Beverly Barton Bundle

by Beverly Barton

  One of York’s henchmen stood behind each woman.

  “What the hell?” Griff grumbled.

  “It’s her,” Sanders said, a barely discernible quiver in his normally steady voice. “It’s Elora.”

  “Are you sure it’s the same woman you’ve been seeing around the island?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. She’s the spitting image of Elora. Her face, her hair, even her body. It’s as if ... I know. I know. You don’t need to remind me that she isn’t Elora.”

  A sickening feeling hit Griff in his gut as he realized that somehow York intended to pit Barbara Jean against the Elora look-alike. “Whatever happens, don’t forget that your wife is dead. Whoever that woman is, she is not your Elora.”

  Griff’s phone rang.

  “Yeah, York, what next?” he asked when he answered the call.

  “Please place Sanders on the line,” York said. “My next instructions are for him.”

  Griff eased the phone from his ear and held it out to Sanders. “He wants to talk to you.”

  Sanders grabbed the phone. “Damar Sanders speaking.”

  “Hello, Sanders. Don’t you want to thank me?”

  “For what?”

  “For bringing Elora back to you. You believed she was dead. You believed I was dead. And yet here we both are quite alive.”

  “That woman out there on the beach, whoever she is, is not Elora. And you can call yourself Malcolm York, you may even believe you are York, but I know the real York is dead, just as my wife is dead.”

  “Oh, ye of little faith. Wouldn’t you like to have Elora back again? Hold her, kiss her, make love to her?”

  Sanders did not respond.

  “You can have your wife back, your beloved Elora. Or you can choose Ms. Hughes. But you can’t have them both. You have to decide which one is going to live and which one is going to die.”

  Chapter 33

  “Don’t do this,” Sanders said.

  Griff had never heard Damar Sanders beg, but he was begging now.

  Without saying another word, Sanders handed Griff his phone.

  Griff slipped his phone back into the belt holster. “Tell me.”

  “He intends for one of them to die. I have to make the decision. I have to choose between saving Barbara Jean and saving Elora.” Sanders cleared his throat. “The woman who looks like Elora.”

  “And that’s who she is,” Griff reminded him. “She is a woman who looks like Elora. My guess is that she had some cosmetic surgery done, just as York did. If she looks that much like Elora—”

  “She does. She looks just like her.”

  “She looks the way Elora looked twenty years ago,” Griff said.

  Sanders heaved a heavy, resigned sigh. “Yes, the way she looked the first time I saw her.”

  Griff curved his hand over Sanders’s shoulder. “What do you have to do to indicate which woman you’ve chosen?”

  “I simply walk across the beach and get her.”

  “You cannot save them both,” Griff told him. “York has deliberately placed you in an unthinkable position. As harsh as it may sound, you can’t let your concern about a woman you don’t even know affect your decision. That’s Barbara Jean out there, damn it. That’s the woman who loves you. The flesh-and-blood woman who has shared your bed for the past three and a half years.”

  “Do you think I do not know that?”

  “Then for the love of God, do what you have to do, what York is forcing you to do. We’ll deal with the consequences later.”

  “There has to be a way to save both—”

  Griff grabbed Sanders and turned him so that they faced each other. He looked down at the shorter man and gave him a hard shake. “If you don’t do what that fucking crazy York has told you to do, you won’t just be putting Barbara Jean’s life in danger, but Nic’s life, too. Damn it, man, are you willing to risk the lives of the women we love to save a woman who is nothing more than an illusion?”

  Sanders pulled away from Griff, his black eyes blazing with fury.

  And then Griff’s phone rang again.

  Sanders stared at Griff as he answered, “Yeah, York, what is it?”

  “I forgot to tell Sanders something rather important, something that might affect his decision.”

  “There is no decision to make. He knows the woman isn’t Elora.”

  “Perhaps she isn’t.” York sighed dramatically. “Let me speak to him.”

