Captive Lies

by Victoria Paige

  A mild buzz relaxed me enough to mingle and let Grant talk business with some of the guests. Valerie avoided me and I was fine with that. I didn’t have time to pretend to be civil with her. A young man I hadn’t seen before handed me a martini.

  “The Senator sent this over,” he said, smiling sheepishly. He had a mop of curly red-brown hair, a pale complexion, and a smattering of freckles. He was dressed in slacks and polo, a man of medium height. “Andrew Spencer.”

  I placed my empty glass on the side table meant for used glasses and accepted the proffered drink. “Blaire Callahan.”

  “I know. The senator mentioned I should check out the woman who’s finally captured his son’s heart.”

  I emitted a nervous laugh, and took a healthy sip of the martini. “I think the senator is jumping to conclusions. And why would he send you over?”

  The smile faded. “I’m one of his political advisors.”

  My lips paused on the rim of the glass. “Ah …” So it began, the grooming and coaching, making sure I didn’t embarrass a potential first family. They were definitely jumping the gun; they had not even heard the best part of me. I couldn’t help it and snickered.

  Andrew’s mouth quirked into a wry smile. “Just to make it clear, it wasn’t really the senator’s idea. He couldn’t care less who his son dated.”

  I didn’t offer anything, just waited for him to explain further.

  “It’s my boss, Gus,” he admitted. Of course, the senator’s main political strategist would take an interest in me. I was surprised he hadn’t sent out PIs to check out if I really graduated from Swift River High School or if I went to the Reynolds Community College or if my parents were Mike and Beth Callahan. He probably didn’t think I’d last as Grant’s girlfriend given my aversion to public engagements and thought Grant was just keeping me as a fuck-buddy. I wasn’t related to a Rockefeller, Koch, or a Kennedy. I didn’t have the right pedigree.

  “And so far, am I passing the bar?”

  “If you ask me, I think you’re perfect.” He grinned at me.

  “Are you softening me up for the kill?” I laughed.

  “Baby.” Grant appeared by my side, drawing me close. He was frowning at Andrew, but I wasn’t certain why. “I see you’ve met Mr. Spencer.”

  “Andy, please,” the senator’s man offered. “Your father sent me over with a drink for Blaire. Looks like we all need to get acquainted since the campaign meetings are gearing up.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you don’t approach Blaire when I’m not around.”

  “Grant,” I chided. “Andy here is just being friendly. It’s fine.”

  “I’ll decide what’s fine, Blaire,” Grant answered. I bristled at his tone, which was only further exacerbated when Andy’s brows shot up in response to my man’s highhandedness. I didn’t want to cause a scene, but I had a strong urge to stomp on Grant’s shoes and regretted not wearing stilettos.

  “All right, folks!” Mrs. Thorne’s voice rang through the room. “Dinner will be served in ten minutes. Please take your seats in the dining room.” She paused. “Also, there are new faces around and it would really please me if you don’t do the couples thing but, rather, mix it up.”

  “What’s the matter, sweetheart, you don’t want to sit beside me?” Senator Thorne’s baritone interjected.

  Everyone laughed as Amelia shot her husband an exasperated look. She clapped her hands to facilitate the migration of the crowd from the parlor area to the dining room.

  Andy, unfazed by Grant’s hostility toward him, offered me his arm. “I guess, we should acquiesce to Mrs. Thorne’s wishes. Blaire?”

  Grant’s grip tightened on my waist. I looked up at him, but he was staring Andy down.

  “Andy, save a seat for me,” I said before turning to face Grant.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” he growled.

  “I’d like to ask you the same,” I returned calmly. “What you said to Andy earlier was uncalled for. You’re making me sound like a doormat.”

  His expression softened. “Blaire, that’s the last thing I want to make you feel.”

  “Well, I didn’t like it,” I retorted. “Look, Andy seems like a nice guy.”

  “He was hitting on you.”

  “There’s hitting on me and there’s harmless flirting. He’s practically a kid. Don’t tell me you’re jealous.”

