Going Once, Taken Twice: A Dark Romance

by Claire St. Rose

  She nodded, easing into the chair. “I am. I was kidnapped while backpacking about two weeks ago.”

  “And why are you only appearing now?” His brows were set in a line while he typed on his keyboard.

  Emotion tightened her throat. “What? Are you serious? I just finally escaped. I was—“

  “I’m sorry.” He tore his glasses off, rubbing at his eyes. “I just have to make sure you are who you say you are. There have been reports of this kidnapping for weeks. It’s gaining more and more international exposure.” He paused. “I have to makes sure you aren’t an imposter.”

  She creased a brow, heart racing. “An imposter? Why would anyone pose as me?”

  “Bureaucratic hiccups are the favorite pastime of some people.” He clicked around, squinting at his computer screen. He looked between her and the screen several times. “But you look exactly like her, you do.”

  “Because I am her.” She tutted. “Can’t I call my father? Please? Let him hear my voice. He’ll identify me immediately. Take my fingerprint. Whatever.”

  “Oh, we’ll be doing all of that.” He slipped his glasses back on. “After a few questions first.”

  He grilled her on her birthday, birthplace, social security number and family history. After that, which seemed like it should have been satisfactory, he picked up the phone and dialed a number. The silence hung tense and bloated in his office. She squeezed her knees, desperate for him to believe her, desperate to talk to her father, desperate to hug Boris just one last time.

  Finally, he passed the phone to her.

  “This is your father,” he said, a small smile ghosting his face.

  She pressed the phone to her eyes, eyes wide. “Dad?”

  “Claudia, is that you?” The familiar baritone rumbled through the phone; she could practically see his bright green eyes lighting up, halfway across the world.

  Tears pricked her eyes. “It’s me, Dad. I’m here. I’m safe.”

  There was a gruff sigh. “Dear lord, I’ve been so worried about you.” He paused, made a sound like he might be crying. “Oh, Claudia, this is such a relief. Where have you been? What have they done?”

  She swallowed a knot of emotion. “Dad, it was awful. But I’m fine. I promise you. I want to come home.”

  “Immediately,” he promised. “You’ll be on a plane tonight. We’ll work out all the details.”

  “My phone was lost. My passport. All of my belongings.” Her breath hitched; a sob escaped. “They took me onto a yacht and tried to sell me.”

  There was a muffled cry from the other end of the phone. Claudia wiped away some tears that had fallen; all the pain and confusion of the past few weeks flooded forward, like water through a broken dam. She’d tried so hard to play the part, to keep her wits about her, to go with the flow on that cruise ship. And everything that happened afterward had been a blur, leaving her no time to process the depths of what she’d survived. What she’d sidestepped, because of Boris. Nearly every day, the thought rang through her body, shrill like a tornado siren: What if Boris hadn’t come? What would those men have done to you? Where would you be now?

  And now, in the first moment where she could relax—the first respite from the whirlwind—the unknowns crashed down around her. Once the danger was gone, the unraveling began.

  “Honey, we’re bringing you home.” Her father’s voice was strained, raw. “You’ll be home safe and sound. We’re gonna find the bastards that did this to you, and we’ll take care of them.”

  Boris flashed through her mind—he would take care of them, if she asked him to. He already had taken care of one of them. A strange cocktail of desperation and longing flashed through her, hot as lava. I need to see Boris again.

  Boris Andreivich Druganov. The second she had a phone or laptop within reach, she’d search high and low for him. At least she had this to go on. It was unique enough to snag some potential leads; and his face was burned into her memory, so she’d be able to identify him no matter what.

  Hope sparked deep inside. Not only was she safe, she was going home. But the real cherry on top was the fact that she might be able to someday, somehow, see her beloved protector just one more time.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Claudia sighed with contentment, burrowing even deeper into her favorite blanket. After a shower at her father’s house and a perfectly-singed grilled cheese sandwich, there were few ways this homecoming could improve.

  Except, of course, the one major way it could improve, which would be if Boris magically appeared with a bouquet of flowers. “Surprise!” he’d say. “Your father and I have been planning this all along!”

  But no. Her father smiled down at her, squeezing her shoulder. No Boris behind him, or knocking on the door. No matter how much she hoped with bated breath that somehow he might have been trailing her all along.

  The plan was to veg on the couch and watch Netflix, which seemed the only appropriate way to reintegrate into her normal life. Besides, the world beyond was a media shit show. Camera crews and journalists had swarmed them at the airport when they left baggage claim, rendering it almost impossible to get into their car. Her father’s phone rang relentlessly, too; after the twentieth call, he moved it to Do Not Disturb mode.

  “You must be exhausted,” he said. “Do you need anything else honey?”

