Release Me
Page 26
Twenty after.
His instincts raged. Nothing about this situation was right. Scratch that, it was so fucking wrong. And every moment that passed was spiraling his mood even further into the shitter.
He dug his phone out of the breast pocket of his black wool coat and tried Allie again. The call went directly to voicemail. Again. He brought up Max’s number on the speed dial. It rang once . . . twice. . . . then he canceled the call as he remembered Max wasn’t the one who drove her to her destination.
Goddamn it. Why the fuck had he let her out of his sight?
He dialed the George V next. The hotel would have a record of their passengers if for no other reason than to bill his Black Amex with the damage.
“Bon après-midi, le Four Seasons George V. C’est—”
Hudson cut off her pleasantries with a sharp tone. “I need to know where one of your drivers took a guest this morning.”
“Pardon?”
Get in control, he thought. He forced himself to calm down and took a deep breath through his nose. Eventually he was able to replace his alarm with cool sanity.
“This is Hudson Chase.” His voice was steady, unlike the hand holding the phone. “I was a guest there last night, in the penthouse, with a Miss Alessandra Sinclair.” His throat tightened. “Your car service took her to a residence this morning. I need the address.”
“Of course, Mr. Chase, one moment.” The woman switched to English, but as if to not totally betray her native tongue, finished her thought with, “s’il vous plaît.” No further Q&A was needed. After all, he was a business traveler with the frequent flyer miles to prove it. And he’d stayed at the George V whenever business brought him to Paris. Granted, not in the penthouse. He didn’t need all that square footage for a lap top and a few suits.
He could hear the rapping of keys through the phone, each one a drum pounding against his skull in a rhythm that mirrored the beat of his heart inside his chest. How long did it take to type in a damn name?
He checked his watch again. Two-thirty. Shit. The train was leaving in ten minutes.
“Do you have an address?” His impatience carved each syllable, the hum and hiss of the train’s idling engine only grating against it.
“Still checking. Hold please.” Music filled the line.
The muscles of Hudson’s jaw flexed as he grit his teeth. He kept his eyes focused on the entrance to the station, willing her to come through the gates, and as he did, scenes from their evening together flashed through his mind. Steam billowing and fogging dozens of mirrors, their joined bodies reflected from every angle, their cries of pleasure ricocheting off marble walls. He thought he’d reached her, but this morning the deep canyon he’d worked to bridge was back. She remained aloof, twisting out of his grasp, making up excuses despite the fact that her body was responding to his, and even covering herself with the sheet. She wasn’t normally shy about being naked in front of him. What had her on guard? What changed?
The conductor bellowed the five-minute warning. Son of a bitch. Where the fuck was she? Fear blanketed the air around him—the repercussion of wanting, needing, and loving someone—making the double dose of anxiety jack up a notch. Fuck him, he’d sojourned into his worst nightmare.
The music came to an abrupt halt and he pounced. “Any luck?”
“Oui, Monsieur. The driver took Mademoiselle Sinclair to Charles de Gaulle Airport.”
“What?” His breath left his lungs in a rush. “You’re certain?”
“Oui.”
“Were there any other stops?”
“I’m sorry, Monsieur Chase, but I have no further information at this time. Perhaps when the driver returns.”
Hudson hung up the phone. All the blood drained from his head and extremities, reuniting in his chest simply to keep his heart beating.
He dialed Max, who picked up immediately. “Mr. Chase.”
“Notify the pilot I’ll be flying out of Paris instead of London.”
“Yes, sir. When would you like to depart?”
“I’m not sure yet. Have him on standby. And I need you to run the usual on a Bernadette Beauchene.”
“Yes, sir. Anything else?”
“No, but I need that information ASAP. Two hours.”
“I’ll have it in one.”
“Remind me to give you a raise when we get back.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Hudson ended the call but kept the phone gripped tight in his hand. The conductor yelled the equivalent of all aboard and the last of the stragglers rushed past him as they clamored to get on the train.
Fuck. She was leaving him.
As the train pulled away from the station, Hudson felt like he was living in the split second before a car crash, with time grinding slowly to a halt.
Look for the final novel in the Chasing Fire series
RECLAIM ME
Available October 2015
Though thousands of miles apart, Ann Marie Walker and Amy K. Rogers are in constant contact, plotting story lines and chatting about their love of alpha males, lemon drop martinis, and British supermodel, David Gandy. They are the authors of the Chasing Fire novels, including Remind Me.
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