Captive Lies

by Victoria Paige

  “Grant,” I choked as I looked at him through a blur of emotions while trying to keep my face from crumpling.

  He straightened and approached cautiously. “I convinced him to create these colors for you.”

  “I don’t know what to say …”

  “You’ll be happy to know that his grandson will be continuing his paint making craft, but it won’t be available for another year,” he continued speaking as if I weren’t about to fall apart in front of him. “I hope what’s in that box will hold you until then, but he agreed to make you some more if they’re not enough.”

  My jaw was hurting from trying to keep it all in. I gave him a watery smile. “I …” I love you so much.

  He pulled me into his arms, his chin resting on the side of my head. “I know, baby. I feel the same.”

  We had danced to a tune of unspoken words since the beginning of our relationship.

  “Thank you.” Words weren’t adequate anyway to describe what I was feeling.

  Grant had smashed through the defenses of my heart and touched my soul.

  8

  Blaire

  Months passed, and spring gave way to hot summer days. As much time as Grant and I spent together it seemed I couldn’t get enough of him. I lived for the weekends when we spent each waking moment with each other. We could be driving down to the cape, we could be walking around town, or we could just be hanging around the brownstone catching up on a TV series. I knew I was setting myself up for a lot of heartache when our relationship needed to end, but ever since he’d given me those Medici paints I’d been in a free fall. The days he was in Manhattan were the hardest and I started having trouble concentrating on my work.

  August brought about a distinct change in Grant’s moods. He’d become broody and I knew why. My reticence about my personal stuff, my refusal to give up my cabin, and the ways I deflected conversation regarding the future of our relationship were wearing down on his patience. His scowls lasted longer, and the unspoken words had become more grating in the silence.

  He took me to dinner at his parents’ a couple of times; Marcus and Amelia were gracious hosts. I had an easy time chatting with them, especially with Grant’s mother. His sister Valerie was a different story. I marveled at her ability to cause tension without uttering a syllable. It was in her head-to-toe appraisal of me, or the way she hugged her brother and ignored my presence. After my attempts to make conversation left me speaking to air, I decided it was best to stay out of her way. I sympathized with Amelia as she tried to cover for her daughter’s quiet hostility toward me. In some ways, I understood Valerie. Even when I refused to speak about my own life, Grant was the opposite and never held back in telling me stories about his. That was how I knew how he and his dad had spoiled his sister terribly—a by-product of guilt from her near drowning. And now she viewed me as competition for her brother’s affections.

  Little did I know that avoiding Valerie didn’t mean she couldn’t cause trouble between Grant and me.

  As a way to alleviate my loneliness when Grant was in Manhattan, I decided to take an art class for the summer at a studio near Harvard Square that met on Monday and Wednesday evenings. He’d ask me before if I wanted to go to New York City with him, but I knew I was a distraction his business didn’t need. How many times had he worked through the night because he wanted to take me to dinner or spend the afternoon with me? He told me one time that he thrived on very little sleep, and yet I could see the toll it was taking by the shadows under his eyes.

  I did mention my figure painting class to Grant, but I wasn’t sure he fully understood that I had to attend evening classes. And with some guilt, I continued to let him think otherwise. Aside from his brooding, he’d been distracted lately by a couple of high-profile property deals that were swinging in favor of the competition. I told myself I didn’t want to add to his worry.

  For my art class, we started with the female nude for the first few weeks, but for the last three meetings, we had a male model, Claude Cluzet—a French exchange student. The man was simply gorgeous. His body was lean, sculpted perfection, but his lips were my favorite feature. On any other face, it would have been too feminine, but it was the consummate pouty lips for a strong angular jaw that made me see why he’d become an instant sensation and an in-demand model for artists and photographers.

  Some of my female classmates were definitely enamored outside the realm of art. I got dragged to an after-class social at Hoosier Bar the week before. And it was just my luck, I ran into Valerie who was a law student at Harvard. Grant’s sister chose that time to act like we were best friends and interrogated my classmates about the class, but I knew better. It didn’t help that Claude was sitting beside me.

  So, the next outing, I begged off. Obviously, the bar was a common haunt for the Harvard crowd and I didn’t want Val getting the wrong idea.

  That Wednesday, when class packed up, I tried to leave as quickly as I could, but my teacher wanted to talk to me. After giving me glowing reviews about my work, I exited the studio, giddy with happiness. I couldn’t wait to tell Grant.

  Claude and a couple of girls were waiting at the bottom of the steps. The model’s face broke into a dazzling smile when he saw me, but it made me uncomfortable because I hated the attention.

  “There you are,” Claude said as he ascended the steps and tried to grab my portfolio which I angled away from him.

  What the hell?

  His brows drew together, but my subtle rejection didn’t faze him at all. He stabbed his fingers through his thick long hair—one of his other great features and he obviously knew it. My female classmates were staring daggers at me.

  Seriously?

  “You’re not skipping Hoosier’s this time,” Claude informed me. “You’re joining us for a drink.” At the bottom of the steps, he put his hands on my shoulders and turned me a quarter so I was facing him. He leaned in suggestively. “And maybe more.” Funny how many models looked better when they kept their mouth shut.

