Lina’s accent had not been Spanish. Did that mean Nic could rule out being in Mexico or Central America? Yes? No? Maybe? Not necessarily?
Because she suspected that Lina’s native tongue was a bastardized version of other languages, Nic’s gut instinct told her that she was in the Caribbean, on one of the islands where some type of either French patois or Creole Papia-mento was spoken. Then again, Lina could have been transported from her original home and might even be a captive forced into servitude.
Did it really matter where she was? For all she knew, they could be on an uncharted, private island or in the jungles of Central America somewhere. Her suppositions could be wrong. Besides, what made her think she would ever get the chance to talk to Griff and manage to send him a coded message concerning her whereabouts?
“Raphael ... my sweet boy ...” Yvette murmured the words in her half-awake, half-asleep state.
She sensed his presence as if he were nearby, close enough to reach out and touch him. But he wasn’t there beside her. She had dreamed about him, her dream a memory of long ago. Choosing not to open her eyes, she allowed the image of his face to appear inside her thoughts, the face of an angelic boy, the face of a teenage Raphael, not the transformed face of the twenty-year-old who had emerged from the London hospital.
If only we could have done more to help you. We offered to take you with us, but you refused. We knew what you intended to do and neither Griff nor Sanders nor I tried to stop you. Would it have done any good if we had tried harder?
The first time she had held the frightened boy in her arms, she had known how pure and sweet and innocent he was. She had felt the goodness inside him, the gentle spirit that struggled to stay alive, and the kind heart that refused to die despite the torment he endured every day. He had tried to be strong and brave, to show no fear and survive without losing his own humanity.
In the beginning, he had been unable to hide his thoughts and feelings from her, his very soul an open book, easily read. And from the very beginning, she had not told Malcolm the complete truth about Raphael, knowing the truth would help her husband destroy the boy. In time Malcolm had become obsessed with Raphael and took particular pleasure in torturing him. His physical beauty lured two of Malcolm’s frequent guests on Amara to ask specifically for Raphael whenever they visited, men who preferred boys in their teens to adult males or females of any age.
Why are you tormenting me, Rafe?
In her heart, Yvette knew that Raphael no longer existed. Although his body had survived and escaped, his heart and soul had died on Amara. Rafe Byrne existed, out there somewhere, a man on a mission, a heartless, soulless creature.
Yvette opened her eyes to see a concerned Blythe Renshaw hovering over her. Blythe, sparkling with an effervescent loveliness that went beyond her physical appearance to encompass every aspect of her being, smiled warmly when she saw that Yvette was awake.
“How do you feel?” Blythe asked.
“Tired. But that is quite normal.” She held out her hand. “Please, help me to sit up.”
Blythe grasped Yvette’s hand and assisted her. “Are you hungry? Ms. Hughes said to let her know when you woke up and she’d bring something for you.”
Slightly woozy, Yvette gripped the edge of the mattress as she slid her legs around and settled both feet on the floor. “I’m not hungry.”
“Do you need anything? What can I do to—?”
“Stop fussing,” Yvette said. “Sit back down. I’m fine. Really.” She looked directly at her protégée, one of six gifted young people who possessed special psychic talents and had come to her for understanding and guidance. “Blythe, did I talk in my sleep? Did I say something, anything you could understand?”
“You mumbled, but I couldn’t understand most of what you were saying. Only a few words.”
“And those words were?”
“A name. You called out a name several times.”
“What name?”
“Raphael.”
“What else did I say?”
Blythe flushed. “You said, ‘My sweet boy.’ And you said ...” Blythe cleared her throat. “You said, ‘Let me hold you and kiss you and take away the pain.’ ”
“Thank you for telling me.” She could see that Blythe was curious. Everyone who knew Dr. Yvette Meng knew there was no special man in her life, no husband, boyfriend, or lover. And as far as most knew, there never had been anyone special. “Raphael was someone very dear to me many years ago.”
