“Yeah, I’d say he should have explained the complexity,” Maleah said, so upset that her voice trembled. She realized she was on the verge of tears. “Especially one major complexity, namely a child that he may have fathered.”
“Blondie, don’t do this.” Derek looked at her pleadingly.
“No, don’t stop her,” Griff said. “Everything she’s said is true.”
Derek went around the room quietly, almost unnoticed, until Maleah realized that he had ushered everyone toward the door and that Yvette had entered alone and gone to Griff’s side. Damn it, she had allowed her emotions to control her actions. Her outburst had served no purpose other than blowing off some built-up steam.
“I suppose I should apologize for making a scene,” Maleah said.
“It’s all right. You’re Nic’s best friend,” Griff told her. “I know where all that anger is coming from and you’re justified in—”
“Justified or not, I swear it won’t happen again.”
Just as she swore to keep a lid on her temper and deal with her animosity toward Griff, she caught a glimpse of Derek in her peripheral vision as he walked over and stood behind Sanders, who had apparently summoned Derek. Maleah turned her head just enough to see that Derek was looking directly at Sanders’s computer screen. A startled expression crossed his face. He shut his eyes for a moment and laid his hand on Sanders’s shoulder.
“What’s going on over there?” Maleah asked.
Sanders swiveled his chair around and stood up beside Derek. The two men faced her just as Griffin and Yvette responded by turning around to see what was going on.
Sanders looked squarely at Yvette. “Stay with him” was all he said to her.
Derek and Sanders stepped aside before Derek said, “The Powell Agency just received confirmation that Nicole is alive. We’ve been sent a photo of her.”
Griffin stormed across the room, Yvette barely managing to keep up with him. He stopped in front of the computer where Sanders had been working and stared at the photograph there on the twenty-one-inch monitor. Maleah peeked around Griff’s shoulder and gasped when she saw a picture of her friend lying on silk sheets in the middle of a king-size bed. Nic was sound asleep. And she was also as naked as the day she was born.
Before anyone had a chance to completely digest the implication of the nude photograph, Griff rammed his big fist into the computer screen.
Chapter 6
Griff plowed through his concerned friends and employees, bolted out of the office suite, and charged down the hall, the picture of Nic, naked and vulnerable, forever burned into his brain. He had shaken off Yvette’s comforting hand as she tried to connect with him. He didn’t want her to ease his pain. The others had called out to him, but he hadn’t heard a word they said. A bloody rage roaring inside his head drowned out every sound except an accusatory inner voice telling him that everything was his fault. Nic’s kidnapping was his fault. Anything that happened to her was his fault.
After Amara and the years when he had diligently pursued claiming Malcolm York’s fortune for his widow—for Yvette—he had avoided all but the most superficial relationships. And when he had returned to the United States a billionaire, with a mysterious past, and had become one of the most sought-after bachelors in the South, he had lived up to his reputation. He had gone through women as if they were a disposable commodity, keeping his affairs on a purely physical level and avoiding any emotional attachments. His actions had not been as selfish as others might assume. By not allowing himself to become emotionally involved, he was not only protecting himself, but the women in his life.
Beneath his expensive tailor-made suits, Griffin Powell was a beast with deadly survival instincts, instincts honed to perfection during his four years on Amara. When your life depended on acquiring the skills necessary to stay alive, you either adapted and became as cunningly diabolical as your captor or you died. Griff was a survivor. He had done whatever was necessary to stay alive and in the process became a dangerous wild animal.
And then FBI Special Agent Nicole Baxter had come into his life. Fiercely dedicated to her job, she had immediately disliked the CEO of the Powell Private Security and Investigation Agency because he didn’t play by the rules.
They had locked horns more than once, both stubborn, neither giving an inch.
Griff had taken great delight in ruffling her feathers whenever possible. Although he had found her attractive—what man wouldn’t?—he had realized the attraction wasn’t mutual. Or so he had thought. The first time he kissed her, he should have run like hell. He should have protected her. He hadn’t. He had thought he could handle his feelings for her, control them, and keep them from getting out of hand. But once he had made love to her ...