  I was about to shoot him down when I felt my nape prickle.

  “Take your hands off her before I break them,” a voice threatened behind me.

  Claude visibly stumbled back as I turned around to see Grant directly behind me. His fingers clamped down on my bicep as he deposited me behind him. I dropped my things and clutched at his torso when he didn’t miss a stride stalking toward Claude.

  “Stay away from her,” Grant growled.

  “Grant, it’s not what you think,” I whisper-yelled, appalled at the scene we were causing, especially since our teacher had appeared at the top of the steps.

  Claude raised his arms. “We’re cool. Didn’t know she was taken.” Then he smirked. “Beauty like that you need to put a ring on her.”

  I wasn’t sure, but I thought I heard Grant mutter, “I will.”

  I let him go and grabbed my things and walked away. Belated humiliation hot-wired my system and I was pissed at Grant for showing up the way he did.

  “Where are you going?” he snapped behind me before taking my arm and spinning me around to face him.

  “Home,” I snapped back.

  “You use the subway?”

  “I always use the subway.”

  “Today was the last time,” he decreed. Before I could challenge him on it, a Black Escalade glided to a stop beside us.

  Grant opened the door. “Get in.”

  “Why are you here?”

  A muscle ticked his jaw.

  “Val told you,” I exhaled in resignation, suddenly exhausted. This was an argument I wasn’t going to win. I was supposed to be a recluse and I’d gone to a bar. “Where’s your Maserati?” I asked, climbing into the car. This was the first time I’d seen the Cadillac. And when did he get a driver?

  Grant got in beside me. “The brownstone, Tyler.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Who was this guy? Grant didn’t seem interested in making the introductions as he seemed more intent in ignoring me to scowl ou
t the window. When he was extremely angry, he had a habit of shutting down. Grant said he had a tendency to say hurtful words that could ruin a relationship.

  “Hi,” I told the driver. “I’m Blaire.”

  Tyler’s eyes met mine in the rear-view mirror. “Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Callahan.”

  “Have you always worked for Grant?”

  The driver shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Mr. Thorne will explain my role when we get home.”

  “What do you mean …”

  “Blaire,” Grant interrupted in a voice that scraped like gravel. “We’ll talk at home.”

  The street light caught the lines of fatigue on his face and, rather than argue, I kept my silence.

  That night burst the bubble I had lived in for the previous eight months. When we got home, Grant informed me that his father was announcing his reelection bid. White supremacists had been vocal about their opposition to the Senator’s politics to the point of threatening Marcus Thorne and his family. The senator’s office had received anonymous mail containing pictures of Valerie walking the Harvard campus and Grant leaving his office in Manhattan. All the pictures had red bullseyes drawn on their heads.

  This wasn’t the first time Grant’s father had received such threats, but there’d been indication from the feds that this fringe group had ramped up recruitment to their militant division that necessitated the hiring of bodyguards. Jake Donovan had always been Grant’s head of security, but he specialized in security for their interests abroad, providing executive protection in countries with volatile political situations. This time, Grant wanted Jake to concentrate on personal protection detail and had met with the senator’s own security team to outline the new threats and countermeasures that needed to be taken. It was obvious that Grant himself was having trouble with the changes to our privacy. Tyler was to be my bodyguard and driver. I couldn’t take off on my own to the park or drive myself to the cape any longer. I considered giving up my art class.

  What was more troubling were the questions Jake asked about my family and background. I realized they needed to investigate every possible weak link that could compromise the senator’s protection. I was a basket case until I got hold of Liam to tell him what was going on. After cursing Grant quite colorfully, he told me that he would “handle it.” I wasn’t sure what that meant. Pay someone off the streets to pretend to be my parents? That was another sticking point Grant had with me. He wanted to meet my parents and I had to make up some bull crap excuse that they were always traveling.

  Grant and I had not had a private conversation for several days. Most of our exchanges had been brief and impersonal, but I’d sensed a gradual thawing the night before. He’d come to bed early, drew me immediately into his arms and brushed his lips across the top of my head. I welcomed his innate affection and curled into his embrace. Though I wanted to talk about his inability to communicate when he was pissed, I was wary of forcing a confrontation while Jake was doing his background checks.

  Oh, to be held captive by my lies.

  Two days after the art class debacle, I entered the brownstone and watched Grant walk out from our bedroom in the process of fastening the cufflinks on the sleeves of his dress shirt.

  “Hey, Angel,” he smiled as he greeted me in the foyer, bending down and kissing me sweetly on my lips.

  Uh, what? I melted inside, but I wasn’t going to let a kiss sweep our issues under the rug.

  “Are you over being pissed at me?” I asked dryly.

  He looked contrite, his glance cutting to the side before returning to mine. “I’m sorry, baby. I just …” he shook his head. “Didn’t want to say words I’d regret. I was jealous and I was wrong to let Val mess with my head. Made me question whether you’d been lying to me about being uncomfortable in crowds.”

  There was a direct jab to my conscience.

  “I’ve thought about it,” he continued. “Figured you’re acclimating, right? You’re doing better in public places? That’s why you gave the bar a try?”

