"Calm down, big boy, she's safe enough. At least from terrorists."
"What the hell does that mean?” Reed demanded, alarm bells going off.
Vic shrugged, pulling a cigar from his pocket. “She's hooked up with some kind of jet set, the kind the paparazzi chase around. As of yesterday she was outside Venice, at the palace of a clown by the name of Duke Estriano. Heck, I feel a little guilty taking your money for finding her. You could have done it yourself by reading the supermarket tabloids."
Reed pulled a dozen or so of the hundred dollar bills from the envelope. “The day you don't take my money is the day I start worrying about you. And don't tell me it's too much. It's Rutherford Stanley's money and it's about time he started spreading it around."
Vic folded the money and put it under the visor. “Who's arguing?"
"I need to get to the airport,” said Reed.
"I figured as much."
"We'll catch up on old times when I get back, okay Vic?"
"Sure thing. I wonder, though, you gonna be alone?"
Reed gave it some thought. “Would it be so terrible if I weren't?"
"Nope,” said Vic. “A woman might actually make you civil. And she would sure as shit be able to cook me a decent meal when I come to visit."
Reed grinned. “Cheyenne does great with bacon. At least it smelled good."
Vic snorted. “You are one sorry son of a bitch, you know that?"
"Yep."
Vic left him at the terminal. He stopped the first sky cap he saw and asked for international flights.
A half hour later he was booked on a flight.
No luggage and not a blessed clue what he would do when he actually got there.
On impulse he picked up one of the supermarket tabloids.
Sure enough, on page three, he saw an article. Two young princes, an heiress to a shipping fortune and ... Cheyenne.
They were dancing at a club, grinding close to one another. Cheyenne was the oldest, though her body was lithe and youthful. Her dark hair had been caught in motion, a smile ripped ear to ear.
It wasn't a real smile, though. Reed could tell, as if seeing the woman right through the picture. For one thing her eyes were glassy. Her lips too thin. The fight was out of her.
Cheyenne had given up, surrendered to something far worse to a motorcycle gang leader.
She was flirting with despair.
Self-destruction in the guise of self-indulgence.
Was it just another attempt to anger her father?
Why hadn't she stayed around to talk to him?
The blonde nurse had confided in Reed one night about how Cheyenne had spent the first hours of his hospital stay right by his bedside.
She had seemed pretty broken up, too.
More than one staff member had mistaken her for his wife of girlfriend.
Weird.
What did it mean?
She escaped me after all, he mused. That night in the woods, she got away. She slowed down long enough to save me, but then she kept right on running.
Tit for tat, that's how it went between the two of them, one life saved for the other. It was his turn to save her.
And that's exactly what he intended to do.
* * * *
The Duke wanted in Cheyenne's pants. This in itself should be no surprise given the number of men who had drooled over her in her life, except that the Duke was supposed to be gay.
An Italian friend, the grandson of a prominent automotive manufacturing family was enthusiastically explaining why being gay or straight in one's relationships had nothing to do with who one chose for sex partners.
Cheyenne was not grasping the subtlety. It could have been her more literalistic upbringing or else the music which was turned up loud enough to drill holes in her head.
The genre was something called new wave house music, pure adrenaline rushing with little room for thinking or breathing.
The dance floor was big enough for any club in the city of Venice, but in actuality it belonged to the Duke as part of his palatial estate. The Duke had hoped she would be impressed, though in truth she knew her father could build a hundred places like this without batting an eyelash.
Assuming he got struck by a brick and was completely robbed of his senses. The notion made her giggle, which was odd because she had never been angrier at Rutherford Stanley.
With every photo taken of her for the press she lifted a silent hope that it would somehow find its way straight to Daddy's door step. Better still, let one of his stuffed shirt friends bring it to him.
"Rutherford, isn't this your daughter?!"
Let him talk his way out of that one.
Of course he would only use it as more ammunition against her.
"I need another drink,” she decided, indicating her empty wine glass.
At least three men scrambled at once to get it.
Fools.
"Cheers,” she threw the glass in the air.
The Duke caught it.
"Bravo,” he trilled. “You are truly becoming decadent, one of us."
The Duke was barely twenty five. His hair hung in long locks, unnaturally dark and silky. He wore a white silk jacket and trousers, black striped with a pocket handkerchief, fedora, leather shoes, spats and no shirt.
He wanted the world to see his solid gold belly piercing with diamond stud. He had a nice enough body, a little on the thin side, but still quite worthy of attention.
There was a time she would happily have bedded down with him.
These days all she wanted was to have her picture taken. Like it was some kind of self imposed torture designed to ruin hers and her father's life.
Maybe there was another purpose, too. Namely to allow a certain man to find her.
Perish the thought.
Three glasses of wine, sparkling white appeared virtually simultaneous.
She bent down and took a sip from each.
Her three suitors found it impossibly amusing.
The Duke began to comment to them in Italian.
"English,” she said irritated. “Use English."
