by Leroux, Lucy
“I told you I didn’t steal anything. The bag was stolen.” Dylan’s tone was petulant.
She still didn’t understand. “Marijuana is legal now. How lucrative can it be getting into the illegal drug trade when dispensaries are opening up all over the state?”
“You’d be surprised,” the stranger said. “People still want variety and the newest greatest high.”
Peyton measure the distance to the door longingly. “You make designer drugs,” she guessed.
“And your friend lost a backpack full of our best merchandise,” the man said, making air quotes around lost. “It was worth two hundred Gs. Luckily, he’s found a way to make amends.”
“I can make the cash back some other way. You don’t need her.”
The man laughed. It was harsh and ugly. “This was your idea. Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet now.”
The neurons in her brain were firing too slow. Eventually, though, enough dots connected to realize they meant her.
“What?” Peyton tried to stand, only to be forced down by the goon behind her.
Pain flared in her neck. At first, she thought his hold had pinched a nerve. But the cold feeling seeping into her skin wasn’t horror. She’d been jabbed with a needle.
The liquid in the syringe flooded her system, sapping her energy. Struggling against the restraining hand, she tried to open her mouth to scream, but the big man clapped his meaty hand over her mouth.
The suited man’s expression grew calculated. “She’s a bit too old for the auction block, but if she is as you said, we might make our money back fast. If she’s not, then it’s going to take some time. Either way, consider this a down payment only—if I were you, I’d hit the bricks and start making back our money now.”
Her vision was darkening quickly. Dylan stared at her, his eyes narrowed and tight as he blinked rapidly. She wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, but something quite different came out.
“Liam is going to k-kill you,” she slurred before passing out.
Chapter 8
Liam sat at his desk, fingering the charm bracelet in his pocket as his mind wandered, replaying the night he saw Peyton in front of her home. He couldn’t forget the way she stared at him, as if he were a stranger.
Or like someone she used to know but wanted nothing to do with now.
She was only tired, he told himself. He’d surprised her after a long day at work when she was exhausted and hungry. The next time, he’d call in advance and make reservations at a five-star restaurant, something near her work so she could meet him easily.
He’d find one where they could both walk over. There was less chance she’d back out that way.
“Liam, are you listening to me?”
He frowned at Caroline. “No,” he said curtly.
His beautiful fiancée scowled. “Honestly, I don’t know why I bother.”
Snapping the folder on her lap shut, she stood. “It’s as if you don’t care what our wedding is going to look like.”
This was an old argument. Stifling a sigh, he picked up the book displaying vases. He’d been told they were to hold the centerpieces at each table. “I don’t see why you aren’t going over this with the Caislean’s wedding planning team. They’re exceptionally good at what they do. God knows that’s why I pay them so much.”
“I know they’re good, but I want our wedding to have a certain je ne sais quoi.” She reached over to brush lint off his shoulder. “It may be the merger of two hotel dynasties, but it also needs to include a few personal touches—things that are both meaningful and sophisticated. People will be expecting more from us. Our wedding has to be new and surprising.”
Liam groaned. He knew this was what he’d signed up for when he’d agreed to marry Caroline, but now that he was facing the minutiae of stationary and beribboned flower choices, he wanted to crawl out of his skin. “Well, if you want surprising, let’s shock them and elope.”
Caroline rolled her eyes. “You know perfectly well that my father would have a heart attack if we did that. Our wedding has to be the event of the century.”
“I can’t think of anything I’d rather do less than have a big wedding,” he groused.
Used to his usual taciturn disposition, she ignored his grouchiness. “And that’s why I will soldier on with the wedding planners on my own.”
“You can?” Liam sat up, hope lightening his mood.
Her smile was tinged with amused condescension. “Yes, darling. That way you can focus on the details of the hotel merger. Father is understandably eager to have everything settled.”
He got to his feet with a smile. This was what Trick didn’t understand about his relationship with Caroline. As a hostess, she was unsurpassed. She always knew what to say and do in the rarified circles they moved in. Plus, she was self-contained. Caroline didn’t need him. Her most appealing trait was that she would never make demands or set standards that would be difficult to meet.
Caroline understood their hotels came first. He leaned down to kiss her cheek, but she shied away, patting him on the arm.
“Don’t mess up my makeup dear. I’m meeting the Grove sisters for lunch in a few minutes.”
He nodded, putting his hands in his pockets. “Thanks for taking over the wedding prep,” he said, feeling particularly grateful.
He’d have to ask his secretary to pick up something special for Caroline, maybe a necklace or some earrings. Tina always knew what Caroline liked.
His fiancée’s laugh was light and frothy, like chilled champagne. “Don’t thank me yet. If you find anything objectionable in the proceedings or the reception, I don’t want to hear any complaints. In fact, I expect you to be very vocal in your compliments.”
He grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Even if I end up hating the flowers?”
“Especially if you end up hating the flowers.” On that note, she departed with an airy wave.
Liam watched the door, wondering if he should have mentioned he was heading back out to the West Coast.
