by T. M. Cromer
Hours had passed, and still, they found no sign of the foolish girl. Lucy was beside herself, and she badgered the ship’s staff to help in their search. As the evening grew later, Sebastian suggested Lucy go rest, promising he would continue the search even if it took all night.
“No, I’ll never be able to rest until she is found. I want to go with you, Sebastian.”
Reluctantly, he agreed. “All right. But we are heading down to the third-class decks. It is the only place left.” A niggling doubt plagued him, leaving him with a bad feeling and a question of what they’d find.
The two of them descended into the steerage section in a last-ditch effort to find Lucy’s wayward sister. At one point, they’d felt the ship’s impact with the iceberg and, after speaking with a handful of the crew, weren’t oblivious to the dire straits the Titanic found herself in. However, their unease was second to their pressing need to find Rosalie.
As one hour flew into another, their search proved fruitless. Panic had set in for the passengers, and the White Star employees were feeling the strain. Sebastian refused to let Lucy remain with him any longer.
“If you don’t go back to your suite, don a flotation vest, and find a lifeboat to take you to safety, I’ll abandon this damned search for Rosie and put you on the bloody boat myself.”
“Please, Sebastian. I can’t leave you down here. Come back with me. We can gather more help,” Lucy begged. She held his lapels in a death grip, claiming fear for him should he venture into the bowels of the ship.
“I promised you I would find her, love. Go locate Andrew and send him to help me if you must, but you will get off this ship if the opportunity presents itself. That is the one thing you can promise me.”
As Lucy studied his face, her sapphire eyes turned solemn. She reached up and smoothed his mussed hair back from his brow. “I promise. Please, be careful.”
They shared one last bittersweet kiss before he provided the exact directions to the suite she shared with her husband. She’d laughed at his attention to detail the first night, but he knew it would save her now.
He made her repeat the directions twice before he felt confident she would find her way. Lucy paused at the top of the staircase, giving him one last, long look.
Sebastian had a general idea of the layout of this beast of a ship. He had created a mental grid and marked off sections they’d already visited. The problem, as he saw it, was Rosalie herself. That girl was impulsive, and he doubted she would stay in one place long enough for him to locate her. Therein lay his dilemma.
He strode to a crewman preparing to lock the last gates for the lower levels. Apprehension gripped Sebastian. Even if he found Rosie, would he be able to get them back topside? Damn that girl! Throwing caution to the wind, he charged down the stairs. The alarmed cry of the crew member ringing in his ears.
“Sir! We be locking these gates, sir. If ye go down there, ye’ll be stuck.”
“Is there another way up?”
“No, sir. This is the last gate.”
“Don’t lock it. Stand guard until I come back.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Then hand me the bloody key and be done with it already, man. I have no more time to spare.”
Shockingly, the wiry little man delivered the metal key into Sebastian’s hand.
“God be with ye, sir.”
A brisk nod sent the Irishman on his way, and Sebastian turned a grim eye to the rising water level. He plunged into the bitterly cold seawater, hissed, and swore a blue streak. Without another thought to his personal safety, he traversed the corridor and checked each unlocked room.
After a thorough search of the immediate area, Sebastian returned to the original stairwell where he’d last seen the Irishman. Back resting against the wall, he looked down at his cold, pale hands with their dark red fingers and purple nail beds. It was bloody freezing, and these damned hands of his refused to function properly. He’d pull the key from his pocket to save himself if he could.
“Hey, old man. Do you need some assistance?”
The mildly amused voice belonged to Andrew Hale.
“Actually, I do. However, I fear you probably wish to leave me to my fate,” Sebastian countered.
“I came to find you. Rosie is safe, as is Lucy. Now tell me, how are we supposed to unlock this wretched gate without a key?”
“Funny you should ask. I happen to be in possession of such a key.”
The two men grinned at each other.
“What are you waiting for? Let’s have it!” Andrew demanded.