  Griff held out the phone. “The son of a bitch is enjoying every minute of this. He’s prolonging the inevitable.”

  Sanders took the phone. “Yes, I’m here. Yes, I’m listening.”

  Griff watched the play of emotions crossing Sanders’s face and couldn’t imagine what York had just told him to make him go pale. Sanders dropped Griff’s phone on the ground and walked away toward the beach, but stopped abruptly long before he reached the two women.

  Griff came up behind Sanders. “What the hell did York say to you?”

  With his gaze glued to the Elora look-alike, he replied, “York asked me if I’d ever thought about the possibility that the dead baby buried with Elora was not our child, that our child lived, that the baby was a girl and—” Sanders’s voice cracked.

  God in heaven! York was as sadistically cruel as the real York had been, a man who derived immense pleasure from the physical and emotional agony of others.

  “That woman out there is not Elora,” Griff said. “And she is not your daughter. This is one of York’s tricks. Do you hear me?”

  “But what if ... I wasn’t with Elora when the baby was born. I saw the dead infant the day Elora was buried. Isn’t it possible that Elora could have had a daughter and she lived and York took her away exactly as he took Yvette’s child from her?”

  Griff didn’t know what he could say or do to convince Sanders that York was lying to him. Under normal circumstances, Sanders was the voice of reason, the logical thinker who cautioned Griff about allowing his emotions to control his actions. But when a man was offered a miracle, even the hope of a miracle, he could be forgiven for thinking with his heart instead of his head.

  “You know the right thing to do,” Griff told him. “You know York is lying to you. You have only one choice and that is to save Barbara Jean’s life.”

  Sanders didn’t respond.

  Griff watched as his dearest friend on Earth walked alone toward the two women, knowing that he could save only one of them. Never in the past had Griff ever questioned Sanders’s ability to make the right decision. Not the popular decision or the politically correct decision, and sometimes not even the strictly legal decision. But always the right decision.

  Helpless to do anything except observe, Griff thought how at odds the beauty of nature surrounding him was with the events unfolding before his eyes.

  Sunset colors in vivid hues of red, orange, lavender, and pink caressed the western horizon behind him, and the dying embers of light cast golden shadows across the beach. Amara possessed the same tropical splendor of other South Pacific islands, and to the visitors who vacationed here, it truly was paradise. But sixteen years ago, Amara had been hell on Earth where the condemned had overthrown Satan in a bloodbath. They had slaughtered York and his loyal servants.

  Griff couldn’t help wondering if Yvette had been right when she’d said that Amara was cursed.

  Sanders stopped ten feet away from where the two women waited, each knowing her fate lay in his hands. First one guard and then the other removed his scuba dive knife from the lanyard strapped to his leg. Barbara Jean’s clasped hands rested in her lap. With her head bowed and her eyes closed, she appeared to be praying. Griff felt certain, knowing her as he did, that she was praying for Sanders and not for herself. The other woman looked straight at Sanders, her arms lifted to him in a pleading gesture. Tears poured down her cheeks.

  Griff knew what Sanders was thinking. Is it possible this young woman is my daughter?

  York had upped the ante. The woman Sanders loved
versus his daughter. He had given Sanders a fictional scenario, a “what if” hope, placing him in an impossible situation, with an unimaginable choice to make.

  She isn’t your daughter. She’s some poor girl that York transformed into the image of Elora. Use your brains, man, the way you always do.

  With each passing moment, tension built, the conflict in Sanders’s soul playing out in front of Griff. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to change what was about to happen. He could do nothing that might risk Nic’s life. Despite how much he loved Sanders and Barbara Jean and Yvette, Nic came first. Always. If he interfered, York would kill her.

  Sanders moved slowly toward Elora, his gaze soaking in every aspect of her face and body. No doubt memories of his long-lost love enveloped him. He paused in front of her. Elora’s guard placed his knife at her throat. Barbara Jean’s guard did the same.