His stomach felt a bit unsettled over the omission, but Liam dismissed the idea the feeling might be guilt.
He was only going to check on a friend. He’d go tonight, and he’d use the charm bracelet as an excuse. Liam knew Peyton would want it back.
Chapter 9
Peyton’s head lolled as she fought the effects of the drug.
The atmosphere was making it difficult. If only there was some sort of breeze or something to shift this stale air, but there were no windows in this damn dungeon. Metallic and heavy, the air in the cell settled over her like a dirty blanket.
She had no idea what day it was. It felt like she’d been in this hole for a week, but she knew it hadn’t been that long—it had been two days at the most.
Maybe it’s more. Her memories were hazy. She remembered voices and movement. Someone had tried to question her, but she wasn’t able to recall any of the conversation. And despite her isolation, it wasn’t quiet. It seemed like there was always someone talking or crying in the background.
Hands had touched her.
Peyton didn’t think she had been raped, but she still felt violated.
I could be wrong about that, too.
She had been given something to make her weak, but her awareness seemed intact. An ultra-light sleep was either a side effect of the crap they’d injected her with, or her stress had kept her on edge enough to keep her in this zombified, but mostly conscious, state.
A few hours later, she had worked herself up to a seated position. Her vision was clearer, enabling her to make out details of her location. Then she wished she couldn’t.
It was a cell. The walls were painted metal. A bare toilet was positioned in the corner, but it appeared rough, the bolts shiny and half stripped as if someone had forced it into position—an afterthought in a makeshift prison.
Forcing her feeble muscles to obey her, Peyton dragged herself to that toilet to make use of it, but judging by the state and
smell of her clothing, it was too late. She did her best to clean up with the water she found in a bucket, but she cut her ablutions short. This might be all they were going to give her to drink. There was no sink in the room.
Drinking from a tap would have been safer. Did she even dare drink the bucket water? What if that was how they’d been administering the drug? She only remembered that first shot. Surely that single injection hadn’t lasted till now?
She glanced at the remaining water. How long could a person go without? A few days at most. People could survive much longer without food.
They won’t starve you. That wasn’t the point. She had to stay attractive. Dylan had traded her to pay off his debt, which meant she was worth something to these people. Letting her die of starvation would be counterproductive.
Peyton knew her future was bleak. She had no skills that criminals would value. Yes, she was a fair hacker, but they didn’t know anything about that moonlighting stint of hers in college. She hadn’t had enough time to make a reputation for herself in Silicon Valley, so clearly Dylan hadn’t sold her for her way with computers.
That left two options. Either she was going to be forced to be a drug mule, or she was going to be sold for sex. Of the two, the latter was more likely. If they had wanted a drug mule, taking her from her home seemed an unnecessary step. They could have forced her to agree to terms back at Dylan’s house.
So sex it is. It was almost funny. She was going to be a prostitute instead of a programmer. After all these years, Peyton was going to find out what she’d been missing—in the most appalling circumstances she could possibly think of.
It was worse than a nightmare. Despite the near miss she had told Ethan about, she hadn’t dwelled on the incident after it happened, except perhaps to canonize the man who had rescued her. Peyton had channeled all that fear and angst into something else…love. Sure, it hadn’t been wanted or even recognized, but at least she had loved once in her life. Just once.
It would have to be enough. After what was waiting for her, she was fairly sure she’d never love anyone or anything again. Which meant she had little choice about what she had to do next.
The first chance she got, Peyton was going to escape…or die trying.
* * *
A vicious slap woke her. Rearing back, Peyton pulled away, wincing. She blinked up at the man and woman who stood over her, struggling to focus on their faces. Shit. The fact her captors weren’t wearing masks was a bad sign. It meant they didn’t care if she could identify them. They were either confident in their ability to stay out of the reach of the authorities, or…
There were a million questions going through her mind, but she knew better than to waste her time asking them. There would be no answers, not when the odds were two against one and the muscle at the door was armed.
“What happens next?” Peyton’s voice was hoarse from disuse.
The woman, an attractive brunette in her early fifties, smiled hatefully. “I heard you were smart. Thank you for not wasting my time,” she said in a thickly accented voice. Peyton couldn’t pinpoint the accent. It sounded vaguely Baltic in origin.
The woman checked her clipboard. “Well, well. It seems you’re top tier. I hadn’t expected that at your age.”
“Top tier?” Peyton asked, a sinking feeling in her belly.
“A verified virgin,” the woman supplied, sniffing and running her finger along the paper. “It means you’ll go on the auction block after the others. We always save your kind for last.”
“How was I verified?”
“A medical test when you arrived,” the woman answered without looking at her. “Of course, between you and me, those results don’t mean much. However, men set such a store by them. At best, we can confirm a lack of recent sexual activity. With your seller’s assurance you are pure, it’s enough for us to sell you that way.”
The woman’s head drew back as she studied Peyton up and down. “Personally, I don’t think an oddity such as yourself will fetch very much, but my employers seem to think a virgin of your age can make as much as the preteens.”