“Yes, well, I find my hands are refusing to cooperate enough to remove it from my vest,” Sebastian told him, a wry smile playing on his lips.
“Hmm, yes. I can see where that would be a problem. Come closer. Which pocket?”
Sebastian gestured, and Andrew reached through the accordion-like bars to fumble around. He produced the key with a flourish and went about trying to unlock the gate.
“Damned thing’s stuck,” he muttered.
A gurgle sounded behind Sebastian, alerting both men to the danger.
“Bloody hell! Work faster, Hale!”
Motivated by the rising tide, Andrew accomplished the task in record time, but not before a surge of water swept Sebastian into the barrier. When he righted himself, blood dripped from his now-broken nose.
“Goddammit! This is that batty girl’s fault,” he snapped.
“Rosie?” queried Andrew, choking down his laughter.
“Yes! She is a menace.”
Sebastian was sure Andrew would have taken umbrage that Rosalie was, indeed, a menace if the man hadn’t already vocalized it the previous evening. Instead, he wedged a shoulder under Sebastian’s arm and encouraged him to “get his arse moving.”
Their breathing became labored with each step as they trudged through the icy saltwater. The freezing temperature stole the air from their lungs whenever the ship shifted and doused them with the rising tide. The corridors were dark now, and the Titanic offered up groans, pops, and creaks as if to bemoan her fate.
By the time they made their way to what Sebastian thought would be freedom, he came to the sickening conclusion they were too late. All the lifeboats were gone.
“Well, of all the damned luck,” Andrew swore.
“Damned is correct,” muttered Sebastian.
They leaned against the outer wall for support, teeth chattering, gulping in the frosty night air.
The ship rested at a forty-five-degree angle from the water’s edge, making their footing precarious. Sebastian barely make out the safety boats dotting the horizon. Hair-raising screams could be heard as passengers lost their grip and plunged toward death in the icy depths of the unforgiving ocean. But he was now friendly comrades with Andrew in the last moments of their lives, and Sebastian appreciated he acted as if they didn’t have a care in the world. It took away the true horror of their circumstances.
“I don’t suppose we are going to be escaping this little adventure alive.”
Andrew’s comment startled a laugh from Sebastian. When he would have offered up a sarcastic retort, an unexpected melody cut through the shouting and weeping. “Bugger me! Is that music I hear playing?”
His companion cocked his head to listen then laughed with delight.
“I expect we should go enjoy it while it lasts, old man.”
“Capital idea. Do you suppose we can find some brandy to warm us on the way?”
“I’ll keep my eye out for a server,” Andrew quipped.
Gabriel woke from the dream, stunned to realize Rosalie was the spitting image of Sammy and Andrew Hale resembled her Michael. It explained the covert glances the two had shared during meals, and all the many times Andrew overlooked Lucy’s flimsy excuses to go off on her own.
He snorted his disbelief. Surely, he’d imagined it all. When his eyes fell to the sketch Margaret had insisted he frame, he had a harder time writing off the dream as a flight of fancy. She’d said she knew him and they�
��d been together in every lifetime. Oddly, he believed her.
If they were indeed fated mates—soulmates, she’d called them—then he’d find her. He’d be with her again. Any other outcome was unimaginable.
Chapter 27
To Margie’s shame, it only took nine hours of cold to break her resolve. The voices of the women held captive before her all encouraged her to be reasonable. To fool Don into believing he’d subdued her will until help arrived. She was convinced she’d either channeled James’s gift, or she’d lost her stinking mind. Her money was on the latter.
Don initially ignored her when she’d swallowed her anger and pride to beg for a blanket. Thirty minutes later, he offered her the trade of a blanket in exchange for a kiss. When she gagged into his mouth, he stomped off in a fury, leaving the thin cover out of her reach to taunt her. An hour later, he offered it again for the opportunity to touch her breasts. She nodded her agreement without making eye contact.