  Griff held his breath.

  The ocean waves splashed onto the shore. Birds circled in the twilight sky. A cool breeze drifted in off the sea. Nightfall was fast approaching.

  “I am so very sorry,” Sanders said, his gaze devouring Elora.

  And then he turned and rushed toward Barbara Jean. He dropped to his knees in front of her and pulled her into his arms.

  Thank you, God.

  The man guarding Barbara Jean stepped back and slid his knife into the sheath strapped to his thigh. But Elora’s guard brought his knife down and across her throat, cutting a deep, bloody line from ear to ear. Then he leaned down and stuck his knife in the sand to clean it before returning it to the lanyard.

  Sanders kissed Barbara Jean’s forehead and cheeks. She clung to him, crying.

  York’s two hired assassins walked away, dove back into the ocean, and swam toward their anchored bowrider.

  Griff ran to his friends, reaching them just as Sanders pulled away from Barbara Jean and rose to his feet.

  He turned to Griff and said, “Take care of her for me.”

  Griff nodded, then knelt down and lifted Barbara Jean up and into his arms while Sanders walked over to where the other woman lay dead, her blood soaking the sand around her. He dropped to his knees, reached out, and turned her over from where she had dropped sideways onto the beach. With trembling fingers, he reached out and lifted a strand of long, strawberry blond hair from her face. Tears pooled in his eyes.

  He pulled her up and into his arms and held her, rocking her back and forth, as if she were a child in need of comfort.

  Chapter 34

  He admired himself in the mirror. His image reflected the man he had been twenty years ago. Wealthy, sophisticated, handsome. Now, as then, he was at the top of his game. He was invincible. Indestructible. Immortal.

  He was a god among men.

  Griffin and Sanders and Yvette thought they had destroyed him. They were wrong. Much to their regret, they now knew the truth. Malcolm York had risen from the ashes like the proverbial phoenix. He would have his complete and absolute revenge against them soon enough. But for the time being, he was having far too much fun playing with them, tormenting them, watching them unravel at the seams.

  York ran his slender fingers over his lean, hairless chest, down to his navel, and then he moved upward, pausing to rub his nipples with the pads of his thumbs. His penis twitched.

  He was hard. He needed relief.

  But you must try to remember that you prefer to watch and achieve fulfillment without ever touching a woman. You derive the most pleasure from their humiliation and pain.

  He turned so that the woman could see him naked and aroused, the braided leather whip in his hand. Her eyes grew wide with alarm. He lapped up her fear with the gusto of a hungry cat consuming a bowl of cream.

  Barely controlling the urge to use the whip himself and then screw the bitch unmercifully, York handed the whip to the muscular young man awaiting his command.

  York stepped back and took a seat on the thronelike chair across the room. “Begin. Now.”

  The naked youth cracked the whip twice and then lashed the young woman’s delicious buttocks again and again and again. Whelps formed on her smooth flesh, red, swollen, oozing rivulets of blood. She whimpered and squirmed, but could not escape. The rope binding her wrists together hung over a large hook in the ceiling, forcing her to balance herself on her tiptoes.

  When she whimpered, he smiled. And when she began screaming, he laughed.

  “Enough,” York called out as he rose from the chair and walked across the room.

  He shoved the man aside, and then reached down and wiped the blood from a long, narrow gash on her left butt cheek. Placing his finger to his lips, he licked off the blood, savoring the coppery taste.

  “Fuck her,” York ordered as he snapped his fingers.

  He moved aside, and the young man came forward to do his bidding. An adrenaline rush surged through his body, blood engorging his penis and making it throb wildly. He watched with envy, hating himself for wanting to change places with his slave.

  He was Malcolm York in every sense of the word. In looks, in speech, in presence, and in deed. But unlike his former self, the reincarnated York desired physical contact with women, not to simply watch another man beat them and screw them. But he was determined to overcome this one last defect that prevented him from a complete and total metamorphosis into the Malcolm York he had once been.