  “What if I am, Blaire?” Grant challenged. “You know how hard it is for me to leave Tyler alone with you? I’m jealous of every man who has the privilege of breathing your air.”

  “Okay, my man,” I cupped his face between my hands. “This is a good time to chill. We’re going to walk in there like civilized people. You’re going to let me sit beside Andy. I hope to have decent conversation with your father’s political strategist and promise not to embarrass you.”

  Grant scowled at me and jerked his face out of my hands. “How could you think you’d ever embarrass me? That’s uncalled for, Blaire.”

  “So was your highhandedness earlier.”

  “Okay, I get it,” he grumbled. Grant took my hand and led me to the dining room and walked me to where Andy stood to hold the chair out for me. It didn’t escape me that some alpha-male posturing came from Grant’s side, but Andy was surprisingly good-natured about it. After all, he did work for Grant’s father. It was best not to aggravate the son too much.

  When I sat down, Andy leaned in close and whispered, “I hope I didn’t cause trouble between you and Mr. Thorne.”

  “No, but you were very brave to offer to be my dinner partner.”

  “Your boyfriend is scary,” Andy said. “But I think Mrs. Thorne is scarier.”

  I burst out laughing. I wasn’t meaning to because, even without looking, I could feel the weight of Grant’s glare behind me.

  “Shit,” Andy murmured. “Maybe your boyfriend is scarier.”

  “He’s glaring at us, isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” my dinner companion sighed dramatically. “Should I be worried about walking to my car later?”

  “I’m not sure.” I was surprised that it was an honest reply.

  17

  Blaire

  I’d never had a more relaxed dinner in the presence of this political crowd—maybe because I wasn’t sitting beside Grant who drew everyone’s attention. It was fortunate that he was engaged in conversation on both sides of the dinner table. It seemed Andrew Spencer turned out to be closer to my age of twenty-nine. He had the look of a college freshman. He lamented his boyish features, saying that people frequently underestimated him and it had been difficult to find work out of college. He’d been lucky to land a position on the Florida governor’s campaign and managed to turn a beleaguered politician’s career around. That was how Gus Lynch discovered him and offered to be his mentor.

  “I’ve admired August Lynch since college,” Andy said with obvious hero-worship. “I can’t believe he called me a few weeks ago and offered me a job.”

  “You mean he called you out of the blue?” I asked.

  “No. I sent in an application when there was an open position,” he said. “I had these alerts that notify me of available openings with lawmakers I admire.”

  I was careful not to reveal too much of myself to Andy. I knew his affable behavior could be a smoke screen for a cunning political mind. Why else would a shrewd man like August Lynch hire him to be his aide. I immediately felt guilty when I thought about it. No harm. No foul. Andy was a consummate dinner companion and conversant.

  When people started to rise from the dinner table, I saw Grant make a beeline for his dad.

  Shit. This is it.

  All my nervousness from earlier returned and that last bite of chocolate pie seemed to have lodged in my throat. I gulped some coffee.

  “Hey, you okay—?” Andy started. “Hmm … looks like I’m needed. Uh-oh, I hope your boyfriend’s not complaining to the senator about me.” For the first time that night, Andy looked unsure of himself as he pushed back f
rom the chair. “Excuse me, Blaire.” He smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I enjoyed your company at dinner.”

  I wanted to assure him that Grant’s call for a meeting with his dad and political advisors had nothing to do with one of them hitting on his girlfriend. Even Grant wasn’t that petty; he would’ve handled that situation himself. I kept my mouth shut though. Andy would find out soon enough that fifty percent of what I told him over dinner was fabricated.

  The guests had started to leave. Amelia and Valerie were busy chatting them up on their way out while I sat in one corner of the parlor, pretending to show interest in the latest issue of Elle Home. I’d made some acquaintances, mainly women who were curious as to who had managed to hold Grant Thorne’s attention for months. As for the men, they wanted to find out how they could win favors with my man. I wasn’t delusional to think it was my sparkling personality that attracted their interest. I snickered inwardly.

