by Anne Malcom
My stomach dropped at his words; they were a promise and a sick grin decorated his face. He turned again and walked out of the room. I heard a click as he locked the door behind him.
“Fuck!” I yelled to the room. This was some serious shit. I pinched myself. “Ouch,” I hissed.
Okay, so I wasn’t dreaming or in a drug-induced hallucination. At least I didn’t think I was. I tried shrooms once and the trip I experienced was nothing like this. I had been convinced my hair was made of plastic and spent three hours crying because I wouldn’t be able to use a straightening iron without melting my hair. I swore off any kind of drugs after that.
I had to face the fact that this was all most likely real. I had been kidnapped by some well-dressed Italians. Glancing around at the décor which screamed money I deduced I was in some sort of mansion. It was reminiscent of my childhood home, a prison of a different kind. I darted toward the window and tried to push it up. It wouldn’t budge. Shit. I should’ve listened to Gwen and done those gym classes.
I looked through the glass and gathered I was at least two stories up. Men roamed the well-kept lawn with guns; there was not another house in sight. The sparse desert landscape seemed to stretch on forever. I decided I wouldn’t go unnoticed if I smashed the window and tried to climb down a drainpipe. Escape via window was out. I was locked in. I leaned against the wall and wracked my brain trying to think of a miraculous escape plan. But my lack of experience in kidnapping situations coupled with a whopping hangover hindered me. I assessed my options. Waste my twenty minutes turning this room upside down for weapons or secret passageways and subject myself to possible rape? Or I could shower, dress and prepare myself for what was coming. If they were going to kill me I doubted they would care about what I was wearing or my state of cleanliness. I deduced my life was not in immediate danger and my best bet was to comply. For now.
The bathroom was just as impressive as the room I had woken up in. Opulent with black granite flooring, a huge spa bath, and shower stall. A big window treated me with a view of a broad desert landscape and barren mountain ranges. I was in the middle of nowhere. I swallowed the panic at that thought and focused on the task at hand. One thing at a time. Turning into a blubbering mess would not do me any good.
After trying the window and searching the bathroom for any possible weapons, I got in the shower. The blissful hot water and amazing pressure did little to calm me but I busied myself with getting clean using the seriously expensive bath products.
Being mindful of my twenty minute time limit I stepped out of the shower and found the clothes I was to put on, a clingy Versace wrap dress and Stella McCartney underwear. I hoped the lingerie was not chosen with a purpose in mind. My stomach dropped. Holy shit, was I going to be sold into a sex slavery ring? My dad was not Liam Neeson; my chances of him recusing me were slim to none.
I failed to forget about my biker family. They would not hesitate to come and rescue me. I couldn’t control my yearning for one man in particular to be my knight riding a Harley. Too bad he didn’t know where I was. They all thought I was in New York. Even if he did know where I was I doubted he would come to my aid after the past year. He hated me. No, it was worse than hate. He was indifferent. I couldn’t think about him now. I had to focus on the more pressing scenario, the one that may involve me being sold into a sex slavery ring. No one was coming to save me; of that much I was sure. My family in Amber thought I was in New York and my family in New York couldn’t care less about where I was. I was on my own.
I put on the dress and accompanying heels before pulling my damp hair into a French braid. My reflection stared at me blankly as I regarded myself in the mirror. Free of makeup I looked vulnerable, my freckles making me look childlike. I didn’t need that. I needed my war paint to look strong. Stronger than I felt. A sharp knock on the door made me jump.
“Time’s up, Red.”
The bathroom door opened and Blue Eyes appeared, inspecting me in a way that made me want to hop right back in the shower.
“It’s a shame you had to be a good little girl and do what you were told. I was looking forward to teaching you a lesson, cara,” he sneered, grabbing my arm roughly and directing me out the door.
I noticed he was limping slightly and smirked. “It looks like you’re the one that got taught a lesson. Seems like your kidnapping skills aren’t up to par since you let a half-drunk woman put a hole in your expensive shoes. How’s your foot?” I asked sweetly. He stopped me abruptly and his grip on my arm tightened painfully.
