Snatched

by Pamela Burford

  “Sounds like a complicated bloke, this foot rubber,” Fergus said.

  “You would describe him that way. But actually, yes, he was—still is, I guess—a complicated bloke.”

  “Who did he kill?”

  “How do you know it was murder?”

  “They don’t give life sentences for jaywalkin’.”

  “He killed a drug dealer—the guy who supplied his coke. I don’t know the specifics, except that he slit his throat. After he’d had a little fun with his knife.” She paused, remembering. “He liked knives.”

  “And you were tight with this fella?”

  “Like I said—complicated.” She glared at him over her shoulder. “I’m sure you must know someone like that.”

  She expected to see Fergus’s trademark impish grin. Instead he said, “The world is filled with men who fall somewhere between your sociopath and your urologist.”

  “Roger’s a dermatologist. Donald was the urologist.”

  “Good policy, sticking with the M.D.s.” Fergus nodded sagely. “A stable, high-earnin’ breed. You don’t have to choose between one extreme and the other, is what I’m sayin’.”

  “I don’t suppose you have someone in mind?” Her tone was dry. “Who falls somewhere in the middle?” Perhaps a bit closer to the sociopathic end of the spectrum.

  That was why she was attracted to Fergus, she knew. She’d always had a weakness for the wild men, and look where it had gotten her. She’d been forced to snitch on her lover—the father of her unborn child. To send him to prison for the rest of his life.

  And if she hadn’t? Judith would never forget that final beating, which had spurred her to action at last. She could have lost the baby. Hal hadn’t known she was pregnant; she’d avoided telling him. He was so volatile, and she was terrified of him by that point.

  Judith reached under the chaise for her cigarettes and lighter. “On second thought, don’t answer that.” She turned over and raised the back of the chaise so she could sit up. She tossed her towel to Fergus to wipe his hands. He studied her closely as he did so.

  He said, “You don’t have to keep it all inside, you know.”

  That was the only safe place for it. No one knew about Hal, or that he was Mick’s father. No one knew about her role in Will’s kidnapping, and no one ever would. It was her biggest secret and her greatest shame. It had been the proverbial albatross around her neck for the past quarter century, and it would be so until she took her dying breath. Lord knew she deserved worse. She’d give anything if she could go back in time and undo it.

  “No offense, Fergus, but my personal life is none of your business.”

  “Have you ever talked to a professional?”

  “You mean a shrink?” She tapped her cigarette on a small ceramic ashtray decorated with the resort’s logo. “You think I’ve gone over the deep end?”

  “I think something’s been eatin’ at you for a long time, lass, and it wouldn’t hurt to have a chat with someone who could help you sort it out.”

  “Thanks for the advice, Doctor Dowd.”

  “I am at your service as always, Mrs. Drinkwater.” There it was, the impish grin. “Make another appointment on your way out.”

  Chapter 14

  WILL BUTTONED HIS charcoal gray suit jacket while scanning the bar of the elegant Adriane restaurant in midtown Manhattan. The place was crowded for a Monday night. His gaze settled on a couple flirting over martinis, seemingly oblivious to everything but each other.

  Will lingered on the periphery of the customers thronging the bar, watching the couple. After a minute, the woman surreptitiously checked her wristwatch. She glanced around and locked eyes with Will.

  Gabby looked eminently pick-upable in a short-skirted, pimento-colored suit. She wore no blouse under the jacket’s gaping neckline, just a sheer silk scarf tucked with enough artful carelessness to turn self-possessed professional men into gibbering simps. Her companion’s gaze shifted south every time she leaned toward him, which she did far more often than necessary.

  The man was middle-aged and reasonably attractive if ear-to-ear comb-overs were your thing. Gabby whispered something to him. He grinned, tossed back the remainder of his drink, and slapped some money on the bar. Gabby led the way toward the door, only to stop short when Will stepped in her path.

  She gasped and dropped the man’s hand. “Steve!”

  Will’s outraged scowl shifted from Gabby to his client, who had yet to recognize him from their one meeting several weeks earlier. The martinis and the bar’s dim lighting helped, as did Will’s wig and fake goatee.

