Any humor that had been in her fled in a heartbeat. Cold eyes stared back at him. “I assure you, I have no desire to parade around scantily clad for a camera.”
No, probably not. He shrugged. “Just covering all ground.” He checked his watch. “I do need to get going.”
“I know.”
Linc reached out and touched her arm. She didn’t stiffen, at least she was used to him. He cleared his throat. “Some of the girls often feel helpless and we recommend they take a self-defense class.” He glanced to the porch.
Her chin rose and she nodded. “I just might do that.” She nodded again. “I could do that.”
He grinned at her, and chucked her on the chin. “Stay strong.”
She shook her head. “I hate this.”
“This?”
“Being a damn victim.”
He looked at her hair, gently moving in the breeze, the way her eyes, sharp and intelligent, held too much pain, the way she tried to hide the chain. He smiled at her. “Morgan, you’re far from a victim.” He leaned closer, watched her tighten, but brushed his lips again on her forehead. “You’re a survivor. Don’t ever bloody forget it, luv.”
With that he climbed in and drove away. He never looked back. It was a motto of his, but with Morgan Gaelord everything had always been off a bit. He glanced in the rearview mirror, saw her fist her hand in her shirt, in the center of her chest.
Linc’s hand went to his pocket, where the matching band rested.
* * *
Her brothers had left her alone through breakfast, of which she ate very little. It wasn’t eight and the house was quiet. She’d gone up to her room, but within five minutes tired of it.
You’re a survivor. She was, damn it. So why was she hiding in her room?
Memories were just that. Bad or good. She could do this. She slowly made her way down the stairs, stopping to listen. The Christmas music was off. Thank goodness. She couldn’t hear one more “Jingle Bells” or “Rocking Around the Christmas Tree.” Suzy had always liked swinging Christmas tunes. She stepped to the side of the fourth stair, remembering it creaked. The wooden stairs were smooth beneath her feet. The walls were still a pale yellow dotted with old family photos dating back generations, to the days when her relatives had fought the Comanche on the Texas plains. The scents of cinnamon pancakes and coffee hung in the air.
Voices filtered from back at the kitchen. Her socked feet were silent on the wooden floors. She turned and walked down the hallway. At the double French doors, she stood, looking into the living room. She hadn’t been in here yet, not until this morning, and then she hadn’t had time to appreciate it since she’d been telling Lincoln bye.
She wouldn’t think about him leaving. When she did, the terror caught up with her.
Instead, she concentrated on the nine-foot Christmas tree standing bedecked in all its lighted, ornamented glory. There was a mixture of the colorful, childish ornaments, garnish hoping for elegant golden sparkles, and simple country decorations of gingham bows. The tangy smell of cedar wood drifted from the fireplace as a log popped, sending sparks up the chimney. The bright Christmas morning streamed through the windows, warming, welcoming.
Morgan walked to the tree, saw there were still some gifts under it. She knelt down, one of the branches shaking as she brushed it, the crystal ornament tinkling as it hit the one next to it.
She reached up to steady the two swinging cylinders.
One of the boxes, wrapped in bright red with a fat gold bow, sat at her feet. To Morgan. Love, Jack. Her eyes stung. He’d gotten her a gift. He hadn’t known she was coming home, but he’d gotten her a gift. Her hand shook as she reached out and touched the ribbon. Swallowing, she stood, not daring to pick it up.
“You’re not going to open it?” Jack asked from the doorway.
She whirled, her heart slamming in her chest.
He held up a mug. “Sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you. Took some hot chocolate upstairs to see if you wanted some, but you weren’t there.”
His voice was quiet, questioning, soothing.
Morgan walked to the fireplace, sat in front of it, rubbing the wrap up and down on her arms. Why couldn’t she get warm?
Jackson walked to her, handed her a pottery mug, steam rising from around the melting whip cream drizzled with chocolate syrup.
She smiled.
“Ah, there it is. I’d hoped we’d see it,” he said as he sat in one of the chairs.