“You’re not going to be so mouthy once I’m allowed to play with you. I promise you that, bitch. I’ll enjoy making you scream.” His attractive face morphed into a sneer and I refused to let the fear I felt show.
I stared at him silently and ignored the throbbing in my arm. He gazed at me a moment longer then yanked me along.
After a silent journey through the expansive and impressive house I was roughly pushed into a dining room. It was huge and sliding doors opened onto an outdoor terrace and a pool. It looked like paradise, apart from the men strolling around with guns. Oh, and the fact I was being held against my will.
My gaze moved to a man sitting at the far end of a long table. His greying head was bent reading a paper, a plate of food sitting in front of him. The entire table was full of platters of delicious looking food. My stomach rumbled on cue; I couldn’t remember the last time I ate. My hangover, coupled with my abduction, made me hangry.
“Sit,” Blue Eyes commanded, shoving me toward the chair at the opposite end of the table. The man still hadn’t lifted his head. Deciding to do as I was told I sat gingerly, ignoring the plate of food in front of me.
“Miss Abrams, good morning. I see the clothes are a perfect fit. You look stunning. Please eat. I had some pain au chocolate flown in from Paris—I understand they are your favorite. And of course coffee.” The man waved his hand and a woman bustled into the room. She was Mexican, older and looked like someone’s grandmother. She smiled at me as she poured fragrant coffee into my cup. I struggled not to salivate; I needed ten gallons of coffee right about now. I resisted the urge to cling to this woman’s skirt, knowing there was not much she could do to help me. I wondered if she knew she was serving a kidnapping victim. I sat stiffly as she walked out, fighting the urge not to clutch the coffee.
“Who are you? What do want with me?” I demanded, glaring at the man at the other end of the table.
“Eat, Miss Abrams. I imagine you are starved, considering it’s been almost twenty-eight hours since your last meal. I’m sure you need your coffee. We will talk after.” The man didn’t look up as he sipped his own cup.
My hand twitched, my need for caffeine messing with my brain. I felt like an addict going through withdrawal, my fix within arms’ reach. I resisted. I had bigger fish to fry.
“I will not sit and eat while I’m getting held against my will. This isn’t a fucking brunch date. You kidnapped me. What the fuck do you want?” I hissed, clutching the arms of my chair. Fury had momentarily replaced my fear.
The man glanced at me over his paper, his gaze almost disinterested. He sighed and put it to the side, clasping his hands together. “My reports are not wrong—you are spirited.” He seemed almost amused.
“Well, excuse me for not praising you on what a lovely kidnapping you’ve thrown—it’s the best I’ve been to. I’ll be sure to let my friends know the caliber of pastries present. What do you want with me?” I continued to manage to keep the tremor out of my voice. I was proud.
The fact this wasn’t your traditional kidnapping didn’t take away the reality of what was going on here. If anything it made it scarier; I didn’t know what was going on. The man in front of me seemed familiar. Not in the fact I knew him personally but I knew his type. I grew up surrounded by men like him. He could have been one of my father’s golf buddies or business associates. His greying hair was cut close to his head and styled expertly. His suit was Tom Ford if I wasn’t mistaken; a g
old Rolex adorned his wrist and he was wearing a pocket square. He just didn’t fit the bill of kidnapper. Not that I really knew what your run of the mill criminal looked like, but I expected tattoos or at least a greasy haired man wearing thick gold chains. Not someone this sophisticated and not someone who looked a lot more like George Clooney than Dr. Evil.
“I apologize for the unpleasantness, Miss Abrams, but unfortunately this was necessary,” George Clooney replied, as if he was talking about a mistake in a dinner reservation.
“Unpleasantness?” I repeated. “You call your two goons dragging me out of a bar at gunpoint, then tasering me and waking up handcuffed to a bed unpleasant? I think the word you are looking for is illegal—seriously fucking illegal. You need to let me leave right now,” I commanded, wishing it would be that easy.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Miss Abrams. I admit this was a last resort, which was unfortunately necessary. I assure you no harm will come to you if you comply, and you will be able to return back to the bar from in which we found you once I get what I want.”
