From what we’d been able to dig up on Edward Kleeman, he was an astute businessman with strong ties to the Catholic church. He had many powerful allies, and of course was filthy rich. Off the books, he was renowned for a having a short temper, a fondness for cocaine, a predilection for underage girls and an obsession with illegal firearms. In a nutshell, Edward’s life was a lie and he wore his everyday disguise well. At fifty-six his hair was silver white and beginning to recede, a heavy brow sat above blue eyes that looked disturbingly like Beauty’s. A Google search uncovered many photos of him, always in a dark blue suit with a red, satin tie and perfect white teeth behind an approachable smile. He looked like your typical middle-aged man, there was nothing about his appearance that screamed sex trafficker. His wife, Abigail, had a noble look about her. Never so much as a hair out of place, her wardrobe was classy and ever changing, her makeup flawless, and plump lips always turned toward the camera in somewhat of a regal smile. She was in her late forties, but her smooth face screamed cosmetic surgery. Alongside her husband, they looked the picture of stately perfection. They had two sons, Jacob and Christopher, twenty-two and twenty-three respectively. They often appeared in photos with their mother and father but there was not one image of Beauty to be seen, corroborating Bear’s story that she was the senator’s dirty little secret, hidden away and never to be seen in public. They all looked like self-righteous assholes who had been bathing in the success of their pedophile father for too long. It was a situation that needed rectifying, soon. Once I had my Beauty back.
“Henry has made his last delivery to Señor Decena, he’s boarding a plane to join us.”
Raul’s voice interrupted my thoughts, and I glanced across the table between us. His hair was a chaotic mess, dark shadows hanging beneath his eyes, five o’clock shadow now a three-day bearded growth. He looked a hot mess. If he looked bad, then I couldn’t imagine how shitty I looked. Glancing at the glass window to my left, I took in the reflection staring back at me. My hair was no better, my stubble just as thick, but where Raul’s eyes were heavy with exhaustion, mine were lit with madness. Perhaps I should be more worried about the detached insanity that shone for all to see, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. My every thought centered on Beauty and getting her back, and who I needed to crush in my effort to right this wrong. Whether they be guilty or innocent of the crime itself, if they stood in my way, I’d kill them.
“I wonder how Henry’s stomach held out,” Raul said with a chuckle.
Henry was a fierce looking man, his silent presence highly intimidating, but he didn’t have a stomach for the torturous and messy situations we often found ourselves in. Preferring to do the heavy lifting and driving, he often excused himself when it came to what I found as the highly gratifying task of slicing and dicing. Having left him to bring in the last two men on Decena’s list, he likely would have avoided the mess, leaving the blood spilling to Charlie.
“You want a refill?”
The bubbly blonde who stood pointing at my empty cup of tea was all southern smiles when my gaze landed on her. It only took a moment for her to see I wasn’t returning her giddy joy . . . to see beyond the man and realize I wasn’t like her regular customers. The usual pleasant façade I wore in public had been torn down, in its place I was wearing my raw, wrathful fury for all to see. My monster was nipping at my heels for vengeance. Her animated smile fell like sand might through an open palm.
“We’re fine,” Raul answered with a polite grin. Scampering away like a frightened mouse, the waitress disappeared into the kitchen. “You need to stop growling at little girls and old ladies.”
“I don’t growl.”
“You might as well,” he sighed. A few more clicks on the keys of his laptop, and a breath of air escaped his lungs as he slumped back into his chair. The relief and excitement upon his face captured my undivided attention.
“If you found something, just tell me, I’m not in the mood for games,” I snapped when he just stared.
“Could have fooled me.”
Raul spun around his laptop, and Kleeman’s arrogant face mockingly grinned back at me. He was standing on the shore of a lake, dressed in hunting attire, a gun resting on one shoulder. One of his sons, Christopher, stood beside him dressed much the same as his father, and on the ground before them lay what looked like a moose. Knowing there was something in this image that Raul had found worthy of feeling a little smug over, I considered the possibilities.
