Untrue Colors (Entangled Select Suspense)

by Veronica Forand

  Turning on the news, he stretched out across the bed and mustered the energy to call room service. The national news broadcast the growing violence in Afghanistan. “The Afghan National Army confiscated twenty weapons caches from rebel forces…”

  “I’d like to order a BLT on wheat bread, light on the mayo. No chips please. A pot of black tea would be good as well, with milk. Thank you.” He paused as the woman in the kitchen repeated the order.

  The news shifted out of Afghanistan to Boston for the funeral of a security guard killed in Martha’s Vineyard. “Peter Northrop, CEO of Oak Industries, and his wife, Gabrielle, were on the property with their family to celebrate Easter at the time of the attack.”

  He glanced at the television and saw a tall, fit older man and an attractive woman who looked remarkably like…

  Henry hung up the phone and stared at the screen. Gabrielle and a tattoo of a “baby oak.” When the news shifted to the weather, he ran over to his laptop. As it booted up, he tapped his fingers on the desk.

  Come on. I need this info three days ago.

  He Googled Peter and Gabrielle Northrop and found a few articles about their family. Three daughters, Anna, Julia, and a third who was not mentioned by name. He continued searching for the third daughter using Alexandra Northrop and there, on the screen, was an image of his Gabe in high school. Long brown hair, elfin nose, and a smart-ass attitude evidenced by the lift of her chin and defiant smirk on her face.

  “Alexandra Northrop, the youngest daughter of Peter Northrop, recently graduated from the Winsor School. She’ll be attending Bowdoin College in the fall.” He found no mention of her after high school.

  Alex Northrop, in whatever form she decided to take, had secured herself a place in his heart and wouldn’t be removed easily. He mentally calculated her age from the date of her high school graduation. The dates didn’t quite add up, unless she’d lied. She wasn’t twenty-four or twenty-six. She was closer to twenty-eight.

  He wanted to contact her father immediately. The man’s phone numbers, however, were unlisted, and his offices were closed until the next morning. His energy restored, Henry hustled around the room to pack his belongings while booking the next flight from Charlotte to Boston. He could fill Simon in on his discovery during his cab ride.

  …

  Most people would love to fly a private jet to Paris. Alex would have preferred a commercial carrier with lots of witnesses and maybe an air marshal.

  After takeoff, Luc and his thugs surrounded her seat. He was still pissed about the stab wound in his chest.

  “Serge, hold her arms,” he said in French, refusing to speak English to her after they’d left Massachusetts. Serge pulled her arms behind her, one on each side of the airplane seat. Alex tried to stop him, but his strength outmatched hers by a hundred and fifty pounds.

  “Pascal, come here. I need you to assist me with something,” Luc said to his first henchman.

  Pascal’s physique reminded Alex of Simon’s, only without the devil-may-care smile. He’d spent the afternoon shoving her place to place, generally by her hair. Causing pain seemed to be Pascal’s favorite hobby. As he approached her, Alex tried to kick him away. He lifted his hand to slap her, but Luc stopped him.

  “Don’t damage her face.” Luc then directed him to her stomach.

  Despite her struggle to avoid a blow to her abdomen, he hit his mark with perfect accuracy. The impact shut her down. Her lungs struggled for breath as traitorous tears fell down her cheeks. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t function. In order to avoid the mocking looks and twisted glances she’d be receiving, she closed her eyes.

  “Have you had enough?” Luc’s voice sounded almost calming. He wouldn’t kill her right now. He’d torture her for a while, like a cat playing with an injured mouse.

  She nodded as best as she could, but refused to open her eyes.

  A man’s hand, smooth and without a callous, lifted her chin and squeezed her jaw until her mouth opened. Her eyes opened as well.

  “Keep your eyes open. I want you to see why you’re being punished.” Luc unbuttoned his shirt to reveal a solid chest with smooth muscles, and a large gash under his right nipple.

  She shivered at her handiwork. It had been cleaned and was covered with an ointment, but it looked painful.

