by Violet Paige
“Do you want to tell me how you got out of the basement?” he prodded. I immediately moaned. He tipped my chin upward. “I need to know what happened.”
“And then you’ll let it go?” I made him promise.
He nodded. “And then I’ll let it go.”
“Fine. But I need a refill first.” Knight finally broke his hold on me. I took a full inhale of air now that my lungs had a way to expand and waited for him to top off the glass. He sat next to me on the edge of the bed.
He needed the full story to understand who I was now.
Four Years Ago
My neck hurt. I rubbed the pinched nerve behind my ear. The searing pain traveled past my shoulder to a point in my elbow. I winced and rose from the couch. I’d spent five nights on that thing, and it wasn’t getting any easier. Each day I woke up in more pain than the day before. My body didn’t want to acclimate to this room—it rejected it at every turn. There was no comfort. No sense of shelter. It was my prison. A bleak musty coffin.
I shuffled to the sink and turned on the hot water to splash my face. I waited for the door to open. It had been over a day since I had been given a new set of clothes. I brushed my teeth next.
Sometimes when my eyes opened, I wondered if it was 7 am or 2 pm. I still hadn’t figured out a way to measure time. I only counted it by the meals that were delivered and what types of foods were on the trays. I knew those might be in reverse order just to mess with my head. I couldn’t count on my kidnappers to dole out helpful clues. I couldn’t trust anything in my surroundings.
I started to doubt myself. I retraced the days leading up to my abduction.
I questioned if the memories were real. Was anything I remembered accurate? Was it a migraine that knocked me out, or did someone cause the migraine? What order do it all take place? Did my father know I was gone? He was too incapacitated to know who was near him. His days were as blended together as mine were. Had anyone else from the house noticed?
I opened my mouth and screamed at the top of my lungs toward the ceiling. It was usually followed by a quick stomp to shut me up. This time the scream was uninterrupted. I snapped my lips together and stared at the ceiling. Nothing. Not even a shuffle of feet.
I screamed again. I beat on the door and pressed my ear against the metal. It was silent on the other side. Was I alone?
My pulse began to race. Had I been abandoned down here? Left to die? My palms prickled. They were quickly coated in sweat. It hadn’t been this quiet since I’d been here. I’d spent hours trying to count how many men were upstairs. I’d try to match footsteps by the heaviness or the length of their gait. It mostly became a way to pass the time, an illusion I created that I’d be able to solve the mystery.
Without the stomping of boots and shoes, I felt more uneasy. As if it was foreboding instead of promising.
I washed my hands again and patted a towel on my face. My ears perked. Was that a set of footsteps? But they were slow. So deliberate. Nothing like what I usually heard. The cadence across the floor wasn’t messy and sloppy.
I didn’t know why but I backed away from the sink and the door. Everything that happened after that was reactionary. I dragged the couch from the wall and crouched behind it. The concrete wall was rough against my cheek. I huddled in the musty sliver of space I created. I had to cover my mouth with my hands when I heard two gunshots. It was hard to contain the scream that was pulled from my throat. The lock on the door had been destroyed just before a heavy boot kicked the door open.
I’d never been terrified before. There were times in my life when my father scared me. Threatened me. Wielded his power as a weapon to control me with fear. But terror? I’d never come close to the way my body was immobilized with paralysis. I forgot to breathe. Somewhere in the fog of fear I heard my name.
“Kennedy? Kennedy!” Kimble shouted.
“Kimble?” I croaked out.
The couch slid away from my body and he stood in front of me, gun drawn, pointed toward the ceiling.
The expression on his face told me how horrible I must have looked to him. He lifted me to my feet with one arm.
“Are you hurt?”
I shook my head. I was trying to process that he was here. He spun toward the door, shielding me behind his back.
“That’s good. That’s good news. Let’s go. You can walk okay?”