  Ben Porter puffed himself up. “Who’s this?”

  “My husband,” she said.

  “Shit.” Porter raised his palms and tried to melt back into the throng of customers. “I didn’t mean anything.”

  Will advanced on him. “Who do you think you are, messing with my wife?” Heads turned in their direction.

  “I didn’t know she was married. I swear.”

  “Yeah, I can see how you might miss this.” Will grabbed Gabby’s left hand and shoved it in Porter’s face. The ring finger bore a thick wedding band and a four-carat faux diamond. A few customers snickered. The bartender, a pretty brunette, politely asked the gentlemen and lady to take their conversation outside. Will grabbed Porter, crushing the collar of his three-thousand-dollar suit.

  “Steve, don’t hurt this one!” Gabby screamed.

  “Shut up, Monique.”

  “Outside, please.” The bartender displayed the handpiece of the bar phone, a warning.

  “No problem.” Will propelled Porter toward the doorway. The crowd parted before them. One or two refined male voices offered unrefined suggestions for how to deal with the cuckolding SOB. Gabby tottered along in her four-inch heels, flapping her hands and squealing her dismay in the language of her birth.

  Several bar patrons followed them into the damp night air, eager for a show. Will’s Camry was parked at the curb. When he beeped it open and started to cram Porter into the front passenger seat, the man finally found his backbone.

  Until Gabby discreetly shoved the SIG in his ribs. Porter’s eyes bulged. “Get in, Benny,” she murmured, pure steel beneath that sweet Gabby smile.

  Benny Porter obeyed, and Will saw the instant his client got it, the instant he realized this outraged husband was in fact the designer kidnapper he’d hired to deliver the thrill of a lifetime. Gabby settled into the backseat as Will slipped behind the wheel.

  Porter’s voice shook. “I—I’ve got to call my wi—”

  “You’re not calling anyone.” Will watched for an opening and pulled into late-night traffic on Fifty-Second Street.

  Gabby leaned forward, pressing the pistol into Porter’s side. “I have a few ideas what to do with this one. Oh, but we are going to have so much fun.”

  Will pulled off the hairpieces as he headed for the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge. He and Gabby kept in menacing character during the hour-long ride, reminding their client he’d signed up for a realistic abduction experience, not Club Med without the bar beads. Once they were on less-busy back roads, Gabby handcuffed Porter and blindfolded him with her scarf, which reeked of her perfume.

  They started up the long drive to the Goo a little after midnight, only to find their way blocked by Mick’s red Mustang convertible. Will muttered a curse. He hadn’t seen his troublesome nephew since he’d ejected him from the car Friday night.

  “What do you think he wants?” Gabby asked.

  Will shrugged. He’d sent Mick a check for services rendered, via Judith. He’d been more than generous, all things considered.

  “What’s going on?” Porter asked.

  “Shut him up, Monique,” Will said, and Gabby obligingly crammed Porter’s own monogrammed hankie into his mouth.

  Mick strolled across the lawn toward them as they led Porter to the Goo. He had someone with him, a man Will didn’t recognize.

  Now it was Gabby’s turn to curse. In French s
he said, “He knows better than that.” There was nothing illegal about Will’s business, but letting uninitiated strangers hang around and observe was verboten, and Mick knew it. Peering more closely at the man, she murmured, “He looks like Sting.”

  “Need some help?” Mick asked, falling into step with them.

  “Not from you. Who’s he?”

  “Aw, will you forget about the other night?” Mick whined. He tapped his nose, still bruised and lumpy. “I got the shit end of it anyway, in case you didn’t notice.”

  “I said, who is he?”

  The stranger answered. “I’m Keith Kitchen.”

  Will’s head snapped around on the last name.

  “Long-lost cousin.” Mick grinned. “Pretty cool, huh?”

  Keith held the door open for Will as he thrust his docile client over the threshold and marched him toward the room recently vacated by Lucy. “I never heard of any cousin named Keith.”

  “He’s like a fifth cousin, three times removed,” Mick said. “Something like that. Right, Keith?”