Yvette forced herself to stand despite feeling desperately weak. She had to rebuild her strength as quickly as possible. Griffin needed her. She intended to use every means available to her, and that included her protégés, in order to help Griffin and the others find Nicole.
“You need more rest,” Blythe said as she rushed to help Yvette.
She clutched her student’s arm. “I need you to do something for me, something that under ordinary circumstances I would never ask.”
“You know that I will do anything for you.”
Yvette clung to Blythe. “Are you willing to allow me to drain your energy, to take it from you?”
“You want to ... ?”
“It will take me days to recover otherwise. At this very moment, I am on the verge of fainting.” Yvette swayed unsteadily on her feet. “Once I lose consciousness again, I don’t know how long I will sleep. I am needed now. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Then may I take your strength and energy?”
Blythe’s face paled. “Yes, of course. Do what you must.”
Yvette tugged on Blythe’s hand and they sat on the bed side by side. Within moments, the two had connected. Mentally, emotionally, psychically.
Once she had absorbed enough of Blythe’s youthful energy to restore herself to a normal state, Yvette knew what she had to do first. She had to convince Griff that finding Rafe Byrne needed to be a top priority. She had sensed Rafe’s presence for a reason. In some as yet unknown way, Nicole’s disappearance was connected not only to the pseudo-York, but to the boy who had become a killer of monsters and by doing so had become a monster himself.
He shuddered with release, his entire body on fire with passion as he climaxed. Melting his body into hers, he clung to the woman lying beneath him, savoring this moment, allowing himself the pretense that they loved each other. The first time they had been forced to have sex, she had been the one to comfort him, to hold him after he lost his virginity, to promise him that he could survive the humiliation.
“Be strong, sweet boy,” she had whispered in his ear. “I will not share your secrets with him. I will protect you.”
Rafe Byrne’s eyes flew wide open as he awoke from the fragmented dream. A dream of the boy he had once been and the woman who had taken his virginity and stolen his heart.
Sweat dampened his bare chest and moistened his face. He didn’t want to remember her, didn’t want to feel anything tender and loving, not even in his dreams.
During his years on Amara, as he grew from a naïve boy of barely seventeen into a tormented young man of twenty, the comfort she had given him became a mutual give and take. It had become something they shared, something he had believed that she cherished as much as he did.
In time, he had fallen in love with her and had lived for those precious moments they shared alone. Usually, they had an audience of lascivious men, titillated by observing them perform. Sometimes her husband demanded a private showing. He would sit in the dark and watch. And then there were those rare occasions when it was just the two of them, when she had been instructed to “read his mind.” In those quiet, gentle moments when they made love—and he had foolishly believed she loved him—he had known that he could endure anything as long as he could be with her. The beatings. The deadly hunts. Even the brutal rapes.
But in the end, once Griffin Powell and Damar Sanders killed Malcolm York and his henchmen and they had escaped from Amara, he had lost her.
How can you lose something that was never y
ours?
She had cared about him, had helped and protected him, but she had cared for all the others, too, especially Griffin Powell. She had helped Griffin, protected him, and in the end had enabled him to destroy her husband.
She had no more been in love with him than she had any of the other men her husband forced her to have sex with for either his amusement or to gain information.
Their sexual encounters had not been lovemaking. Not to her. He had been a fool to ever think otherwise. If she had loved anyone, it had been Griffin. And in the end, it had been the giant blond warrior who had saved her from her husband.
A part of him hated Griffin, as irrational as it was for him to feel such animosity toward a man who had saved his life time and time again. But on some level, he still felt as if Griffin had taken Yvette away from him.
That’s not true and you know it. You chose not to go with them, not to be a part of Yvette’s life. She no more belongs to him than she belongs to you. Whatever she felt for Griffin or for you years ago on Amara, she belongs to no man now.
The body lying next to Rafe stirred and flung a long, slender arm across his chest, her movements rustling the silk sheets. He glanced at the woman, seeing her clearly in the sunlight shining through the row of windows in the bedroom of Cassandra Wilder’s loft apartment. The woman lived up to her name—Wilder—in and out of bed. She was insatiable, like a bitch in heat.
