Captive Lies

by Victoria Paige

  Captive Lies

  Victoria Paige

  Copyright © 2018 Victoria Paige

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, names, locations, events, organization, including law enforcement and judicial procedures, either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, places or locale is entire coincidental. The publisher is not responsible for any opinion regarding this work on any third-party website that is not affiliated with the publisher or author.

  Cover Design: Robin Ludwig Design Inc.

  http://www.gobookcoverdesign.com

  Content Editing: Christina Trevaskis

  https://bookmatchmaker.com

  Editing : Edit LLC

  https://writeeditread.com

  ISBN: 978-0-9906796-7-7

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Connect with the Author

  Also by Victoria Paige

  Prologue

  “I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry.”

  Grant stared once again at the text message he’d received that morning. Even when Blaire failed to debark from her Boston flight, denial still rallied in his mind and heart. Seven hours had passed. He had since flown from New Jersey to Colorado and, after the countless times he’d willed the words on the screen to change, their weight slowly sunk in. In the ensuing hours when his calls transferred to voicemail and later to a disconnected number, the reality settled like an anvil in his chest.

  She had left him.

  Expelling a ragged breath, Grant slipped the phone into his suit pocket and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of the Escalade as he contemplated the log cabin before him—Blaire’s secluded sanctuary. The structure was built with locally harvested Engelmann spruce while tall evergreens stood behind it like sentinels. Part of the back deck had a gorgeous view of the Colorado Rocky Mountains—a far cry from the urban setting of his brownstone back in Massachusetts.

  “Ms. Callahan’s not here,” Jake Donovan, his head of security, noted beside him.

  “No, she’s not.” Grant had already arrived at the same conclusion. He got out of the SUV, prompting Jake and his security detail in the car behind them to step out as well. Blaire’s old pickup was still under a tarp, covered by a layer of decaying leaves, branches, pollen and dirt. All hinted at the seasons that had passed since he whisked her to civilization nine months before. He hadn’t expected to find her here. This was the last place Blaire would go if she was trying to hide from him. But as untouched as the surroundings looked since the last time Grant had been here, he hoped to find clues as to why his woman fled.

  It was fortunate Grant had the foresight to have made a set of spare keys to the cabin before they left for his home in Boston. Unlocking the door to the log house, a musty smell greeted his nose. It was dark except for the streaks of sunlight filtering through the slit between the curtains.

  “Open the windows,” he instructed his men as he walked into the kitchen area where the circuit breaker was located. Blaire had refused to disconnect the utilities because she wanted to be able to come back here whenever she wanted. It was another point of contention between them in the past month. Her refusal to permanently move in with him infuriated Grant to no end.

  When the lights came on, he walked into the master bedroom. It was furnished with custom-made furniture that matched the cabin’s interior. A wood-burning fireplace was built into the wall across the bed. It was surrounded by a slim couch, two chairs, and a coffee table. His heart squeezed at the memories this room evoked.

  “Mr. Thorne?” Jake stood just inside the doorframe. “Liam Watts’ house is empty. It appears to have been abandoned for a while.”

  Just like this property, Grant thought. There was an overgrowth of wildflowers and weeds around the cabin.

  “Also”—his security guy’s throat bobbed—“there’s something else you need to see.”

  Grant crunched his molars as he followed Jake to the kitchen. The farmer’s table and rug had been moved, exposing a trap door to an underground cellar.

  “What the fuck?” he muttered as he walked around the opening in the floor. Grant didn’t know what was down there, but a troubling premonition told him that everything as he knew it was about to change. He took a deep breath, and just as his foot hit the first step, Jake gripped his arm.

  His head of security looked contrite. “I’ve failed you, Mr. Thorne, and will totally understand if you fire me after this.”

  “As long as my girlfriend is not a serial killer, you can keep your job.” He attempted to smile, but the muscles in his jaw refused to cooperate. He clenched and flexed his fingers but still failed to relieve the compressive tightness that had gripped his body. What the hell was Blaire keeping from him?

  He descended the steps and her paintings greeted him. Nothing unusual about those items given she was an artist. It wasn’t until he saw the wall on his left that the air was punched out of his lungs.

  Jesus Christ.

  Grant took a couple of steps closer and saw the open safe and the documents scattered on top. He shuffled through them in disbelief. He could blame his lightheadedness on the lack of oxygen in the cellar, but he’d be lying to himself. He could blame his shortness of breath on the thin mountain air, but that wouldn’t be true either. But the truth before him threatened his future with Blaire.