“Yes,” I whispered. It was the first time my bodyguard actually touched me. He squeezed my hand and led me through the door. I stared at it in amazement, afraid that once I crossed the threshold, I’d learn some horrible lesson. I’d be electrocuted or kicked backward as the door slammed shut, leaving me on one side and Kimble on the other. He had to tug me to the steps.
“It’s okay,” he assured me. “The house is cleared out. I can carry you.”
“No,” I replied. “I can walk out of here.”
I didn’t know who the bastards were who had kidnapped me, but I wasn’t going to let them have anymore power over me. I would walk out of my prison on my own feet.
Kimble reached for my hand again, but I waved him off. “I’m fine. I can walk.”
He took me out of the back of the house through the alley exit. His SUV was parked around the corner. His head swiveled back and forth the entire time we jogged to the vehicle. It was a fleeting thought, but I couldn’t help but remember all the times I’d tried to outsmart Kimble. All the times I’d lied to him. Hidden from him. Sneaked out of the house and caused him to search for me. I treated him like shit. Like trash. Like a stupid brute.
His palm gripped my shoulder as he held open the backdoor for me.
“Just stay down,” he instructed me.
I was brimming with adrenaline and a new awe for him. I nodded.
The door closed and Kimble slid behind the steering wheel. The gun rested in the console. His eyes darted to the rearview mirror.
“You sure you’re okay?” he repeated.
I fastened my seatbelt. “Other than desperately needing a shower, I’m fine.” My fingers trembled, making it hard to snap the belt into place. I had a thousand questions for him, starting with how he found me. I sat low in the seat.
“Does my father know you found me?” I asked. I wondered if he was worried. Had the nurse even tried to tell him I was gone? It was probably a terrible idea to inform a dying man his daughter had been kidnapped.
“Kennedy.”
My eyes met Kimble’s in the mirror.
“No,” I whispered.
He pulled over on the side of the road. We were somewhere where sugar can grew. He shifted the SUV to park and twisted in the seat.
“Mr. Martin, your father, he passed away last night. I’m sorry.”
I felt a lump in my throat. I nodded. “Thank you for letting me know.” I looked out the window. The sugar cane rustled in the breeze. “Was he alone?” I asked.
“The night nurse was with him,” he answered.
I bit the inside of my cheek. I was angry at myself for feeling sadness and pain. He didn’t deserve my grief. He’d done nothing but resent me my entire life. I’d barely made the cut to be his protégé. His own daughter, ineligible. I’d fought so hard for a place next to him and now he was gone. That place didn’t exist anymore.
I cleared my throat. “Did he know I was missing?”
Kimble nodded. “He did. He sent me to find you. I’m sorry I couldn’t bring you home to say goodbye to him. I tried. I wasn’t able to keep my promise to him.”
I swore it was because the adrenaline had worn off. It was because I’d been locked in a tomb, preparing to be raped or killed for a week. It was because I’d only faced death one other time, when my mother died. I made up excuses for the reason I broke. For the tears and sobs that followed. For the five minutes I allowed Kimble to crawl in the backseat and put his arms around me while I cried, until there were no more tears.
14
Knight
I didn’t want to hear any more. Every word Kennedy told me about
the kidnapping made me want to enclose her in a fortress. It was absurd. I knew it the minute I started tallying up ways to keep her safe I was being a dick about the whole thing. She’d handled it. She was handling it. She was clear, she didn’t want me to interfere. But how the fuck did I stay out of something like this when she could have been killed?
We had picked over the rest of our dinner. There was a chocolate pie we hadn’t touched. The candles had melted in giant pools. The bottle of wine was empty.
“So now you know what happened.” Her green eyes seemed steadier than mine. “That’s the story. The mystery, I guess you could call it.”
“And now I should forget it?” I couldn’t help the way the cold seeped into my voice.
“I didn’t say forget it, but you aren’t going out on a vengeance tirade. I will find out who kidnapped me. I deserve that.”