  The door to the senator’s office opened and a stone-faced Grant emerged, heading straight for me. Uh-oh. Not sure those forty-five minutes that they’d spent holed up was a done deal. When he reached my side, he held out his hand. “They want to talk to you.”

  “Of course,” I replied, but it didn’t mean I was going to tell them everything.

  When we entered the senator’s study, Marcus was perched on the edge of his desk, Andy was sitting in front of it and Gus was pacing the length of the room. The collective gazes that zeroed in on me when we stepped through the doors nearly had me retreating, but Grant’s firm hand on my elbow was all the courage I needed.

  I smiled tentatively.

  Gus Lynch was about to open his mouth when Senator Thorne held up his hand to stop him. “Blaire, please sit,” he said.

  Grant guided me to the chair. He walked back to the entrance, closed the door, and leaned against it.

  “I’m going to be cliché for a second,” the senator led in. “To say that this was a big surprise is an understatement. I thought Grant was going to tell me he was getting married.”

  I glanced at Grant, but his expression was unreadable, he didn’t even crack a smile. Okay, this wasn’t reassuring. My initial bravado deserted me, and I felt like a lamb being led to the slaughter.

  “This link to Russian Organized Crime is troubling,” the senator admitted. “But we don’t choose our families. What we want to know, my dear, is if you have participated in any way in that business.”

  I remembered how Grant had stopped Jake from asking me the same question. This time he remained silent by the door, but not a muscle twitched on his face except for a subtle darkening.

  “My father brought me along sometimes when I was too young to be left alone, and when there was no one to look after me. The calls mostly came late at night or early in the morning.”

  “Jesus, how old were you?” the senator asked while Grant cursed. Gus stopped pacing and watched me intently. I couldn’t look at Andy.

  “My mother died when I was two.” I shrugged. “I went with him until I was thirteen.” This explained my relative calm around dead bodies.

  “And you didn’t assist in anyway?” Gus asked.

  “What? Like hand him the pliers so he could extract their teeth?” I asked.

  “You think this is a joke, Blaire?” Gus snapped.

  “I’d watch your tone if I were you,” Grant warned his father’s aide.

  “You asked me if I assisted him. I remember handing him stuff because he was busy trying not to leave evidence behind,” I retorted. “You think it’s a picnic for me recalling the childhood I had to spend among the casualties of the ROC?” I tapped my temple. “I see it in my head. I hear my father’s voice explaining to me why blood is spattered the way it was or how the person was killed. I had to cope, so my father made it into a science project. But as I got older, don’t think I didn’t see how wrong it was.” I took a deep breath. “I was eight-years old when I was pissed at the dead because they made me miss school and I had to skip art class. Years later, when I think back to how I felt, I realized how this had fucked me up so bad.”

  Andy, who was fidgeting on his phone, looked up. “It said here Yuri died of heart failure.”

  “They didn’t want the police looking into it, probably because they also killed my father.”

  “You’re safe from getting prosecuted for his death,” Gus concluded.

  “It was self-defense,” Grant barked, walking across the room to put his hands on my shoulders. I put my hand on one of his to reassure him I was fine.

  “It was self-defense,” I said. “My conscience is clear on that point.”

  “That’s good,” Gus said. “Look, Grant. I have to play devil’s advocate here. Blaire is on the run from the Russian mafia and, as much as we want to distance your father’s campaign from your relationship with her, it’s impossible. Your relationship with her … is your family’s relationship with her. She’s not some first or second cousin. She’s your girlfriend and, through you, she has direct access to the senator.”

  “The ROC is not a top priority for the FBI,” the senator said. Marcus Thorne was the Vice Chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee. “It’ll be challenging to pull resources to investigate them. Mobs are just hard to dismantle, especially since they’ve blended so well into the community.”

  “I’m having my men look into them,” Grant said.