  And will be again!

  * * *

  They flew out of Amara that night.

  Sanders had not uttered a single word since they had left the beach. Neither Griff nor Barbara Jean had tried to force him into a conversation. Griff suspected that Sanders was not the only one in a state of shock. Barbara Jean had been only seconds away from death and he had been forced to stand by and watch the slaughter resulting from Sanders’s decision.

  On the drive back to the resort, with Sanders in a near-comatose state and Barbara Jean weeping quietly, Griff had contacted his local head of security who resided on Amara year-round and explained there was a cleanup job on the eastern beach.

  “I want the woman’s body sent directly to London,” Griff had said. “Contact Thorndike Mitchum for procedural instructions.”

  Mitchum would handle everything with his usual efficiency and take care of all the necessary paperwork required to ship a body into the UK, presumably for burial. His second call was to Mitchum, detailing the situation and requesting a DNA test be done on the young woman.

  “You have Sanders’s DNA on file,” Griff said.

  His third call had been to Yvette, apprising her of recent events.

  “Do you think Sanders will allow me to help him?” she had asked over the phone.

  “Doubtful.”

  “Do you think there is even the slightest possibility that the young woman may have been Sanders’s daughter?”

  “No,” Griff had said adamantly. “But it may take the DNA results to completely convince Sanders.”

  Four hours later, they were aboard the Powell jet, heading home to Griffin’s Rest. Going home to lick their wounds, recuperate, and find a way to be thankful they had lived to fight York another day.

  Yvette had drugged Barbara Jean’s tea, per Griff’s instructions, and he had carried her into the plane’s bedroom two hours ago. She would sleep for hours, giving her a much-needed escape from reality. He hoped she wouldn’t have any nightmares.

  When he had emerged from the bedroom, he had found Yvette sitting beside a silent and withdrawn Sanders. She hadn’t been talking to him or even touching him, just sitting there with him.

  Griff longed for sleep, just a few hours’ reprieve from the never-ending hell in which he existed every waking moment. But restful sleep wouldn’t come, only snippets of snoozing on and off. He dozed off, thinking of Nic. He awoke, thinking of Nic. Wondering. Worrying. Tormented by images of her in captivity. He knew only too well the psychological damage being subjected to such depravity could cause. Even after sixteen years, he had not fully recovered from his experiences on Amara. A part
of him would always be that wild, murderous animal that York’s inhuman treatment had created.

  Griff leaned back and closed his eyes.

  He felt Nic’s presence, as if she were there with him. She was so much a part of him that he would never again be a whole person without her. Love could create a bond that was more powerful than life itself, even more powerful than death.

  A smile played at the corners of his mouth as he remembered the first time Nic had come to Griffin’s Rest. The reason she, Special Agent Nicole Baxter, had joined forces with him on the Beauty Queen Killer case had been because they were the only two people the killer had personally contacted. He could hear her saying, “I don’t like you. And we both know that I do not find you irresistible.” He had called her Nicki. She hadn’t liked it. He had known she wouldn’t.

  On that very first visit, she had met Sanders and Barbara Jean and Maleah. By the way she and Maleah had hit it off, he should have known they would eventually become best friends.

  While working on the BQ Killer case, he and Nic had butted heads continuously. During one rather heated conversation, they had summed up their opinions of each other.

  “You’re an arrogant, egotistical, womanizing bastard who thinks the rules others live by don’t apply to you,” she had told him in no uncertain terms.

  He’d shot right back at her. “I don’t like women who need to prove they can do everything a man can do and do it better. I like being a man, and I prefer women who enjoy being female.” That particular incident had ended with him grabbing her and her telling him not to ever touch her again.

  He should have known then and there that he had met his Waterloo.

  Griff chuckled softly as the warm memories comforted him.

  “May I sit with you?” Yvette’s question jerked him back to the reality of the moment.