Kidnapped!

by Jo Leigh

  Their old man had tried his best to get Charlie some help, but there wasn’t a rehab center on the East Coast Charlie hadn’t ditched.

  Michael supposed he loved his brother on some level, but that level was buried beneath a steaming pile of resentment. The old man had made him swear to take care of Charlie. Michael didn’t have the guts to go against a deathbed wish, although it probably would have been better for both of them.

  Michael would still be in military intelligence, and Charlie…

  “Mikey, listen. I know I promised I wouldn’t ask for no more money, but I’m in a hell of a spot.”

  Michael fetched his own beer and sat down in his leather club chair. He might as well be comfortable for the argument that was about to start the moment he said, “I told you, Charlie, the bank of Michael is closed.”

  Charlie sat down on the couch, his beefy hand holding on to his beer so tightly Michael wouldn’t have been surprised if it shattered. He really did look like shit. He’d been about thirty pounds overweight for years now, but at least when he was younger he’d been solid. Now there was a look of undercooked dough about him. It didn’t help that he was wearing a filthy T-shirt and jeans that hadn’t seen the inside of a washing machine in God knows how long.

  “Mikey, you don’t understand. I’m in a real mess. I had me this sure thing. You remember that trainer I told you about? The guy with the limp and the broken tooth? He swore, Mikey, swore to God himself that the race was fixed, that he’d done the fixing himself.”

  “I’m not bailing you out again. We already discussed that. You gave me your word.”

  “And I meant it. If I hadn’t heard the words from that trainer guy for myself, I never would have—”

  “Charlie, stop it. I don’t care why.”

  His brother, two years his junior and as different from Michael as day was from night, gave him a look of such hatred it made him sick to his stomach. He’d bailed Charlie out too many times to count, and this was what he got? One no, and Charlie looked as if he could kill him as soon as pass him the salt.

  “It’s Ed Martini, Mike. You know his reputation. He’s gonna kill me.”

  “He isn’t. What good are you gonna do him dead?”

  Charlie shook his head, a drop of sweat flying off the end of his long, dirty hair. “He said he was gonna make an example of me. You know what that means? He’s gonna kill me, but he’s gonna hurt me—bad—before it’s over. That dude, Jazz, who works for him? I swear to God, he’s a psycho. He loves to hurt people, Mikey. I swear to God.”

  Michael figured about ten percent of whatever Charlie said was true. The problem was, which part? “I’ll pay for you to go back to rehab. And if you stick it out, I’ll help you get a job and a place to stay after.”

  Charlie got up so fast his beer shot out of the bottle, soaking Michael’s shirt. “I’m not gonna live long enough to go to goddamn rehab. Don’t you listen? They’re gonna kill me!”

  Michael swore under his breath as he got up. “Just shut up, Charlie. Sit down and shut up. I gotta go change my shirt.”

  Charlie seemed surprised, as if he hadn’t noticed what he’d done, but at least he sat.

  Michael went into his bedroom and got another shirt from the dresser. As he changed, he debated giving Charlie the money. It wasn’t as if he was rolling in it, but he could spare some. He shouldn’t. He’d told his brother in no uncertain terms that he was finished. Yet how could he live with himself if Martini really did kill him?

  He tossed the wet shirt in the bathroom hamper, then went back to the living room. Only Charlie wasn’t there.

  Michael went to the door and looked down the hallway. Charlie was already on the stairs; Michael heard the heavy clump of his brother’s boots.

  He shut the door, locked the deadbolts and debated getting another beer. It was after ten, though, and he wanted to get up at five to make it to the gym.

  In his tiny living room he wiped the trail of beer off the floor, then turned out the lights. He’d more than likely get a call from Charlie tomorrow. And if he was lucky, he’d hear from Jerry Brody, too.

  “IF YOU DON’T WANT to do this, we’ll stop right here.”

