Midnight Storm (Amour Toxique Book 2)

by Dori Lavelle

  Shit. I want to insist on wearing the ballerinas, but rocking the boat right now would be a big mistake.

  Instead of disagreeing, I nod and change into a pair of stilettos, the same color as my blouse. I also grab a sequined clutch purse, which he insists on looking through before we leave the house.

  As he does so, I hold my breath, praying he won’t also check my back pockets. He doesn’t, but only because the slightly long blouse has hidden them from sight.

  He leads me to the limo, where Adrian is holding the door open for me. He’s our driver and bodyguard for the night.

  The limousine pulls away from the massive mansion that has been my prison for many long weeks. This is goodbye.

  Chapter Twenty

  The way Damien’s hand curves around my waist, making sure I stay as close to him as possible, I can’t help wondering how I’ll ever manage to get away from him. The way he looked at me during the car ride, I could have sworn he was able to read my thoughts.

  Hotel Sierra has a brightly lit lobby with marble floors, glinting chandeliers, and antique paintings on the walls. Before I even see the designer handbags and clothes, and the jewelry dripping from necklines and wrists, I already know this hotel is where the rich come to play. The air around us smells of money.

  We’ve just made it to the center of the lobby when a small man stumbles from behind the reception desk and approaches us. “Good evening, Mr. Steel. I’m glad to see you, sir.”

  “Evening, Jerome.” Damien tightens his hand around my waist. “Meet my wife.”

  “Congratulations on your marriage. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Steel.” His hand is firm and sweaty as it shakes mine, and his beady eyes study my face in a way that makes me a little uncomfortable.

  “Is our table ready?” Damien glances at his watch.

  “Of course, sir.” The man clasps his hands together. “Everything is ready for you.”

  “Thank you, Jerome.” Damien pauses. “How’s Elizabeth doing? Has she found a job yet?”

  The man’s face falls and he drops his eyes. “I’m afraid not. Jobs are scarce in our small town.”

  “Tell her to come and see me at the office on Monday at eight. I’ll see what I can do.”

  With his free hand, Damien pulls out his phone and switches it on. Standing close, I watch him create a new calendar entry. He types in the name Elizabeth Torres.

  “Thank you, sir. That’s very kind. Your help is much appreciated.” Jerome gives a small bow. “And thank you for the bicycle you bought my boy for his birthday.”

  “That’s quite all right.” Damien drops his phone back into his pocket. “I hope he likes it.”

  “Very much.” Jerome’s face breaks into a smile.

  “Glad to hear that. I’ll talk to you later, Jerome. I’m treating my wife to a nice meal. She hasn’t been feeling well lately.”

  I stiffen and clench my teeth so tight my jaw aches. So he’s been lying to everyone. I wouldn’t be surprised if he also told them about my fake skiing accident that led to my memory loss, which exacerbated my existing mental problems.

  “Of course. Enjoy your evening Mr. and Mrs. Steel.”

  As we walk away, I mull over the conversation Jerome and Damien just shared. Damien came across as some kind of a saint. The idea weighs heavy on my mind; it makes my situation far more complicated.

  I’d hoped to be able to tear myself from him and solicit the help of a member of the staff. But it seems Damien has brought me to a place he frequents, a place where everybody knows and respects him.

  Hearing him tell people I’m unwell leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. If he has painted me as a person with mental problems, it will be his word against mine.

  Our short journey to the restaurant is punctuated by more guests and staff members greeting and conversing with Damien, who introduces me to each person, repeating the lie that I’ve been unwell.

  One of the people we meet is Maria Sanchez, the hotel manager. She’s pretty, with a baby face framed by coal-black curls that stop at her chin. She kisses Damien on both cheeks and gazes into his eyes as though they’ve known each other a long time.

  “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Steel. It’s been a while.” She glances at me with her dark eyes. “This must be your lovely new wife.”

  Damien smiles and nods, running a gentle hand around my waist. Like he did with Jerome earlier, he takes a moment to inquire about the woman’s well-being and family, listening as though there’s no other place he’d rather be.

