"Call for my car. I'm going to Caldwell."
Claire parked at the end of the Leedses' estate driveway, capping off a line of some fifty cars that stretched all the way up to the mansion. She didn't use the valets because she wasn't going to stay long and there was no reason to wait for someone to bring the Mercedes around. Plus she needed a little fresh air.
And, as it turned out, a bottle of aspirin. The moment she stepped out of the sedan and looked up at the big stone house, her head screamed with pain. Sagging against the Mercedes's hard body, she took shallow breaths as dread washed through her.
Evil was in that house. There was evil in that house."Ma'am? You okay?" It was one of the parking attendants. A young kid of about twenty or so, dressed in a white polo shirt that had MCCLANE'S PARKING on the breast in red thread.
"I'm fine." She carefully leaned in for her B irk in then shut her door. When she turned to smile at the guy, he was looking at her funny, like she was about to faint and he was praying she didn't on his watch.
"Ah, ma'am, I'm just getting this car right here." He nodded to the Lexus in front of her. "Do you want a ride up to the house in it?"
"Thanks, but I'll just walk up.""Okay . . . if you're sure." She went up the drive, eyes fixated on the gray stone house. She was shaking by the time she stepped up to the front door and lifted the knocker. Light-headed, weak, she felt as though she had the flu again; with hot and cold waves assaulting her body and her head pounding.
The door was opened by Fletcher.
Claire stumbled back in the face of the old man, her panic going out of control for absolutely no good reason.
Except abruptly she was rescued.
Her lawyer instincts, the ones that made her so good at confronting opposing counsel, the ones that made her a killer negotiator, the ones that had kicked in time after time when she couldn't afford to have her emotions show . . . her instincts clamped down on the out-of-the-blue panic and dread and calmed her instantly.
You never show weakness to your enemy. Ever. Although why the hell an elderly butler would engender such a reaction, who the hell knew? Still, she was grateful because at least she didn't feel like she was going to pass out anymore. Once fogged, now she was clear.
Claire smiled coolly and extended her hand, the sounds of the wake inside bubbling in her ears.
"I'm sorry for your loss. And I brought the will." She patted her shoulder bag.
"Thank you, Miss Stroughton." Fletcher looked down, his drooping eyes even lower than usual. "I shall miss her."
"We can go over the will next week or do it after the wake. Whatever is best for you."
He nodded. "Tonight would be best. Thank you for your thoughtfulness."
"No problem." Claire flashed him her teeth and gripped the straps on her bag tightly. As she walked into the foyer, the fact that she wanted to use some of Hermes's best as a weapon against him was a shocker.
Claire joined the throng of people milling about between the dining room and the living room. She nodded to a number of folks, several of whom were CEOs of the companies the Leeds family had interests in and Claire's firm represented. Out of the rest of the hundred or so men and women, she guessed at least half were senior staff from various philanthropies. No doubt anticipating a huge payday.
As she bumped shoulders and declined passed hors d'oeuvres and tried to figure out why she was in battle mode when there was nothing to fight against, her eyes kept going over to the grand staircase. There was something about it. . . something . . . behind it.
Working her way through the crowd, she went over to the foot of the great, rising spread of steps. Putting her hand on the ornate balustrade, a voice came into her head, one that overrode all the noise of talk and her headache and her urge to kill Fletcher.
Behind the stairs. Go behind the stairs. Find the elevator. Without stopping to wonder how she knew what was back there, she slipped around to the flank of the staircase and found her way into a little alcove . . .
Where there was an elevator. An old-fashioned brass and glass one.
Take it to the basement. The voice was undeniable and she reached out to slide the filigreed gate wide. Just before she stepped in she looked up. There was a lightbulb mounted at the top.
If she used the lift, that thing was going to send a signal. And her instincts told her to hide her tracks. If Fletcher knew where she was going, she wouldn't be able to . . .