Morgan concentrated on the warm mug between her palms, licking a glob of whip cream off.
“Jack?” Gideon asked from the doorway.
“Yeah?” Jackson, said looking around the edge of the chair. “We’re in here.”
“Oh. I thought we could . . . Never mind.” Gideon walked in and sat in the other chair.
Morgan just looked at them, shaking her head at how much they resembled each other, yet how very different they could be. Like yesterday, Jack was dressed in pressed Wranglers, boots, but today it was a red plaid button-down, starched. Gideon was in chinos and loafers, a dark blue sweater over a lighter crewneck.
“You feeling better?” Gideon asked, sighing back.
She shrugged. “I’m home.”
He frowned and she looked back at the slowly dancing flames behind the tall screen. She heard one of them shift in the leather chair.
Gideon continued. “I like Blade. I was afraid you’d married that . . . ” He cleared his throat. “Dixon character.”
“Bastard,” she said. “You can say it.” Face some of the music anyway. Swallowing her nerves, she looked back at them. “For what it’s worth, you both were right about him.” Again she shrugged. “He was, I believe you once called him, a gold-digging bastard.”
Gideon leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his eyes fierce. “Is he the one that hurt you, Morg? You don’t have to be worried about the sonofabitch. We’ll take care of him.”
Her chuckle caught on a sob. “Oh, Gid.” Tears filled her eyes and trickled over; she wiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand, the wrap soft against her face. A spark leapt from the log and hit the screen. She jumped.
Neither of her brothers said another word. Taking a deep breath, looking at the fire, she said, “You don’t have to worry about Simon.”
“The hell we don’t. If he hurt you—”
She shook her head. “Hurt is subjective.” She’d thought the slaps Simon had given her, the sick fear when she’d found out he’d destroyed her passport and other identification, the time he’d socked her when he’d been coming down off some high—those she’d thought were bad. She thought she’d been hurt. She’d had no idea what hurt meant until Mikhail Jezek. Chills raced from her neck down her backbone to sit at the base of her spine.
“What does that mean?” Jackson asked. “Did he or didn’t he hurt you?”
She looked at him then with his familiar face, the lines deeper than she remembered. “Does it matter?”
His brows arched. “Did. He. Hurt. You.”
“What do you want to hear, Jack? Want to hear how I realized he filmed us together and sold the vids on the Internet? Want to hear how angry he was when he learned you’d blocked my trust fund?” Anger rose up in her. “Or you want the details of how he’d use me for a damn punching bag? How he destroyed all my identification so that I had no way of—” She tried to stand and tripped over the freaking wrap, plopping back down. Hot cocoa burned on her hand and she sat the cup down on the tiled hearth with a crack, wiping her hands on her sweats. Shit. Why had she told them that?
One of them swore, she didn’t care who. Morgan pulled the wrap closer and closed her arms around her knees, curling them into her chest. She rested her chin on her bent knees and stared into the fire.
“Where is he?” Jackson asked, his voice edged to a fine blade.
Where was Simon? She shook her head. The Vltava River?
Gideon moved forward and put his hand on her shoulder. She jerked away, and looked at him. He
raised his hands, palms out. “Sorry. Honey, look, you can’t let him get away with this. We’ll file assault and kidnapping charges or something. Is he here? Or still overseas?”
“Forget the damn courts,” Jackson said, standing. He paced to the window, staring out at the brightening day, his hands at his hips.
“Where is he?” Gideon asked again. “Don’t protect the bastard, Morg.”
A chuckle danced out, surprising her. “You think I’m protecting him?”
“Aren’t you?” Jackson asked, looking at her over his shoulder.
Morgan shook her head. “I don’t know where he is.”
“Are you sure?” Gideon pressed.
“I don’t know where he is exactly.”
“We’ll find him,” Jackson promised. “I’ll hire a private investigator.”
“You’d be wasting your money.” She sighed and closed her eyes. “Simon’s dead.” Silence webbed over the room. The shiver wrapped around her, tightening her stomach into knots.
“Dead? He’s dead?” Gideon asked. “When? How?”