I eyed the man across the table with a raised brow. “Sure. I bet you say that to all the girls. What is it that you want?”
George maintained eye contact; he seemed vaguely disinterested as if this was a meeting he wanted to get through. My conclusion that I was being sold into sex slavery was becoming less likely. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. One thing was for sure…I wasn’t going to do as this wacko said and hope for the best. I’d be getting out of here if I had to tunnel my way out with a spoon.
“Your father is a business associate of mine. We had a mutually beneficial arrangement—that was, until recently. I won’t bore you with the details, but I will say all other civil attempts to persuade your father against certain courses of action have been unsuccessful. So here we are.” He held out his hands. “I imagine your wellbeing is of great importance to your father, and the continued health of his only daughter might prove as a motivation to change his mind.” George took a sip of his coffee, pausing to let this all sink in.
My father. He was the reason I was being kidnapped? The man who summered in the Hamptons and screwed his nose up at newspaper vendors was business associates with a criminal? Granted, he may not know about said criminal activities, but my father was far from stupid and I doubted this guy went from law abiding to Class A felony in one fell swoop.
I let out a small giggle at the absurdity of this entire situation. Given the company I had been keeping over the last year or so, I had thought if I was going to be kidnapped by anyone it would be by someone wearing a cut and jeans, not a ten thousand dollar suit.
“Something amusing, Miss Abrams?” George asked me, eyes more alert.
I waved my hand. “Not amusing. In fact, this is not funny at all. Just ironic. In all the scenarios I would imagine a kidnapping going down, this is the least likely.” I sobered at the memory of my best friend almost dying after being kidnapped, then coming home battered after it happened again nine months ago. We had some bad freaking luck when it came to this shit.
George narrowed his eyes. “Yes, well, I imagine with the company you keep you have been exposed to some more unsavory criminal activities. As long as you are well behaved and your father is obliging, there is no reason for this to get uncivilized,” he said with an air of superiority.
I sucked in a breath. “Are you serious? The man who just had me kidnapped is doling out judgment on the ‘company I keep’? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Let me tell you something you Soprano wannabe, those men are each worth a hundred of you and your tacky watch, which I can assure you screams new money,” I hissed at him, momentarily forgetting the power balance in this conversation.
George’s eyes flared slightly but his face betrayed no emotion. “I imagine this has been an unsettling few hours for you, Miss Abrams, so I’ll let that little outburst slide.” He leaned forward slightly. “But if you ever speak to me like that again you’ll be very, very sorry.” His tone was soft and I shivered at the promise underneath it.
“Now,” he carried on, “please eat something. I would hate for my guest to go hungry.” He moved his attention to his own plate, reopening his newspaper. Apparently I was dismissed.
Deciding my hangover coupled with severe caffeine deficiency made me slightly loopy, I pushed my plate away defiantly. It was a struggle with my mouth watering at the sight of the pastry of the gods but I managed. The coffee cup was another story; I had to actually clutch my hands to my lap to stop from reaching for it. But I was determined. I was not going to accept this situation and eat a (albeit magnificent) croissant and sip (medically necessary) coffee with my captor like this was a weekend retreat. I could handle skipping a couple of meals and forgoing coffee for that. I did the master cleanse, for Christ’s sake. I did however slip a butter knife into my lap while pushing the plate away. I wasn’t too sure what I would do with it; I’m sure it wouldn’t be effective in deflecting bullets but I needed to start somewhere.
“Not hungry?” He didn’t look up from his paper.
“I’m afraid captivity messes with my appetite,” I replied sweetly.
There was a long pause until he spoke again. “Well, I can only hope your appetite returns sooner rather than later. I’d hate to see you starve.” His thinly veiled threat had its effect and he moved on. “If you do not want your food then I will consent to you leaving the table.”
“How gracious of you,” I muttered sarcastically.