Well, shit, she didn't know what she was doing. The only thing that was clear was that she had to get down to the basement without him knowing.
Looking over her shoulder, she saw a door beneath the curving staircase and went over to it. There was a brass bolt lock at the top and she flipped it free before trying the handle.
Pay dirt. On the other side, there was a set of rough stairs, lit by cloudy, ancient yellow lightbulbs. She glanced behind her. No one was paying any attention to her and more important, Fletcher was nowhere to be seen.
Slipping into the stairwell, she closed the door after her and descended, her heels making a clipping sound that echoed around her.
Damn, they were loud. She paused and removed her pumps, slipping them into the Birkin. Making no noise now, she moved even faster, her instincts on high alert. God, the staircase went on forever, its stone walls and floor reminding her of an Egyptian pyramid, and she felt like she was halfway to China before she came to the first landing. And still there was farther to go.
As she went down, the temperature dropped, which was good. The cooler it got, the more focused she became until her headache was gone and her body was nothing but harnessed energy. She felt as if she were on a rescue mission, although damned if she knew who or what she was springing from the basement.
The stairs dumped out into a corridor made of the same stone as the rest of the house. Lights mounted in the ceiling glowed dimly, barely penetrating the darkness.
Did she go left or right? To the left, there was just more hallway. To the right. .. there was just more hallway.
Go to the right. She went down about fifty yards, maybe seventy-five, her stockinged feet quiet, the only sounds the bumping of her bag on her ribs and the rustle of her clothes. She was about to lose hope and turn back when she found . . . a huge door. The thing was like what you'd expect to run across in a castle's dungeon, all studded with iron supports and with a sliding bar lock as thick as her thigh.
The moment she saw the thing, she started to weep uncontrollably.
Sobbing, she walked up to the stout oak panels. At about eye level, there was a peephole of some sort. She arched up onto her tiptoes and looked—
"You shouldn't be down here."
She wheeled around. Fletcher was standing right behind her, one of his arms discreetly behind his back.
Claire wiped her eyes. "I'm lost."
"Yes, you are."
She slipped one hand into her shoulder bag and another into her suit jacket pocket.
"Why did you come down here?" the butler asked, stepping nearer.
"I wasn't feeling well. When I found the door under the stairs, I wanted to get away from the crowd so I just wandered down here."
"Instead of going out to the gardens?""There were people there. A lot of them." He wasn't buying it and Claire didn't care. She needed him to get just a little closer.
"Why didn't you go into one of the drawing rooms?" When he got in range, she flipped her pump out of her bag and sent it skittering across the stone floor to the left. Fletcher pivoted to look at the sound and she took out the Mace that was on her key ring and put it to his eye level—so when he turned back and lifted up the hypodermic syringe he held in his palm, she nailed him right in the face.
With a howl, he dropped what he'd been going to use against her and shielded his eyes, stumbling backward until he banged into the far wall.
Mace was illegal in New York, of course. And thank God that was one law she'd been breaking for the last ten years.
Moving fast, Claire grabbed the nee
dle, shoved it into the butler's upper arm, and pushed the plunger down hard. Fletcher squeaked then slumped into a heap on the stone floor.
She didn't know whether he was dead or tranquilized so she had no idea how much time she had. Running for the prison door, she broke two nails as she struggled to get the bar to slide free.
Urgency made her frantic, giving her the strength to move what felt like hundreds of pounds of iron up and back. When the barricade was out of the way, she gripped the toggle handle, wrenched it downward, and put her whole body into dragging the door open.
Candlelight. Books. A dark, lovely scent. . . Her eyes shot across the space. To a man who was rising up in utter disbelief from a desk full of. . . drawings of her.
Claire's head swam, a screaming pain robbing her of sight. Her body sagged and then her knees gave out altogether, the stone floor no cushion whatsoever as she went down.
At once strong arms were around her, picking her up, carrying her over to . . . a bed with a velvet duvet and pillows as soft as a dove's wing.