She opened her eyes. “Does it matter?”
“When?” Jackson repeated.
He’d always been the more tenacious of the two.
She bit down.
“When, Morgan?”
Too tired to fight, she whispered, “June.”
June the third. The day her life changed forever. The day she was shoved through the gates of hell.
“June?” Gideon asked, incredulity clear to her. She opened her eyes. His were wide and searching her face. “Did you . . . ”
“Did I what, kill him?” She shook her head. “No. No, I didn’t.”
“June? It’s December. Six goddamn months!” Jackson hissed. “Why the hell didn’t you call? I would have come and gotten you.” He raked a hand through his cropped hair and strode to her, glaring down. “Dammit, Morg, do you have any idea what’s been going through our minds when we couldn’t find you? When you’d all but dropped off the face of the damn earth? We reported you missing, here and in the Czech Republic, did some yellow notice thing through Interpol. I called them weekly to see if they’d heard a single word. And nothing. Not a fucking thing!” Anger rode hot and fast in his words. “Where the hell have you been?”
All she heard was the anger, all she could see was a man standing over her. Not her brother, not her friend. A man. An angry one.
She cringed. He squatted down and reached toward her; she huddled further into her blanket.
His hand was soft on her hair as he brushed it back. She felt his warm breath as he huffed. “Where have you been? What’s been happening to you, Morgie?” he asked softly, using the nickname he hadn’t used since she was a child.
Tears trickled down her cheeks, choking her. “You don’t want to know, Jackson. You really, really don’t.”
His eyes narrowed. “Did you kill him?”
She shook her head, images storming through her brain. Black and bloody. Screams, the horror. A severed hand lying away from the body while Simon screamed and she screamed and the terror went on and on . . .
She shook and couldn’t control the shakes. “N—no. I didn’t. He owed them money.”
His hand continued to brush her hair back. She’d forgotten how he used to do that when she was sick or really upset. “Them?” Jack whispered.
The shaking wouldn’t stop.
She didn’t see the room around her, but the room from their apartment in Prague. The men who’d held Simon down as they’d . . . “No!” she yelled, pulling away. “They killed him, that’s all you need to know. He’s probably at the bottom of the Vltava River.” Or in a shallow grave in an old churchyard, buried on top of someone else. Carefully she stood and stepped away from her brothers.
Oh, God, what if Mikhail did find her? What if he came here? Linc knew where she was. Did others? She brought her hand, wrapped and tangled in the throw, to her mouth. Mikhail could find her. He would find her. Mikhail had killed Simon, she’d seen what he did, had been forced to witness Ebony’s torture. What if she led the monster here? Oh, no, please, please, please, she prayed.
The trembles shattered through her and a headache drummed mercilessly against the base of her skull.
“They?” Jackson asked from the floor, propping one hand on his bent knee, watching her with eyes as cold as ice.
She wrapped the blanket tighter around her, fisting her hands in the chenille. “Yes, they.”
“They who?” he pressed.
“You don’t . . . You . . . No.”
Gideon waved a hand. “Well, damn, guess they saved us the trouble,” he muttered. Then he speared her to the spot with his glare. Gideon rarely glared, but his eyes blazed now. “So where were you? You saw them do this? Have you been hiding all this time?”
Where was she?
She sat in the chair. “It’s not important.” She picked at the fringe on the throw. She looked back up at her brothers. Jackson studied her while Gideon thrummed his fingers on the arm of the chair.
“No phones? No letters? You couldn’t let us know?” Gideon asked, sarcasm only sharpening his disbelief.
She shook her head.
“Where the hell were you? Prison?” Gideon stood, paced to the fireplace.
Close enough. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Morgan, we were worried about you,” Jackson said, shifting.
She could only stare at them. Did they think she didn’t know that? “I couldn’t . . . There wasn’t . . . There wasn’t a way to get word to you.”
“Why not?” he asked.
She opened her mouth, the words, all the horrible truths, blackening the tip of her tongue. She snapped her jaw shut and shook her head.