  Tate tried to squeeze her hands into submission, but the shaking wouldn’t stop. “No, I want to. I just…”

  “I understand. But remember, you’ll have your safe word. You can use it anytime, and the moment you say it, everything stops and you’re returned safely to your home. No exceptions.”

  “So they won’t cover my mouth.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Tate believed Dr. Bay and didn’t believe her at the same time. Jerry Brody sat across from her at the conference table, while Dr. Bay sat next to her. He didn’t look like a performance artist or a therapist. He reminded her, in fact, of the doorman at Sara’s apartment building. Round in the middle, shallow in the chest, his balding head his most striking feature.

  They’d been in the meeting for half an hour, and Brody had explained that he wasn’t in the business of hurting people. He would accommodate Tate’s wishes to the best of his ability and he would oversee her adventure himself.

  The first time he’d called it an adventure, she’d given him a look that should have seared off his eyebrows. After that, he’d approached her more carefully. Still, she wasn’t sure he understood the depth of her phobia.

  “I’d like to add that to the contract, Mr. Brody,” Dr. Bay said. “No covering of her mouth at any time.”

  Brody nodded. “That’s fine. You realize she won’t know when we’re going to take her? It’s a natural reaction to scream or call out. I don’t want any of my people being arrested.”

  “Please don’t talk about me as if I’m not here,” Tate said. “As for being arrested, it won’t happen if you do your planning adequately. Which reminds me—we’ll have to make sure that Michael knows the plan. If you surprise him, he’ll do a lot more than arrest you.”

  “Michael?”

  “Her driver and bodyguard.” Dr. Bay put her hand on Tate’s. “Don’t worry. If we decide to go ahead, we’ll bring him into the loop.”

  “He’s not going to like it.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “Maybe there’s a way we can send him on vacation or something,” Tate said. She could feel her cheeks fill with the heat of embarrassment, which was something of a surprise. It occurred to her that she didn’t want Michael in the loop or to even know this fake kidnapping was being discussed. She knew he’d have serious objections, but worse than that, he’d think she was a fool.

  But he wasn’t afraid of his own shadow.

  “I’m sure,” Dr. Bay said, “that once he realizes you’ll be completely safe, he won’t have any objections. Perhaps he can take a meeting with you, Mr. Brody, and you two can go over his concerns.”

  Brody might be a self-proclaimed artistic genius, but he wasn’t much of an actor. He clearly wanted his show to be run his way, with no interference.

  “Let’s continue,” Tate said. “I’ll decide about Michael later.”

  Dr. Bay smiled. “That’s a good idea.” She turned to Brody. “Let’s discuss constraints.”

  “I typically use rope and handcuffs. Since she—” He stopped, turned his head a half inch so he was looking at Tate. “Since you’ll only be with us for a few hours, the constraints won’t be too extreme. And I’ll be there every step of the way to make sure nothing goes wrong.”

  “It won’t do me any good to have you go so easy I don’t get any part of the experience. I believe the purpose is to make sure I survive, right?”

  “I don’t think that will be a problem,” Dr. Bay said. “You’ll feel as if it’s real.”

  Tate blushed again. She got the message loud and clear: her phobia was so severe Brody wouldn’t have to do much in the way of convincing her. “Fine. Let’s move on.”

  “YOU’RE INSANE.”

  “Thank you,” Tate said as she handed Sara her plate. Pilar had made a sinful las
agna, which happened to be Tate’s favorite dish, but the casserole was large enough to feed an army.

  “I’m serious. Personally I think your precious Dr. Bay has a screw loose. This has to be one of the dumbest things I can think of.”

  Tate took her own plate, which had a small square of lasagna and a spinach salad, and her glass of wine and followed Sara as she made her way up to the solarium on the roof. It was their favorite place to eat, to talk. In her little area of New York the buildings weren’t skyscrapers; the view was of Central Park, and her rooftop garden was the highest thing around.