“He has a cabin? Somewhere secluded?”
Raul nodded. “Sí, Christopher owns a property in Maine. Complimenting their mutual gun fetish, they hunt often and spend much time there. Remote, private, closest neighbor several miles away.”
It seemed too easy and too obvious, but in this line of work I’d often found that the obvious hideaway was often used because most people dismissed it too quickly.
“Where exactly in Maine?”
Before Raul could answer, my phone vibrated on the table between us. Private Number lit up the screen as I picked it up and swiped to answer.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Kleeman would like to meet.”
The unfamiliar voice was male with an American accent, but other than that there was nothing striking or memorable about it. Raul raised a questioning brow. Senator Kleeman was obviously trying to head off a problem before it reached his doorstep. That wasn’t how I operated, and I wasn’t about to let him manipulate me or make demands.
“Tell him he’ll see me soon enough.”
And with that, I disconnected the call. Standing, Raul quickly packed his gear and followed me out of the restaurant.
“We’re going to Maine?”
“We are, but we need weapons first. Then I’m going to kill Beauty’s father.”
7
BEAUTY
Do you remember her, the voice whispered from somewhere close by? Closing my eyes, I tried to find the memory that didn’t exist in my mind. A Spanish woman, her dark hair threaded with grey, her eyes surrounded with lines, her thin lips and rosy cheeks stretched wide with laughter. It was the same image I’d made up in the past. A woman I couldn’t remember, yet she somehow felt safe and comforting just the same. It was like looking at a photograph of a perfect stranger, albeit a gentle, sweet one.
She was so kind … I wish you could remember her.
Lucy sounded disappointed, and it made me mad that I couldn’t remember the woman she’d been demanding I reach out for. How the hell was I supposed to remember some woman who didn’t exist in my life?
“Well, she was your friend, not mine,” I murmured, my back pressed against the wall as I sat on my haunches, staring at the locked door before me.
I’d lost track of how long I’d been here, trapped in this tiny room with only a bucket in one corner to shit and piss in. The window had vertical, steel bars mounted from the inside, the glass spray painted black so I couldn’t see the world beyond. There were no other furnishings, no clothes, nobody but me, myself, and I . . . oh, and Lucy. Food and water were delivered through a small gap that had been cut into the bottom of the door, and even when I ducked down and pressed my cheek to the floor in an effort to peer out, I couldn’t see anything more than retreating shoes. No matter what obscenities I screamed, or what threats I made, they never once responded. Upon being dragged from the plane and having my wrists cuffed and a dark cloth bag shoved over my head, I’d been all blistering, hot rage. Time disappeared into a flurry of confusing moments. Long moments stuffed in the boot of a car. A moment where I was ruthlessly wrenched from that boot and led into a house. A few more moments walking over hardwood floors, the world around me eerily silent as I went up a flight of stairs. More long, endless moments screaming from behind the door of this godforsaken room. I fucking hated these moments that were forced on me by people unknown. I was a captive, again. It was far too reminiscent of my time with Algis, my adventures with Hart beginning to feel like a dream.
“Maybe it was,” I mumbled,
scratching at my thigh with the nail I had pried free from the window frame. It wasn’t big enough to attack anyone with, little more than an inch long and rusted. Useless as a weapon. Fantastic for releasing the pent-up frustration churning inside me. I’d gouged three thin lines into my flesh, little beads of blood escaping the threadlike wounds.
“Maybe I never left Algis, maybe I imagined Hart.”
Don’t be silly, of course he’s real.
