Solid Heart (Unseen Enemy Book 7)

by Marysol James

  Emma bit her lip, considering that. As much as she hated to think about how frightened Francine must be, it was better to think of her as alive and afraid, than the alternative. Emma also had every confidence in Francine’s ability to get inside this prick’s head, to use his desire for her to her own advantage.

  “That makes sense,” she said slowly. “He’ll have plans for her, Dean, and they’ll take time to carry out. He’s not going to rush anything.”

  “Time is the one thing the guys need,” Dean told her. “The more time that Francine can buy them, the better it is.”

  “They think they can find her?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know how or where, but Dallas told me there’s a plan in motion. He can’t say anything much about it, but he seems pretty optimistic.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” Dean squeezed as much confidence as he could in to the two syllables. He had no real clue what the hell Dallas was up to, and for all he knew, he could be straight-up lying to Emma’s face, but he needed her to stay calm and relaxed. She’d been through a horrible ordeal, and she had to start to recover. “So you need to rest, OK? You’ve been through something yourself today, and our son needs you to heal up.” He cupped her face, held her eyes. “I need you to heal up. I need you.”

  “I’m here, Dean,” she whispered. “I’m here, and I’m OK.”

  “I know.” He pulled her close, gave her a gentle hug, tried not to crush the sleeping baby between them. “You both are, and I’m not anywhere near done being grateful for that. Small mercies, baby, and if I’ve learned anything in this life, it’s to never take those for granted.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Henri Delacroix looked around as he pulled up behind the warehouse, hiding the van from the road across the open field. In this storm, nobody would see it from the road, but still. He wasn’t taking any chances.

  He glanced over at Francine, saw that she was giving him a sweet, warm look. Yet again, his heart skipped a beat. It was absolutely inconceivable to him that he’d come here with the intention of harming her, of forcing her to come with him. What the ever-loving fuck had he been thinking? How could he ever hurt this woman? His woman?

  “Wait here,” he said, opening his door. “I’ll pick the lock, then come back and get you.”

  “Can’t I come with you?” she pouted.

  “Non, mon ange,” he said, climbing out and lifting his hood against the roaring wind. “I don’t want you to get cold… stay here, yeah?”

  “OK. As you wish.”

  He nodded, slammed the door, walked over to the building. Francine watched him go placidly, a small smile on her lips. He returned the smile, gave his attention to the lock.

  As soon as his back was turned, she started to look around the van. Keeping one eye on Henri, she searched for something – fucking anything! – to use as a weapon. A tire iron, an ice scraper, a goddamn sharpened pencil.

  Nothing. Not one thing.

  She gave Henri a quick look again, saw that he was still fumbling with the lock. Taking a huge chance, she tapped his cell phone mounted on the dashboard to see the GPS coordinates of their final destination. She stared in utter disbelief.

  Vermont?

  Oh, God, yes. Vermont. That’s where Mary-Anne had said that Henri’s cabin was… up high in the mountains of Vermont.

  Her mind raced, calculating, counting. It was about a thirty-hour drive from Colorado to Vermont, if you drove straight through, and if it was good weather. But in a blizzard, with rest-breaks and sleep-stops? Maybe two days. Theoretically, they could be there the next night at the earliest, but realistically, chances were that they’d arrive the day after.

  Two days. An eternity, in some ways. In others, not nearly long enough.

  Quickly, she tapped the screen again, shutting off the app, and just in time. He turned back to face her, and all he saw was a woman who adored him, staring at him through the window.

  He beckoned, she came. Walking carefully over the ice towards him, she dragged in air, praying for the courage to go through with her plan. She was pretty sure that she could pull it off, so long as she kept her head.

  But was she going to be able to keep her head? She was on a tightrope, she knew, she was balancing on a fine line. She had to keep him convinced that she wanted him – but she had to keep him the hell away from her physically. No sex, no goddamn way, and she had to make sure he felt desired without actually fucking him. Any semblance of rejection or stalling, and he’d be on to her in a flash… and she’d be restrained, raped and beaten.