“You deserve more than that.” I strolled across the room. I had been restless while she recounted the story. I crouched in front of her chair. “I’ll make sure you have the names.”
She shook her head. “Not your job.”
I huffed. “If I can use my resources, why wouldn’t you want them?”
“Because I don’t know if it was your father. Your resources are going to be tainted by anything or anyone under the Corban roof. I can’t trust them.”
My eyes widened. “What? My father is on your list?”
She glanced away. “It could have been him. Your mother. Anyone. Everyone.”
“My father was a bastard for what he did to us, but why would he take it that far? I was already in France. He kept us apart. He won.”
Kennedy shrugged. “I don’t know why he would have done it, other than the motives would all be the same. It wasn’t about you and me. It was about taking the power my father had established so quickly.”
“My father wasn’t threatened by you.” I knew the statement was a mistake and not close to the full truth.
Her eyebrows rose. “Oh, really? He was pleased that I bought the Vieux Carre? The most prized asset in New Orleans wasn’t his any longer the day I showed up at the bank.”
I scowled. “Fuck. I don’t know what he was thinking while I was gone.” He was underhanded and ruthless. Vengeful. Vindictive.
“Then you have to assume he is as much of a suspect as anyone else.”
I didn’t like the truth in her statement. I’d hated my father for plenty of his sins. I didn’t need to pile another heinous one on top. Did it matter now that he was dead?
I shoved off the floor. “You’re out of wine. Can I get some more for you?” I offered.
“I’ll just call Bella,” she answered. “There’s no reason you have to leave the room.”
“No. It’s late. Let her sleep. I’ll go to the cellar. I’d like to see your collection anyway.” I needed a second to breathe. Clear my head.
“Knight.” Her voice softened. “I don’t want to argue about your father. Not tonight.”
“We aren’t arguing.” How did I convince us both that was true? “I’m good. I just want to see what you have. I haven’t seen a solid since cellar since I left France.
Her eyes lit up. “You might like what I have then.”
“I’ll bring back my recommendation. Okay?”
She nodded. “I’ll get in the shower while you’re down there hunting for the best bottle you can find. From this end of the house, go through the kitchen and when you turn for the dining room you’ll have to walk through the butler’s pantry. It’s the door on the left. The light switch is inside the door. Pick anything you want.”
“I know my way around wine cellars. I’ll be all right.” I kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll surprise you.” I threw a T-shirt on over my head and pulled it over my chest.
It was the first time I had left her set of rooms in twenty-four hours. I needed air. I needed to think. I needed to reconcile that she might be right about my family. And if she was, what did that mean for us?
I jogged to the first level of the house. Kimble was standing in the foyer. Damn it.
“Leaving?” he asked.
His suit was crisp as if he had just gotten dressed. I never saw the man rumpled. Kennedy owed him her life. I was somehow indebted to him too. I felt gratitude, but it was almost suffocated by the jealousy I carried. He was the one who saved her—not me. He was the one who was there when Lucien died—not me. Fucking Kimble held her when she cried—not me.
“No. Sorry to disappoint you. I’m not going anywhere. I’m grabbing another bottle of wine.” I wasn’t sure why I explained myself to him, other than I now had a new understanding of why Kennedy had kept him on her staff. It didn’t mean I suddenly liked him. I would tolerate him for her sake. For now, he only needed to know was that I was staying in her bed tonight.
He stepped aside so I could turn the corner for the kitchen, ducking into the connection to the dining room. I strolled through. I could still feel his eyes staring at the back of my neck. The door to the cellar was easy to find. I flipped the light switch against the wall.
As soon as I descended into the basement it was like being back in France. The smell of a good wine cellar was something I had learned to discern. It was cool. The perfect temperature. I reached the bottom step.