  “Nothing like that.”

  Their visitors followed along as Will and Gabby ushered Porter into the room. “It’s crowded in here,” Will said. “You two wait in the hall.” He pulled the gag out of Porter’s mouth, a gesture the blindfolded man took as a signal to go apeshit.

  “You’ll never hold me, fuckers!” He launched himself away from Will, tripped over the edge of the mattress, and executed a spectacular front roll, ripping the seat of that nice suit in the process. His undershorts were navy silk. He was up like a shot, zigzagging across the room, his lacquered comb-over flopping around like a wounded grackle. Will managed to grab him by the collar and haul him back. The man swung around and landed a punishing kick to his shin.

  Will cursed and stumbled. Mick could have stopped Porter’s blind rush for the boarded-up windows; instead he stood giggling at the spectacle. Will wished like hell Fergus were there. He should have been there. Instead he’d left a Post-it with a terse message: Later, lad. No hint of where he’d gone off to, but Will could guess.

  Cousin Keith lunged past Mick and tackled Porter before the man managed to kill himself. It was like watching a lion bring down a gazelle, except that this lion made a conspicuous effort to keep his prey from cracking his head open.

  “Settle down!” Keith barked. He knelt on Porter’s back, exerting just enough pressure to immobilize him.

  Porter never stopped ranting. “Lemme go, you sons o’ bitches!”

  Mick gleefully advanced on Will’s client, now that the man was helpless. Will shoved his nephew into the hallway.

  “Where do you want him?” Keith stood, pulling Porter up with him. Will’s cousin was no spring chicken—probably around Fergus’s age—but clearly he was fit.

  “Merci, Keith,” Gabby said. “We will take it from here.” She shoved the handkerchief back in Porter’s mouth while dodging the man’s flailing feet. Her neck scarf still did double duty as a blindfold, affording the men an unobstructed view of her black-and-silver push-up bra.

  “Yeah, thanks.” Will cast a speculative eye over the various chains and shackles adorning the room.

  “You folks got any rope?” Keith asked. “Looks like we’ve got us a kicker here.”

  “Do we have rope?”

  In no time Keith had Porter hog-tied hand to foot, sweating through his suit and issuing garbled threats around the wadded-up hankie.

  Will admired his cousin’s Marlboro Man efficiency. “You’ve done this before.”

  A funny look flashed across Keith’s face, until he saw Will’s lopsided grin. “Only on the Thanksgiving turkey.”

  Will treated his client to the requisite dark threats and flicked on the TV/DVD player. Episode One of Friends flickered to life. Porter howled through his gag. Will cranked up the volume and led the way out of the room, locking his client in with Rachel and Ross.

  “Now that that’s out of the way.” In the corridor, Will pumped Keith’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Cuz. You handled yourself like a pro in there. If you ever need a job, give me a call.”

  Mick slouched against the wall, reaming out his ear canal with a finger. Will’s words brought him to life. “Funny you should mention—”

  Keith silenced the kid with a look.

  “What?” Will asked his cousin. “You looking for work?”

  “Let’s just say I’m between jobs. Which has nothing to do with my looking you folks up,” he added quickly.

  Gabby jabbed her elbow into Will’s ribs. “Introduce me, gosse. You were brought up better than that.”

  “Ow. Keith, this sorcière is Gabrielle Fonteneau. An old friend of the family and one of my most valuable associates. You can call her Gabby.” Will knew better than to add that Gabby had raised him. Judging by the way she was looking at Keith, she wouldn’t appreciate the reference to her age.

  Gabby smiled prettily and extended an elegant hand, which Cousin Keith held a tad longer than necessary, while treating her to the full power of his amber-colored gaze. This fellow must have been some lady-killer in his youth, Will thought. Probably still was. He confirmed the impression by asking how Will got any work done in the presence of such beauty. Gabby didn’t simper or blush. To her, such compliments were simple statements of fact.

  “Where are you from originally?” Keith asked her.

  “Nice.”

  “Ah, the magical Côte d’Azur. “

  She brightened. “You’ve been there?”

  “Sadly, no. But I’ve always wanted to go.”