Dabbing one finger in the blood I raised my hand before me and stared at the scarlet smudge before rubbing my fingers together. The sensation brought with it the memory of my former master’s blood coating them. I’m fairly certain I didn’t make that up. Then I recalled the feel of Hart’s clean-shaven jaw on my fingers, the smooth planes of his chest, and the muscular ridges that ran down his abdomen. No, I didn’t imagine Hart. The feel of his body was as familiar to me as was my own. With a huff, I slouched back against the wall and wished I had something else to wear. I was still in the slinky dress I’d worn to Papa’s Place, sans underwear. It made me feel vulnerable. It was quite amazing to think a simple pair of panties could bolster your courage.
“Why do they call it a pair? A pair means two, but I only wear one set of panties at a time.”
You should ask Hart next time you see him. He knows everything.
Suddenly the bolt on the outside of the door rattled, and it was flung open with dramatic flair. I didn’t move, just stared at the newcomer, cataloguing everything about the man that stood before me. He was older, but not by much. His light brown hair styled smooth and neat, light blue eyes fringed with dark lashes, nose straight, full lips almost pouty like a girl. Standing around five foot seven, with narrow shoulders and a lean waist, I knew right away that he wasn’t any kind of a gym junkie. From the perfectly pressed trousers and pale blue business shirt, he gave the impression of someone who spent more time indoors than out. He looked soft, even wearing the sneer upon his lips as he looked down on me. His two front teeth were much bigger than the others with a significant gap between them. He reminded me of a rabbit. A scared, little rabbit.
“Father wants to see you.”
His voice was brittle and wobbly. While he tried to stand tall, with his fists clenched at his sides and a snide look on his baby face, his voice belayed the nerves assailing him. I could easily take him. Hart had taught me things, moves I could use to beat his balls into his stomach and snap his neck. But I had no idea what lay beyond the door, or how many others were out there. I’d fight them all, to the death if need be. Truth was, I didn’t really want to die just yet.
Know your enemy, don’t be rash, take your time.
Hart’s words were like a caress to my wild thoughts. Taking a deep breath, I dropped the tiny nail to the floor, rose to my feet and walked toward the young man. With my shoulders pressed proudly back and chin held high, I was about the same height. The uncertain look on the stranger’s face as I approached was enjoyable to watch. He would be fun to play with. Without warning I lunged at him.
“Boo!”
He staggered back a few steps, a horrified look on his face. Laughing loudly, I slapped my thigh.
“That was too easy.”
Gaining control of my giggles, I stepped outside the room and allowed the jittery rabbit to take position at my back, further proof that he didn’t scare me.
“Which way?” I asked, glancing over my shoulder.
One perfectly arched brow rose and a quizzical look greeted me.
“What kind of game are you playing at, Lucy?”
The use of Lucy’s name was like a physical punch and I abruptly turned, jabbing my fist into the rabbit’s nose. Falling into the wall at his back with a yelp, his hands clutched his face as he choked and spluttered, blood seeping out between his fingers. I simply adored the stunned and fearful look in his eyes. Leaning in close, my front pressed to his, I studied those shocked features. Pretty . . . for a rabbit.
“She’s gone,” I eventually whispered. “You don’t get to use her name. How do you even know her?”
He didn’t answer, choosing instead to slide his body away from mine while pulling a hanky from his pocket to try to stem the flow of blood. A hanky? Did people still use them? So gross.
“You insane bitch,” he finally spat out, yet he didn’t attack me. Like I said, soft. “What’s your damage?”
“My damage?” I asked, not quite sure what the question was. “You made my monster angry, you shouldn’t do that.”
Deciding he was no more a threat than a goldfish, I turned my back on him. There were rooms behind closed doors on my right, a dark mahogany railing on my left. At the end of the corridor, an enormous arched window looked out over a forest of thick pines. It was beautiful, the sunlight piercing through pillowed grey clouds and highlighting shadows beneath the trees. It was also oddly familiar. A sense of déjà vu assaulted me. Even though it felt familiar, it didn’t feel safe. A hand landed on my shoulder, catching me by surprise. Spinning on my heel, I prepared to attack only to find the pathetic rabbit covered in blood, his hands raised in surrender.