  He looked hopeful. I simply nodded as my guilt strangled my words.

  “We’ll talk more later,” he promised. “Right now, you need to get your sexy ass in a dress. We’ve been summoned to dinner by Amelia Thorne.”

  “Oh, is that why you’re looking all dapper?” I said, trying to free the crush on my chest.

  He chuckled and nudged me toward the bedroom, telling me which restaurant we were meeting his family so I could dress accordingly. I was relieved that Grant had gotten over his mood, but I couldn’t shake the pit of anxiety in my gut.

  A pit that only grew as we neared the restaurant. When we arrived, instinct screamed at me not to get out of the car.

  “Blaire?” Grant’s voice came to me in a vacuum. “Are you okay?”

  There were several cars pulling up to the dining establishment with elegantly dressed couples stepping out.

  “Restaurant’s busy tonight,” I remarked inanely.

  “Friday, I guess,” Grant shrugged. “Shall we?”

  Tyler opened my door and I forced myself to step out. Grant offered me his arm and I clung to him tightly. He glanced at me questioningly, putting a reassuring hand over my icy fingers as he led me into the restaurant.

  The place was packed and every pair of eyes swung to us and I froze. There was no question this was a private event.

  Grant cursed under his breath. “What the fuck?”

  Amelia met us at the entrance, her expression apologetic.

  “Intimate dinner?” he growled at his mother.

  “Gus,” his mother hissed. “He invited supporters to formally announce your dad’s reelection campaign. I could strangle Marcus for agreeing to this. I forgot to call you because I was swamped getting ready at the last minute.”

  Grant turned me toward him, resting his hands on my shoulders. “What do you want to do, Angel?”

  I wanted to leave. I felt too exposed.

  The words wouldn’t come.

  Someone called our attention. Bulbs flashed, and our picture was taken.

  “That’s it,” Grant muttered. “I’m taking Blaire home.” Not waiting for his mother’s answer, he wrapped his arms around me and rushed me back to the car, but my heart had already splintered on what I had to do.

  Our photographs were splashed in the tabloids the next day.

  Game over.

  Weeks later, I left him.

  9

  Present

  Grant stared at the various documents before him. Passports from different countries—Mexico, Germany, Russia, and Canada. The woman in the picture was undoubtedly Blaire, but with different names and hair styles. With each discovery, the hole in his chest expanded into a chasm. He wanted to roar. Instead, he crouched down and studied the contents of the safe: two gold bars, money in different currencies, two cell phones and a couple of flash drives.

  “Mr. Thorne.”

  Grant stood and glared at the wall before him. “I don’t know who she is anymore, Donovan. Is Blaire even her real name?”

  “What do you want me to do here, sir?”

  “Gather everything, especially the passports and flash drives.” He nodded in front of him. “And those.”

  The wall of guns.

  A veritable arsenal of sniper rifles, carbines, semi-automatics and more.

  10

  Grant

  She’d lied to him.

  A few days after the discovery at the log cabin, Grant had managed to control his rage enough to function on the low side of normal. He didn’t know what he would have done if Blaire had been with him then.

  Was she a spy? For which side? Or was she doing something illegal? His blood boiled, remembering the many times he thought about her excuse about being an introvert and he had fallen for it: hook, line, and fucking sinker.

  It always baffled him how the few occasions he’d brought Blaire over to his parents for an intimate dinner, she didn’t exhibit any social awkwardness at all. She charmed his mothe
r and father. It was in public places where she seemed to withdraw into herself and Grant figured that was why she liked going to the park during the week when it was less crowded. This bombshell blew all his notions to bits.

  She wasn’t socially inept. Whatever Blaire was involved in, being seen in public would be catastrophic. She couldn’t afford to have her picture taken and have it splashed over the tabloids. Being anonymous wasn’t a choice—it was imperative for who she was.

  The sound of a crash broke the internal war in his head and he realized he’d thrown the paperweight straight across the room and knocked one of their industry award plaques off the wall, leaving a dent in the plaster.

  His personal assistant, Heather, rushed into his office, looking concerned.

  “I’m okay,” Grant muttered. “Just dealing with some shit.”

  “Is there anything I can get you?” she asked softly.

  Feeling uncomfortable under his PA’s scrutiny, he changed the subject. “Any word from Donovan?”

  She shook her head. “He’s still in DC following up on a job you gave him. He said he might be back tomorrow.”

  “That’s good. That’ll be all, Heather. Thanks.”

  When his PA left, he resumed brooding. Logic dictated he should let Blaire go. His father was running for reelection. If Blaire were in some way mixed up in any illegal or clandestine activity that may cause a scandal in their family, he should forget her.

  But his heart refused to listen to logic. They’d been happy. That was fucking real. No. He and Blaire were not over. Far from it. An underlying fear festered through all his anger, a gut feeling that his woman was in danger. The instinct to protect her roared inside him.

  Grant waited at the curb of the Grand Hyatt, watching the limos crawl by. At this rate, he’d be out of here in another hour. He took out his phone and called his driver-slash-bodyguard.

  “Mr. Thorne.”

  “Where are you, Tyler?”