  Would there even be one after this?

  A future obliterated in the blink of an eye.

  1

  Nine months earlier

  Blaire

  “I think that’s a body in the snow.”

  Liam grunted at my statement but guided our vehicle to the treacherous shoulder. Whiteout conditions had grown worse in the past hour so I almost missed the royal blue lump so out of place against the white and gray landscape. The snowstorm that was supposed to hit east of Vail decided to take a turn. Judging from how fast the snow was falling and the wind was gusting, we were in for a blizzard.

  I pushed open the door and cold needles assaulted my face. My friend slammed out of the vehicle and went to the back of his Suburban to retrieve the sled he kept there for situations where he needed to haul items across snow. If that were indeed a person, the apparatus would come in handy. I saw tracks from several sno
wmobiles before spotting the transport twenty yards from its presumed rider.

  “The fool.” Liam trudged past me as he pulled the sled behind him, reaching the person first. He crouched beside him just as I got near. The man was face up in the snow. He was wearing a helmet with a clear shield and blue ski jacket over jeans.

  “Big motherfucker, too,” my friend spoke above the howl of the wind. The unconscious man was easily over six feet. The true bulk of his frame was hidden beneath his coat. However, Liam was no lightweight either. For a man of fifty, he was extremely fit, with solid muscles only years of lifting weights could give him.

  “What do we do? Take him to Summit County?” I asked.

  “Radio says roads are shutting down. We’ll never make it.” We had been heading into town when the weather took a turn for the worse, forcing us to turn around. Liam started examining the man’s body, starting with his pulse. He tried to rouse the unconscious stranger to no avail.

  “He has a pulse and is breathing,” my friend informed me.

  “We need to get him out of here.”

  “No shit,” Liam muttered. “Get his legs.”

  There was no choice but to move him as I bent and took hold of the man’s boots. With the blizzard strengthening, we’d risk getting stuck ourselves and first responders wouldn’t be dispatched until the conditions improved. I imagined the 911 call center was already backed up. This man was either going to be dead, alive and paralyzed, or alive with no lasting injuries.

  Liam carefully slipped his hands under the man’s shoulders and cradled his head and neck under his forearms. We tried to keep his spine as straight as possible as I pulled him feet-first onto the sled, but the board was too short for the man’s frame, so parts of his lower limbs ended up dangling. His head, torso, and hips were level on the sled. After securing him with a couple of belt straps, we trekked back to the vehicle, pulling the sled behind us.

  “Thanksgiving week brings in the idiotic tourists,” Liam grumbled.

  “At least he’s wearing a helmet.” The visor had a crack, so the man must have hit one of the trees. His choice to wear jeans riding a snowmobile was questionable unless he wasn’t expecting to stay in freezing temperatures for long.

  “Still an idiot.”

  I smiled. Liam did not suffer fools. He had no patience for them. Unfortunately, Vail attracted the privileged rich and had become an everlasting source of irritation for him with their sense of entitlement.

  When we reached the SUV, lifting more than two hundred pounds of dead weight into the back presented another challenge. After debating what to do for a few minutes, Liam stooped over and removed the belt straps. He then raised the damaged visor. I finally got a good look at our injured charge and my breathing hitched. Thick lashes, classic Roman nose, and whatever angles exposed of his face were chiseled granite. But what struck me the most was how much presence the man exuded even in his unconscious state. My friend tapped the man’s cheek. “Hey. Wake up.”

  The stranger’s brows cinched together before thick lashes lifted briefly to reveal inky blue irises. “What?” he rasped.

  “Thank fuck,” Liam grunted. “Can you move?”

  The man blinked once as if confused, then, as if belatedly understanding what he was asked to do, he shifted to his side to push up. Liam and I rushed to help him. My friend managed to get the stranger up before the man swore under his breath and started to crash.

  “Easy,” Liam cautioned. “I’ve got you.” The man passed out again, leaving us to struggle for a few minutes to settle him into the SUV’s cargo space. By the time I jumped down from the tailgate, my overheated skin felt like it had withstood the flames of a furnace so I welcomed the blast of cold air.

  Liam shut the cargo door and walked to the driver’s side.

  I got in beside him and stole a glance at our guest. “You think he’ll be okay?”

  As if on cue, we heard a groan from the back.

  “He’s alive,” Liam muttered and gunned the engine.

  “True.”

  “We more or less confirmed he’s not paralyzed.”