  “I’m sorry?” Her voice gained some strength as the impact of the punch died down.

  “No, you aren’t. You want me dead. I want you dead. Only one of us will succeed, and I’m betting on me.”

  His threat bolstered her courage. She spoke through gritted teeth. “Maybe I’ll get lucky, and you’ll have a stroke and die in front of me.”

  He squeezed her face again. Hard enough to hurt, not hard enough to bruise. One of Luc’s talents. “You get to live for at least a month or two.”

  “How exciting for me.”

  He grinned as though he’d won the lottery. “It will be. We’re getting married.”

  The scowl fell off her face. Marriage equaled a lifetime of torture. “Married? I’d ask if you’re insane, but that would be redundant.”

  Luc continued squeezing her jaw and tightened his grip when she tried to shake free. “We’ll be married only long enough to access your trust fund.”

  His hand released her, but Serge pulled her arms back a bit more until they felt like they were being pulled out of her shoulders. Alex tried to imagine a painful massage therapy where they needed to pull the muscles beyond their comfort zone in order to get the best stretch. It still hurt like hell, but perhaps she was going to feel better after he released her.

  “I don’t have a trust fund. My father cut me off years ago.”

  “No, your father cut off your sister Anna and put her money in a trust for her children. Apparently he disliked her choice of husband.” Luc smirked. “He never placed any restrictions on your wealth.”

  Why would her father restrict Anna the golden girl’s trust fund and not hers? It didn’t make sense, unless Anna’s husband had tried to access the family wealth. Peter protected his money more fiercely than he protected any of his children.

  Still, he wouldn’t have left his missing daughter with access to such an enormous amount. “I don’t believe you. Where would you get that information?”

  “The senior trust officer at your parents’ bank became a wealth of information with the proper incentive.”

  She needed time to figure this out. And she’d have some. “There’s a waiting period and a residency requirement. It could take months to get married.”

  “You’ve been living with me for the past year, according to my documents. And any other waiting periods can be waived.” Luc grinned.

  He released her face, slapped her cheek gently, and walked toward the back bedroom. “I’m going to take a nap. Don’t embarrass yourself by screaming like a little girl. I don’t wish to disturb the pilots.”

  Her cheeks throbbed from where he’d squeezed her cheeks into her molars. The ache in her shoulders cramped up, but Serge wouldn’t release her arms. Alex yawned, her body’s attempt to shut down from the fright and fatigue, and trying to appear as though their treatment of her didn’t matter. She shifted her shoulders to convince the idiot to free her. He wouldn’t.

  Pascal approached her again. Standing to her side to avoid being kicked, he gripped her left leg with one hand. His other hand secured her knee. Her arms burned from their locked position and were no help. She tried to hit him with other leg, but only succeeded in flailing it around. Besides, he was too fast.

  Like watching a car accident in slow motion, Alex’s body jerked back as Pascal stomped the full weight of his foot onto her shin. She could feel the break, feel the horrific pain spreading out from her leg to her whole body. Her lungs stopped functioning, her throat constricted, and she gasped for air. A second wave of pain shot through her, and her airways opened. With lungs filled to capacity, she screamed, loud and long. She must have stopped after she passed out.

 
; Chapter Twenty-Four

  Henry’s cab traveled from Logan Airport through quaint New England towns filled with white steeple churches and grassy town commons to the Northrop family home in Concord, Massachusetts. He arrived a few minutes before 7:00 a.m. Dressed in a comfortable pair of jeans and an untucked black dress shirt, he’d concealed Simon’s lethal present in his belt and thrown the rest of his Alex-approved wardrobe in his suitcase. During the flight, he’d stored the gun in his checked luggage. Simon conveniently provided all the documentation needed to carry a concealed weapon in all fifty states. He’d thank Simon later for taking care of him during the trip.