Rafe stretched languidly, wondering what time it was. Probably noon or later. They had not returned to Cassie’s place until nearly dawn.
As he turned from Cassie, intending to get up, find his clothes, and discreetly leave before she awoke, he felt another warm body lying next to him on the opposite side of the bed. He reached out and ran his hand across the darkly tanned body of the brunette Cassie had chosen at Harlan Benecroft’s private club—Body Parts—and brought home with them. Cassie had paid for the woman’s services, for her to become the third party in their ménage à trois.
The dark-haired woman whose name he didn’t remember, if he’d ever known it, sighed heavily and cuddled against him. He stared at her, admittedly enjoying the sight of her voluptuous breasts, the curve of her waist, the tempting waxed V between her slender thighs. She was young. Probably no more than twenty. How many years had she been a prostitute, a sex slave owned by one of Sir Harlan’s contemporaries?
He couldn’t waste his time or energy on feeling anything akin to pity for her. He couldn’t save her. He wasn’t in the business of rescuing others. This girl, like Cassie, meant nothing to him. They were a means to an end. They were his intro into Harlan Benecroft’s world. And he needed Benecroft to believe he was a rich and powerful man who didn’t care how he made his millions or how much it cost him to appease his sexual appetites. Cassie had led him to Benecroft and Benecroft had led him to his ultimate target—Yves Bouchard.
Rafe lifted himself up and over the luscious brunette, landed quietly on both feet, and picked up his scattered clothing on his way to the door. Later, he would order Cassie two or three dozen roses and wait until the florist delivered them before he called her.
Body Parts was only the tip of the iceberg as far as sex clubs went. What he needed now was access to the best of the best, the darkest, most perverted slave markets, the places that Yves Bouchard frequented on a regular basis.
Chapter 5
By midafternoon that day, Griff had become totally absorbed in spearheading the manhunt for Nicole. Utilizing her special abilities to absorb his emotions while at the same time infusing him with her own strength and energy, Yvette had given him what he needed most at this time—to function in a somewhat normal manner. He could not change the past, couldn’t undo what had been done. But what he did now, today, and tomorrow and the next day, could mean the difference between life and death for Nicole. He had to find her and rescue her. The alternative was unthinkable.
He had two choices. Succumb to his emotions again, which would render him completely useless. Or he could focus on what had to be done.
He had chosen the latter.
Nic was still alive. He was certain of that. If she were dead, he would know, somewhere deep in his soul.
And as long as she was alive, there was hope. He clung to that knowledge, aware that it was his lifeline, the only thing keeping him from sinking into madness.
The Powell Agency headquarters in downtown Knoxville, housed in the Powell Building, was seventy percent staffed and by tomorrow morning would be fully staffed with every employee in place. He had set up three shifts so that the agency would be completely active around the clock. Holt Keinan would remain in Sevier County to monitor the sheriff’s investigation into Cully Redmond’s death and Nic’s abduction. Ben Corbett had arrived in Louisville and had informed Cully’s sister about his death. After he had done whatever the family needed him to do for them, Ben would return to Griffin’s Rest.
Griff had half his agents, including those employed around the world, on standby, all of them ready to begin a universal search for Nic. He was in hourly contact with Thorndike Mitchum, who headed their London bureau and oversaw the agency’s satellite agencies throughout Europe, Asia, and the Middle East. Mitchum had assigned a number of agents to locate and tail Harlan Benecroft, on the off chance he might in some way have a connection to the pseudo-York and therefore to Anthony Linden. They had no real proof that Linden had kidnapped Nic, but the consensus among Griff’s associates was that in all likelihood Linden had abducted her. And the odds were that Linden worked for the man who called himself Malcolm York.