  While he’s at ease in the moment, my nerves are getting the best of me. The fear that I might not be able to get away from him tonight is draining the energy from my body.

  Maria pauses her conversation with Damien and narrows her dark eyes at me. “Are you okay, Mrs. Steel?”

  “Yes, yes.” I quickly wipe the sheen of sweat from my forehead.

  Damien turns to me, his brow furrowed. “You look a little pale, darling.” He glances back at Maria. “Maria, it was nice talking to you. I better take my wife to our table.”

  As he leads me away, I feel Maria’s gaze on my back. Perfect. Now she’ll really believe I’m sick. Why can’t anyone see through Damien?

  As we walk through the restaurant doors, he places a hand on the small of my back. “Is this too much for you?” he asks under his breath. “Would you rather we return home?”

  My neck almost snaps as I turn to him. A bubble of panic rises in my chest. “No. No, that’s silly.” I attempt a chuckle. “We came all this way. I’ll be fine. I just need to sit down.”

  A waiter with teeth as white as his shirt comes over to receive us. He greets Damien with all the respect he’s due, and shows us to a table for two in the back.

  My gaze roams the interior of the dining room, taking in the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook a well-tended garden. Inside there’s a sparkling fountain, a white grand piano, the bar, and a long salad buffet. I also spot the sign indicating the restrooms.

  Damien waves at someone, a gray-haired woman wearing a diamond chandelier necklace.

  I sink into my chair. “You must be a regular here.”

  “Something like that.” He shakes out a cloth napkin with the hotel logo in the center. “It’s expected of the owner.” He grins, waves over the waiter, and orders a bottle of wine.

  He doesn’t notice me gaping at him. “So you’re in the hotel business when you’re not… lecturing?” Fake lecturing, I’m tempted to add, but I don’t have a death wish.

  “That’s right.” He watches the waiter fill our glasses with white wine.

  No wonder the hotel staff were on the verge of licking his shoes.

  “Would you like to order?” The waiter clasps his hands in front of him and looks at each of us in turn. “The usual, Mr. Steel?”

  “Give us a moment, please, Mateo.”

  The waiter gives a curt nod and retreats.

  Damien rubs the side of his face. “You’re asking a lot of questions lately.”

  “I only asked one. I’m interested in you, that’s all.” I pick up the menu and flip through it, pretending to look over the options. “How do you find time to do so much while running a business?” By “so much,” I mean his extracurricular activities of kidnapping and killing people.

  “Having a great staff makes all the difference.”

  I barely hear his response as an idea pops into my mind. I turn to the last page of the menu and peruse the bottom of the page. There it is: the hotel address. San Maureo, Mexico.

  I look up at Damien, trying my best to keep the terror from showing on my face. Although it’s good to know my location, running around another country without any form of identification could pose a problem.

  “You’re awfully quiet.” Damien lays a hand on mine. “Everything all right?”

  “Yes.” Under the table, I clench my other hand into a fist. “I think I’m ready to eat. But I can’t decide on anything.”

  “I’ll order for bo
th of us. How about some seafood?”

  “Sounds good.”

  Through the rush in my ears, I hear Damien order our meals. I catch a few names—shrimp cocktail, lobster frittata with sevruga caviar—then everything fades into gibberish.

  Mexico or not, it’s time for me to start thinking about getting away. When I look over Damien’s shoulder, I spot Adrian talking to the hotel manager. He glances up, and our eyes meet. My stomach clenches. I’m guessing he’s been instructed to watch my every move.

  I take a sip of wine, and then a huge gulp, before realizing my mistake. No alcohol; my head has to remain clear at all times. I reach for my glass of water and raise it to my lips, eyes still on Adrian.

  “Ivy?” Damien’s voice breaks through my thoughts.

  “Huh?” I shake my head and return my attention to him. I have to be careful, remain present so he doesn’t get suspicious. “Did you say something?”

