by Rita Herron
“Tonight. Midnight. The pier.”
“How will I recognize you?”
“You won’t. But I’ll know you.”
Luke snapped the phone shut, frustrated. He hated these clandestine meetings. But if there was a possibility the man had a lead on Stella’s disappearance the past year, or why she’d lied to him in the beginning, he had to follow through.
Until then, he had some investigating to do on his own. Sutton was not the man he claimed to be.
He just had to prove it and figure out what Sutton wanted with Stella.
STELLA REMAINED silent on the drive to Drake Sutton’s estate, her body knotted with tension. She wanted to understand the man who’d claimed to be her family, but he seemed reticent, almost angry.
Unable to bear the silence any longer, she finally gathered her courage and asked, “Do you know what happened to me the last year?”
His slid his gaze toward her, his expression schooled. “No.”
“But you knew that I’d married Luke Devlin?”
His eyebrow shot up slowly. “You really don’t remember?” He hesitated. “I thought the amnesia might be an act. A clever one, I might add.”
“It’s not an act. I seem to have forgotten my entire life.” She scrutinized his features. “You didn’t answer my question. Did you know I’d married Luke?”
“Yes. Like I said, you told me you wanted out.”
“When I met you in Paris?”
He dragged his gaze back to the road and nodded.
“Do you know where I was living? Anything about how I wound up with that man in the hotel?”
His finger tap danced across the steering wheel as if he were trying to decide how to answer. Finally he sighed. “I don’t have all the answers for you right now, baby. You need to stop pushing it. You’re overtired.”
“How can I not push it?” Stella screeched. “I’m facing murder charges.”
He reached across the seat, patted her hand in a gesture that felt condescending. “I told you not to worry. I’ll take care of things.” His voice lowered an octave. “Let’s get you home to rest. We’ll talk more later. Then I’ll fill in the blanks.”
Exhausted, she finally relented, closed her eyes and let the lull of the Mercedes’s engine relax her. When she opened her eyes again, palm trees floated past, the iron gates to Sutton’s estate opened up and welcomed them inside. Sutton drove down a mile long drive lined with oaks, the feeling that she was disappearing into some kind of guarded compound not lost on her as the isolation of the landscape swallowed them.
The house that had seemed large in the photo loomed like a concrete monastery. Sutton parked in the circular driveway in front and cut the engine. Huge columns flanked the doorway. The sight of granite soldier statues on the brick stoop drew her eye. She checked to see if they represented a particular era or a famous American war figure, but saw nothing to denote their significance.
Still wary, she reached for the doorknob, but a short man with white hair appeared and opened it for her.
“Welcome back, Miss Segall.”
Stella shivered at the sound of his deep voice, and struggled to place his face, but it was as unfamiliar as the brick pathway that led to the ominous-looking house.
Seconds later, she stood inside, her gaze scanning the art adorning the two-story foyer. Oil paintings covered the walls and marble statues stood on pedestals paying homage to the winding staircase—she wasn’t a dealer or art connoisseur but each of the pieces looked pricey.
“They are originals,” Sutton boasted, his chest puffing up with pride. “You always did admire them.”
Stella gulped as the door shut behind her.
“Come on, Stella, I’ll show you to your quarters. The cook will send up a tray. I’m sure you’ll want to get a hot bath and rest for a while.”
Fatigue tightened her shoulders. “That would be nice.” She followed him up the marble stairs, then down a long hallway to a suite that had been closed off by a locked door. She frowned as Sutton withdrew a key, unlocked it, then gestured for her to enter.
“I’ll have the nurse check on you shortly as well.”
The mention of a nurse resurrected memories of the night before, of feeling violated. And somewhere in the far recesses of her mind, it tugged at another memory. Something even more painful…
“The entire wing is yours, Stella. You should have everything you need here.”
She glanced up and thought she detected an almost evil note in his eye. With one hand, he opened the door to a sterile-looking bedroom. On second glance, it felt like a hospital room. The decor was monochromatic—white. The metal bed glimmered against the stark light. The room was void of decoration, color and personal items.
That thought alone sent her heart pounding just as it had when Sutton had first mentioned a nurse back at the courthouse. Other than the previous night, why would having a nurse bother her? Had she been ill as a child? Had an accident of some kind? Spent an extended time in a hospital?
And if she’d really lived here, where were her personal possessions? There wasn’t a photo, a magazine, a tube of lipstick, not one item in sight that told her anything about herself.
He turned to leave and she shivered, uneasy at being left alone. Seconds later, the sound of a door being locked down the hall intensified her anxiety. She sank onto the bed, weak-kneed and nauseated, an enervated feeling engulfing her.
She’d just left one prison for another.
IT WAS LATE evening already, and the sun had faded, the night looming ahead, long and filled with mounting questions. Luke had spent the past few hours searching the FBI database for information on Drake Sutton but had found zilch.
Zilch as in no incriminating evidence or a connection to CIRP and Nighthawk Island.
Everything about the man had checked out so far. According to his sources, Sutton was well-known in the international art world, was a financial tycoon, dabbled in several stocks and international businesses, and didn’t have so much as a parking ticket.