  Sara got herself comfy, and Tate thought her friend had never looked better. Sara had been her downstairs neighbor since second grade, when they’d both lived in a brownstone on East Forty-fourth Street. They’d stayed close all these years. She had always thought of herself as chubby, even though Tate had told her that size ten wasn’t in the least fat and that she was beautiful. It was the company she kept that made her feel big. Sara worked as an editor for Vanity Fair magazine, and most of the women she knew were bulimic and looked as if they’d been starved.

  This year, though, something had changed. Sara had finally decided that she’d just focus on being healthy—tonight’s lasagna notwithstanding—and she’d been working out with a private trainer for months.

  “You look fabulous.”

  Sara had just put a large forkful of pasta in her mouth, and at Tate’s compliment she nearly choked. When she finally got her breath back, she shook her head. “No way you’re changing the subject.”

  “I wasn’t trying to change anything. I just think you look—”

  “Fabulous. Right. Now here’s my question—have you or haven’t you invited Michael inside after work?”

  Tate felt the instant rise of heat in her cheeks. “Not yet.”

  “Not yet.” Sara put her fork down and somehow managed to look stern and motherly despite the fact that she was Tate’s age and her hair was a mass of wild blond curls. “You can’t even ask Hotty McSwoon into your home, let alone into your bed, and you’re going to get kidnapped? By strangers? With rope and handcuffs? You don’t see a problem with this?”

  “I know. It sounds crazy. But the whole reason I haven’t invited Michael in is because I’m scared. Of everything. Or haven’t you noticed?”

  “Of course I know you’re scared, but let’s look at the progression here. First kidnap, then sex?”

  “Yes. And I don’t know that he’d even want to have sex.”

  Sara laughed. “Oh, please. The way you two look at each other in that limo? I’m surprised you both don’t come at every stoplight.”

  “Sara!”

  “It’s true and you know it.”

  Tate got busy with her lasagna, wishing now she’d taken a much bigger piece. Just thinking about Michael was enough to get her all hot and bothered, and even though Sara was her closest friend, she didn’t like to feel like this except in the privacy of her own bedroom.

  “Tate, what’s going on in that head of yours?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Talk to me, girl. This is a huge decision.”

  “I know. I’m just so tired of being me. If I could have an exorcism, I would. But I don’t think it’s a devil that makes me so scared. I’ve set up my whole life to be safe, but the cost is huge. I would love to go to the gym with you. I’d love to go back to Italy. I can travel anywhere in the world, but all I see is this place.” She felt tears burn her eyes, and dammit, she didn’t want to cry. “I really think this kidnapping thing will change me. I have to take the chance.”

  “What does Michael think?”

  “He agrees with you. That it’s insane. But I have to go with my gut on this. I’ve made sure that I can stop things in a minute if I need to. I hope I don’t have to. I want to be a real person, not a shadow.” She pushed her plate away, suddenly not hungry. “I need you to support me, Sara. Please. I need all the good karma I can get.”

  Sara reached over and put her hand on Tate’s. “I’ll support you no matter what, okay? Think it through. Make sure this isn’t going to make things worse.”

  “It can’t get much worse.”

  Sara sighed. She looked around the solarium, at all the plants and flowers, the miniature fruit trees and the tall grasses by the fountain. “I want you to be happy. For what it’s worth, I think Michael’s a really great guy, and you could do a lot worse than getting back in the game with him. But let him in on the kidnap plan. Let him make sure nothing goes haywire.”

  “No. He can’t be there or it won’t be real.”

  “It’s not going to be real.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Sara sighed. “Yeah, I do.”

  Tate grinned. “Can you stick around for a movie?”

  “Sure I can. But only if I get to pick.”

  “We’re not going to watch Notting Hill again.”

  “Spoilsport.”

  “Deal with it.”

  Sara lifted her glass of wine. “To stubborn women.”

  Tate raised her own glass. “Amen.”

  SHE DIDN’T THINK about the kidnapping or Michael until after Sara left. Tate had gone to her bedroom where she’d washed and gotten into her sleep shirt, then climbed into her bed. She wished she had a cat or a puppy, something to sleep with her. Her father was terribly allergic, so she’d never had her own pet, but this was her house, and if he didn’t like it, he didn’t have to visit.