Her feet were killing her. The heels were too high, too narrow. And this sequined dress was much too tight. Supposedly it was the latest style, some fellow named Francisco but she found it pretentious and a bore.
A simpler dress would have been so much better.
Something Reed might pick out.
Reed didn't pick out dresses, though. He just put them on her at her father's orders. Rutherford was the one who picked out clothing and he did it to shame her, not reform her.
"So tell me why you are here,” the Duke asked, pulling her closer by the hand.
"Why is anyone here,” she said over the music. “Because we have to be somewhere."
"Not you,” he said. “You are much too intentional. You haven't a playful, idle bone in your body."
"According to my father I have never done a decent, productive thing in my life."
"We could change that ... tonight.” The Duke licked his lips, which were artificially reddened. He wore eye shadow as well.
"Make up doesn't suit men,” she complained.
"Dance,” the Duke complained. “Don't just stand there."
"I don't feel like it."
It was weeks since she had left Reed and it was not getting easier. She only thought of him more, as if his voice were in her head. She needed to fuck him one more time, that was it.
Should she bother trying to find him?
If he were any kind of a man he would find her.
She regretted the words at once.
Wishing things sometimes made them come true.
Cheyenne grabbed one of the waiting glasses of wine and gulped it. “More,” she commanded of her admirers.
Getting drunk didn't solve everything, but it sure postponed the problems.
"Bravo,” cheered the Duke, egging her on.
That was the thing about air headed society types. You could always count on them to chee
r you on while you fell flat on your face.
And leave you there afterwards.
Screw it.
Tomorrow was soon enough to figure things out.
Pulling the Duke close she tried to drown out everything that was wrong, the smells, the people, the loud music ... and the empty place in her soul.
The place she had never even known was there before meeting Reed.
Damn the bastard for saving her life.
And damn her for saving his.
* * * *
Reed didn't bother stopping at the iron gate. The guard spoke only Italian and he looked like a jerk in any language.
"Signor!” the guard screamed as Reed drove the rental car straight through. The dent in the hood was impressive. Good thing he had all those hundreds to pay off the rental car company.
Reed didn't waste time sight seeing as he sped up the winding drive. His time was short before help arrived, either in the form of more security or the police.
Two line backer sized men were already waiting as he pulled up to the front of the Duke's palace. They had that slow swagger, the kind you affected when you knew there wasn't a living soul who could take you down.
Too bad for them they had never met Reed before.
"I don't want trouble,” he said, rather unconvincingly.
"Open the door,” one of them demanded, pounding on the roof.
Reed obeyed, pushing the metal right into his midsection.
The man doubled over.
"Sorry,” Reed said. “I need to get in this place and I don't think I'm going to get an invitation."
According to Vic's contact in Venice, Cheyenne had been holed up with this duke for three days now. A real loser by all accounts. Drunk most of the time, a complete leech on society.
How could Cheyenne sink so low?
Rutherford must really have done a number on her growing up.
The second man moved in fast to help his friend. Reed was out of the car. He stopped him with a single punch. The bigger they are, the harder they fall.
The first man was trying to stand straight.
"Bad idea,” said Reed, dispatching him with a karate kick.
"Hey, that's cool,” cried out a young male voice.
"Freaking hard core,” said another.
Reed had an audience. Drunken billionaire's kids, watching like it was some kind of reality TV show.
"I'm looking for Cheyenne Stanley,” he said to the nearest one, a blond with spiky hair.
"Chill, dude,” the young man said. “She's inside."
"Don't tell him that,” a young woman chided. “What if he's like a psycho killer?"
"I just want to talk to her,” Reed explained.
That wasn't completely true, though he most certainly meant her no harm.
Reed walked into the palace. The foyer alone was the size of a small house. Three stories high with a marble dome. The floor was marble, too, with a design featuring a chariot and horses.
There was loud noise coming from one of the corridors that led off the main area. In some circles it might pass for music.
"Where's Cheyenne?” he demanded of a long haired young man leaning against the doorway of the room the music was coming from.
"Who?” He stared blankly. Either he was high or he didn't really know her.
"Dark hair, very attractive, about this tall.” He held his hand out level.
He shrugged. “There's a lot of hot pussy here."
Reed grabbed him by the collar drawing him to his tiptoes. “Cheyenne's not in that category, got it?"
He nodded, wide eyed. “Yeah, dude, I got it."
Reed frowned, releasing him. Hearing people talk bad about Cheyenne did something to him. He pointed at the young man, offering a final warning. “Better spread the word. She is to be treated with respect."
Reed had to push his way through twisting bodies. The room smelled of money and liquor and over indulgence. Perfect young flesh undulated under the swirling lights. The beat was teeth jarring and distinctly unsettling.
Cheyenne did not belong here.
Finally he found her.
His blood boiled as he saw the reprobate with her, long curly hair, a silk suit worth more than most men made in a month.
The fact that Cheyenne was pressing her body against his chest did not register. What Reed saw was the man's pampered hands, one on her back and one several inches lower, below her spine.
It was his fault, entirely.