That itself had raised Luke’s suspicions another notch.
No one who’d reached middle age had an unblemished past. Sutton was too good to be true. Too perfect.
Which meant he was a fake.
Unfortunately he was the most difficult kind to catch. The type who covered his tracks. Rarely made mistakes.
Rarely.
But everyone had an Achilles’ heel and Luke would find Sutton’s.
Maybe Sutton’s was Stella herself.
Luke had seen the possessive way the man watched her, a look that hadn’t been parental.
He didn’t like the setup one damn bit. Stella was his wife.
He muttered a curse, dragged his hand over his face and strode outside for fresh air.
What the hell was he saying? Stella had married him, but she’d brought a pack of lies with her, and had left him holding the bag.
And now she was back, in trouble, needing his help, and he had no idea whether to rescue her, or return her to jail.
His emotions didn’t make any more sense than Stella’s actions the year before.
He glanced at the sky, as if the heavens held answers, but darkness greeted him instead. The storm clouds still lingered from the night before, the gray-cast sky obliterating the stars. Ocean waves rocked in the background, beating against the shore, mimicking the roaring of his heart.
It would be another lonely night. One without answers.
Unless that reporter had a real lead for him.
Exhilarated at the thought, he strode back inside, grabbed his keys and decided to head down to the pier. He’d arrive early, grab a bite to eat at the marina, scope out the place, make sure he wasn’t walking into some kind of setup. God knows he’d done that before and nearly ended up dead.
A few minutes later he managed to squeeze onto a bar stool, order a burger and wolf it down with a soda. Although he craved a cold beer, he needed a clear head tonight, his instincts alert. He sipped
on coffee while studying the crowd. Since becoming an agent, he looked at everyone, every situation, with suspicion.
Except he’d thrown it to the wind the night he’d met Stella.
Had she really been that good in bed?
His sex hardened and throbbed, telling him yes.
Annoyed, he forced the image of a naked Stella from his head, although his body protested.
An hour later, he paid his bill and stalked into the humid summer night. A few late-night strollers walked hand in hand along the pier, and a teenage couple necked in the corner like star-crossed lovers who had escaped into their own romantic world for the night. A gray-haired woman pushed a baby stroller, probably babysitting tonight, and another couple laughed as their toddler dripped ice cream from a cone all over his chubby hands. Beyond them, toward the far end of the dock, two fishermen baited up and cast their lines while a stray dog wandered up and down the wooden plank searching for crumbs the seagulls might have missed.
So far, nothing appeared out of place.
A half-dozen teenagers arrived, one rapping to a headset, two girls giggling and chatting, and a skateboarder nearly ran him over, then had the nerve to curse at him.
Luke barely controlled the urge to draw his badge. To tell the kids to go home where it was safe, where they belonged.
Instead he shrugged off the incident, walked to the end of the pier and parked himself on a wooden bench in front of a catamaran tied to the dock. From that vantage point, he could see anyone coming. If there was one thing Luke couldn’t stand, it was for someone to sneak up and get the jump on him—the way Stella had.
The minutes ticked by, the visitors dwindling, the air growing thicker with tension as Luke waited. The wind picked up, accentuating the smell of saltwater. By twelve-fifteen, the area was nearly deserted, but he continually scanned the dock in search of trouble.
A half hour later, he was just about to call it a night when someone climbed from the deck of a houseboat three slips down.
He sat up straighter, his hand automatically checking his weapon as the man approached.
Andrews, he assumed. He was hunched over, dressed in a ratty overcoat, looked like a homeless man. If this man was the reporter, why was he in disguise?
“Devlin?”
He stopped a few feet away, nudging a piece of popcorn through the crack in the pier.
Luke nodded. “Are you Andrews?”
The man gave a short nod, then dropped down beside him, a wine bottle in his hand. He tipped up the cheap wine, playing the part as he slumped lower in the seat.
Devlin frowned. “Why all the cloak and dagger?”
“You’ll understand when you see what I have.” The man discreetly fished a manila envelope from inside the raincoat and slid it onto the bench between them.
Luke flipped open the envelope, then removed several photos. They were all pictures of Stella. Stella wearing a slinky black cocktail dress sidled up to a tall, blond man at some kind of fancy dinner party. Stella in a dark room, pawing through what appeared to be a mahogany desk. Stella dressed in a wig, glancing across the street, then a follow-up shot of her ducking into a nearby dark sedan with a tall, austere man. “What the hell are these?”
“Photos of your wife. They look suspicious, don’t they?”
Luke refused to take the bait. “I’m well aware my wife had a life before me.”
“Look at the dates stamped on the back from the photo processor.”
Luke’s hands felt sweaty as he flipped them over. The pictures were all dated the last year.
So, she hadn’t exactly been gagged and tied for the past thirteen months.
He cut his gaze back to Andrews, stone-faced. “Okay, I’ll bite. What do you know about these?”
Andrews shrugged. “I have reason to believe that your wife is engaged in espionage, Agent Devlin.”
Luke stared at the man in shock. “What are you talking about?”
“My sources tell me that Stella Segall is a covert agent. She’s not working for our side.” He hesitated, took another swig of the wine, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Luke didn’t speak, couldn’t. His mind was racing.