Falling in love with Nic and having her love him in return was Griff’s miracle. Did a man have the right to ask for more than one miracle in a lifetime?
If so, he was willing to make a deal with God, on whatever terms the Almighty required.
Griff flung open the French doors that led onto the patio and stopped long enough to draw in huge gulps of the refreshing breeze coming in off the lake. Gazing at the fading gold embers of the day spreading across the water, Griff thought about how many evenings he and Nic had shared here on this patio.
The pain he felt was unbearable and yet he had no choice but to bear it.
He lifted his gaze from the beautiful and serene lake to the evening sky, afire with the approach of twilight.
“Punish me,” he said aloud. “Don’t punish Nic. Name your price, God, and I’ll pay it.”
He sensed rather than saw or heard someone behind him. He wanted to shout at them, demand that they go away and leave him alone.
No one could help him.
“What will you do if God will not bargain with you?” Sanders asked as he came up beside Griff.
With his gaze still focused heavenward, Griff replied, “Then I’ll make a deal with the Devil.”
They stood side by side for several minutes in the peaceful solitude of the warm summertime evening.
“He wants to torment you,” Sanders said. “He sees your love for Nicole as a weakness, one he intends to take advantage of while he holds her hostage. You must prove to him that he is wrong, that your love for her is your greatest strength, not your greatest weakness. Do not let him win this mind game he wants to play. No matter what happens, no matter what he does, you must not lose hope that you will find Nicole and rescue her.”
Griff turned and looked directly into Sanders’s black eyes. “I have no idea how you survived after you lost your wife and child. If I lose Nic ...”
“You will not lose her. She is alive. That is all that matters. We will find her and bring her home. You must believe this.”
“ ‘We will find her and bring her home.’ ” Griffin recited Sanders’s positive words. He had to believe that he could save Nic. The alternative doomed him to a hell from which he could never escape.
Stay strong, Nic. Stay alive. I swear I’ll find you no matter what I have to do or how long it takes.
As Linden escorted Nic from the pavilion housing the caged men, she glanced over her shoulder and made direct eye contact with the manacled prisoner. Despite his circumstances, he remained rebellious and determined, unlike his fellow inmate who apparently had succumbed to hopelessness. She sensed that the chained man possessed the same indomitable spirit that had kept Griffin alive on Amara.
If only she could help him.
“Thinking of your husband?”
Linden’s question momentarily startled her.
“Yes,” Nic said. “I’m thinking about how he killed Malcolm York and the guards who worked for him.”
She looked at Linden and smiled.
He stopped and stared at her, apparently surprised by her comment. Recovering quickly, he returned a smile and said, “I’m afraid Griffin Powell’s tales of glory are exaggerated. Malcolm York is very much alive.”
“If you believe that to be true ... To
ny”—she emphasized the use of his given name—“then you’re delusional. The man you work for is no more the real Malcolm York than I’m the real Queen of England.”
“Believe what you will, but in good time you’ll find out the truth.”
Linden gripped Nic’s arm as they continued their trek downhill. When they reached the bottom, she expected him to return her to her luxurious prison cell inside the house. He didn’t. Instead he guided her away from the house and along a winding path through an overgrown garden area. Within minutes, the path cleared and she saw what lay ahead—a group of hunters, dressed in camouflage and with rifles strapped to their backs, formed a circle around something lying on the ground.
Nic’s gut tightened.
“Unless one of the hunters managed to make a kill during the actual hunt, a single man was chosen for execution at the end of the day, usually the one most severely wounded during the hunt or whoever had been the easiest to capture. At the end of every hunt, one man would be dead by nightfall.”
Griff’s words came back to her, warning her about what was, in all likelihood, about to happen.
“On average, York hosted at least six hunts a year. That forced him to continuously bring in new stock. He paid top dollar for young men from around the world who were in their prime, and if they excelled in any way, they were all the more coveted.”