And so it went. If she wanted food, a drink of water, the use of the bathroom, or to shower, she traded favors. After a day, she hated him with a passion. After two, she despised herself more. After three, she plotted his death—even if it meant her own.
She’d been allowed to transition to the bedroom area of her prison toward the end of the first week. By then, she’d have done almost anything to be able to sleep on a bed instead of against a hard wall with the weight of the shackles making her joints and muscles ache, and the sharp stone ridges cutting into her back.
Today, the door cracked open, and Don entered with a wide smile and a tray of food. With hatred in her soul and a fervent wish she had a sharp knife for plunging into his black heart, she pasted a pleasant expression on her face. Or as pleasant as a prisoner could conjure.
In the beginning, she’d been suspicious of anything he fed her, but he didn’t need to drug her after the abduction. He had the bone-chilling room temperature and her gnawing belly on his side.
“Here you are, my love. Fresh fruit and coffee, just the way you like it.”
She fucking hated fresh fruit and coffee now. If she ever got out of here, she’d become a total tea convert. His chipper attitude was souring hers, but she forced a smile anyway. “Thank you, Don.”
As she ate, he checked the iron cuff attached to her ankle, a dark frown drawing his brows together. “Did you try to pick this lock?”
“Yes. It’s chafing my skin, and it hurts.” There was no point in lying since he had only to pull up footage of the last day.
He studied her for signs of falsehood, and she met his look with a defiant one of her own. Black rage flooded his features, and she had her first moment of true terror since waking. With a hard blow to the underside of the tray, Don flipped it onto the bed. The coffee scalded where it splashed her exposed flesh, and she hissed against the pain.
Tears came unbidden and trailed down her cheeks as she cradled her injured arm. Oddly, it was the sight of her reddened skin that reined in Don’s temper. He ran for supplies to treat the burn, apologizing the entire time he pressed the ice to her forearm.
“It’s okay, Don. You didn’t do it on purpose,” she said, giving him an understanding smile. In reality, she wanted to smash the coffee mug into his fucking face until the shards were embedded deep into his eye sockets and his nose was crushed, cutting off his ability to breathe.
His fingers fluttered along her jaw—the exact way Gabriel had touched her before making love—and she had to swallow the urge to sever his fingers with her teeth.
Don must’ve studied Gabriel’s every move, because he employed them at each turn.
Margie’s stomach was in a constant state of rebellion, and her mind shied away from existing memories.
“May I call my children today?” She detested the strong swell of pleading in her voice. “They’ll be worried.”
“No,” he snapped. “Do you think I’m stupid, Margaret? Do you think I don’t know you are trying to alert someone to where you are?”
“I don’t know where I am, Don. How the hell can I alert someone?” she retorted. “I’m in a goddamned cave in fucking Afghanistan for all I know. Tell me how I can relay a location.”
He backhanded her, and she tasted blood. A tentative touch of her lip told her he’d split it. She pressed the back of her hand to the spot in an attempt to stem the blood flow.
“Now look what you made me do!” He jumped up to pace. “You push and push until I get angry. Do you like being punished, Margaret? Do you?”
No, she couldn’t say she did. She especially hated that he’d started calling her by her full name the way Gabriel always did. Thoughts of Gabriel brought rebellion, and Margie had to shove the instinct to fight deep enough to appear meek.
“Don, it’s been a month. Please.” She kept her head bowed and sniffed. It wasn’t like she had to pretend to cry. Thoughts of her children brought her low. Early on, she’d tried tears and pleading, serving only to enrage him further. Now, if he was in a magnanimous mood, she could manipulate him with a tragic sniff and soulful eyes, which he tolerated a little better.
“No. Not another word.”
He walked to the monitor on the far wall and turned it on. Always out of reach, she had no choice but to watch or listen to the video he played. The current entertainment was a replay of Gabriel’s and her time in his office.
She remembered the day.