“Your wife didn’t meet you by chance, Devlin,” Andrews continued. “Your affair, the marriage—she staged it all. She’s been using you the entire time.”
Chapter Five
“Don’t fight it, Stella. Give in to the darkness. Accept your fate. You have no control.”
She rose slowly, submitting totally to the constant sound of the man’s deep voice as he urged her to follow his commands. It was too hard to fight him. Impossible. He was the leader. The Master. And she had to bend to his will.
It had always been that way. As it had with the others. There was no escape.
Trying meant danger. Pain. Total darkness.
“That’s right, Stella. You were born for this. Born to walk this path.
“Born to kill.”
“No…”
The faint whisper of her denial sounded pathetic in the dank air that swirled between them. Had she dared deny him?
“Yes, Stella. You were born for this.” He extended his hand, and metal glittered in the darkness. She felt the weight of it in her palm as she took the gun and checked to see if it was loaded.
As he’d instructed her, she slid the .38 into her pocket, then walked to the other room. The man was waiting. Half-naked and sated this time. Hoping for more. Ready to take her to oblivion, if just for a few moments of pleasure.
The sheet slid down to reveal his bare chest, dusted in dark hair, then lower. She sucked in a sharp breath as she followed the trail to the heaven waiting below. Part of her ached and throbbed to ride that road again. To go the distance.
“Do it now, Stella,” the voice ordered.
She nodded, a tear trickling from her eye as she raised the weapon and fired.
His body jerked back in response, his eyes flared open in shock. Blood splattered the pristine white sheets and sprayed the walls and pillows.
She began to shake all over. The horror of what she’d done. The voices that wouldn’t leave her alone. The commands that would never end.
One voice promised that she’d belong to him forever. That she’d succumb to his beck and call.
The other promised to rescue her from it all.
But he’d failed in the end. And she’d been forced to kill him.
Now, she would never be free….
STELLA JERKED AWAKE, panting for air, a sob catching in her throat. Dear God, why had she dreamed something so horrible? That she was a killer…
Shadows flickered off the milky-white walls. She tensed, searching the room for an intruder. For the voice. The man.
But the sterile, white room was empty. No blood colored the walls or sheet.
Except in her mind.
And her memory.
The night in the motel…had she been remembering something?
No, she hadn’t killed that man. She wouldn’t believe it.
Besides, the man in the dream wasn’t the one she was accused of killing. It was Luke Devlin.
The scent of antiseptic and cleaner assaulted her. Dizziness swept over her. The isolation must be wearing on her nerves. Making her dream unspeakable things. Things that she was incapable of.
Wasn’t she?
She tried to sit up but slumped back down, exhausted. She’d been here three days. Each night had been filled with nightmares that she couldn’t escape.
Her other dreams were equally disturbing. Although they didn’t involve murder, they consisted of erotic moments with Luke Devlin. Of being touched and caressed, teased and loved until she cried out his name in ecstasy. Dreams of wanting the pleasure to last forever.
The reality of knowing that it wouldn’t.
But each morning, she’d awaken, alone, to the fear and the emptiness. To the realization that serious trouble trailed her.
Matilda, the nurse Drake Sutton had hired, poked
her head into the room and Stella quickly composed herself. If she complained of the nightmares, the nurse medicated her more. And Stella was beginning to think the medication stirred up more demons.
Matilda strutted in, looking slightly harried this morning. She was a pudgy, middle-aged woman and had been kind, but no nonsense. If Stella expected friendship or companionship, she’d have to ask someone else. Matilda assisted in arranging a decent diet for Stella, ordered vitamins and a sedative to help her rest, and dropped by regularly to take her vitals and monitor her recovery.
Other than that, she’d kept to herself.
“How are you feeling today?”
Stella shoved the tangled hair from her face. Her head felt fuzzy, the remnants of another dream from the night before echoing inside, making her skull throb.
She was in prison on death row. A guard had come to escort her to her death chamber. Her knees had given way, and he’d dragged her to a tiny, dark room, then strapped her down in preparation for the lethal injection.
“I just have to give you your injection.” The nurse popped a hypodermic from her pocket, raised it and tapped the edge.
Stella jerked back and hugged the white comforter to her chest. She’d argued with Matilda about the shots the last two visits, insisting they made her more tired and lethargic, but Matilda had refused to listen, arguing that the doctor knew best, that rest might help her regain her memory.
But the injections and hours of drug-induced sleep only clouded her mind more.
She raised a hand to ward off Matilda. “Please, I’m better now. Not dehydrated or in pain at all. I don’t need medication.”
The nurse pursed her lips into a frown. “Don’t be difficult, Stella. The doctor will cancel them when he thinks you’re ready.”
“But the drugs make me sleep too much. I…I need to start getting up, moving around, clear my head.” Panic zinged through her as she fought a wave of claustrophobia. How long had she been here now? She’d thought it was three days, but it could be longer.
The hours and nights blended together. When she slept, she had nightmares. Or maybe she was remembering something else about her past. “I need to figure out what happened to me, Matilda. And I can’t do that with these drugs in my system.”