Never in her life had Peyton ever wanted to be a man more. If she were as big and as strong as Liam, she could wrestle the gun out of that asshole’s hand and shoot this evil bitch.
“If I’m so worthless, why bother selling me at all?”
The woman smirked. “Be grateful you’re going to auction. If you hadn’t, we would have put you to work the minute your arrived, awake or asleep. It wouldn’t have mattered. The men who pay us don’t care.”
The woman retreated, waving forward a small bent woman carrying several buckets of water.
“Wash. Once you are done, we will bring you fresh clothes, then you’ll be transported. You will reach the auction site in a few days.”
“And if I don’t what? A bullet in the head now?”
“Of course not. We simply market you to different buyers. The unwilling ones make some profit. Some clients enjoy the fight, although the poor dears don’t last as long. My advice—if you want to survive, keep your head down. Be subservient and docile. You might get lucky. With your college grades and advanced degree, you might well be chosen as a breeder. It helps that you are white. Other races aren’t chosen for that honor nearly as often.”
The woman gestured at the buckets. “So now you wash.”
“I guess it would be too much to ask for privacy, huh?” Peyton kept one eye on the armed man watching her with slumberous eyes.
The woman’s face tightened. “No. We don’t take chances with our merchandise. But have no fear. This one has seen it all, and he knows better than to depreciate your value.”
Lips compressed, Peyton reached for the hem of her shirt, pulling it off before standing to strip off the rest of her soiled clothes.
Chapter 10
Liam pounded on the door of Peyton and Dylan’s house. He’d flown in yesterday, sending half a dozen texts and voicemails to her phone, requesting dinner.
When she hadn’t replied, he’d gone to her work, announcing himself as a family friend only to learn Peyton hadn’t been at work for days. She had emailed to let them know she’d contracted the flu. Simultaneously relieved and concerned, he’d driven out to the house without warning her that he was coming.
The ‘For Sale’ sign on the lawn of the McMansion caught him off guard, but the lights were on. The television was playing loud enough to be heard on the sidewalk.
Maybe she couldn’t hear her phone. Now that he was here, Liam had texted and rang the doorbell, but he was being steadily ignored by the occupants inside.
“Fuck this.” He went down the concrete path leading to the driveway, slipping along the side of the house, searching for windows out of the line of sight of the neighbors.
The rear window just beyond the driveway was open a tiny crack. The room behind it was dark. He pulled out his phone.
Are you too sick to come to the door? Or are you so mad at me that you can’t stand the sight of me?
The minutes stretched without a response. Jaw clenched, he fished out his keys. He wedged the thinnest one under the frame of the mesh screen, then worked it up and out. Then he opened the window wide enough for him to squeeze through.
Breaking and entering Peyton’s home was a bit high-handed—even for him—but Liam was at his wit’s end. He needed to talk to her. They had to get back to normal somehow. Even if she did decide to stay out here in California, they could still talk on the phone or something…
A flash of shame coursed through him, but he ignored it, hefting one leg over the sill and climbing inside. He certainly hoped Peyton would be in a more receptive mood than her silence suggested. Otherwise, the headlines were going to be very colorful. ‘Hotel magnate arrested breaking into San Mateo home’.
I can’t believe I’m doing this. Only Peyton could reduce him to breaking and entering, but there wasn’t anyone else in his life who would ignore him like this. Why was she so damn stubborn?
T
his is humiliating, he thought, brushing himself off as he took stock of the empty bedroom he found himself in.
This is Peyton’s. Enough light filtered in from the window for him to be able to tell.
He recognized her things. Maggie had helped her pick out the dark bedspread embroidered with star constellations. The Tiffany lamp on the desk was from his brother, and Jason had bought the silly cartoon mousepad at a street fair as a joke.
What was wrong with this picture? Liam couldn’t put his finger on it. He flipped the light switch, scanning everything that was visible and out in the open. It took him a long moment, but then it hit him.
None of the objects were from him. True, he wasn’t a big gift giver, but he’d known Peyton forever. Over the years, he’d bought her enough knickknacks to fill several shelves at least. But there was nothing of that here. Not even one of the picture frames she’d claimed to love.
She left the charm bracelet. Peyton had treasured that thing. It was as if…
His skin broke out into a cold sweat. Peyton hadn’t just left Boston—she had left him.
Liam dropped onto the bed, sitting on the edge with a thump. This wasn’t about the job or because she wanted to make enough money to pay off that old debt. Peyton had moved across the country to get away from him. She’d intentionally left everything that reminded her of him behind. He was being cut out.
Bile rose up his throat. Swallowing hard, he sat there, willing Peyton to come into the room so they could talk. When he took a breath, he was surprised at how difficult it was to draw one deep enough.
Fuck. Liam rubbed his face, but he put his hand down when he noticed it trembling. He hadn’t felt pain like this since his parents died.
You have to get ahold of yourself. For a moment, he weighed leaving, crawling out the window and returning when he had a plan. Maybe all she needed was time…