"Excuse me,” said Reed, sounding anything but apologetic as he clamped his hand on the man's shoulder.
The man turned his head in slow motion. “Excuse you?” he repeated with an accent. “Why? Have you done something offensive?"
He laughed at his own joke. Several others joined in, a semi circle of hangers on.
"No,” Reed said, his voice like steel. “You have."
"Scusi?” the man said.
"Reed...” This from Cheyenne, as if it were just now registering who he was.
"You've been drinking,” Reed disapproved.
Cheyenne blinked, gathering herself. “So what if I have?"
"It's not a good idea,” said Reed. “Especially not when associating with Eurotrash."
"What did you call me?” said the long haired man, spoiling for a fight.
"Duke, don't,” Cheyenne sought to restrain him. “You don't know what you are dealing with."
"A ruffian, it seems. Where are my guards?” wondered the Duke aloud.
"They're taking a rest, Duke. If you don't mind, I would like to speak to the young lady."
"Reed, you need to leave. You shouldn't have come here."
"Neither should you, Cheyenne."
The Duke looked back and forth between them. “Ah, now I see, you are lovers."
"No,” said Cheyenne too quickly.
The Duke laughed. “It is written all over your face.
Cheyenne blushed pink under the spotlights.
"I'm not playing games,” Reed told her. “Either you come with me willingly or I will remove you by force."
"You can't touch me,” she defied. “I am among friends."
The Duke and his cohorts promptly backed up, putting themselves in the role of audience.
"So much for friends,” Reed quipped.
"Duke Estriano. Silvio,” Cheyenne pleaded grabbing his arm. “Don't let him take me."
"What will you do with her?” the Duke wanted to know, more curious than anything.
"My plan is to talk sense into her,” Reed says. “If she doesn't cooperate, it will go harder."
"Harder how?” the Duke wanted to know.
"I will spank her,” Reed replied without hesitation.
There were a few gasps and some giggles. One man cheered Reed on.
He ignored them all.
His eyes were on Cheyenne. She was his sole focus, his only purpose.
"What's it going to be, Cheyenne,” he wanted to know. “The easy way or the hard way?"
Cheyenne chose the hard way. He knew before she made her move she was going to bolt. He even knew which direction. She made it about two steps before he grabbed from behind by the waist. She screeched as he lifted her off his feet.
For a split second he was lost in the feel of her, soft feminine curves fitting against hard male lines. She smelled good as he remembered, like a woman should. He could kiss her right her right now. He could lay her down on this dance floor and...
Reed snapped back to reality, just barely.
Swinging her up and over his shoulder he rendered her helpless, one very cute and adorable sack of potatoes to be safely and conveniently hauled back to the car.
"What are you all staring at?” she protested. “Call the police!"
"Stop all the fussing,” Reed ordered, delivering a firm smack to her bottom.
Her flesh felt hot under his palm. He wanted her naked, out of that dress, at his sexual mercy.
They would talk all right, but only after he had caugh
t up on his sexual needs.
Cheyenne calmed down, but she continued to fume. “I will never forgive you for this. I will make you pay."
The party goers gave him a wide berth back to his car. Even the security men were leery to get involved.
Reed put her in the passenger seat of the car and climbed behind the wheel. “You're damn lucky it was me doing this,” he observed, putting the car in reverse.
"Lucky?! Are you kidding me? How am I lucky?” She shook out her dark hair, sending it back over her shoulders like a black flame.
"What if I was a real kidnapper,” he said, putting his own spin on things. “No one would have lifted a finger to help you."
To say Cheyenne was unimpressed would be an understatement.
"What do you mean if you were a real kidnapper? You think I want to be sitting here in this car instead of having fun with my ... acquaintances?"
She had probably intended to say friends, but he had already shown them up for what they were.
"You and I have unfinished business,” he said. “And you know it."
"So by all means grab me again and take me away to god knows where. Here, why not handcuff me? That's the drill, right?” She held her wrists out for emphasis.
"I don't need steel, Cheyenne, to accomplish my goals."
Though a little bit of it sure would look fetching on her lithe body.
"Oo,” she said sarcastically. “Listen to the big man talk. I'm just quivering in my designer dress thinking of how you have conquered me."
"You told me you didn't like dresses."
"A woman can change."
"You are on a crash course, Cheyenne, unless someone reigns you in."
"My knight in shining armor. How much did Daddy pay you this time? How about we split it fifty fifty and you let me go now? If he ever asks I will tell him you did a bang up job brain washing me."
"This isn't brain washing. I'm saving you from yourself."
"You don't even know me,” she said contemptuously. “And what concern is it of yours if I self destruct."
Because I care, he wanted to say, but those were big words, out of his normal purview.
"My plan is very simple,” he laid his cards on the table. “I'll even make a deal with you. Give me tonight, of your own free will and tomorrow morning you will be free to go."
"Why should I agree to that? I'm bargaining away the freedom that's already mine."
Reed couldn't argue with that. “I could threaten to spank you,” he said.
Chaning Cheyenne Page 10