  “I asked if you wanted a salad. You can get it from the buffet.” He folds his arms across his chest. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Of course I am. It’s nice to be out.” I force a smile. Why does he keep asking if I’m fine? What does he care? “Sure, I’ll have a salad.” I start to stand, then sit again. “Should I get it myself or will you?”

  I’m holding on to the hope that he’ll let me step away from him for a few minutes, but I don’t expect he’ll risk it. There are so many people around. I could find a way to sneak a request for help into someone’s ear.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” He gives a choked laugh and washes it down with wine. “Of course you can get it yourself.”

  “Oh. I just thought you might prefer to do it.”

  “You’re a free person, Ivy.” His eyes shoot daggers at me. “I’m not as cruel as you make me out to be. I’m your husband, for goodness sake. Just don’t talk to anyone.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t.” I almost laugh with relief. I hadn’t expected it to be this easy. It can only mean one thing: He’s testing me. After all, he’s the one who proposed I get a salad in the first place. “Okay, then. I’ll be right back.” My chair almost falls to the ground as I stand.

  As I walk away from the table, Damien and Adrian both keep their eyes fixed on me. I try my best not to look back at them or reveal how nervous I am.

  Adrenaline is burning the walls of my stomach, but I can’t risk it all and run, not with them watching me so closely. I’m pretty sure Damien is waiting for me to do something stupid. I need a little more time to think of the perfect exit strategy.

  For now, he has nothing to worry about. If this is a test, I’ll pass with flying colors. Unless, of course, his intention is for me to fail. Then he’d have a reason to never let me out of my prison again.

  Dinner is delicious, but quiet. I’ve run out of things to say to him, and coming up with pretend conversation proves complicated. All I can think about is my escape.

  “The food is good.” I stick my fork into a piece of crab meat, imagining the metal teeth sinking into Damien’s skin instead.

  “I knew you’d like it.” He dabs his mouth with his napkin. “You were right. This is nice, being out together as a couple. Maybe we should do this more often.”

  “Maybe.” I reach for my glass of water and take a mouthful, but it goes down the wrong way. I cough and place a hand on my chest.

  “You okay?” He places a hand on mine, the gesture of a loving husband—or somebody pretending to be one.

  “Fine.” I slip my hand away from his and reach for a napkin, which I swipe over my lips. Lipstick clings to it like smeared blood. “I should go to the restroom. My lipstick needs fixing.”

  “Don’t be long.” He shovels food into his mouth. Not a hint of suspicion in his eyes. “And be careful.”

  I want to tell him to go to hell, but I give him a small smile instead. I get to my feet and walk away from the table on shaky legs.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It’s a struggle not to glance behind me as I walk down the corridor. Is Adrian tailing me, or did Damien decide to do the job himself? What if he’s standing at the end of the corridor, waiting for me?

  I’m halfway to the restrooms and can see the door at the end of the corridor when I spot the kitchen to my right.

  The words Staff Only are written above a small, misty window in the door. I almost walk past when a lightbulb goes off in my mind. I come to a halt as my pulse picks up pace.

  Bracing myself, I take a look back. My heart lifts when I don’t see Adrian or Damien. I can’t believe they let me go on my own. Is this another test?

  My plan had been to find a way out through one of the bathroom windows. But now I realize the windows might not be large enough to climb out of. If they are, there’s a chance Damien has guessed what I plan to do and is waiting on the other side for me to fall right back into his arms. That could explain why I’m not being followed.

  The kitchen might be a better option. He might not think to search for me in there. At least, not right away.

  With sweat trickling down my spine, I shove the kitchen door open with both hands. The door almost slams into a waiter carrying two silver trays. He steps back just in time.

  “Sorry,” I murmur. No eye contact. I feel rather than see the annoyed glance he shoots me before pushing the door open with a shoulder and disappearing through it. He’s too busy to be suspicious of my presence. The door swings closed again.

