Hunted

by Clark, Jaycee

  “He kept you in the brothel?”

  She shook her head. “No, not at first. He said I was too pretty. I deserved better.” Her memory sucked her back to the finely furnished room, the silks, expensive works of art. Mikhail dressed in his favorite linen Armani, the way he’d caressed her cheek. She took a deep breath. “He wanted me to be his special lady. We were at some mansion outside of Prague. Some old estate.”

  He turned his head sharply at her. “Yes, on the outskirts of Prague, his estate. Jezek likes to entertain.”

  She nodded. “Then there was his estate somewhere else. I don’t know where because he’d given me something and I just woke up in another place.” She hated the not knowing. Hated it as much as all the memories she did have.

  “So he wanted you for his special lady. I haven’t heard this one before. As you said, the man likes his variety.”

  Dusk—Morgan. She was Morgan. Morgan Gaelord.

  She sighed. “He does. Next came the drugs. He doesn’t like his ladies to be strung out and hyped up, but if it gets him what he wants . . . ” She shrugged. “Then he’ll do it.” She’d learned that from Dame. “He’ll do anything.”

  “And what did he want?”

  “Me.”

  Silence from the other side of the car. She leaned her head back and stared out at the night blurring by the window.

  “What type of drugs?”

  Again she sighed. Did he not listen? “I told you. Some X at first. He wanted me to want to fuck him. But then, I think he realized I’d rather screw him on a hit of X than not, so he took it away.” She remembered the deep depression that brought on. “But it was like he just . . . knew. Knew I was lying about everything. He never did understand why I didn’t want him. Why I’d rather have a drug before I had to sleep with him.” Before he raped her. “So, he gave me a drug. He sent me on a narrated K trip.” She remembered the feeling of floating, of living a nightmare, a nightmare his words created. The way he’d sit and smile at her after she finally became coherent and then he’d fuck her. After all, she got her drug first. A harsh chuckle scraped up her throat. “I learned quickly. So I did what he wanted, it was easier than the beatings and I thought if I did what was asked, they wouldn’t give me any more drugs. But they did.” She fisted her hands. “God, I hated that. I fought them every time. And every time ended the same, with a needle in my arm. He’d still give me a Mikhail Cocktail.” The narcotics were still plunged into her bloodstream, heating along until her body began to crave it, even if she fought it, even as it terrified her.

  “A what?”

  She took a deep breath and blinked. “A Mikhail Cocktail. I have no idea what was in it other than ketamine. He never actually said.” The nightscape blurred by, the headlights glistening off the frozen ground. “I’d have done anything not to have that needle in my arm. Especially after that first trip, and he knew it.” She shuddered, the terror still clawing up the back of her throat.

  “What happened?”

  She shook her head, images bloody and real shadowed with nightmares. Simon. Screams. Blood, so much blood. The hands.

  She swallowed, and ignored his question.

  Silence stretched between them until he said quietly, “At least you didn’t become an addict.”

  “Oh, no, that would have been a problem and Mikhail wanted me to know and remember everything he did to me.” She shuddered. “It was June when I went in. The city was alive and bustling, evening plays in the squares, painters along the bridge walks. Peddlers and their wares.”

  “What happened?”

  “Wrong guy, too blind to see how stupidly naïve I was.” If only she’d listened to her brothers. “He then got into the wrong crowd, owed lots of money and couldn’t touch any more of mine. They came looking for him and . . . ” She trailed off, remembering that night. Even Simon, asshole that he was, hadn’t deserved what they’d done to him.

  “And?” he prompted.

  She shivered.

  “I know it’s hard.” His quiet words soothed, even if the man himself made her nervous. But mini arsenal or not, he got her out.

  What happened to the hell-bent girl she used to be?

  “They killed him,” she simplified. No need to go into the gory details of the warehouse. The blood, and her pity for a man she’d learned to hate almost as much as Mikhail.

  “Did he pay them back?”