She looked up at the man and tears poured from her eyes as she touched his face. God, his beautiful face was that of her dream lover, the one who had been keeping her up at night, the one she had been mourning during the day.
"How did you come back?" he asked."Who are you?"He smiled. "My name is Michael." The pain in her temples abruptly eased . . . and then the memories came to her, a rapid-fire collage of images and feelings and smells and tastes. . . all of Michael and her, together in this room.
Claire grabbed on to him and buried her face in his hair, sobbing at the near miss, at the fact that had Miss Leeds not died now, Claire might never have come back because she'd been determined to leave the firm.
And then she got pissed and shoved him back. "Why the hell did you do that! Why did you let me go!" She punched at his chest. "You let me go!"
"I'm sorry, my love—" "Don't 'my love' me!" She was going to keep the tirade going when it occurred to her that the butler might only be temporarily incapacitated. She had no idea what had been in that syringe—and the bastard had that odd strength of his.
Claire hugged Michael tightly and forced herself to calm down. "Okay . . . all right. . . look, we're going to fight about this later. Right now, you're coming with me."
Although how was she going to get him out of the house? Hell, how was she going to get herself up and moving? The headache was gone but she felt dizzy—
Holy shit. She really was pregnant.Claire looked at Michael. "I love you." His face transformed, the stress leaving it, a love so deep and strong flooding into his handsome features that the angelic sight of him burned her eyes. "I am not worthy, but so grateful—"
"With all love and affection, shut up with that 'you're not worthy' crap. Now help me off this bed." She swayed a little as they stood up; then she looked at the shackle on his ankle. "We've got to get that thing off of you."
Michael stepped back and shook his head. "I can't go. I can't leave. They won't let me. Fletcher and Mother—"
"Your mother is dead," she said as gently as she could— considering she wanted to dig up that woman and kill her all over again.
Michael paled. Blinked a number of times. "And Fletcher is out cold in the hall on the floor." When he didn't say anything, she took his hands in hers. "Michael, I want to help you with what you're feeling right now, but we don't have the time. We need to get you out of here. I need you to focus."
"I. . . where will I go?" "You're coming to live with me. If you want. And even if you don't want that, you'll be free. To do what you wish."
His eyes bounced around the room, clinging to the bed and the books.
He was going to fight to stay, she thought. Which was a product of his decades of isolation and abuse. She needed to shake him up somehow—
She took his palm and placed it on her belly. "Michael, while I was with you, we created something together. A baby. It's in me. Your child is in me. I need you to come with me. With . . . us."
He went dead pale. And then . . . Well, the change in him would have been scary if she hadn't trusted him implicitly not to hurt her. He seemed to grow bigger even though his body stayed the same, his eyes narrowing, his face becoming a mask of male authority . . . and rank aggression.
"My baby? My child?" She nodded even though she was worried now whether telling him was the right thing—
He grabbed on to her and pulled her in so tight her bones bent. As he buried his head in her hair, his voice dropped to a growl.
"Mine," he said. "You are mine. Always." Claire laughed a little. So much for her worrying about him wanting to experience life without her. "Good. I guess we're engaged. Now move it. We need to get out of here."
"Are you well? First, tell me if you are well?""Fine as far as I know. I just found out.""Are you sure?" "I can do anything I want. I'm young and healthy." She put her hand on his face. "We need to go. We really need to go."
Michael nodded and released her. Walking calmly, he went over to where the chain around his ankle was anchored to the wall and pulled the goddamn thing out with a vicious yank. A whole hunk of masonry came with it, something about the size of a head, and Michael swung the ball into the wall, shattering it free.
Then he came back to her like it was all nothing doing."Jesus Christ! Why didn't you do that before?" "I had nowhere to go. No better place to be." He looked at his books one last time; then he picked up the chain, coiled it around his arm, and gallantly put his arm around her. "Let us go."