She’d shown up in nothing more than a trench coat and sexy red heels to thank him for helping Sammy. He’d gestured her forward and indicated she should unbutton her coat. Things quickly became heated. It had ended with Gabriel swiping the items off his desk and setting her atop to feast on her body. First, her breasts then lower. Finally, turning her to take her from behind as he pressed her to the cool glass surface. He’d rocked her world that day.
“Tonight we’ll do this one,” Don said. “Study the moves, Margaret. I want to get it right.”
The eagerness in his voice made spots dance along the periphery of her vision. She knew from past experience if she didn’t do what he said, she’d be nude and chained against the wall before she could blink. Even if they had to enact this particular scene more than once, she’d play her part. And her soul would die a little more.
The desire to weep returned. One more beautiful memory he would destroy, one more treasured moment with Gabriel removed. Her eyes burned as she stared at the monitor, but she swallowed the emotion. If she survived, she’d cry, but until that time, she wouldn’t give Don the satisfaction of breaking her completely.
“Gabe, James Holt is on your private line.” His assistant knew to answer his personal extension if he was tied up with a client or another call. He’d given her a rundown on the situation with Margaret and explained any calls on this designated number were a priority.
“Thanks, Jenny.”
He closed his eyes and prayed for good news. Taking a deep breath, he lifted the receiver and pressed the button to answer. “James?”
“Hey, Gabe.”
Gabriel rubbed the spot between his brows. “No news then?” The defeated note in James’s voice clued him in, but he needed it confirmed.
“No news. The police are… they…”
“It’s okay.”
It wasn’t, and they both knew it, but the police had other pressing issues after three months without a lead.
“She’s still alive, Gabe. I know she is.”
James’s positivity grated on Gabriel’s nerves. As much as he wanted Margaret to be found alive and well, he worried for her mental stability should she survive. These long months in the hands of a twisted sonofabitch like Don would strain anyone’s mind past the breaking point. Along the way, they’d all come to the conclusion he was behind Margaret’s abduction, because he’d disappeared at the same time without a trace as to his whereabouts.
Gabriel tried not to let images of Don touching Margaret consume his thoughts because, when they did, he was unable to reason and he fell into a dark pit of despair.
Every day, he got up, downed his coffee, and came to work. Every night, he studied the grid he and James had created to search the fifty-seven thousand square miles of Georgia, looking for and eliminating potential sites for Don’s hideout. And every weekend, he and James would drive to possible locations to physically search.
Gabriel sighed his frustration. “What else?”
“Huh?”
“You didn’t just call to tell me there was no news. What else?”
“Scott filed for full custody on the belief Margie is missing, presumed dead.”
Gabriel swore loud and long.
Jenny’s head whipped around and peered at him through the open doorway. Without needing to tell her, she jumped up and closed the door.
He made a mental note to give her a raise in appreciation for her training and intuitiveness.
“It isn’t enough that their mother is missing, he’s going to try to take the kids away from all of you? That prick!” Gabriel was ready to spit nails—right in Scott’s fat face.
“What do we do?”
“I have a friend. I’ll give her a call when I get off the phone with you. Do you have a copy of the paperwork, or should I have Jenny obtain one?”
They discussed their options for another few minutes, eventually growing silent as they ran out of things to say.
“Is Opal still hanging around?” he heard himself ask.
“Here or there.”
“She’s still silent as to where…” Gabriel swallowed and blew out a breath. “She’s still can’t help?”
“Yes.”
The suffocating feelings of loss and despair were difficult for him to overcome, but he did his best not to show it. “Leave the dickhead to me. Scott won’t get custody while I’m breathing.”
James signed off not long after.
Gabriel didn’t know how long he sat, processing the last few months without Margaret. He rubbed his hand over the spot where his heart used to reside. Now, it was just a large gaping hole. Or so it felt.
As Gabriel sat in silence, staring at the spot where she had disrobed and stood in all her beautiful glory, wearing nothing but a pair of red heels designed to short-circuit his brain, his private line rang.