  Again, I agreed.

  “Otherwise, I’d have to kill him.”

  I snorted a bewildered laugh. “What?”

  Liam glanced at me. “He’ll blame us, saying we caused it by moving him. We don’t need that trouble.”

  “Liam …”

  “I’m already regretting that we had to rescue his sorry ass.”

  “Do you see any cars on the road at the moment? He’d die from hypothermia if not his injuries.”

  “Our life is already too complicated, Blaire.”

  Yes, it is.

  “The sooner we get rid of him the better,” Liam informed me.

  I peeked at our passenger again. Why do I already feel his loss when I don’t even know his name?

  My friend barked a censuring laugh. “No, Wren. He’s not one of your injured birds.” And that was how I earned my nickname. I rescued a Canyon Wren with a broken wing and kept it for a while.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You’ve always had a soft spot for wounded creatures.”

  “And you forced me to let them go every single time,” I retorted.

  “Wild birds are exactly that, Blaire. They belong in the wild,” Liam sighed.

  And him? I did not say and, instead, looked out my window wistfully.

  Grant

  Grant woke up shivering. The orange glow of a fire taunted him with its warmth, and yet he couldn’t feel its heat. His bleary eyes tracked a shadow moving closer. A vague figure crouched in front of him and his vision focused.

  Hazel eyes assessed him.

  “You’re awake.” The voice, coming from perfectly formed lips, was melodious and soothing.

  A warm hand touched his skin and he leaned into it. She smelled of some ethereal musk.

  An angel.

  “You’re not dead, big guy,” she chuckled. “You just have a fever.”

  Grant smiled despite the goose bumps that ghosted over his skin. He tried to tuck into himself, yanking at the blankets covering him.

  The angel got up.

  “Stay,” he said in near panic.

  “I’ll be back.”

  He fretted and drew the covers around him. This didn’t feel real. Grant had never felt this needy in his life.

  She returned, holding a tumbler with a straw. No way was he sipping through that thing like a sissy. He tried to get up, but he was pushed back down.

  “I can sit up,” he muttered.

  “Quit the macho bullshit,” the angel admonished. “Just drink this.”

  Grant gave in and sipped from the straw. Then he spewed everything out.

  “What the fuck is that?” he growled, then was immediately contrite because his involuntary liquid expulsion landed on his angel’s face.

  “Spruce tea. It’s an old Indian concoction that’s good for respiratory infections.” She wiped her face, emitted a long-suffering sigh, and held the straw to him again.

  This time Grant obediently drank the bitter liquid, ignoring the urge to spit it up again. When he dutifully finished, he asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Blaire.”

  “Grant,” he returned. The tea momentarily warmed him, but it didn’t take long for his body to quake with chills again. “Feel like shit.”

  “I’ve already given you some meds,” she informed him and then a crease marred her forehead. “Your fever’s not breaking. If the roads were open, I’d take you to a hospital, but the blizzard has shut everything down. What were you doing out there anyway?”

  Shit, his family must be worried. Oh, fuck. Val.

  “My sister. Did you see my sister?”

  “You’re the only person we found.”

  Grant pushed the blankets aside and attempted to get up. “She’s out there. She’s … fuck.” He fell back as if a magnet yanked him flat on the mattress. What the fucking hell? His muscles weig
hed like lead and whatever strength he had initially deserted him. He fought to keep his eyes open.

  “You need to rest.”

  “Phone?” he muttered.

  “Cellular service is down.”

  He rallied against the drowsiness but it was a losing battle. “What was in that tea?”

  “I didn’t poison you if that’s what you’re asking,” came the pert reply.

  “Sass,” he said. “I want to kiss that mouth.” He felt the corners of his mouth tip up. “I’d be fucking an angel.”

  “You’re delirious.”

  “Cold,” Grant murmured. “Sleep with me.”

  He was submerged under water, tangled in a net, his lungs close to bursting and he couldn’t get to Val. She was right beside him, eyes closed. She had given up the struggle moments ago.

  “Val!” he yelled. Painful spasms followed the gurgling sound of his voice.

  He was drowning.

  “No!” Grant came awake to darkness and flame.

  “It was a dream,” a calming voice told him. He tried to rise but hands pressed down against his shoulders as confusion overpowered his foggy brain.

  He needed to save Val. She was going to drown.

  “Val,” he croaked.

  “Grant, do you know where you are?”

  “Water’s freezing,” he told the voice.