  The moment she closed her eyes she knew it wasn’t a pet she wanted sharing her bed. She wanted Michael.

  He really was an exceptional man. She knew he wasn’t thrilled with his life, that he wished he was back doing his 007 thing, but when they were together, him in the front seat, her in the back, there was a connection between them. Even Sara had noticed.

  Of course, there was no real future with Michael, but that was all right. Sara had hit the nail on the head—Michael would be ideal as her first after so, so long. He’d be gentle and caring….

  A fling. That’s all she wanted. Really.

  4

  AS HE STOOD LEANING against the limo, waiting for Tate to finish her shopping, Michael thought once more about going to William. It had been a week since Tate had told him she’d agreed to the kidnapping. In that time Michael had met with Brody, talked with three of his past “victims” and gone over the plan about fifty times. He still thought it was a ridiculous and dangerous game, but Tate had made up her mind.

  There was still time to go to William, who would put a stop to this nonsense, but Tate was adamant that her father be kept out of the loop. When he’d suggested that he come along for the stunt, Tate had nearly wept insisting that he stay the hell away.

  Wasn’t going to happen, of course. Although Brody had said he’d give no warning before the actual snatch, Michael was going to see him tomorrow to persuade him that it was in Brody’s best interest to take him along. Tate wouldn’t know, and that was fine, but there was no way he was going to let her get taken to some unknown location for an indeterminate period of time without him watching every goddamn second. He could just see himself trying to explain to William how Tate had been hurt—or worse—while he’d been watching basketball on ESPN.

  Of course, if Brody continued to object, Michael had a plan B. He always had a plan B.

  He checked his watch and figured he’d give Tate another five minutes. She was in the Prada store having a fitting. He still couldn’t figure that damn store out. There was practically nothing on display. It was all hidden in some way that clearly appealed to women.

  He’d waited out enough fittings to know he couldn’t rush her, but he also didn’t like her to be out of his sight. Of course, Elizabeth was with her, and he trusted her. Even better, Tate trusted her. A former CIA case officer, Elizabeth knew her way around a weapon.

  His cell phone rang. It was George, one of his tech guys who worked on the alarm system at Tate’s. They were replacing some of the equipment, and Michael had aske
d for regular updates. As in all things concerning Tate, he wanted the hard-core work to be done when she was sleeping or out of the penthouse. She tended to get nervous when she caught glimpses of what it really took to keep her safe.

  “What’s going on?”

  “It’s all good, boss. We have the equipment in and we’ve just finished the test run. We’ll be all cleaned up in ten.”

  “What did you think of the test?”

  “It’s everything they promised.”

  “Good, I—” He saw Tate come out of the shop carrying two large bags. Just as she reached the center of the sidewalk, she stopped and handed the bags to Elizabeth, then she looked inside her purse. “George, she’s coming. I’ll talk—”

  A movement caught his attention, someone in a hooded coat right behind her. A second later the man shoved Elizabeth into a passing group of students. Michael tossed the phone and got out his weapon as he ran. A white van drove up onto the sidewalk, the side door wide-open. The hooded man shoved Tate inside and the van took off.

  He lifted his weapon to shoot out a tire, but civilians crowded in front of him and he lost the shot. Brody had covered the license plate with mud, and there was nothing else identifying about the van as it turned the corner out of his view.

  He raced back to the limo, cursing Dr. Bay fifty ways to Sunday. If it was the last thing he did, he was going to find Jerry Brody and break his neck.

  He picked up the cell phone he’d dropped. It still worked, and as he pulled out of the shopping mall valet parking lot, he hit *2.

  “Elizabeth here.”

  “I’m going after her,” he said, “but I’m dropping off the limo and taking my own vehicle. Got that?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry—”

  “Just make sure Daddy doesn’t get inquisitive. If all goes well, I’ll have her back by nightfall.”