“Gentlemen,” Linden called to the hunters, “Mr. York has invited a very special guest to join you this evening.”
All eyes turned on her. Nic had not felt this vulnerable since she had been at the mercy of psychotic serial killer Rosswalt “Pudge” Everhart, four years ago. Except for an occasional nightmare, she had managed to put that grueling ordeal behind her and live a normal life.
She had not backed down from Pudge, had held her own against him, and had eventually escaped. By God, she wasn’t about to cower in front of these sadistic bastards.
Holding her head high as the hunters leered at her, she studied each of them as she moved her gaze from one to another. Five men ranging in ages from their forties to their seventies, three Caucasian, one Asian, and one Black, surveyed her from head to toe, apparently liking what they saw.
“This is Nicole.” Linden shoved her forward toward the circle.
She stood rock solid, every muscle in her body rigid, her nerves jangling, her shoulders squared, and her determination to stay strong unwavering.
The hunters separated just enough to allow her to see inside the circle. She stifled a gasp as she stared at the bloody man lying on the ground at their feet. Apparently he had been shot more than once, probably during today’s hunt, and had lost a great deal of blood. Wounded and weak, suffering horribly, he moaned quietly. One of the men, the youngest of the three white men, lifted his foot and kicked the dying man, and when he cried out in pain, the hunter kicked him again and again.
Nic tried to shut out the sound of the man’s screams while the other hunters watched her reaction to their comrade’s cruelty.
“The bidding starts at twenty-five thousand,” a voice from out of nowhere proclaimed.
As the hunters shouted their bids, a small, thin man wearing a white suit appeared and oversaw the auction. When all was said and done, an auburn-haired man in his midfifties outbid the others, offering a quarter of a million dollars for the prize.
Nic wasn’t sure what the prize entailed or if she was part of the bounty.
“York used all of us as prey in the hunts,” Griff had told her. “And the younger, prettier men, some only boys, were always used for sex. And some, usually the biggest and strongest, were used by those whose pleasure came from inflicting pain. York provided whatever his guests wanted, either on Amara or at one of his other estates. Men, women, and children. It didn’t matter to him what happened to the people he had abducted. He didn’t care as long as they could be used to make money for him.”
The real York might be dead, but his namesake apparently was following in his footsteps.
Nic fought the urge to run, knowing full well she wouldn’t get twenty feet before Linden or one of the male guards overpowered her. Or maybe one of the hunters would shoot her.
Bracing herself for whatever happened next, she watched in horrified shock when two guards dragged the dying man through the dirt to a nearby tree. Unable to stand on his own, the man fell over and only the guards’ quick actions prevented him from landing face-first at their feet. While one guard braced the man against the tree, the other guard tied a rope around him, binding him securely. And then Mr. Auburn Hair grasped his high-powered rifle in his gloved hands, aimed at the target, and fired repeatedly, effectively blowing a large hole in the victim’s chest.
Sour bile rose from Nic’s stomach, burning her esophagus and throat. Nausea threatened her iron-willed control.
Don’t vomit. Damn it, don’t show them any sign of weakness!
Clamping her mouth shut, she clenched her teeth.
Breathing deeply through her nostrils, trying to repress the ever-increasing queasiness, she thought she had succeeded.
Until ...
Smiling triumphantly, Mr. Auburn Hair hung his rifle over his shoulder and marched toward the dead body bound to the tree. Another guard, one Nic hadn’t even noticed, came forward and handed the conquering hero a leather-sheathed object approximately twenty inches long. Nic wanted to look away, but she forced herself to watch while Mr. Auburn Hair removed a large machete, the stainless-steel blade at least thirteen inches long.
Nic closed her eyes then and prayed.
“Open your eyes, Nicole,” Linden whispered in her ear, his mouth so close that his warm breath fanned the side of her neck. “He expects you to watch.”