“Wasn’t going to hit you,” he was quick to say in a nasally tone. “I don’t like you, but I don’t hit girls.” Pfft, I was betting he wouldn’t even hit water. “You need to move. You know how pissed he gets when he’s kept waiting?”
I did?
Stepping warily around me he took the steps two at a time. I followed more slowly, studiously watching every shadow and corner for attack. At the bottom of the steps were the hardwood floors I’d walked across when I arrived, cold under my bare feet. Again, I wished I had more clothing to cover myself with. Like an armor. Still following the bleeding coward, I clutched at the thin gold chain around my neck. This house was enormous, finished with dark timber trim, polished timber floors and wide, open window bays that overlooked a pine forest. It had a rustic, cottage feel though obscenely larger than a cottage should be. It wasn’t warm and cozy like a cottage either. Instead, it felt cold and lonely. The rabbit stopped at a door and knocked.
“Come in.”
The voice behind that door brought me to a halt. I knew that voice, and yet I couldn’t put a face to it. Strong and masculine, it brought an overwhelming sense of fear with it. Fiddling with my necklace, I watched the door slowly open. Beyond it was an office, full of more timber furnishings, with plush, thick, grey carpet.
“Get in there,” the bleeding rabbit demanded.
I wanted to lunge at him again, make him flinch, maybe even make him cry, but my gaze was drawn to another man standing before a desk inside the office.
“She do that to you?” He asked, all hard and unforgiving. His impassive gaze moved from me to the man I’d punched, then back to me.
“Won’t happen again,” Rabbit murmured.
A little bubble of laughter escaped my lips.
“There’s a good chance it will.”
“Get the fuck in here,” the man from inside the office ordered.
With a long-suffering sigh, I wandered through the doorway, wincing at the sound of the door slamming closed behind us. Cold and dispassionate eyes roamed over my figure, not with lust, but repulsion. The man had to be in his fifties, his hair a silver white, his brows an unruly silver mess, eyes a sharp blue, and jaw wide. Thick arms crossed over his wide chest, a business shirt tucked into dark, blue slacks. Unlike the rabbit, this man worked out, his physique strong and powerful.
“A little gratitude for retrieving you from Russia and bringing you home wouldn’t go astray. Instead you go and hit your damn brother.”
Brother? Home? Who the hell were these people and what drugs were they on? This wasn’t home. Hart was my home. And I sure as hell didn’t have a brother. Did I?
“What do you want with me?” I asked, deciding it was the loudest question in my very confused mind. The man before me arched a brow, before shaking his head with a frustrated grunt.
“Is it too much for a father to want his daughter home with him?”
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What.
The.
Fuck?
This man was not my father. Although there were things that felt strangely familiar, he didn’t feel like my father. In fact, I was positive he was not, some niggling sense telling me to refute such a claim.
“You’re not my father.”
“I haven’t seen you in three years, and you decide to start with this argument again?” He growled. “You are my daughter, I fucked your mother and made you, by accident of course.”
My head was spinning.
“I’m assuming your virginity is well and truly gone by now.”
My mind went blank, snippets of the moment Algis took that piece of me banging on the mental wall I was trying hard to keep in place. If this man was my father, he wasn’t acting with the compassion one might expect from a father. He’d had me abducted from Russia, drugged, put on a plane, bound and forced into the boot of a car, then locked for days in an empty room, using a bucket as a toilet. No, he most definitely was not my father.
If you know your demons name, you will have power over it.
A familiar voice with a Spanish inflection crept into my mind, whispering words I somehow knew I’d heard before.
“What’s your name?”
Looking confused and somewhat flustered with my question, he waved it away.
“You know my name.”
“Tell me,” I demanded, standing my ground.
With a frustrated huff, he dropped his arms and leaned against the desk behind him.
BEAU2Y: Part 2: Blaire's World (Beauty's Duet #2) Page 5