Captive Lies

by Victoria Paige

  “You’re not leaving,” he declared. “If I have to keep you locked in this room, so be it.”

  “Then you’re no better than Orlov,” she whispered, eyes blinking in disbelief.

  He inwardly flinched at being compared to that son of a bitch, but hope flared seeing a reaction other than indifference.

  “Yes, you’ve made that clear,” he jeered. “I’m one of the people who’ve started you on this self-pitying journey.”

  This time her face blanched. “Self-pitying? LIAM IS DEAD!”

  “Yes, so hate me for it.” Grant threw over his shoulder as he exited the bathroom without looking back. He felt Blaire chase after him. When he got to the door, she yanked his arm.

  “You’re a heartless bastard!” she screamed at him.

  “So hate me!” he roared. “Hate me,” he repeated, pounding a fist on his chest. “But you’re not fucking leaving, Blaire. You’re going to live with me, you’re going to endure my very existence—”

  “I’m not sleeping with you,” she cut him off.

  “I’m not fucking you until you beg me,” Grant shot back. “You’re going to New York with me on Tuesday. We’ll spend the next few weeks there. We’re not living apart. Not for a single day, and you will accept that I am it for you.”

  “I want my own bedroom.”

  Grant’s chest rose and fell with difficulty. This woman tested every bit of his patience. She always had. His jaw worked convulsively as he stared at her. It was going to be torture not to have her in his arms while they slept, but it was probably a good thing, given her injuries. The temptation to be inside her was always strong. “Done.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise and Grant inwardly smiled. She wasn’t expecting him to agree so quickly.

  “Anything else?” he inquired with a quirk of his brow and was pleased to see that old fire in her eyes.

  She shook her head and spun away from him.

  He watched her retreat to the bathroom and heard her put stuff back on the counter.

  The pressure weighing heavy on his chest lifted as he left the bedroom, but the work of winning Blaire back had only just began. He saw Tyler and Jake hanging around the kitchen, peeking down the hallway as he emerged from her bedroom.

  “Tyler, keep an eye on Blaire. Do not let her leave the house for any reason.”

  “Mr. Thorne?” His bodyguard’s brows drew together in confusion.

  “She has it in her head to leave.”

  “Are you saying I should physically restrain her if she wants to leave?”

  “Yes, but if you harm a single hair on her head, I’m going to kill you.” He looked at Jake who was trying to control a grin. “You won’t think this is so funny after I talk to you. Let’s go to my office.”

  When they reached his office, he motioned for Jake to close the door.

  His security lead had a wary look on his face. “Are there problems, Mr. Thorne?”

  “Who did you task to bring back Liam’s body?” Grant asked.

  Jake told him that one of Liam’s crew took responsibility and promised to let them know when the feds would release his remains. Since the shootout at the storage facility was under investigation, Grant had no control over the evidence collected, but he was going to do his damnedest to make sure Blaire’s friend got the burial he deserved. He saved his woman when he couldn’t. Grant owed him everything.

  “I have another request, Jake,” Grant said. “I want you to put a tracker on Blaire.”

  “On her purse? Her phone already has one.”

  “No. On her person.”

  Jake grunted a laugh and shook his head. “Does she know?”

  “She wants to leave me. You think I’d tell her?

  “Mr. Thorne, with all due respect, that violates too many privacy laws.”

  “Fuck privacy,” Grant growled. “I’m not going through that shit again of not knowing whether she’s alive or dead. I could take it when she left me voluntarily, but to have her taken from me, Jake? That fucking killed. The image of her beaten up and broken with a gun pointed at her head is forever seared into my brain. I’m obsessed with her safety. So either you do what I tell you or I’ll find someone who will. Would you trust someone else with this job?”

  Jake glared at him. “I don’t like you forcing my hand, Mr. Thorne, but in the interest of Ms. Callahan’s safety, I’ll do it.”

  “Good.”

  Jake pivoted to head out the door and Grant could tell from his head of security’s rigid back that he was pissed at him. When Jake’s hand was on the doorknob, he called his attention. “Donovan.”

  His man paused and turned his head slightly.

  “Thanks for taking care of Orlov.”

  Jake nodded. “My pleasure, Mr. Thorne.”

  29

  Four weeks later

  Blaire

  Grant was breaking down my walls. It was getting increasingly difficult to ignore his presence and his gestures of sweetness. Oh, there’d been a moment three weeks before—a few days after arriving in New York when he’d exhibited his insufferable, arrogant self. In fairness to him, I did elude my security and had almost gotten on a bus to Denver. Grant showed up at the Port Authority bus terminal murderous with rage. He immediately spotted me in line to get on the bus and headed straight for me. He gripped my bicep and hauled me from the line as I thwacked him with my big heavy hobo bag filled with my essential stuff. I’d left with no suitcase. I still had clothes in my cabin.