Brendan Richter, one of Powell’s top agents and a former Interpol officer, had contacted old friends with the world’s largest international police organization. Working under the assumption that Anthony Linden was alive, Linden was once again placed on Interpol’s Most Wanted list, as was Malcolm York’s old friend, Yves Bouchard. Unfortunately, Harlan Benecroft, York’s cousin, had managed to stay just under the ICPO’s radar. Benecroft was a worthless piece of trash, an old pervert who dabbled in various illegal activities, but managed to keep his involvement undetectable by law enforcement. Unlike the real York and his peers, Harlan Benecroft had not made most of his millions illegally. He had inherited the family fortune, presumed to be worth in the neighborhood of half a billion U.S. dollars.
At Griff’s request, Sanders had put in calls to numerous contacts from Hong Kong to Johannesburg, with one objective in mind. Locate and contact Rafe Byrne. Their Amara comrade, whom they had not seen in sixteen years, had proven to be an invisible man. If not for hearing, through mutual associates, about the deaths of certain men over the years, men who had been frequent visitors on Amara, they would never have known if Rafe was dead or alive. Apparently, he was still very much alive. Less than a month ago, the slaughtered body of Ciro Mayorga had been discovered in an old horse barn in Argentina.
If anyone could find the pseudo-York, it was Raphael Byrne.
But first, they had to find Rafe.
Lost in thought, at first Griffin didn’t hear Barbara Jean speaking to him. Only when she reached up from her wheelchair and touched his arm did he realize she was there.
“I’m sorry. What did you say?” Griff asked.
“You haven’t eaten a bite since breakfast yesterday morning and then only toast and coffee,” Barbara Jean informed him, a maternal censure in her mild voice. “You’ll be no good to yourself or anyone else if you pass out from hunger.”
He knew she meant well, that Barbara Jean looked out for everyone there at Griffin’s Rest like a mother hen. If he didn’t eat something soon, she just might try force-feeding him.
“I promise I’ll eat.”
“Fine. I’ve brought in a tray of sandwiches and put on fresh pots of coffee.” She nodded to the two coffeemakers on a table in the back of the office suite, both now brewing a steady stream of hot, black coffee. “Take a break soon.” She glanced around the room and said, “All of you. No one touched the lunch that Mattie and I prepared.”
“How about we stop and eat in shifts?” Griff suggested.
“Fine. As long as y’all eat.” She looked pointedly at Sanders.
He didn’t respond verbally, but did make eye contact when he nodded.
Barbara Jean waited until Griff poured himself a cup of coffee and picked up a sandwich before she wheeled out of the office. After downing a sip of coffee and taking a bite out of a ham-and-cheese sandwich, Griff realized he actually was hungry. Derek, Maleah, and Sanders soon joined him at the refreshment table set up in the back of the office. The other three agents—Shaughnessy Hood, Brendan Richter, and Everett Dawson—continued working.
Griffin wolfed down the rest of the sandwich and then poured a second cup of coffee. He caught Maleah Perdue staring at him. Sensing she wanted to say something to him, he looked directly at her.
“Go ahead,” he told her. “Let me have it.”
Maleah glared at him, her anger barely restrained. She clenched her teeth tightly. Griff figured she really was going to let him have it with both barrels. Hell, he wished she would. He deserved it.
But before she managed to compose herself enough to say anything, Derek reached out and placed his hand in the center of her back. Griff noticed Maleah relaxing, the tension in her body easing and the strained muscles in her face softening.
“Maleah knows that we all want the same thing,” Derek said. “Nothing else matters now except finding Nic and bringing her home.”
“Derek’s right,” Maleah finally said, then slammed her coffee mug down on the table and walked away, straight to the door and out of the office.
“She doesn’t hate me any more than I hate myself,” Griff told Derek.
“She doesn’t really hate you. She hates what’s happened. She loves Nic. She’s worried sick and she’s holding on by a thin thread.” Derek looked directly at Griff. “The same way you are.”
Lina had delivered the makeup bag and clothes an hour ago. The panties, bra, sundress, and sandals were all expensive designer items. When Nic had tried to question Lina, she had seemed confused. Apparently the young woman understood very little English. Or she had done an excellent job of pretending she didn’t. Either way, Nic had gotten no useful information from her.
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