  She tilted her head toward him and stole a glance. Those black eyes of his weren’t so bad. Kind of like learning one could pet a wolf, but wolves still bit.

  “What do you think? If he’d had the money, they wouldn’t have killed him, would they?”

  “So Jezek took you. He usually steers clear of Western women.”

  “Really?”

  He nodded. “Too much trouble. Kidnapping a woman from a war-torn country that needs the money and getting her in the program is much easier than having influential families and politicians bringing on the heat.”

  There was logic in that and she’d seen the proof with her own eyes. She’d been the only American for months.

  “Well, I must have been a tasty treat too good to pass up because Simon had already destroyed all my identification months before so I couldn’t leave him. Who was going to miss me?”

  “There’s someone missing you.”

  Maybe.

  Instead she continued, wanting to end it as quickly as possible now that she’d started on this story. “In September Mikhail asked me to be his first lady, like he was some sort of ambassador or president or something.” She remembered the romantic dinner, the brochures of the Caribbean. He wanted to sail on his yacht. “I told him no. What difference did it make if it was a pretty house with silk and fine things or a whorehouse.” She laughed, wanting to cry when the last word cracked. “He doesn’t like to be turned down. I don’t remember them taking me to the brothel. It was mid-September by that time, I think. I kept putting him off, but I’d finally told him no and he . . . ” She remembered the rage in those blue eyes, turning them the color of flat blue stones. Cold, merciless. He was always so relaxed, so calm, so indifferent. But it had been as if someone flipped a switch.

  “He what?” Reyer—Ashbourne asked her. She couldn’t think of him as John. She’d never be able to think of the name John the same way again.

  “He went crazy.” She picked at the hemline of her coat; even with it on, she was cold. “As I said, I don’t remember them taking me to the brothel.” She took a deep breath, nausea coating her stomach. “Wh—when I-I was better and able to move enough—” She stopped, closing her eyes against the memory, hardly the worst, but not one that was pleasant. “He-he brought me to his office naked and . . . and . . . ” She rubbed her neck, the turtleneck suddenly suffocating. “In a collar and said this was my new place. I’d see what a whorehouse was really like.”

  A moment stretched between them, then another and another. There was an expulsion of breath, part growl, and a muttered, “Bastard.”

  At least she thought that was what he’d said.

  “You’d insulted him,” he stated, no judgment or pity or condemnation.

  She looked at him, just as he looked at her. Their eyes met and something loosened within her even as something else recoiled. “Yes. Yes, I had.”

  He shook his head and she could see a muscle in his jaw up near his ear was twitching. “You’re bloody lucky to still be alive.”

  “I suppose.” Then very quietly she confessed. “There were times I wished he’d just killed me.”

  He looked at her, the edges of his eyes barely crinkling, as if he were thinking of smiling. He shook his head. “You’re bloody damn lucky. He’s not known for mercy killings.”

  Ebony. “I know.” She shifted, swallowed and rolled down the window, wanting some fresh air. She didn’t see the need to answer him. He knew what Mikhail had been like, there was no need to go into more, to hash over every detail that if God were merciful she’d forget.

  She laid her he
ad back again and watched the window roll up.

  He said, “It’s cold and the last thing we need is you ill. You already look as if you could drop dead.”

  For some reason she found that almost funny. Almost. She smiled. “Thanks. It’s been so long since I’ve had a real compliment I’d forgotten what they sound like.”

  He smiled and she caught her breath. He was really handsome. That smile could charm the devil from his pitchfork, as Becca had said.

  “You need to rest. I’ll wake you,” he told her, turning up the heat.

  She didn’t want to rest. She wouldn’t know where they were going.

  As if reading her mind, he added, “We’re going to a hotel in Berlin. I promise I’ll wake you when we get to the outskirts of town.”

  She nodded and settled back into the seat. She’d close her eyes for just a minute and wait. Though he said he’d wake her, she’d learned the last thing any woman ever did was trust a man.