  And that would all be just for starters.

  Fighting down her fear, she entered the warehouse, looked around quickly. No phones here, but there had to be an office with a landline somewhere. And if this was a storage space, it had to have some shipping things, right? Specifically, packing tape, and knives to cut the packing tape. If she could just get her hands on an exacto-knife and some thick duct tape while he slept… God, she might have a fighting chance.

  “It’s warm in here, huh?” he said now.

  “Yes,” she murmured, still trying to look around for a phone, a weapon. “You planned this well.”

  “I did.” He sounded proud of himself, and she gave him her full attention so he could bask in her approval. “I’ve planned this for five years, Francine.”

  “Then you’ll have thought of everything,” she said, trying to sound happy about that.

  “I have.” He approached her, and she forced herself to not shrink back. “I’ve thought about every single thing that I’d say and do once we were together again.”

  He opened his arms now, and she stepped in to them without hesitation. When they closed around her, she felt like she was trapped, caged, imprisoned. This was nothing like when Mark held her with a strong, possessive grip. Not at all.

  Right away, she wrenched her mind away from Mark. She didn’t want Henri anywhere near what she and Mark had, didn’t want him to get between them, to spoil all that goodness. If she began to mix Mark up in all this shit, to compare the two men, then she’d start to associate him with Henri.

  Oh, not much, of course, and not in any ways that really mattered, but still. She didn’t want Mark here in her thoughts, not when she was being held in the arms of another man. She had to keep him away from all of this, keep him separate. She had to protect what they had together, protect it fiercely.

  She had to protect them.

  When Henri shut his eyes with a groan and lowered his lips to hers, she kept her eyes wide open. She forced herself to really see him – his blond hair, his long, lean face – and to really feel him – his small, streamlined muscles – so that she didn’t escape this moment. She didn’t want to pretend that she was somewhere else, with someone else. She had a part to play, and she had to be fully present to do it well enough to keep her alive.

  Francine forced herself to raise her hands to his chest, forced herself to clutch the front of his coat. She moved her lips under his, feigning passion, watching him the whole time. When his eyes began to open, she quickly shut her own, quickly pasted a look of contentment on her face.

  He ran his fingers through her hair, and she looked up at him now, her eyes full of plaintive tears.

  “Why are you crying, chérie?” he said roughly. “Did I hurt you?”

  She shook her head, averted her gaze, playing the submissive. He forced her face back up, his blue eyes worried.

  “So why are you crying?” he demanded.

  “Because –” She choked the word out on a sob. “Because this isn’t how I imagined it would be.”

  “What would be?”

  “This. Us,” she faltered. “Our – our first time together.”

  “Oh, mon ange.” Henri held her closer. “I’m so sorry. How did you imagine it?”

  “I – I…” She looked embarra
ssed. “I wanted a huge, soft bed, and a fireplace, and big windows with a view. I wanted to be someplace beautiful, and private… someplace that nobody would ever come and find us. I wanted… romance.” She looked around them, tried to make a small joke. “I never thought it would be on the floor of a kitchen equipment warehouse, worrying about someone showing up suddenly, out of the blizzard.”

  “I know,” he said, stroking her hair. “I don’t want it this way, either.”

  “You – you don’t?” She leaned back, perplexed. “How do you want it to be?”

  “Just like you said.” He smiled tenderly. “A bed, a warm place, a gorgeous view, total privacy.”

  “But…” She hesitated. “But I don’t know anyplace like that.”

  “I do.” He kissed her again. “I do, and I’m taking you there.”

  Joy made her face light up, and his breath caught. Mon Dieu, she was beautiful.

  “You do?” she said, thrilled. “Is it nearby?”

  “Unfortunately, non.”

  “Oh.” She looked crestfallen. “So we have to wait? Wait to be together?”

