The Man in the Black Suit

by Sylvain Reynard

  “I love you.”

  His words came out of nowhere. Acacia lifted her head in shock.

  Nicholas looked pained. His dark eyes were worried, his brow furrowed.

  He touched her lips. “There’s no need to reply. I’ve been bursting to say the words for some time. I’m afraid they just slipped out.”

  “You love me?” Her lips moved against his fingers.

  He withdrew them. “Yes. I’ve loved you almost since the moment I saw you at the Victoire. You’re incredible, Acacia. I’m mad about you.”

  “You love me despite my complicated past?”

  “You told me you accepted me, scar and all. That’s how I feel about you, but much more deeply.”

  “I love you, too,” she confessed. “I realized it last night. I love this man. I can see his heart and his soul in his eyes, and I don’t ever want to be without them.”

  Nicholas brought his mouth to hers and kissed her.

  “I didn’t know,” he said as he brought their lips together over and over again. “I was afraid if I told you, I’d lose you. But the words could not be contained.”

  “I’ve been afraid for so many years. I’m not afraid anymore, not while we’re together. I’ve waited a long time for you.”

  “And I for you,” he pledged. He touched her face in wonder. “You love me.”

  “With all my heart.” She touched her hand to her chest, just below the necklace he’d given her, and then brought the same hand to his heart.

  He gave her a blinding smile. “I’m very relieved to know my feelings are returned.”

  She tilted her head to the side. “You couldn’t tell? Every time you touched me, I felt I was giving up my secrets.”

  “You’re very expressive during sex; that’s true.” He kissed her nose playfully.

  “So are you.” She straddled him and began tickling his ribs.

  He howled with laughter and tried to bat her hands away.

  She laughed with him.

  “And of course, you told your ex-boyfriend I had your heart. That made me brave.”

  “Good.”

  “I’ve got you now.” He clasped her hands together, binding her wrists.

  “No more tickling.” She gave him a look that was meant to be sincere.

  “Liar.” He kissed her palms. “This is one of the reasons I love you. You make me laugh.”

  She smiled down at him.

  They were quiet for a moment. Acacia took that opportunity to examine his face.

  “Will you tell me about your scar?” Her voice was gentle.

  Nicholas released her hands, and they rested on his chest.

  “You already know about my sister. Her death threw my life into chaos. I didn’t have the network I have today, but I had some wealth and some influence. I began my own investigation.

  “A group of men had been seen in the gallery on two separate occasions prior to the robbery. They didn’t act like art enthusiasts. I followed their trail into Bosnia, but they found me first.”

  “What happened?”

  “They gave me this.” He pointed to his scar. “They told me the next time we met, they’d kill me and my parents. I vowed at that moment I would become someone they could not kill.”

  “Nicholas.” She touched his face. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

  “I came back to my family disfigured. My own mother couldn’t bear to look at me.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true.”

  “It was. Although perhaps she’s come to terms with it,” he conceded.

  “You didn’t want to have the scar removed?”

  Nicholas gritted his teeth. “I wanted to stand in front of the man who gave it to me and do the same to him.

  “I wore a prosthetic. I lived in my parents’ house, obsessed with finding the person who’d bought the artwork from the Bosnians. I lost my fiancée because of my obsession.”

  “I didn’t know you were engaged.” Acacia’s voice was quiet.

  “I was working in London at the time. We met there. I had brought her home to meet my family the night Riva was killed.”

  “Oh, Nicholas.” She touched his shoulder. “What happened to your fiancée?”

  He scrubbed his face. “She lived in London, where she was working. I took a leave of absence to live in Cologny. She didn’t want to let me go, but I didn’t have it in me to continue with her. I’m the one who ended it.”

  “Did you ever think of reconciling?”

  “Years later I tried, but I’d hurt her so deeply she couldn’t trust me.”

  Acacia’s sigh matched his own. “You know who killed your sister.”

  “I know the men involved, yes. They boasted about working for someone powerful. But then they disappeared, and I was never able to pick up their trail.”

  “Do you think they worked for Yasmin’s Russian?”

  “They were wise enough not to say. In the beginning, we didn’t know if the thieves had been commissioned by someone to steal the artwork or whether they were opportunists who would look for a buyer. But when I found them, they made it clear they’d been commissioned. Unfortunately, Riva surprised them the night of the robbery. They said her death was an accident. They’d only meant to knock her out.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Nicholas’s expression grew fierce, dark fire burning in his eyes. “When I find them, I’m going to stand in front of them with this uncovered.” He gestured to his face. “And I’m going to put a bullet in their brains.”

  Acacia stilled.

  Nicholas’s eyes glinted. “Returning the art to my parents is important, but I can never give them back my sister. I’m going to find the man who ordered the theft, and I’m going to kill him and his crew.”

  “But that’s…” Acacia swallowed. “Wouldn’t it be better to turn them over to Interpol?”

  “So the crime boss can deny involvement? So he can plead guilty to charges of possession of stolen property? No.” Nicholas’s voice grew harsh. “They all need to pay.”