“I can’t. I’m sorry.”
Jackson frowned. “For?”
Tears started to fall again. She hadn’t cried in months and had done so more in the last few weeks than since she’d met Mikhail. She’d stopped crying with him because he fed off her tears. “For being such a selfish bitch before.”
One brow arched and Gideon looked at her. “You weren’t a bitch, Morg.”
“Yes, I was. You both only wanted . . . ” Her throat closed up and she cleared it twice before continuing. “All you wanted to do was protect me. I never realized that before. I was so selfish and stupid and shallow.”
“But you understand now?” Gideon asked, confusion lacing his words.
She nodded. “I’m sorry I was such a horrible sister.”
Jackson stood, shaking his head. “Morgan, horrible or not, you’re still our sister.” He leaned down and looked her in the eye. “No matter what.” His eyes narrowed on hers. “No matter what’s happened, what will happen, we’ll always be here for you.” He grinned that crooked smile. “We’ll always love you, Morgie.”
The tears wouldn’t stop. They just kept falling. Her throat closed up and a sob caught. “I’m sorry, Jack. I’m really sorry.”
His arms wrapped tight around her as the storm inside her broke. “It’ll be all right, Morgan.” He rocked her gently, his face against the top of her head.
Nothing made sense anymore. She couldn’t find her ground. The rage and horror and grief inside her ripped her apart and all she could do was hold on to the anchor that held her.
“Oh, God,” she moaned. The sobs wouldn’t stop. They tore from her soul. She wanted to scream: Why? Wanted to beg for forgiveness and rage against the injustice. All she could do was curl into herself in the chair and sob, wishing her brothers could make it all better, and knowing no one could.
The sobs wracked her body.
“Hush, Morgan. Shh . . . It’ll be all right,” his voice said.
But she didn’t believe him. In the deepest part of her soul, she knew nothing could ever be right again.
Chapter 18
Calabria, Italy; March 2; two months later
Antonio Calsonone looked at Giovanni. “Nothing?”
Giovanni shook his head. “We’ve wat
ched them. The Devil’s Strip in Prague, Hell’s Alley in Cheb, and Satan’s Domain in Moscow have all received over two dozen new girls since the meeting. None are Italian, none are Teresa Maria.” He paused and sat in the chair on the other side of the desk. “I’m sorry.”
Antonio looked at the framed photographs, at the last family photo. He hadn’t seen his Bella smile like that in a long, long time. He hadn’t smiled like that in months.
“Keep looking,” he said, then reached out and grasped Giovanni’s hand. “Keep looking.”
Giovanni tilted his head.
* * *
A warehouse in Prague; March
Mikhail stood in the room and surveyed the new merchandise. All the women were beautiful; most were scared, though some seemed excited.
None even flickered an interest in him. He said, “Follow the rules and we won’t have a problem with you.” He scanned each face. “Become a problem and you’ll be eliminated.”
One girl, a blond, whimpered. Her cheek was bruised and her wrists still bound. He walked to her and looked down into her eyes. She was shorter than those he usually preferred. “Will you be a problem?” he asked softly.
The bright glaring lights hid nothing of the girls’ naked bodies. The bosses would be in later to decide which girls went where. Some to enjoy the merchandise first.
Her eyes were almost violet. How unique. She was pretty with a heart-shaped face, that pale hair and a wide mouth. That mouth could do things. He would teach it to do things.
Without warning he struck her across the face and she fell to her side, knocking into the next girl, who stumbled to keep her balance.
Mikhail squatted down. “I asked you a question.” He gripped her chin and looked into those eyes, which filled with tears and glared back at him. It had been a long time since any challenged him. Slowly she nodded, but he knew it was a lie.
Not since Dusk. Bitch. They still hadn’t found her. The trail led to London and to Heathrow. After that, he didn’t have a clue. He knew she’d been an American, but it was only an assumption that she’d gone back there. And America was a big damn place. His people were still looking, very quietly, lest anyone discover what they were doing, or more important, why.
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