Peyton’s Price: A Singular Obsession Novel

by Leroux, Lucy

  Her first muddled thought was she should try to escape now. She could hit the guards with something, but when she raised her aching arms a few inches, she realized her hands were bound together with a twist tie. Another had been looped through it, securing it to the chair’s metal arm.

  Peyton swore aloud, but the men didn’t react. They couldn’t hear over the noise of the motor. She closed her eyes, trying to get her bearings, but it was damned hard to focus on anything except the frigid cold. Unable to use her hands, she shifted her legs experimentally, lifting then until she could grab the blanket. She drew it over herself as best she could.

  A few minutes later, the man next to the pilot noticed she was awake. He got out of his seat and fitted her with a helmet, jamming it roughly on her head.

  “You’re lucky,” he said, his voice tinny and digitized in her ear. “The buyer has generously decided to meet us halfway. We’ll be landing shortly.”

  He turned and nudged the pilot, pressing a button on the console. “The depraved fuck must be eager for fresh meat. God knows he doesn’t have to pay for it, but he still gets girl after girl every year—or at least, he used to. It’s been a while. The boss is pretty happy he started up again.”

  Peyton grimaced, pressing her hands hard against her abdomen to keep from being ill. “Um, I think you pressed the wrong button.”

  He hadn’t cut the audio to her helmet, as he’d intended.

  The man laughed. “Whoops.”

  Shrugging, he turned back to the dark in front of the windshield. Neither man said another word for a long time. After she’d had enough time to calm down—and grow slightly bored—the pilot pointed.

  She craned her neck to glimpse over their shoulders. Gasping aloud, she gawked at a massive yacht, its light bright enough to illuminate the sea around it.

  It was the biggest non-military vessel she’d ever seen, a floating island in the middle of nowhere.

  “I had no idea we were over the ocean,” she muttered as they circled the boat. No one answered her.

  The boat grew larger the closer they got. There was a raised platform with a giant H at one end. Blinking, she shuddered as the pilot brought them closer, touching down with a soft clang of metal on metal.

  A uniformed man and woman appeared at the end of the platform. The man was tall and blond, almost Nordic in appearance, but his female counterpart was smaller—and Indian. They were wearing the dress whites she’d always associated with fancy yacht staff. She snorted softly. I guess the movies have some of the details right.

  But not all of them. In a movie, she’d be able to fight her way past the staff, then commandeer a speedboat to get off the yacht. The reality was depressingly different.

  The uniformed staff waited until the rotors slowed enough to let them approach. The man opened the door as the guard next to the pilot climbed out. He came around to the opening, opening a small pocketknife. He cut her restraints and retreated, letting the uniformed man help her out.

  She rubbed her wrists, massaging the deep indentation and small abrasions on her wrists.

  The woman approached, examining the marks on her wrist. She whirled to scowl at the guard. “You were told to deliver her without a mark. My employer paid a premium to make this so,” she said in a crisp British accent.

  The man shrugged. “It’s standard for all our deliveries, Ms. Priya.”

  He shifted to the pilot, giving him a let’s-get-out-of-here signal, but the woman blocked his path. Her expression was glacial.

  “Priya is my first name. And next time, we expect our orders to be followed to the letter.”

  “Of course. The customer is always right.” The words were respectful, but the smirk that accompanied them was not.

  Priya certainly didn’t think so. She put her head close to the man’s ear. Peyton couldn’t hear what she told him, but the man’s face got very red. He backpedaled with a jerk, then climbed into the helicopter as if he couldn’t wait to leave.

  Priya inclined her head in Peyton’s direction, indicating she should follow her. Trying not to betray her discomfort, she trailed the woman down a flight of metal stairs to the deck with the male guard behind her. More uniformed staff moved around in the background, doing boat upkeep.

  Damn it, when was she going to get a break? Not only was she trapped on a floating island, but there was also a never-ending supply of guards here, too.