  It didn’t work to Grant’s advantage that he looked furious and I still bore bruises from my time in Orlov’s dungeon and my wrist was in a splint. My whole look screamed abuse victim. Grant got tackled by a guy who had the physique of a linebacker. Another man kicked him while he was down. I screamed for them to stop hurting Grant and tried to pull the giant off him, but Grant, blind with fury and fighting back fiercely, yelled at me to “stand the hell back.”

  It was fortunate that Jake, Tyler, and a few port security officers arrived at the scene before anyone got seriously hurt. Grant was bleeding from the lip. I couldn’t help but approach him to cup his jaw.

  He smiled. Actually smiled at me and said, “Can we go home now, baby?” He said it as though he hadn’t just gotten into a brawl. I huffed in irritation. The port authority officers didn’t release Grant and I until they made sure he wasn’t holding me against my will—which in reality, he was.

  He put an arm around me and said it was a “lover’s spat.” I said my bruises were from a car accident. It didn’t look like the authorities entirely believed our story, but with me not the least bit afraid of Grant and me yakking at him for his high-handedness, it appeared that he was the recipient of the abuse and not me. We went back to the penthouse and that was when I made another discovery.

  I paused right outside my bedroom door as a thought hit me and I spun around and headed back to the living room where the men were gathered. I tossed my hobo on the coffee table. “Remove it.”

  The men tensed.

  “Remove what, Angel?” Grant asked pleasantly.

  “You found me too quickly,” I said. “I left my phone here at the penthouse. The Port Authority bus station is massive. How did you find me so fast, Grant, if you don’t have a tracker on me?”

  All three men were quiet.

  “Take it out.”

  “We can’t,” Jake said.

  “Can’t or won’t?” I snapped. “I swear if you guys stitched it into the leather and ruined the purse, I’ll … I’ll …”

  “You’ll what, baby?”

  I narrowed my eyes at Grant. “Take it out!”

  He crossed his arms, bit his lower lip as if he was controlling a grin and rocked back on his heels before he pinned his gaze on me. “We can’t. It’s inside you, Blaire.”

  “It’s a tracker using nano-technology,” Jake explained. “When you swallow it, it diffuses and binds into your bloodstream. The effect is long-lasting.”

  When I could speak again, after
my shock and horror morphed to rage, I yelled,“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me! How? Who makes this shit?”

  “The military,” Jake shrugged.

  I had to rein in my temper for a full thirty seconds. Otherwise, I would have beaned all three of them with my heavy purse. “And how did it get inside me?” I asked through gritted teeth.

  “I may or may not have slipped it into your orange juice,” Tyler coughed.

  “Unbelievable,” I muttered. “You guys are unbelievable. I could sue you for this.”

  I grabbed my bag and marched into my bedroom and slammed the door.

  Two weeks after my attempted escape, we went to Atlanta for Liam’s funeral. Tyler did a search for relatives of Lucas Myers—Liam’s real name—and discovered he had a daughter who was about my age. I learned that he and his ex-wife had divorced when his daughter was seven years old, but he had been in her life until he accepted his undercover assignment with the Russian mafia. Liam’s daughter wanted custody of her father’s body. His daughter was married with two children under the age of eight. My heart broke for his family. The sacrifices Liam had made for his job, for me … especially for me, had been extreme. Grant, Jake, and I watched the service from afar because the funeral brought a resurgence of overwhelming guilt for having taken away this great man from people who loved him.

  But I loved him too.

  What the past few weeks had taught me was to gain perspective. The evidence had been brought to the U.S. Attorney General and they had begun prosecution proceedings. Liam didn’t die in vain. He had spent almost six years of his life to bring down the ROC and it was finally happening. Orlov’s death had left a power vacuum, so it had made it easier to round up the members of his inner circle. It pained my heart that Liam wasn’t alive to see the fruition of his sacrifices.

  Grant had taken time out of his busy schedule to accompany me to U.S. AG office in Brooklyn. He also convinced me to go to a therapist to work on what happened to me in that dungeon and to come to terms with Liam’s death. As I stepped out from my third appointment with Dr. Jones, drained and having cried a bucket of tears for the loss of my friend, I was expecting to see Tyler at the reception area when, instead, I found Grant waiting for me.

  “Grant, what are you doing here?”

  “Taking you to lunch. You haven’t been eating much lately. You’re starting to hurt Colette’s feelings.”

  “My lack of appetite has no bearing on her cooking skills,” I retorted. Grief and oral surgery to repair my loosened teeth sustained from the beating didn’t exactly stimulate my appetite.