He ignored this. “Rafe will show you to your wing. There is a library, a TV room, and a home gym. You have the freedom to move about them as you please.”
I restrained a snort. If they wanted to hurt me they could have just forced me to use the home gym. I’d be much more compliant under the threat of imminent exercise.
“I will inform you that all exits will be locked, and I’m sure you’ve seen my employees.” He gestured outside. “Just in case you have any ideas about wandering off.”
I held a hand to my chest in mock shock. “Me? Never! Why should I want to leave such a pretty cage?” I swear I didn’t even think about my sarcastic remark, it just came out.
George ignored me again as if I was a troublesome teenager. “I also expect you to join me for breakfast every morning and dinner every evening. Whether you consume them is up to you, but I must insist on your presence, as well as you wearing the garments I supply you with.” His eyes moved over my dress, interest obvious in his gaze. I felt as if spiders were crawling over me.
George was a silver fox, no doubt about that, but he was also a crazy psychopath who may or may not try and kill me. My taste in men had gotten me into some shitty situations lately but I wasn’t insane.
I decided to ignore him, getting up to remove myself from his presence and to plot an escape using only a butter knife. I turned to leave.
“Oh, Miss Abrams? I would appreciate it if you left the knife here. I wouldn’t want my mother’s silverware getting lost,” he remarked casually.
Fuck.
I turned slowly and placed the knife on the table quietly. I spun to leave the room to plot my escape sans butter knife. My stomach swirled at how precarious my situation was. My spirits did lift slightly when Rafe limped toward me scowling. If I could do damage to a career criminal’s goon with only a Louboutin I had to have faith.
I paced the long stretch of room in “my wing’s” library for the hundredth time. It had been hours since my little breakfast meeting with George and I was going stir crazy. I was also pissed. Anger was a much better coping mechanism than fear. Fear was not productive. If I gave into the fear curled at the bottom of my stomach I might be crouched on the floor rocking back and forth right now. Walking back and forward for two hours was arguably just as bad, apart from maybe wearing down an expensive looking Persian rug. I sank down on a leather armchair in exasperation.
I had explored the rooms of my prison earlier this morning, looking for possible escape points and for any pote
ntial weapons. I had come up dry on both points. Even if I had found a way to slip out into an unguarded area of the property I would be facing a long trek in an unforgiving desert landscape. And who could forget Rafe following me around all day, his blue eyes burning into me with anger and a sick desire.
The rooms I was free to explore were exquisitely furnished and spotless. The man had a good decorator. Considering where I came from I knew how to spot serious wealth; to tell the difference between a cheap imitation rug for instance, or one that cost more than a down payment on a house. This man was hideously rich. Which made me wonder what the heck he did to accumulate all of this wealth to attribute the need for an around the clock security detail that rivaled the president’s. All of my guesses were not good. What the fuck had my father been thinking getting involved with this guy? I wondered what my father was doing now. Was he cooperating with the demands? Or had he called the police? I doubted my mother would want the “scandal” of her daughter being kidnapped. I imagine her greatest worry right now would be how bad the lighting would be in a police press conference. I couldn’t imagine my father becoming outraged or out of his mind with worry for me. He never really expressed much emotion toward me. We got along okay, even had some enjoyable conversations. My father had a dry wit and I enjoyed his company when he was around, which wasn’t often. He was never affectionate with me, but didn’t hesitate in getting me whatever I wanted and he did drop everything to help me when I needed it. He loved me in his own detached sort of way. He would do what it took to get me home I hoped.
My thoughts moved to someone who would have an entirely different reaction to news of my kidnapping. Or he would have. Before. Maybe six months ago before I had come home and refused to talk to him. Avoided him at all costs. And when he had finally had enough of my evasion and silence I had to flat out lie to him. I’d never forget the look in his eyes after I uttered words that broke my own heart. So maybe after that he might not have the reaction I would have thought. He might not have any reaction at all. I was solely to blame for that. I sabotaged any future I had with him. It would have been a fucked up future anyway, with the shadow of a dead man between us. No, it would have been doomed. I did us both a favor.