  But they didn’t appear to have weapons. That was something. Her opportunity to escape would be much harder, but escaping from a yacht wasn’t impossible. In fact, she knew someone who had done it all on her own once.

  But Eva ended up in the hospital after almost dying in her bid for freedom. And she lived only because her captor had been in love with her, enough to give her up to save her life.

  Peyton doubted her new owner would care if she were bleeding to death. Why would he? He could just buy another girl to replace her. No muss, no fuss.

  Priya recaptured Peyton’s attention by opening a door and leading them down a level. They were below the main deck, but the many windows showed they were still well above the waterline.

  The hallway was lined with a thick carpet. Every few dozen feet, there was something—a painting or a table topped with a priceless vase. Peyton had never had money, but she’d worked in five-star hotels for most of her adult life. She knew how to spot a real antique when she saw one. Even the door handles gleamed like polished silver.

  The boat beat every Caislean hotel she’d ever visited in the luxury stakes. The opulence surrounded her was staggering. Which meant the man who now owned her body and soul was rich beyond measure.

  How the hell am I going to get out of here?

  Chapter 13

  Peyton lost track of how many turns they’d made getting to this hallway. Priya opened a set of double doors, then led them inside a sumptuous cabin. It was spacious, with deep red Oriental carpet in front of a massive four-poster bed with bedding made of a shimmery champagne fabric.

  It was a beautiful room, but the surroundings only strengthened the sick feeling nearly overwhelming her.

  Priya cleared her throat. “My employer has been notified of your arrival. He’ll be here momentarily. You may want to freshen up before he arrives. The bathroom is through there,” she added, pointing at a door. Then she left.

  “That’s it?” Peyton said to the empty room. No threats or warnings not to try to escape?

  It’s a boat, smart ass. What would be the point?

  With a pounding heart, Peyton went to the door. She tried the knob. The door swung open on soundless hinges. She poked her head into the hallway, but quickly pulled back when she heard footsteps approaching.

  Hurriedly, she closed the door. She stood frozen with her hands bracing it shut, but whoever it was passed it without pausing.

  Peyton let out a shaky sigh. Stop being a jackass. She had to think. She needed a plan.

  Any minute, her new owner was going to walk through that door. She pictured a fat Middle Eastern man like in that Liam Neeson movie, but it could be anyone.

  Her options were limited. She could make a desperate last stand…or she could let the man who walked in that door use her body. She’d cooperate long enough to lull him into a false sense of security. Once he was confident in her complacency, she’d slip away somehow. There had to be speedboats on a craft this size. It was too big for most ports. A speedboat would be necessary to ferry its passengers to land.

  The fact she couldn’t drive a speedboat was a problem for another day. She had to pretend to be docile. But acting weak and frightened went against her nature.

  You are frightened. Being honest about that might be the best tactic. But after spending years trying to hide her emotions, letting that fear show felt like defeat.

  Voices in the hall interrupted her pity party. Suddenly, none of her reasoning was worth a damn. She wasn’t going to let anyone touch her without a fight.

  Peyton grabbed the nearest object—a vase—b
ut the damn thing didn’t budge. It was glued to the surface. Abandoning it, she spun, searching for anything else she could use as a weapon. Nothing came to mind. She ran to the bureau and tugged it open, swearing when she found it empty.

  Everything is a weapon. Liam had told her that when she was sixteen. He’d been showing her and Maggie some self-defense moves in the then-new Caislean gym.

  The drawer came out easily. She raced to the door, standing just behind it. The voices faded. For a second, Peyton thought she had overreacted once again, but then there was a knock. When she didn’t answer, the door cracked open and began to swing toward her.

  All Peyton saw was a bright golden-white shock of hair. She swung the drawer up high with all her might, trying to hit the newcomer on the head, but she lost her balance in the process.