  “That’s murder.”

  Nicholas’s gaze was cold. “No, Acacia. It’s justice.”

  She sat back and stared. “I thought you wanted to get the art back.”

  “It isn’t enough. That man destroyed my family. My parents can’t bear to be in the house we grew up in because of the memories.”

  “You think killing him will give them closure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nicholas.” She bent over him. “Listen to me. Killing just brings more killing. It will never end.”

  “What do you know about it?” he spat.

  Carefully, she moved from atop him. “Think about the part of the world where I was born. Think about my brothers and sisters in that region. I know all about killing.”

  Nicholas sat up. “This is different. This isn’t terrorism.”

  “Terrorism is an act of violence brought about by someone who is a law unto himself. What’s the difference between the Russian and my father? What’s the difference between you and the Russian, if you do this?”

  “Acacia,” Nicholas warned.

  “You’re both powerful. You have intelligence networks and security guards. You have political power. What’s the difference?”

  “I’m not corrupt. I didn’t start this.”

  “If you are a law unto yourself, then you are just like them. You can’t decide who lives and who dies. You can’t become the law.”

  “No, but I can be the agent of justice.”

  “Whose justice? Yours? Your sister’s?” She came closer to him. “Would your sister want you to become a murderer?”

  Nicholas stood, his hands clenched in fury. “Look what they did to my face! Look what they did to my sister!”

  Acacia covered herself with
a sheet and stumbled to her feet. “Nicholas, listen to me. You want justice. You deserve to have it. But an eye for an eye makes us all blind.

  “Killing broke my family apart. We couldn’t stay with a man who had become a law onto himself.”

  He jerked his head in her direction. “I am not your father.”

  “But you will become him, if you do this.”

  “Acacia.” Nicholas lowered his head so their eyes were at the same level. “Once this is done, I’ll be free. Free to live. Free to love.”

  “Once this is done, you’ll wear the chains of killing. The Russian’s people will come after you, or your family, or me. Don’t you see? You’ll be placing all of us at risk.”

  He took her hands in his. “You said you loved me. You have to understand why I must do this.”

  Her eyes searched his. She saw desperation and desire, force of will and affection. But it wasn’t enough.

  “If you love me, don’t do this.”

  He released her. His expression was resolute. “I must.”

  “I love you, Nicholas. The thought of being without you tears me here.” She pushed her fist against her heart. “But if you do this, if you kill that man, I can’t be with you.”

  He grabbed her fist between his hands. “Acacia, if you were to think about it more, you’d realize I’m right.”

  “I’ve been thinking about revenge and death for almost thirty years. I know you’re wrong. Promise me you won’t kill anyone.”

  His spine straightened. “I can’t.”

  She extricated herself from his grasp.

  “Then I have to go.” Acacia picked up her clothes, strewn across the floor.

  “We can talk about this.”

  “There’s nothing to discuss. You’ve said it all.” She fled to the bathroom.

  “Acacia, wait!” He followed her.

  But the door was already locked.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  AS SOON AS ACACIA STEPPED OUT of the bathroom, Kurt was at her side. She deposited the necklace Nicholas had given her on a table in the suite’s front hall. She scribbled a quick note and told him she didn’t think it was right to keep his gift.

  She retrieved her purse and shoes as quickly as she could and headed to the door. Evidently Nicholas had shut himself in his bedroom.

  Without a word, Kurt escorted her to the elevator and down to the front door of the hotel. He hailed a taxi and rode with her to her apartment. He made a call along the way, but Acacia blocked out the words. She was too busy bleeding inwardly.

  When they arrived at her apartment building, she paid the driver, and Kurt helped her out of the taxi. He preceded her into the building.

  Shots cracked just as Acacia crossed the threshold.

  Kurt fell to the floor before he could retrieve his sidearm. Blood pooled on the front of his dark shirt.

  Acacia screamed. She tried to flee, but a masked man with a rifle grabbed her arm. She struck him in the throat and kicked the side of his knee, sending him crumpling to the floor.

  She pushed open the door and stumbled onto the sidewalk. But before she could get her bearings, something heavy and wide struck her across the lower spine. She pitched forward and crashed to the ground.

  Winded, she gasped for air. Someone grabbed her by the hair, and something sharp pierced her neck.

  Her heart thumped irregularly as darkness took her.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  ACACIA CAME AWAKE WITH A START.

  She’d been dreaming she was drowning; water filled her lungs and made it impossible to breathe. She gasped. The hot, humid air was stifling. No wonder she’d found it difficult to catch her breath.

  She sat up and instantly regretted the decision. A dull ache in her lower back flared to a sharp pain that wrapped around her middle. She fought back nausea and examined the small, square room. Bright sunshine streamed in a small window set high in the cinderblock wall, indicating it was midday or later. She’d been unconscious for hours.

  She breathed slowly, in and out, trying to manage the pain while ignoring the heat.

  A steel door presumably led to the outside. Unfortunately, the door lacked a doorknob. Another door opened into a bathroom.