  “Oh, Francine. We’ve waited for five years, and I’m a patient man… what’s a few days more, hmmmm?”

  “A few days?” she said, and he smiled once more at the disbelief and impatience in her sweet voice. “Why so long?”

  “Because I’m taking you someplace very, very special to me. A place that I love, and which I want to share with only you. I want our first time to be perfect, and I can’t imagine any place on earth that would make you happier.”

  “Oh, Henri,” she breathed. “I’d love that.”

  “Me too.” He released her from his embrace now, took her hand. “Now, come. We need to find a place for us to sleep. You look exhausted, and I want you to rest.”

  Francine nodded, let him lead her through a maze of hallways and rooms. Finally, they ended up in a small room with a sofa and attached bathroom. A quick look around confirmed that it was a staff room of sorts, so it had a fridge, a coffee machine, a TV, and – in direct response to her prayers – a phone.

  Good Christ, how she wanted to get to that phone to call Mark, to call the police. She wanted it so badly that she actually stopped breathing and swayed on her feet. Her whole world suddenly went fuzzy at the edges, and she saw black spots.

  “Francine!”

  Large hands caught her upper arms, held her upright. She moaned, fell forward in to him, her whole body ice water.

  She felt something soft at her back, felt her head being gently lifted, gently lowered on to a pillow or cushion. She moaned again, hating her weakness, but needing to be weak. She needed to retreat from this harsh reality, to surrender to the horror of what was happening.

  Just for a few minutes.

  His hands were on her cheeks, in her hair, and she felt tears leaking from under her closed eyelids. The hands paused, wiped the tears away.

  “Francine?” A whisper. “Mon amour, can you hear me?”

  She shut her eyes tighter, allowing denial a free rein. This wasn’t happening, none of this was happening. She wasn’t where she was, wasn’t with who she was with. It was all a bad dream, and she was going to wake up any second, safe in Mark’s arms.

  Don’t think about Mark. He’s not part of this. Don’t let Henri near what you have with him.

  Her eyes snapped open now, and she gave a small cry of frustration. Henri started, held her face in both of his hands.

  “Are you alright?” His voice was trembling. “Are you ill?”

  “No, I’m not ill.” She fought down more tears. “I’m so tired, Henri, and I’m hungry. I felt faint for a moment, but I’m alright now.”

  “Oh, chérie.” He traced her lips, hating her pallor. “I’m so sorry, forgive me. I have some food back in the van, but I just didn’t think.”

  She shook her head. “No, I should have told you a while ago that I was feeling strange. I was just so excited to be with you at last, I ignored it.”

  “Never do that again,” he reproached her softly. “Let me take care of you.”

  Too exhausted to talk much more, she shut her eyes. “I will.”

  “So shall I bring you some food?”

  “Yes,” she said, her voice so small, it hurt him. “Please.”

  He got to his feet. “I won’t be a moment.”

  She nodded, her eyes still closed. She heard his footsteps leave the room, but she didn’t move a muscle. She just stayed where she was, eyes closed, every nerve tingling, ears straining.

  Sure enough, after about a minute, Francine heard him creep away. As she’d suspected, he’d been standing there watching her. Waiting to see if she’d open her eyes, get to her feet. Make a run for it, go for the phone.

  Listening hard, she knew he was really gone. Then, and only then, did she leap off the sofa and lunge at the phone. She grabbed the receiver, lifted it to her ear.

  Silence.

  Dead air.

  Awareness crashed and rolled over her like a twenty-foot wave.

  The blizzard had brought down the phone lines.

  For a few seconds, she let the despair wash over her. She was insane to think that Mark would be able to find Mary-Anne; insane to hope that she’d be able to tell him about the cabin; insane to be clinging to this fantasy of rescue.

  Maybe it would be better to start to fight – to make Henri work to contain her, subdue her. Maybe if she started to scream, she’d have a better chance. Maybe she should make it harder for him to drag her to some godforsaken cabin in Vermont, not easier.