  The Northrop estate, because it sure as hell wasn’t just a house, rivaled the grounds of Ripon Manor. The enormous colonial mansion stood on a hill overlooking the Concord River. Lights, still visible in the early morning, illuminated a path down the sloping lawn to the water. Alex’s mother never allowed her to have a hedge maze? Poor little rich girl. And he’d thought she’d grown up impoverished. She must have been hysterical thinking about his lectures on social graces. No wonder she fit in. She wasn’t acting as a wealthy heiress. She was a wealthy heiress.

  He paid the driver and took his suitcases. He’d call for a ride back to the airport after he’d spoken to Mr. Northrop and, hopefully, located Alex.

  When he knocked, a security guard dressed head to toe in black opened the door, stepped out, and shut the door firmly behind him. The same height as Henry, the guy puffed out his chest and sucked in his cheeks as though the presence of any guest before eight in the morning could get him and the guest terminated.

  “Can I help you?”

  Henry smiled to lighten the mood. “I’m looking for Alex Northrop.”

  “Alex?” His eyebrows furrowed.

  “Yes. Is she here presently?”

  The guy’s eyes sighted on the bulge near Henry’s hip where he’d holstered the gun. He should have left it in his suitcase.

  Henry reached to take it out to hand to the guard. “I can…”

  “Hands up.” The guard grabbed Henry’s arm, twisted him around, and shoved his face into the wall. Pain exploded near his jaw. He tasted the metallic tang of the asshole’s aggressive tactics. Henry pushed back and forced the guard slightly off balance.

  As Henry struggled to get free, he grabbed as much of his aggressor’s hair as he could and slammed him into the wall beside him. He dodged the bloke’s attempt to pummel him away. Without letting go of his hair, Henry forced the guy to the ground face-first and wedged his knee into the base of his spine. Pulling out the gun that had started this confrontation, he aimed it directly behind the guard’s ear.

  “What the hell was that for?” His breathing was still heavy as he regained control.

  Before three seconds passed, two guns punched into the back of his head from two new security guards.

  “Drop it now,” one of them called out.

  Henry held steady for a moment. He’d seriously misjudged the security at the Northrop house.

  “Drop it.” Someone shoved a gun into his head again. The barrel dug into his scalp. If he didn’t turn up dead, he’d be sore for a week.

  Henry loosened the grip on the gun. A large hand pulled it away from him. Another hand took the form of a large rock and connected with his cheek, shoving him against the house. The impact hammered through his face and his ear. Henry’s lip was bleeding, and the back of his head stung.

  Guard number one, now on his feet, kicked Henry in the gut. Every last bit of air was punched from his lungs, and the ache radiated through one of his ribs. It didn’t feel broken; he’d already experienced that several times in his life and would never forget that sharp unrelenting pain.

  He remained on the ground like a scarecrow that had been ransacked by crows with a vendetta. One of the guards was on the phone while the other two stood over him, guns locked, loaded, and begging for an excuse to kill him. The guard who had started the incident had blood dripping down his chin. Henry couldn’t feel sympathy for the blighter.

  The door cracked open and a petite woman about thirty years old peeked out. Her long brown hair with blond streaks and a pixie nose resembled Alex’s. “Should I call the police?” She sounded nervous, but curious.

  “Your father wants to speak with him first.”

  The woman disappeared, and an older man, dressed for a game of golf, appeared in her place.

  Mr. Peter Northrop himself. Head of Oak Industries and the man who had caused Alex to run away. He looked different dressed in Izod golf separates rather than in the expensive black suit custom-made for a funeral. Henry disliked him immediately, but it may have had more to do with the pain spreading throughout his body than the man’s demeanor.

  “Who’s this?”

  The guards continued to aim their guns at Henry’s head. “He’s looking for Alex and pulled a weapon on Declan, Mr. Northrop.”

  Declan didn’t say anything. He stood at attention, his cheek split and swelling. Blood smeared around the edges of the injury.

  “I was attempting to provide him with the gun in order to enter your house unarmed. I’m not an idiot.” Henry tried to defend himself.

  Mr. Northrop raised his eyebrows, no doubt challenging his statement. “Let’s start with a name.”