  The man must have heard the movement, but he didn’t have enough time to get out of the way, not completely. He managed to get his hand up, partially shielding him from the blow. However, she came crashing down on him next. They hit to the floor together.

  Peyton landed on his long body. It was like throwing herself against a brick wall—a wall covered in a fine suit.

  Her new owner had arrived.

  * * *

  The stranger lifted a hand to his temple. His fingers came away stained red with blood. Peyton scrambled away as three uniformed goons ran into the room. One hurried to help his boss up while the other two ran toward Peyton.

  “It’s okay,” the man said, waving them away. He stood, brushing himself off with his non-bloody hand, then he did the most shocking thing she could have imagined. He laughed.

  “Well, Peyton, I must say you don’t disappoint. You’re exactly as advertised.”

  Her first blurry impression had been that he was old, with white hair, but he was, in fact, incredibly young. Mid-thirties at the most. His hair was a light white-blonde, very Scandinavian in appearance, with an accent to match.

  Standing, he was an intimidating figure—tall and broad-shouldered with a muscular frame that was lean and long. His face was disturbingly handsome with sculpted cheekbones and ice-blue eyes.

  Why couldn’t his outsides match his insides? Shouldn’t villains be ugly?

  After a moment of staring at each other, he signaled his men with a little motion of his hand. They disappeared out the door without a murmur.

  “What does that mean?” she asked, hoping to stall whatever was coming.

  Keep them talking. That was what the television said to do when confronted by someone who wanted to hurt her. Except he hadn’t taken a step toward her. He also hadn’t asked his people to tie her up.

  She continued backing away, putting an armchair between them. Peyton eyed the matching drawer on the bureau, but she stopped herself from reaching for it. It wouldn’t be an effective weapon if he saw it coming.

  “I cooperated with the slavers. I did everything they told me to,” she elaborated. “I won’t be any more trouble—I swear.” Peyton shifted to stand just in front of the remaining drawer. She put her hands behind her back, hoping he didn’t notice.

  His lips quirked. “I know well enough to know you’ll never stop trying to get away. I would expect no less after the way you grew up. I, too, had a challenging childhood.”

  Peyton narrowed her eyes. “You don’t know me,” she said in a low voice.

  What the hell was this guy playing at? Unless the slavers had pulled her bio from the Caislean website…but the information there had been very brief. She’d wrote it herself, and she made sure it included little personal data.

  “I know quite a bit about you actually,” he said, immediately contradicting her. He put his hands in his pockets. “Why don’t you try opening the drawer instead of hurling it at my head this time?”

  When she didn’t move, he sighed. “They’re clothes. I thought you’d like to change into something more comfortable before dinner.”

  He started for the door, but twisted around to face her at the threshold. “I originally planned to have our talk now, but I think I’ll go wash up and find a bandage. Why don’t you have a hot shower and join me in the dining room in half an hour? Stop any staff member you see. They’ll show you the way.”

  He was gone before she could think of a decent reply.

  “What the hell was that?” she said aloud to the empty room.

  Unable to stop herself, she slid the drawer open.

  Peyton expected to find a dress, perhaps lingerie. With a frown, he pulled out a pair of navy-blue sweatpants.

  Okay, now this was getting weird.

  * * *

  There was a matching hoodie and a long-sleeved t-shirt to go with the sweatpants. She found a set of brand-new sneakers next to the bed. In the closet, she found an identical set of sweats and underclothes. There was nothing remotely sexy.

  He doesn’t care what you wear because he expects you to be naked around him. Not that she’d do it willingly, even if he did look a bit like a Nordic god. Thor-lite. She smirked before realizing there was nothing to smile about.

  Frustrated and confused, Peyton decided to do as Thor asked. She showered, making sure the bathroom door locked first. Then she put on the sweats and went to go find him.

  Despite the luxury of the yacht she’d glimpsed, Peyton gaped when she found the dining room.