  Gabby’s smile broadened, and Will could almost see the itinerary begin to take shape: a romantic getaway for two to the South of France. She clapped her hands. “A family reunion means champagne.”

  To Gabby, a day without a natural disaster of biblical proportions meant champagne. Will followed meekly with the others as she led the way to the Goo’s big commercial kitchen, where she poured four generous flutes of Veuve Clicquot. Mick tossed back his drink and went for a refill as Will, Keith, and Gabby raised their glasses in a toast.

  “To long-lost cousins,” Will pronounced, and they sipped in unison. He studied Keith Kitchen over the rim of his glass. There was a family resemblance, no doubt about it—not to Will himself necessarily, but certainly to his nephew. Even the shape of their eyes was the same. The color was different, though. Mick’s eyes were gray, Keith’s the color of whiskey.

  “So how are we related?” Will asked. “And where have you been holed up that we haven’t run across each other before now?”

  Mick started to answer but wilted under a quelling look from Keith. He’d just met the kid and already seemed to have his number. Perceptive chap, this cousin of theirs.

  “Your grandpa Will had three younger sisters,” Keith said.

  “Rose, Lilly, and Marguerite.”

  “French for ‘daisy.’” Keith gave Gabby an intimate smile as she topped off his glass. Now she did blush, and a couple of drops landed on the tile floor.

  “Rose and Lilly are widowed,” Will said. “They share an apartment in the city.”

  “Central Park West,” Gabby added. “Très chic.”

  “Marguerite was the youngest. The family lost touch with her.” Will served almond biscotti from a ceramic cookie jar shaped like the Bates Motel. “Didn’t she move to the other coast?”

  “Seattle.” Keith handed Gabby a cookie, then took one for himself. “That’s where she met my father. It didn’t last. She had to sue him for child support, so she refused to give me his name.”

  “That’s how come he’s named Kitchen,” Mick added, helpfully.

  “So not a fifth cousin after all,” Will said. “More like, uh . . .”

  Gabby held up a finger. “First cousin, once removed.”

  Will shrugged. “Sounds good to me.”

  Keith’s smile was just for her. “Vous êtes beau et intelligent, mademoiselle.”

  Good grief, there she went again, blushing like a schoolgirl.<
br />
  “Why haven’t we crossed paths before?” Will said. “Did my grandfather know about you?”

  “No one knew about me. Mom didn’t want to face the family’s condemnation for having a child out of wedlock.”

  “Grandpa Will wouldn’t have condemned her.”

  “No, she knew that,” Keith said. “But everyone else would have, so she stayed out there and severed herself from her old life.”

  “What made you look us up now?”

  “Mom died in February. I decided it was time for a change of scenery, and time to . . . to find the rest of my family.” Keith’s voice cracked. “I only wish I’d done it when Uncle Will was still alive.”

  Will watched the most unsentimental woman he knew blink back tears of emotion. Even he had to clear his throat before he said, “He was quite a guy, Grandpa Will. You would’ve liked him.”

  Keith responded with a bittersweet smile.

  As always, Mick could be counted on to annihilate the mood. “So how about giving the cuz a break, huh, Will? Like he said, he’s out of—”

  “Listen, man.” Keith faced Mick, who flinched under the older man’s direct gaze. “I appreciate it, but I can speak for myself.” He turned back to Will. “I’m new to the area, is all. Just getting my feet under me. I’ll find something, no problem.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m a personal trainer.”

  “I figured it was something like that. Something physical, anyway.” Will indicated his cousin’s impressive musculature.

  Gabby agreed enthusiastically, squeezing his biceps for emphasis. “I am thinking he is a lumberjohn, this one. So musculaire.”

  Mick grimaced. “A what?”

  “I think you mean lumberjack. “ Keith smiled at Gabby as if she were the only other person in existence, certainly the only female person. “You’re in excellent shape yourself, Gabby. I noticed a lot of iron in the other room. I’d love to work with you one-on-one. Gratis, naturellement.”

  She responded with a giggle and a long string of incomprehensible Franglish, a display Will’s cousin clearly found charming.