Who was “he”? Mr. Auburn Hair? The pseudo-York? Or the Devil himself?
The first machete slice cut through the ropes binding the dead man to the tree. His mutilated body slumped and fell forward, the ragged tatters of what was left of his back clearly visible. And then Mr. Auburn Hair lifted the machete and in one forceful swipe, chopped off the man’s head.
A celebratory chorus of hearty male shouts echoed in Nic’s ears. Retching, she turned her head and vomited. Before she managed to regain her composure, Mr. Auburn Hair, the bloody machete clutched in his right hand, grabbed her arm with his left hand and yanked her against his sweaty chest. His crazed brown eyes looked straight at her as he flung the machete straight down, the blade boring into the soft earth, before he grabbed her around the neck with both hands and pressed his wet lips against her mouth.
Griff wasn’t sure how long he had been outside walking around alone after his brief conversation with Sanders. But when Derek caught up with him, twilight had faded into nightfall, the first stars blinking in the late-evening sky. He had left the house, followed the well-lit path along the lake, and then ventured onto the gravel lane that wound around past the old boathouse. He knew every square foot of Griffin’s Rest and loved this private sanctuary, his safe haven, guarded night and day.
If only Nic had stayed here. If only his duplicity hadn’t forced her to run away from him.
“You can go back and report in to the others that you found me alive and somewhat sane,” Griffin said as Derek approached, the beam of his flashlight hitting Griff mid-chest.
“You should be thankful that you have people who give a damn about you,” Derek told him. “Barbara Jean is fretting. Yvette hasn’t spoken a word since you stormed out. Maleah has cursed your very existence, but mostly she’s been crying and I’ve been trying to console her. Although Sanders has kept himself busy manning the agency’s search, his concern is obvious.”
“That’s one thing I’ve always liked about you, Derek. You’ve never been afraid to speak your mind.”
“I didn’t come looking for you to check up on you for the others or to give you a piece of my mind, though God knows you need it.” Derek stopped when he and Griff stood face-to-face, less than five feet separating them. “Information has started coming in. I thought you
might want to know that a small private jet owned by Kroy Enterprises took off from McGhee Tyson this morning, supposedly heading to Miami. The flight manifest, not easy to come by as you know, stated two passengers, a Mr. and Mrs. Nick Baxter.”
“God damn son of a bitch!” Griff felt the precarious control on his rage slipping. “Kroy Enterprises? K-r-o-y spelled backward is York. And Mr. and Mrs. Nick Baxter? He deliberately used Nic’s name. He wants me to know he has her. He’s taunting me.”
“He wants to rattle you,” Derek agreed. “At this point, you have to know that, more than anything else, he wants you to suffer and he’s going to turn the screws every chance he gets.”
“Who the hell is he and why does he hate me so much?” Griff had made his share of enemies, but he couldn’t think of anyone who would resort to sending an assassin to murder his employees and members of their families and to kidnap his wife.
No one other than Malcolm York.
But York was dead. He and Sanders and Yvette had killed the bastard sixteen years ago. Men didn’t rise from the dead, especially after you chopped off their head.
“It isn’t Malcolm York,” Derek said. “He may call himself York, but he’s not the original.”
“No, but I’m beginning to believe he’s a damn good carbon copy.”
“Come back to the house and show the others that you’re okay. Eat supper and go over the info we’ve collected so far.” Derek motioned toward the path leading back to the house.
“Did the Kroy Enterprises plane land in Miami?” Griff asked.
“Nope. And all we know is that it went south, past Miami.”
“I’d lay odds that son of a bitch has his own little private island somewhere in the Caribbean.”
“My thoughts exactly. And Sanders agreed. That’s why we’re searching now for a list of all privately owned islands in the Gulf, in the Atlantic, and in the Caribbean.”
“Something’s not right about this.” Griff fell into step alongside Derek as they headed toward the house. “It’s as if he wants us to find out where Linden has taken Nic, as if he’s issuing an invitation for us to follow.”
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