  Even as she had these thoughts, her mind shut them down and off. Non. No, her best chance of surviving this was to get to the cabin in one piece, and to believe that Mark was going to move heaven and earth to find her there.

  He was the kind of man who’d move heaven and earth to help someone he cared about… she knew that. She’d seen it. She had to keep the faith in it, because he cared about her. She knew that, too.

  Francine hung up the phone, shot back to the sofa, stretched out again, eyes closed. And when Henri came back with bread, butter, meat, cheese, and wine, she gave him a loving, tender smile.

  She just slipped the mask back on.

  And she just kept believing in Mark.

  **

  Two hours later, she stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. She was in a loose, long-sleeved shirt that fell past her knees, and oversized pyjama bottoms. Turns out that Henri had bought clothes for her… including clothes for sleeping. The thought that she’d be putting on underwear that he’d chosen was somehow truly disgusting. She tried not to think about it; she’d deal with that in the morning.

  There was no shower here, but there was running water, so she washed her face with the hand soap, dried it off with some paper towels, stared at herself some more.

  Henri had told her it was time to go to sleep, and so off to the windowless bathroom she’d trudged. She was sure that he wasn’t going to force her to have sex, but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t going to try to touch her.

  How and where he was going to touch her was a terrifying unknown. She hoped that he’d keep his hands to himself, but she wasn’t counting on it. How long would she be able to hold him off, she wondered.

  A tap on the door. “Francine?”

  “I’m coming,” she called back. “Just drying my face.”

  “Alright.”

  She took a deep breath, left the bathroom. She stood in front of him, shy and uncertain. Waited for him to tell her what to do.

  He sat down on the sofa, patted the spot next to him. “Come here, chérie.”

  Trying hard to stay calm, she did. When he reached for her, she shut her eyes, hoping hard that whatever happened, she’d come out of it whole.

  When he laid her down, then lay down next to her, she was so surpris
ed, her eyes popped open again. He was facing her, holding her gently, and she stared up at him, totally confused.

  “Sleep, mon ange.” He dropped a soft kiss on her forehead, and she sighed in relief. “You need to rest.”

  Too stunned to respond, too grateful to risk saying or doing anything stupid, Francine just nodded. She shut her eyes again, tried to relax in his suffocating embrace, hating his touch. She pretended to drop off, forced her breathing to get slower and deeper.

  “Je t’aime,” he murmured in her ear, his breath hot and smelling of wine. “I love you so much, Francine. I’m so happy you’re here.”

  Henri fell asleep quickly, and she sent up a silent prayer of thanks. She waited, totally silent and still, her mind whirring. She was remembering where he’d put the car keys, planning to just get in to the van in pyjamas and boots, and to just fucking drive in any goddamn direction, drive until she hit any sign of life.

  After about two hours had passed, and he hadn’t moved a muscle, she tried to slide away from him. Slow, careful, quiet; she inched out from under the arm wrapped around her waist.

  Right away, he snapped awake, his one arm tightening around her body, his other hand shooting up and grabbing her throat. He rose up and over her, pinning her down with his weight. She gave a cry, and he glared at her.

  “Where the fuck are you going?” he demanded, shaking her. Pain shot down her throat, down the back of her neck, and she couldn’t breathe. He shook her again, his fingers bruising her flesh. “Are you fucking running away? Running from me?”

  And there he was: the monster that she’d seen all those years ago. Gone was the man who’d fed her bread and cheese by hand, and stroked her hair, and held her so carefully. No, that fake, paper Henri was long gone, and she was lying next to the real Henri.

  She was on a sofa next to a violent, brutal man who enjoyed hurting and scaring women, and he enjoyed it because – on some level that wasn’t even buried very far beneath the surface – he hated women. He hated her, no matter how much he said he loved her… and the line between those two emotions was thinner than she wanted to contemplate right now. Not when he had his hand around her neck, and he was starting to squeeze.