  “No, dad, I’m good. I think I’ll just lay here and nap.” Her laptop sat unopened on the ottoman in front of the couch; between Netflix and catching up on emails, she had plenty to keep her occupied for the next week if she so chose.

  “I’ll be in my office if you need me,” he said, kissing his fingertips and pressing them to her nose. “You rest up.”

  She snuggled into the blanket, scrolling through the Netflix options. Action and adventure movies were out—she’d had enough of that the past few weeks—and rom-com’s seemed too soon. But really, the past weeks had been a strange, unforgettable combination of the two categories. Maybe someday they’ll make a movie about what you lived through. Falling in love with the man hired to kill your father. With a grimace, she finally settled on a Disney pick.

  About fifteen minutes into the movie, curiosity gnawed at her. She had to know more about the mysterious Boris Andreivich Druganov. Launching the search might help her really begin to settle down.

  She reached for her laptop, half-heartedly watching the movie while it booted up. After her browser popped open, all the regular saved tabs appeared—exactly where she’d left off before beginning her backpacking trip. Like a strange memorial to her life, pre-kidnapping. One tab for her favorite clothing store, another one for a search she’d started on late summer festivals in the east coast region. Tinder was open in another tab—like she’d ever be able to find a more interesting match than Boris?—which had been a reminder to herself to investigate the possibility of trying it out. She’d been admittedly curious about the dating world before her backpacking trip, unsure if she really wanted to take the plunge. Boris sure cleared that up for you.

  She sighed, closing all the tabs, opening a secret browsing window instead. Typing in ‘Boris Andreivich Druganov’ yielded a hodgepodge of disparate results. The name was linked to European soccer players, some Croatian banking establishment, a Wikipedia article and also a slew of coding resources that were probably the farthest thing away from Boris in the world.

  After a few frustrating modifications on the search, she realized Google would lead her nowhere. He didn’t exist in search results like that—but what about social media?

  She scoured Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and more, typing in his name and every combination of details she could muster: pizza, Croatia, Boris, age range 23-30. And each time, instead of the chiseled, handsome man she’d come to love, she found every variation on the theme: pimply adolescents. Dark-skinned business men. Sharply dressed partiers, arms slung around friends and ladies.

  The movie was over by the time she exhausted her research. With a sigh, she collapsed onto the couch
during the credits, eyes stinging from so much screen time.

  Boris, how can I find you?

  Maybe he’d given her a fake name. Or maybe it was one he no longer used. Clearly if he went by Boris, he’d made a choice to disassociate from Boris for some reason. The reasons could spiral on into eternity. In his line of work, there might be layers upon layers of fake information before she could burrow down to the truth.

  It’s hopeless. Just accept it. You’ll never see him again.

  She turned onto her side, burying her face into the side of the couch. At just over 24 hours since she’d last seen him, maybe her only saving grace was the fact that it would get easier with time. Wasn’t that the age-old advice? Surely, weeks or months down the road, she wouldn’t pine for him so hard. Wouldn’t long for him like she’d just been divested of a limb.

  Or maybe you’ll feel this way forever.

  There was one resource left at her disposal, but it was only available via her father’s job. She pushed herself off the couch, heading for her father’s office. His doors were closed, so she knocked softly. A moment later, he pulled the door open.

  “What are you doing up?” His brow creased with concern.

  “I have a favor to ask.” She drew a deep breath, steeling herself for the outrageous request. “If I wanted to use your database to look into someone’s background, could I?”

  His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “I just want to look into someone,” she said, heart racing. The idiocy of the request was slowly seeping through her, making her panic. “But it needs to be no questions asked. I don’t want to explain, and I don’t want to talk about it. Just one search.”

  He blinked a few times, his face neutral. “Is this related to the kidnapping?”

  “I said no questions asked. But yes.”

  His jaw flinched, gaze drifting over to his computer. He could get into a shit ton of trouble for abusing his security clearances. But just one search had to be fine. Or else she’d go crazy from wondering.

  “And what will you do with the information?”

  “Nothing, probably. I just need to know more.”

  His gaze hardened. “Before I agree to this, I need to ask a few questions.”

  Hope tremored through her. “Okay fine. A few questions might be allowed.”

  “Is this the person who kidnapped you?”

  “No.”

  “Is this a person involved in rescuing you from the ship?”

  She hesitated. “Maybe.”

  He deflated. “So you do know the identity of who rescued you. You told me it was an anonymous group of bandits.”

  “Dad, I can’t go into detail.”

  “This is pertinent information that the US government wants to know. I need to know.”

  Panic cinched her chest. “I can’t. For all intents and purposes, this person is unrelated to everything. Okay? Just please, let me. Please.”

  His gaze skated over her, worry etched into his face. “Fine. But just one person. Just this once.” He pulled the door open the rest of the way, gesturing to his large computer desk. “Now go.”

  She scurried over, settling into his big leather-backed chair, running her fingers over the keyboard as he navigated to the appropriate program on the computer.

