence would explain Gabe’s departure from his side almost ten minutes ago. Did she run from him or run away with him?
“Pardon me,” Henry called out to a passing waitress. “Have you seen a woman in a gold evening gown?”
The petite blonde angled her head toward Henry. The look on her face told him to avoid mentioning his connection to her. “The bitch who tripped Candy? Everyone’s searching for her.”
That didn’t bode well for Gabe’s fate. Where the hell was she? He searched each section of the gallery and waited by the ladies’ room several minutes. By the time the mess in the foyer had been cleaned up, his nerves sizzled, but panic wouldn’t help him. Patience and a plan had been his best weapons in the military and would be now.
Although he hesitated to enter the lift, his instincts told him she’d left the building. Perhaps she’d returned to the hotel. As the doors closed to take him downstairs, the auctioneer announced the starting bid for the Sir Thomas Lawrence portrait, Lady on a Horse. Acid churned in his gut, and his throat constricted. The auction. He fought the urge to throw his hand betwe
en the closing doors and bolt into the auction room. The doors sealed shut and so did Henry’s chances of securing the painting to fund the castle renovations.
The ride took forever. He wanted to pound the door in frustration, but the elderly couple next to him didn’t need to see a lunatic unleashed. He held back his aggravation and rage by clenching his teeth and his hands. The painting might be lost to him forever, but he had bigger issues to deal with. He mourned for his legacy, he mourned for the Ripon Women’s Group, but those feelings were diminished over the loss of Gabe. He’d give up everything he owned to return her safely to his side, no matter why she’d fled.
Stepping into the lobby, Henry reached into his pocket to retrieve his mobile to text the driver. Something hard rubbed against his fingers. He knew the instant his fingertips touched it. The black sapphire ring. She must have dropped the ring in his pocket when she hugged him. Alex didn’t kidnap her. She’d either left willingly with him, or she’d escaped Alex and had given Henry a token to say good-bye.
He exited the building and walked toward his hotel as he dialed Simon.
Simon’s voice sounded jovial. “Henry, do you have the portrait?”
“No.” Henry didn’t wait to be questioned by Simon, he needed answers quickly. “Did you find out who Danielle Perrault is? Or Alex?”
Simon paused, and his voice turned more serious, mirroring Henry’s tone. “Sorry about the delay, we’ve been searching for more information. Danielle Perrault is the name of the sister of someone we’re monitoring. He provides the fine art collateral for the gunrunners to use in their larger purchases. Luc Perrault.”
“Luc?” L.P. The initials over Gabe’s breast. Shit. If Danielle was this guy’s sister, was Luc Gabe’s ex-boyfriend?
“Yeah. We still haven’t figured out who Alex is.”
“What’s he look like, this Luc fellow?” Henry picked up his pace toward the hotel.
“Longer dark hair, medium height, medium build. More Mediterranean than French.”
Simon perfectly described the man covered in champagne. From the way he’d ordered everyone around, he had to be the biggest player in the room. “I think I saw him at the auction. Screaming at that French guy you introduced me to in Scotland.”
“Brian Fouchet?”
“I guess.” He paused for a red light at a busy intersection, his impatience growing.
“Give them space. They care less about art than they do about profit. Do you think Gabe is actually Danielle?”
“No. She appears too different from the passport photo. Gabe also has a tattoo on her chest. The initials ‘L.P.’”
Simon swore. “That’s a bloody significant thing to forget to tell me. Where’s Gabe now?”
“I don’t know. She disappeared. I’m heading back to the hotel to search for her.”
The phone went silent for a few seconds. “Be careful. Luc is deadly. He’s one of the biggest dealers in stolen antiquities from Afghanistan and Cambodia.”
Luc had to be the man who had threatened her and forced her on the run. He had to be the man who had hurt her physically and emotionally. Panic rose in his gut. He’d led her right into his hands. “I’m going back to our hotel room now. I have to find her.”
“Without the portrait?”
“Are you serious? I don’t care about the damned portrait. I have to find Gabe.”
“I understand, but she could go back to black hair and Goth clothes and disappear into the nearest university town.”
She had five hundred pounds in addition to some euros and dollars. She could make a clean break.
“If she goes underground, we’ll never find her.” Henry jogged toward the hotel.
“We need more information. Anything else you can think of about her identity?”
“One more tattoo. An acorn on her wrist.”
“I noticed that one. I’ll call the analysts at the office to see if they can decipher all of this new information. Get back to the hotel and see if she made it.”
“I’m on my way. How can we be sure she’s linked to this Luc person?”
“This is going to sound funny, but have you noticed whether Gabe is fluent in any foreign languages?” Simon asked.
“She spoke fluent French on the plane over. Why?”
“The ex-girlfriend of Luc is some sort of linguistic genius. No one is sure how many languages she knows, but it’s a lot.”
…
Alex tucked all of her loose hair into the baseball cap as she walked. She bent over to alter her posture and cruised through the lobby in bare feet and stolen clothes with a firm destination in mind. Her hotel room.