  My heart is lodged inside my throat as I allow myself to be swallowed by the kitchen rush. Waiters, chefs, and sous-chefs scurry around me, moving from one stainless steel appliance to the next.

  Apart from the occasional glance from one or two people, no one seems to notice me looking lost.

  My heart is thudding hard, but I’m unable to hear it over the sounds of sizzling oil, the clank of the dishwasher, waiters shouting out orders from their pads, and the humming of various industrial machines.

  This is my chance. I have to use the rush to make an escape. I draw in a deep breath, heavy with the smell of spices, grease, meat, and fish. Then I duck my head and push forward, launching into a cloud of steam released by a massive boiling pot.

  I try not to slip on the tiled floor, which someone must have just finished mopping. My target is the back door. Before I reach it, I spot a block of knives next to a microwave. There are three left in the block. Wasting no time, I grab the smallest one. From a hook near the door, I reach for a blue and white kitchen towel.

  I push open the door and step out of the kitchen.

  The balmy night air touches my skin, but dread keeps me in a cold sweat.

  I scan the area. A small lamp above the door throws out enough light for me to make out my surroundings. The yard I’m standing in is enclosed by a wall that’s at least ten feet high. Three large dumpsters line one side of the yard. Two wooden chairs are propped against the other side of the wall, farthest from the dumpsters. A wooden table stands between them, with an overflowing ashtray in the middle of it. A few cigarette butts litter the ground.

  I glance at the wall. I’ll have to climb over it. Thank God Damien didn’t insist on me wearing a dress instead of pants.

  I have to act before someone comes out for a cigarette or brings out the trash.

  My lips pressed together in concentration, I wrap the kitchen towel around the knife and push it into the back pocket of my pants. I grab a chair and scurry over to the dumpsters, thankful this part of the wall isn’t visible from the kitchen window.

  Sliding the stilettos from my feet, I’m about to clamber up the dumpster and then the wall when raised voices spill out the kitchen window. My heart lodges inside my throat. I take a peek through the window and spot Damien talking to one of the chefs. Even from a distance, I feel his rage. Adrian is standing next to him, communicating furiously with his hands.

  Climbing over the wall now is risky—they could decide to have a look outside. Before panic can paralyze me, I grab my shoes, climb onto the chair, and open one o
f the dumpsters.

  Trying not to retch from the smell of rotten food, I ease myself inside and close it. It’s plenty big, even with the bags of trash already inside. I only hope they don’t see the chair and put two and two together.

  I’ve just buried myself under enough slimy bags of rotten food when I hear the kitchen door crash against the wall. Damien and Adrian’s muffled voices come closer. I hold my breath.

  “This is ridiculous. Where is she?” I hear the shuffling of feet. “She can’t have disappeared into thin air.”

  Adrian clears his throat, and I imagine him rubbing his moustache as he thinks. “I doubt she escaped through the kitchen. Someone would have seen her.”

  “And what the fuck were you doing, anyway? I signaled for you to follow her to the restrooms.”

  The silence is so stark, I hear my heart beating.

  “I’m sorry for not paying better attention. We’ll get her back, I promise.” Adrian pauses. “But don’t you think it’s best to… let her go? For now?”

  “Never. Go and find her.” Something slams against the bin closest to mine—probably Damien’s foot. I close my eyes and brace myself for the possibility that they might think to look inside the dumpsters. I deflate with relief when their footfalls fade and the kitchen door opens and closes again.

  I don’t know how long I remain curled up in my corner of the dumpster, arms wrapped around my body.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I inhale small breaths of putrid air. I’m not in the clear. There’s a chance one of them is still outside. My fears become reality when I hear another one of the dumpsters being opened, the cover hitting the wall. A rummaging sound follows.

  Shit, I scream inside my head, but I comfort myself with the hope that the smell in my dumpster will put the person off. Next, the dumpster closest to mine, the one Damien kicked, is also opened, searched through, and closed again. Adrian swears under his breath as he opens the lid of my dumpster a fraction of an inch.