  “Henry Chilton.” Lying on his back with blood drooling out of his mouth was not the best way to make a proper introduction, nor the best manner of meeting the parents of the woman he loved. It had to be love, because at that moment he’d have killed everyone in his vicinity to protect Alex. The longer she was out of his arms, the more fixated he became on getting her back into them. If that wasn’t love, then he must be insane.

  “Mr. Chilton, before I call the police to tell them you have a gun which I’m assuming you have no authority to be carrying, I’d like to know what you want with my daughter.”

  The strange history Henry shared with Alex needed to stay protected until he had a better handle on the father-daughter dynamic. He reduced their story to the basics. “We traveled to Atlanta together for an art auction, and she disappeared.”

  “You’re an art dealer or collector?”

  “I’m a professor of anthropology at Oxford University.”

  “You don’t dress like a professor.” The Alex look-alike called out over Mr. Northrop’s shoulder.

  Henry couldn’t help but smirk at hearing a voice so similar to Alex’s. “I left my tweed jacket in England.”

  Mr. Northrop directed his anger toward his daughter. “Julia, go in the house until this is over.”

  Julia disappeared immediately.

  His attention returned to Henry. “Do you have identification proving this?”

  “Of course.” Henry reached for his wallet and realized the security detail had pinched it from him while beating him up.

  Declan handed it to Mr. Northrop, who proceeded to take out his university identification, a credit card, and his passport and read them thoroughly.

  “He’s telling the truth.” Julia, her voice low and directed at her father, pushed past him with an iPad and showed everyone a picture of Henry from the prior year’s faculty awards dinner. “Not only that, but Wikipedia claims that Mr. Henry Elliott Chilton, anthropology professor, is also the Earl of Ripon. How cool is that? We haven’t had royalty here since Princess Margaret stayed for a weekend to support the foundation gala.”

  …

  Bright lights and a sterile hospital environment greeted Alex when she woke. She glanced toward her leg, wrapped in a large cast from her knee to her ankle. There should be pain, but there wasn’t, only a queasy stomach and a sore throat. A medicated haze weighed her down and muddled her mind. She needed to skip a dose or two of whatever was dulling her senses in order to become coherent enough to plan Luc’s murder. Maybe she’d have the time and energy to kill his minions as well, Pascal in particular.

  On the subject of minions, the only other person in her room was Pascal, stretched out in a recliner with a newspap
er in his hand. He lifted his head when she tried to shift her body over an inch.

  “Enjoying some downtime?” She spoke with a scratchy voice in French.

  “Enjoying the sight of you in a cast. Can’t wait until it heals so I can break it again.” A stupid chuckle rumbled out of his mouth.

  They both became quiet when the nurse arrived. A younger woman, she cast her eyes away from Pascal and focused only on her job. She checked Alex’s temperature and blood pressure and asked some questions in French about Alex’s leg. The nurse reached for a glass of water and handed it to Alex along with an orange pill. “Take this.”

  Alex hesitated, took the pill, and left it under her tongue as she swallowed the water. Some would leech into her system, but she should be able to spit the rest out.

  After the nurse left, Pascal walked over to the bed. “Keep it in your mouth.”

  She pretended to swallow and then stuck out her tongue with the pill hidden inside her cheek.

  He punched at her shoulder. “If the pill comes out, I’m shoving it all the way down your throat with my finger.”

  He stood at her side for around fifteen minutes to make sure she didn’t get rid of the pill. It was dissolving and tasted nasty. Too much of the drug had found its way into her bloodstream. She struggled to keep her eyes from closing, but eventually fell asleep.

  After what seemed like two minutes, someone shook her. “Wake up, ma chérie.”

  She ignored Luc’s command, partly from fatigue, partly from fear. If she was in the hospital, he couldn’t hurt her. He placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. The pressure should hurt, but she’d become impervious to abuse. The medication protected her from the pain. Her closed eyes protected her from the hate emanating from his icy gaze.