  The lights woke her. Once upon a time she slept like the dead. Now every noise woke her unless she was literally passed out.

  Berlin sprawled around them, busy this early in the morning.

  She looked at the clock readout on the dashboard. After four, almost five. It would be dawn soon.

  Morgan didn’t move, tried to keep her breathing the same.

  “I was about to wake you,” he said quietly.

  So he knew she was awake. “You know, my brothers used to hate that I could lie so well and convincingly.”

  He maneuvered through the traffic. “Those would be the same brothers who reported you missing?”

  Should have kept her mouth shut, but she’d already spoken of them, so she could hardly deny it. And he already knew.

  “Yeah. Two.” Two brothers. The thought of them rushed tears to her eyes. How could she ever face them? She didn’t want him to know any more about her. She’d managed to keep who she was a secret from Mikhail. Even he hadn’t known of her brothers. But if Mikhail learned that Dusk was Morgan Gaelord? He’d come after her and damn anyone who was in his way. She curled into herself.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  She heard his fingers drumming on the steering wheel. “We’ll be at the hotel in a few minutes anyway.” Again, he drove through the other cars, like a race car driver.

  “When we get there, I’m going to ask for a suite. I’ll do the talking. You’re going to be ill from something you ate and wanted to head back to Paris, but we decided to stop off in Berlin instead.”

  She nodded. “I know. You told me. Got it. I’m sick. Good thing I look the part. Paris, but changed minds to Berlin. Anything else?”

  He looked at her. “Yes, when we arrive, you’re going to bed and you’re going to rest.”

  Rest? Could she rest? She didn’t know what rest was, but she was tired. Tired to her very soul. Yet, an energy hummed through her, a warning not to relax.

  Morgan. She was Morgan Gaelord.

  Morgan prayed Dusk was left behind in Prague, but somehow she knew that would never happen.

  Chapter 7

  John Ashbourne, concerned husband, guided his wife to the sofa as the bellboy started the fire in the fireplace with the flip of a switch. He stood between her and both the boy and the door.

  The Four Seasons Berlin boasted of the best service. Mr. Ashbourne had used them before, which was why he decided to use them again.

  “I’d like some light soup or broth brought up for my wife, and some bread and a spot of tea. I’d like your breakfast, a bit of fruit and some juice.” He pulled a fat tip out of his wallet and gave it to the college student. “Another if you get it here in half an hour.”

  “Ja.” He nodded and smiled.

  “Danke.”

  He saw the young man out and turned to see Morgan still sitting on the couch where he’d left her, her head back against the cushions.

  For a moment he stared at her, wishing she’d confide in him, trust him, not as the lesser of two evils. Why had she seemed shocked that she’d been reported missing? And she had. People were always missing. Some wanted to leave, others didn’t, and some . . . some he’d learned had simply gotten lost and never found their way back. Where did this woman fit?

  He dimmed the lights, muting the room. In soft beige and yellows, it wasn’t a loud room with its cherry antique furniture. He rolled his head, trying to ease the tension as he grabbed a bottle of water from the minibar and strode to stand in front of the windows. Dawn stretched over Berlin. Lights sparkled against the winter-shrouded city. The frozen dawn fogged the edges of the warm windows. The temperatures were in the single digits.

  From their balcony he could watch the traffic below on Charlottenstrasse. Red taillights winked and mixed with the oncoming brighter headlights of those going to work. People muffled in their long coats and warm hats hurried across the street, down the sidewalks and into cabs. If he were a tourist, today he might take his wife to see some of the sights. But they weren’t and the cover she was ill would work well.

  He glanced back over his shoulder at her. Morgan sat silent and wary on the couch. She rubbed her eyes and slowly exhaled.

  The contacts. The dark brown color did not suit her nearly as well as the icy blue. The brown looked warm, vulnerable. The icy blue reminded him of steel, fortitude.

  “You might want to take those contacts out or you’ll have to pry the wicked things off come morning.”

  “It is morning,” she mumbled, leaning over onto one of the cushions, curling into herself.