The elevators, however, weren’t cooperating. Alex monitored the front door for signs of Luc or Henry. The tapping of her foot, the only outward sign of her agitation, stopped as soon as she realized how impatient she appeared. When she heard the soft ping announcing the arrival of the elevator to the farthest left, she strolled over, allowed a heavyset businessman in a golf shirt to exit, and then slid in and rapidly pushed her floor button three times. As the doors closed, Alex prayed no one would throw a wayward foot between the doors to stall her escape. When the elevator finally lifted, Alex paced back and forth until she reached the eighth floor.
Sprinting down the hall, she entered the room, ripped open her suitcase, and took out her two passports. She changed into a plain black T-shirt and her own jeans and threw on the new Converse Henry had purchased for her.
Henry.
She couldn’t think about him right now; she needed to protect her family, especially if Luc did learn her true identity. Besides, Henry would be better off without her. A life in the country raising a gaggle of children with a devoted spouse could be his future. Her future, on the other hand, had become tainted the moment she fell for Luc, and Henry didn’t deserve to follow her into such a mess. She jogged to the door carrying her most practical possessions in a plastic laundry bag courtesy of the W. Her new suitcase was far too big to drag down the elevator. She paused at the front closet. Henry’s new leather jacket reminded her of him. She threw it on and hustled out the door.
When the elevator hit the lobby, she headed to the valet and handed him the claim ticket.
“What type of car?” he asked.
“Mustang convertible. Red.” She tried to sound breezy and carefree, but her heart thundered beneath Henry’s jacket.
“Nice. I’ll be right back.”
The minute the man left for the garage, Alex spotted Henry entering the front door. She ducked behind the valet stand. His footsteps passed her hiding spot and traveled toward the bank of elevators. She remained hidden until his elevator arrived and departed. She had maybe three minutes to get the car.
Where was the valet? There was no one in front of her. She stood with her back pushed against the outside of the building. Each time an elevator door opened, she ducked down in case Henry returned. After the arrival of six different elevators, the valet drove up to the curb. Alex practically pulled him out of the driver’s seat.
“Here, keep the change.” She handed him one of the two hundred-dollar bills Henry had given her earlier. Most of her funds remained in euros and pounds, the equivalent of monopoly money outside of a major bank or exchange.
“Don’t you need change?”
“All set. Thanks.” She never looked back, just hit the gas and drove. The car traveled through Atlanta going straight and turning right on red to avoid stopping until she found the expressway. The champagne in her system would have a minimal effect on her driving, as she’d only had about ten sips the entire evening, but her body required food. The pangs from her empty stomach and her revved-up nerves interfered with her focus. Clear focus equaled escape. Clouded focus would result in total chaos for her and everyone she loved.
Outside the city limits, her heartbeat slowed down, and the queasiness in her stomach faded to just short of an ulcer. Cold air whipped over the top of the windshield and heat blew onto her feet and traveled up to warm h
er torso. She found a classical music station on the radio. The fugue by Bach soothed her nerves, but reminded her of Henry’s love of classical music. A sharp pain in her chest replaced the hunger in her stomach. She allowed her tears to fall as she drove away from the one person who tolerated her obsession with art and her unique personality and seemed to enjoy them.
Henry would someday fade into a bittersweet memory, but Luc inhabited her current nightmare. He must have heard Holly screech out her real name. She needed to contact her family and warn them immediately. If only she wasn’t such a coward, Luc would be dead, and her family would be safe. Protecting them took priority over everything, including her aversion to murder.
She pulled off the highway in a nowhere town and found a convenience store. A sign on the door indicated that no bills larger than twenty dollars would be accepted. Using her Belinda clueless personality, she convinced the clerk to accept a hundred-dollar bill in exchange for some gas, Slim Jims, a Coke, and a map of the area. The skinny kid with blond hair covering his eyes not only gave her change, but he offered to take her out for a drink when he got off work in an hour.
He seemed like a genuinely nice person who would make a girl ten years younger than Alex blush with his sincere compliments. Her hand brushed over his when she reached for the change. “I can’t tonight, but why don’t you give me your phone number, and I’ll call you if I free up tomorrow?”
“Seriously? Cool.” He grabbed an advertisement for a local strawberry festival and scribbled his name and number on it.
Alex graced him with her most genuine smile, the kind of smile that entranced young men and made teachers overlook missing homework assignments. “Thanks. Can I borrow your phone for a second?”
“Sure.” He slid his cell phone to her. She walked a few feet away and called her parents’ house.
The number was no longer in service. Of course not. They often changed the unlisted number to prevent every Tom, Dick, and hustler from trying to contact her father about their newest innovation or her mother about a worthy cause that required the family foundation’s support. Her parents protected their privacy for safety and sanity reasons. Only their longtime friends knew the number. Alex, however, had been AWOL for so long no one could have informed her of the change without an international manhunt. Her last email to her sister Julia had been too long ago. Calling her father’s office wouldn’t help. It was closed at this hour and their personal cell phone numbers were more difficult to obtain than the Permissive Action Link codes on the nation’s nuclear arsenal.
Untrue Colors (Entangled Select Suspense) Page 16