  The walls were a delicate creme with dark cherry wood molding. There were at least a dozen chandeliers, with a larger central one over the single table in the room. Instead of chairs, it had two matching leather booths encircling it. It was almost as if a cozy diner’s booth had been set in the middle of the room, except it was far more elegant.

  Thor-lite was sitting alone, nibbling on canapés. She crossed the room, freezing halfway when a uniformed man came in. But all he did was bring an open bottle of wine to the table, which was set for two.

  She approached cautiously. “You’d never guess we were on a yacht by the look of this place. I can’t even feel it moving.”

  “Trust me, we are.” He waved her over with a welcoming gesture. “Rather quickly, too.”

  “Why only one table?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t entertain a lot.”

  “No, I guess you wouldn’t.” This was a man who bought people. Even in the most corrupt circles of the uber-rich, there would be people who weren’t okay with human trafficking.

  She slid into the leather seat opposite him, wondering why this place reminded her of the Caislean’s main dining room. Thor poured a glass of wine before offering it to her. She shook her head.

  “It’s just wine—completely unadulterated,” he assured her. “I think you’ll like the vintage.”

  He pushed the bottle toward her. She frowned. It was a brand she was familiar with.

  “An Italian red. It’s one of your favorites, isn’t it?”

  “How the hell did you know that?” She hadn’t had the wine in months—she hadn’t been able to find it on the West Coast after her move.

  “I was telling the truth when I said I knew a lot about you.”

  All right, this was starting to creep her out. “How?”

  He sat back, pursing his lips. “Let’s just say I was once very close to someone who is close to you.”

  He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Allow me to formally introduce myself. My name is Matthias Fredrik Leif Raske the third. But I just go by Matthias.”

  When she only stared, he blinked, steepling his fingers. “I guess you’re not familiar with the name. I shouldn’t be surprised. Liam does like to keep his secrets, doesn’t he?”

  Her eyes widened. “Wait, what?” The story came back to her in a rush.

  “I—I do know you,” she said. “You lent the guys your boat so they could rescue Eva Stone when her stepbrother took her. Am I on that yacht?”

  “No,” he said with a little slashing motion. “The Sha is quite a bit smaller than this. It’s currently in the Azores, so my great-aunt Bente can escape the cold of Norway. This is the Ormen
Lange, my primary vessel, the one I call home.”

  “Oh.” Peyton reached out for the wineglass, but she hesitated. “But you are that Matthias, right?”

  His eyes twinkled disconcertingly. “Yes, I’m that Matthias. Or you can call me the cavalry if you like.”

  Peyton searched his face. Matthias seemed to be enjoying himself. Suddenly in need of a drink, she grabbed the glass, downing half the contents in one gulp.

  “How did you find me? And why did you rescue me? Or rather, how?”

  He lifted his glass. “Well, it wasn’t with a superpower or anything exciting like that. I just used cash. I happen to have a lot of it.”

  “I can see that,” she muttered, finishing the rest of her glass. “But you bought me. And from what I’ve seen and heard, it’s not the first time. The people holding me said so—you’d bought from their competitor before. You’re a consumer in the human-trafficking trade. Aren’t you supposed to be one of the good guys?”

  Matthias poured himself more wine. “Now Peyton, there you go making assumptions. Whoever said I was a good guy?”

  Chapter 14

  Peyton stared at Matthias, aghast. “But you helped before. How can you just buy people?”

  His smile was devilish. “I mentioned the buckets of money, right? As it turns out, when you have enough, people start offering to sell you…just about anything. Even other people.”

  “But you’re Liam’s friend.” At least she’d thought he was before realization struck. Liam avoided talking about Matthias. Whenever he’d been asked about the elusive billionaire who’d pitched in to help Eva, he’d quickly changed the subject or answered evasively. He must have been aware of Matthias proclivities, and that was why he’d cut him off.

  A little corner of her heart shriveled inside her. Liam wouldn’t have just let something like that go, right?