I liked her setup. There was a small sitting area for tasting, surrounded by cases and ordered rows. I studied the first row. It was taller than me. I was about to slide the ladder in place. People usually put their best wines out of reach. I was about to climb the ladder when I caught a glimpse of what was in front of me. I couldn’t believe it. I spotted the Corban family crest. There was one bottle after another of Corban wine. I lifted one from the rack. They were from the years I had worked the vineyards in Epernay. All the years were there. Every grape. She’d never mentioned she had acquired all the wines I worked on since the fire. I was proud of those wines. Proud that I built something out of ashes.
I placed the bottle back, walking to the next stack. Kennedy had an incredible collection. There were priceless rows of wine and champagne. The woman had good taste. Expensive taste. Exotic taste. She had curated a collection from around the world. Some of the selections were not easy to find.
What the hell? I spotted the label. It was unmistakable. It was a Château Pichon. I lifted it carefully. The last time I had read about this bottle it was sold to an unnamed buyer for nearly $7,000. Was it Kennedy? Was she the mystery buyer? When had she become this interested in wines? She was always a champagne drinker. Although, the girl I had met liked to party a little too late and made questionable social media decisions. That was five years ago. I handled the pricey bottle carefully, placing it on the table used to examine labels and coloration during tastings. I sat in a leather chair, staring at the bottle. It was tempting to pop the cork. I’d heard things about this Bordeaux. It was legendary wine. I was ogling it like a high school kid about to have his first drink.
I looked up just as her feet touched the cellar floor. I’d been too immersed in studying the curves of the bottle to hear her descend the staircase. It was easy for her to be quiet on the tips of her toes.
“About to break into my most expensive bottle I see,” she teased. Kennedy’s hair was wet from the shower. It was layered in damp tendrils around her shoulders. A robe was wrapped around her shoulders, but the water droplets had seeped through.
“Thinking about it.” I smirked. “Not without you of course.”
“Of course.” She walked toward me in her bare feet. “I wondered what was keeping you down here.”
I chuckled. “Sorry, I got a little lost in your collection. You hadn’t mentioned your hobby.”
She blushed. “A new one. It works well in the business.”
“And the Corban wines?” I tested.
“You saw those too, huh?” She stood in front of me. I could smell the lotion on her skin. The shampoo on her hair. She drove me fucking wild, even after spending twenty-four hours locked in her room.
“Hard to
miss my own name on every bottle on this side of the cellar.”
She laughed. “Okay. Maybe I thought it was like having a little piece of you, having the wine from your vineyards.” She shrugged lightly. “I guess it’s silly when I say it out loud.”
“Not silly,” I replied.
“Embarrassing then.”
“No. Neither. I wished I had something of yours too. Maybe it would have helped.”
“I guess I do have a few bottles.” Her eyes traveled over my head to where the cases began lining up.
“I’m flattered. Doesn’t hurt that it’s good wine.” I waggled my eyebrows.
“I didn’t say I drank it.” She winked.
“Liar.”
“Maybe. Are we going to open the Château Pichon?” she asked casually as if she was talking about a twenty-dollar bottle.
“This bottle?”
“Mmmhmm.” I saw the mischief in her eyes. “That one on the table you’re drooling over.”
“What’s the occasion?” I pried.
“This is the occasion.” She pressed her palm to my chest, pushing me backward as she climbed in my lap, straddling my waist. Her robe split to her thigh, exposing her creamy skin. “We can be the occasion. I think we deserve something over the top for once.”
My thumb traced over her skin. My fingers curling to the inner softness of her thigh. I grinned widely at the goosebumps forming along her flesh.
“Cold?” I taunted.
“It’s not easy going from a hot shower to the wine cellar,” she answered. She breathed over my ear as if ice crystals would form in the air.
“So many ways I could help you with that,” I offered.
My mouth covered hers. My hands tangled in her wet hair. The contrast between the cool touch of her skin with the ember she had already stoked under my ribs was like fire and ice. I slipped the robe off her entire body, tossing it on the cellar floor. I bit her shoulder gently before making a trail of kisses along her throat. I growled at the perkiness of her breasts. Her nipples hard and pointed at my chest.