  “Type the name in here.” He gestured at the screen, then to another area. “And you’ll fill in the remaining details in this area. Hit search, and that’s it.” He seared her with a look. “But make it quick. I’m going to make myself a coffee.”

  He left the office quietly, leaving her in a bloated silence. The time is now.

  She typed “Boris Andreivich Druganov” into the initial search field, followed by a few additional pertinent pieces of information: age range, nationality, gender, race. Breath caught in her throat, she clicked Search.

  The system hung for a moment, a bar at the bottom showing a percentage that climbed slowly from 1% to 99%. It hung at 99% for what felt like an eternity. And then a search result page sprang to life.

  Several pages of Boris Andreivich Druganov greeted her. Portraits hugged the left side, and relevant personal information populated the right-hand column. Excitement gripped her—so many pages of possibilities. She scanned each picture first, on every single page, not bothering to read any of the personal information. She knew so little about him, it would hardly be useful.

  At page five, a picture made her scroll slower. A younger Boris, perhaps: same chiseled jaw, more of a baby face, the same haunting dark eyes.

  Her breath hitched. In the distance, her father rummaged in the kitchen. Her heart pounded in her ears.

  She opened the profile, scanning the information. Boris Andreivich Druganov. Born March 1st, 1988. Moscow, Soviet Union. Caucasian. Deceased as of October 18th, 2008.

  She blinked hard, re-reading the information over and over again.

  Deceased.

  She gulped, staring at the picture, the information making bulky turns in her head. This doesn’t make any fucking sense. It was Boris. Clear as day, Boris Andreivich Druganov. She clicked around, finding a rap sheet attached to his record, showing a multitude of gang-banger accusations and domestic disturbance charges. Seems Boris had a rough childhood. No small wonder, then, that he’d made it to a mafia organization.

  She stared at the information a moment longer, committing as much as possible to memory. The excitement from before, snuffed like a candle, left a strange hollow inside her heart.

  Her only clue to finding Boris on her own had led straight to a dead-end. A ghost certainly hadn’t saved her, that was for sure—which meant he didn’t want to be found. He didn’t even exist.

  Blinking back tears, she pushed up out of the chair and headed for her bedroom.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Hours turned into days. Days turned into almost a week. And soon Claudia found it hard to completely remember the bone-shaking fear of being onboard the sex cruise. The sting of the mid-day Croatian sun. The drop of her stomach at hearing a gunshot break through the air unexpectedly.

  But some things wouldn’t leave her, no matter how hard she tried to forget them. No matter how many times they showed up in her dreams. The breath-evaporating shock of jumping from the railing of the ship into the ocean. The choked air inside that secret club at the bottom of the ship—any hint of cigar smoke could remind her of that lap dance.

  And then Boris. Everything about him refused to fade away. The steely jaw brushed with days-long stubble; his dark, consuming eyes. The way his belly moved when he laughed while her head was in his lap. The warmth that emanated from him, like they’d been together forever.

  The media firestorm demanded an appearance, and after consulting two lawyers and a CIA spook, Claudia’s father organized a press conference to address the most outstanding questions. Per official protocol, they handed her a very simple and precise script to follow once she stepped in front of the podium.

  Claudia’s kidnapping and heralded return picked up way more media coverage than she’d ever imagined. Not that she’d had any expectations upon returning, other than a hot shower and maybe a few days of complete relaxation. But it seemed like every new outlet in the country had something to say about the kidnapping.

  Pundits debated the efficacy of the US policies towards the support for the exiled royal family of Slavonia, since maybe the kidnapping reflected potential unease at her father’s own position. Talk shows murmured sympathy for the innocent Princess, and all the ways this might affect her future. The internet had produced several clever memes, as well, with too many comments sections weighing in on her experience.

  The attention and buzz of the first week home made her feel like a bizarre type of celebrity.

  “Honey, are you ready?”

  Her father adjusted his tie when he came out of his bedroom, face strained like it always was before a big meeting or event.

  “Almost, dad.” She finished pushing a pearl earring through her lobe and turned to fa
ce him, smiling tightly. This press conference was as much an official press release statement as it was placating the expectant crowds, wanting to see the happy father and daughter reunited. The amount of rumors circulating was never-ending. At least this way, they could lay to rest some of the more bizarre theories.

  “You look beautiful,” he said, waving her toward the door. “We should get into the car.”

  “Okay, okay, I’m coming.” She snatched up her handbag and followed him to the front door of the two-story townhouse. A black sedan waited out front for them, the car that would carry them to Jefferson Square, where the high-security address would take place. The whole thing made Claudia’s head spin—including the fact that her father might still be in danger.

  She slipped into the back seat of the sedan, catching a whiff of roses before she settled in. “You upped our security for the event, right?”