They stepped through the door together. Fletcher was still down on the stone floor, but his eyes were open and blinking slowly.
"Shit," she said as Michael looked at the butler. After running a quick analysis in her head, she muttered, "Let's just leave him here."
After all, considering the man had abducted about fifty women and had unlawfully imprisoned his employer's son for half a century, it was unlikely he was going to try to come after them legally. And asking Michael to kill the guy was too horrific to contemplate. Probably because Michael would do that if she asked him to.
She tugged on her man's arm. "Come on. Let's go . . ." The wake upstairs was a complication. "Shit, there are about a hundred people in the house. How can we—"
Michael snapped to attention. "I know a way out. From when I was a boy. We go this way."
They'd gone about ten yards when she spun around. The needle. Her fingerprints were on the hypodermic needle. In the highly unlikely event Fletcher decided to come after her, it would be harder without that kind of evidence. And her shoe. She had to get her shoe.
Best to cover all tracks. "Wait!" She ran back. Searched for the thing. Found it still sticking out of the man's arm. He looked up at her as she yanked it out and put it into her shoulder bag. His mouth was moving. Gaping, like a fish's.
After grabbing her shoe, she headed back for Michael, but her legs were like rubber.
"You are weak," he said, frowning.
"I'm fine—"
He scooped her up and started walking twice as fast as she could, his huge strides eating up the distance of the basement corridors. He moved quickly and decisively, which surprised her a little and reminded her that sweet-natured or not, he was a man, a man who had his woman in his arms. And God, he was strong. He was carrying her full weight in addition to however much that chain weighed and none of it seemed to slow him down in the slightest.
When he got to a sturdy door down at the far, far end of the basement's hallway, he leaned to the side and tried the handle. When it refused to budge, he took two steps back, punched his foot flat into the thing and busted it wide.
"Christ," she said. "You make the Terminator look like a two-year-old."
"What's a terminator?""Later." Outside, the cool night air rushed at them and Michael faltered, his eyes peeling wide. He started to breathe heavily, like he was having a panic attack.
"Put me down," she said softly, knowing he was going to need a minute to get orientated.
He gently let her go and looked at the sky and the trees and the vast landscaped grounds of the house. Then he glanced up at the stone monolith he'd been trapped in for so long. She could imagine how lost he must feel, how his emotions must be boiling up, how conflicted he must be at leaving the claustrophobic comfort of his prison. But they had no time for him to acclimate.
"Michael, my car is at the end of the driveway. In the front of the house."
"I can do this," he whispered.
"Yes, you can."
She took his hand, which was clammy, and pulled him forward. Without hesitation, he hiked up the chains and led her around the side of the vast house.
Her car was parked where she'd left it and they hustled across the lawn, staying close to a row of hedges. The grass was damp and springy under her stockinged feet and her lungs ate up the autumn's clean oxygen.
Please, God, let us get away in one piece. When she was in range of the Mercedes, she hit the remote and the sedan's lights flashed.
"What kind of car is this?" Michael asked, stunned. "It looks like a spaceship." Then he looked at the others. "They all seem like—"
Now was so not the time for him to channel his inner Car & Driver. "Get in."
"Ma'am?" Claire looked up. The parking attendant, the kid who'd seen her before, was coming down the driveway. He seemed confused, as if he couldn't figure out where she'd come from. Or maybe he was just surprised to see her with a huge man in a red silk robe with a length of chain wrapped around his arm.
"Just leaving," she said with a wave as she hissed at Michael, "Get in the damn car."
The kid rubbed at his spiky hair. "Ah . . ." "Thanks for your help." Even though he hadn't given her any.
She was beyond relieved as she started the engine and pulled out of the spot—
Another Mercedes appeared right behind her, ready to put the drive to use, preventing her from putting them in reverse and doing a K-turn to get right out onto the street. She had no choice but to head up the ring—around in front of the house where the attendants were all lined up and people were milling around.
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