  “I’d be careful poking into their business, son,” the senator replied. “The Russian mafia is known to have ties to the Kremlin. In fact, the Russian government and the oligarchy have used the mafia to do its dirty work. Your business interests in Russia could become vulnerable.”

  Grant shrugged, as if unconcerned. “I’ll tell my men to be careful. If I have to pull out of the Russian market so everyone feels better, I’ll do it. I’d just hate to give those fuckers the satisfaction.”

  “As long as they exist and want Blaire, they could be a threat to this family’s safety,” Gus said, turning to me. “I’d like to help you, my dear, I really would. We don’t want the Thorne family to be a target of the Russian mafia.”

  “They’re nothing like the Italian Mob, though,” Andy interjected. “They prefer to do things low-key. The last thing they want is to go after a high-profile target.”

  “They should have thought about that before they went after my son!” the senator snapped, momentarily losing his cool.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. I heard Grant mumble something to his dad.

  “Grant said you have several flash drives that have a collection of evidence regarding the crime scenes,” Gus said. He looked doubtful. “What’s on it?”

  “Photos, voice recordings, and some videos,” I said. “A witness list.”

  “Okay, that’s a start,” Gus said. “But what of the other evidence, Blaire? The physical evidence that a forensic lab can process? Without that, photos and recordings are not much to work with.”

  Of course you’d expect a lawyer to always think like a lawyer in evidentiary support. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to mention the self-storage unit yet.

  “There’s a storage unit …” my voice trailed off. Grant’s hands dropped from my shoulders.

  “You didn’t mention that to me,” he stated flatly.

  “It didn’t come up,” I offered. It was a lame excuse, but that was a big piece of what the ROC was after, their history of crime and violence was stored in an eight by ten space in an industrial lot in Miami.

  “So, where is it?” Gus asked.

  My lips thinned. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you right now.” Liam and I didn’t know the exact location either, but he was working on it.

  There was a smug look on Gus’s face. “Grant, I thought you and Blaire were on the same page. What else has she not told you?”

  I couldn’t look at Grant, but I wasn’t even sure he could look at me right now and I was right. He moved to the window of his father’s office, probably to stare outside and contemplate his woman who was full of se
crets.

  “Come on, guys,” Andy said. “The poor girl has been on the run for two years. She grew up with the Russian mafia, where it’s ingrained at an early age that discussing mob business gets you killed.”

  I was startled to find an unlikely ally in Andy. With the way Gus turned to glare at his protégé, I was afraid he was going to get himself fired.

  I quirked a smile at Andy, barely controlling the urge to grin broadly. He winked at me as if saying, “I got you, girl.”

  Grant was instantly at my side, but I refused to look at him. As much as I understood where he was coming from, I felt he abandoned me when I needed his support, and it had taken someone I barely knew to give me what he should have.

  “When did you suddenly become an expert in the mob, Spencer?” Gus demanded.

  “The Godfather and Sopranos,” Andy said, deadpan.

  “I don’t believe this,” Grant growled. “You got this clown as my father’s political strategist?” He was looking at Gus.

  I wanted to smack Grant upside the head. I wanted to yell at him that at least Andy—a total stranger—stood up for me. I was about to get out of my chair and give Grant a good talking to when the senator intervened.

  “Grant, Gus. Both of you, stand down,” Marcus ordered. “I can’t believe that you two couldn’t see what was happening here.” The senator shook his head. “Andy is right, we can’t expect Blaire to tell us everything. I know enough about ‘need to know’ working the Intelligence Committee.” He looked at Andy. “Well played, my man.”

  Grant shot his father an incredulous look. His father returned his scowl and said, “I’m disappointed in you, son, but that’s conversation for another day.” Then the senator’s eyes landed on me. “Blaire, I’ll respect your wish to keep some of your knowledge private. I presume it’s to protect someone involved, but the sooner we address the threat to you, the better I’d feel about my family’s security.”

  “Understood, sir,” I said.

  The meeting broke up soon after that.