  “But wait until after the soup arrives unless you want to stay hidden in the bathroom.” He took a long swallow of water.

  “My eyes aren’t that memorable,” she said, opening one and looking at him.

  Perhaps not to her. Staring at her, he smiled. He turned back to the window, watching her in the reflection.

  Some of the tension he’d felt eased. They’d gotten out of Prague and put distance between them and Jezek, but it was only a matter of time. Time. Bugger it, the girl actually meant something to Jezek. He’d seen it last evening as Jezek stared at her, and her words earlier had confirmed it.

  How much she actually meant was another matter. How far would Jezek go to find her?

  Jezek usually hadn’t given much thought beyond Prague or Cheb or the southern Czech town Brno when other girls went missing. Something told him this time would be different. Bloody hell.

  They’d be in London soon. Hopefully, once there, things would cool down and he could convince her to confide more of her story.

  Which he found odd.

  Most of the girls they helped were too willing to tell their stories. Granted, not all, and he could hardly blame them. He hadn’t missed the way she’d shied and withdrew when he confronted her on her true identity. Though if she were telling him the truth and Jezek didn’t know her other than Dusk, then he could understand her reluctance in being called Morgan.

  She might act different in that regard, but he could see the other longing in her eyes. The one they all had. The one that said, I just want to go home.

  She most definitely wanted to go home, but she was hardly stupid. Wary. Cautious. Scared. And didn’t want any personal information about her shared. Did she have something more to hide?

  A knock at the door drew him from his musings.

  He turned, noted she hadn’t so much as stirred. Morgan was curled on the couch. Asleep.

  The thick carpet cushioned his footfalls as he crossed to the door.

  A waiter in a white jacket set the fare up on the table, the silver-domed lids not containing the aromas coming from the entrees. After he’d seen the man out, he opened the lids, checked to make certain they’d brought what he’d ordered, and then turned back to the sofa.

  Quietly, he strode across the room and stood, watching her.

  He ought to let her sleep. From the dark circles under her eyes, the too thin appearance, she’d had very little rest and appeared half starved.

  Her
hair was shorter, curled around her head and the bottom of her ears in a color that was neither light brown nor red, but some color in between.

  With one finger he reached out and caressed her cheek. Why, he didn’t know. The last thing he wanted to do was frighten her, but she looked so soft. And she was. He brushed his thumb over the shadows beneath her closed dark lashes.

  Something about her had stirred something within him the first time he’d seen her in the photos dancing in that stupid club in Cheb. Maybe it was the faraway look in her eyes that had him wondering what she’d really been thinking. Or maybe it was simply that impossible light blue of her eyes. No, it was what was behind them.

  Courage.

  There was steel in her, there bloody well would have to be to survive as long as she had. But like acid, the experience with Jezek had corroded something in her. Or maybe it was the fact two brothers frantically searched for their sister. Either way, this woman pulled at him, even as he told himself she was no more or less than the others he’d helped get out.

  He squatted on the floor beside the couch, studying her features. Her long legs were tucked up on the couch next to her, her face resting on her fist.

  Carefully, he reached out and touched her shoulder, whispering, “The food’s here. Come on, now.” She stirred. “Wake up.”

  She started and jerked back, pressing against the cushions.

  He didn’t move, gave her a minute to study him and remember. Her eyes darted around the room, then settled back on him. Her chest fell on her exhale and she half sat up, raking her hand through her hair.

  “Sorry.” She swung her legs to the floor and still he didn’t move.

  “Don’t be. I almost didn’t wake you. You need rest, but you look like you could eat something as well.”

  She nodded, swallowed, and blinked several times.

  “I hate contacts,” she muttered, hiding a yawn behind her hand.

  Finally, he stood. “Soup and bread is here.” He picked up the tea kettle and poured her a cup of the dark brew. Should have ordered chamomile. He glanced at her as he set the cup down. “You could take your coat off. We are staying a while.”