  The only furniture in the room was the cot she was sitting on and a small side table. A pitcher of water stood on the table next to a small metal cup. She poured water and drank it greedily, though it was warm.

  Acacia examined the ceiling. The overheard lights were off, probably because of the stifling heat. She was sweating and she’d barely moved.

  She closed her eyes and listened for traffic or any other recognizable sounds. She could hear the pathetic ventilation system rattling through the covered shaft above her, but nothing else.

  She opened her eyes. She wondered if the ventilation shaft was wide enough to afford her a means of escape.

  But first, she’d try the window. The cinderblocks had shallow grooves between them, some shallower than others.

  Years ago, she’d taken a rock climbing class. She hadn’t climbed since then, but she knew the basics. The difficulty of climbing the wall was much greater than her skill level, but she had nothing to lose.

  Her back complained as she lifted herself from the cot. She looked in vain for her purse, but of course, whoever had taken her had likely taken it as well.

  She was still dressed in the previous night’s clothes—white jeans that were now filthy and an orange silk long-sleeved top. A large rip in the silk opened below her right arm. She wore black leather shoes with no heel. At least the shoes were suitable for climbing.

  She hobbled to the wall and stretched her arms upward, fingers questing for depressions she could hold. Then she lifted her left foot, ignoring the complaints from her spine, and found a toehold. Carefully, she transferred her weight to her left foot and lifted her right. She had difficulty finding a hold for the right and flattened the side of it into the deepest groove before transferring her weight to her left foot again.

  Her hands sought and found higher holds, her stomach scraping against the wall as she lifted her right foot still farther, searching for a place that would take her weight.

  She pulled herself up, adjusted her weight into her right foot, and began the process again with her left. Bit by bit she climbed, not giving up until finally her right hand reached the windowsill.

  Straining, she pulled herself up.

  There were bars on the window, covering what seemed to be Plexiglas. Outside, beige pillars topped with arches lined the courtyard, which featured a central fountain. Part of the courtyard floor was an intricate mosaic of small tiles, but the courtyard was dirty and dilapidated. Many of the tiles were broken.

  A doorway stood to her left and one to her right, but there were no other visible windows on the main floor. Shuttered windows dotted the second floor, and two massive palm trees stood at the opposite end of the courtyard, flanking a tall double door with rusted iron hinges.

  Acacia’s arms and legs began to shake, and she quickly retraced her moves, climbing down to the concrete floor. Based on the architecture and palm trees, she was likely somewhere in the Middle East. As if in confirmation, she heard the sound of the muezzin leading the call to prayer.

  Her father must have kidnapped her.

  She covered her face with her hands and took a long, deep breath. Instead of praying, she ignored the muezzin and tried to organize her thoughts.

  Rick would have gone looking for Kurt. She thought of his vacant stare as he lay on the floor of her apartment building, blood staining his chest. He’d promised to protect her when they were in Dubai. He’d died protecting her in Paris.

  She knew so little about him. She wondered if he had a family.

  Acacia stifled a sob.

  Think, she told herself. You can grieve for Kurt later. Now you have to find a way
out.

  She surveyed the room and looked for anything that could be used as a weapon or a means of escape. The cot had a simple steel frame and slats overlaid with a thin mattress. She had sheets and a blanket, as well as a pillow. If the window were large enough, she could climb out and lower herself with a rope made of sheets. But the window was far too small for her to pass through, and it was barred with iron.

  If she stood the cot on its end, she could use it as a ladder to the ventilation shaft. She wasn’t sure how steady the cot would be on the uneven concrete floor. And she’d have to figure out a way to remove the cover to the ventilation shaft. As an escape plan, it held promise. She could try after dark.

  The door to the cell didn’t have a doorknob or a lock she could pick, and the gap between door and doorframe was exceptionally slim. Even if she could remove one of the metal slats from her bed, it would probably be too wide to pry open the door. But again, it was something she could try.

  Acacia crossed to inspect the bathroom. It had a shower stall, toilet, and sink. She turned her back to the mirror and lifted her shirt. A long horizontal bruise of dark purple and blue cut across her lower back. She pushed at it and winced.

  If she smashed the mirror, she could wrap the shards of glass in strips torn from the bed sheet and use them as a weapon.

  She didn’t want to kill anyone. As she’d learned in martial arts, her goal was to escape an attacker by disabling him. But if a shard of glass was the only means of escape she had, she’d use it.

  She inspected the shampoo in the shower. The Arabic and French label declared it had been made in Morocco.

  Morocco.

  Of course she had no idea where she was in Morocco. Without money or a passport, returning to Europe would be difficult. She didn’t have Nicholas and his myriad of contacts and diplomatic passports to rely on.

  Nicholas.

  She wondered where he was and what he was doing. She wondered if he was searching for her.

  She’d left him, so if he washed his hands of her, it would be her fault. But the man she knew, the man she still loved, would not do that. Acacia believed down to her soul that Nicholas’s love for her and his nobility of character would not allow him to surrender her to her fate. Somewhere, he and his people were looking for her. The thought bolstered her hope.