  “I know, baby.” He smiled at me indulgently and my belly fluttered. No. No. No. I was not falling for that Grant Thorne charm again. Apparently my heart had a short memory.

  I couldn’t deny that without Grant’s quiet support these past few weeks, I’d be a mess. Therapy helped where I could just cry, get angry, feel sad, and not be judged. Sad moments and those flashes in the dungeon had become infrequent and, instead, Grant’s thoughtful gestures for that day would occupy my mind. I received flower arrangements almost daily; he’d call me at random times of the day or text me just to find out what I was doing. I’d received all kinds of baked goods, although Colette had something to say about that and Grant had to stop sending me sweets. I had no idea why he was keeping me with him. We weren’t having sex and, although he’d asked me out to dinner a couple of times, I’d refused. I didn’t want him to get the wrong idea that I was agreeing to a date with him. I told him several times once I was done with my twice a week therapy sessions that I was moving out, and he couldn’t stop me. Other than the tightening of his jaw, he had no comment, and he’d often change the subject. But I had a feeling he was reaching the end of his patience with me.

  Grant took me to lunch at a French Brasserie in SoHo. It was October in New York and there was a definite chill in the air, but the autumn sun was enough to make outside seating comfortable. I didn’t know where Tyler and Jake were, but I knew our security detail were somewhere nearby. Grant had become unusually paranoid when it came to my safety, but at least he allowed me to leave the penthouse as long as my three-man security team was with me. I’d gotten used to them shadowing my excursions around Manhattan as they weren’t intrusive. It was usually Tyler who was by my side; the other two either checked ahead or protected the rear.

  “Anything particular you like with the specials?” Grant asked after our server left us with the menu.

  “Hmm,” I mumbled, looking intently at the list of specials. I was suddenly very aware of how he filled his suit. As if it was tailored especially for him. He exuded such raw masculinity and power that it made every female of all ages and color turn their heads for a double take. I congratulated myself for taking extra care that morning to cover the bruises on my face that were fading to yellow.

  “Moules-frites,” I said finally and looked up, surprised to see Grant glaring at a man at the next table. The man was stealing glances at me, but when he caught Grant’s eyes, he muttered to himself and returned his attention to his plate.

  “What was that, Angel?” he asked, a bit distracted as he narrowed his eyes at someone else over my shoulder.

  “If you’re done glaring at people,” I said dryly. “I would like the Moules-frites.”

  A disconcerted look crossed his face, and then he tried to smile, but it ended up looking funny because his jaw was tight. “Sorry, can’t help it. I hate it when men look at you like they’re undressing you.”

  The same way you look at me? I didn’t say. “I’m sure that’s your imagination.”

  “Believe, me, Angel, I know the look.” Grant leaned back in his chair when our server arrived with our drinks. “Moules-frites for the lady. I’ll have your Bistro Burger.”

  “Good choice as always, Mr. Thorne,” our server said as she entered our order in her tablet, took our menus, and left.

  “So, how are your sessions with Dr. Jones? Are they helping?” Grant asked with genuine concern as he took my left hand in his palms, his warmth searing my skin. I tried to yank it away, but he held firm.

  “Grant,” I sighed in mild irritation.

  “Give me this, Blaire,” he said quietly. “I miss this physical contact with you.”

  “This isn’t a good idea,” I muttered. “Lunch is not a good idea.”

  “Why? Because it’s like a date?” he questioned, his eyes glittering with impatience. “Of course, it’s a date. Get used to it.”

  I yanked my hand away. “I don’t like games.”

  “You’re denying what’s between us,” he shot back, staring at me intently.

  Three weeks ago, I could say that his family’s safety and Liam’s death were between us, but somehow those words didn’t seem to hold much weight anymore. Did I still feel guilt? Sure, I did, but Dr. Jones thought it was survivor’s guilt. First because my Papa died covering up my killing Yuri, and then Liam, who had been my protector for two years, died trying to save me. Liam and I had forged a bond that went along the lines of fight together, die together, but then Grant happened, and Liam pushed me to have that chance at happiness.

  “I’m not.”

  The irritation on his face faded. “What are you saying, Blaire?”

  Ugh, I hated the hope in his voice. “I’m saying that I’m still attracted to you, but I still think we’re a bad idea.”

  He exhaled heavily, mild disappointment in his eyes. “You’re so aggravating.”

  I raised a brow. “So, why are you putting up with me? You’re spending money on security, on feeding me, on flowers, on chocolate. I got a bracelet from Cartier the other day and earrings from Tiffany this morning. Yet you get nothing in return except ‘aggravation’.”

  “Mom would call that courtship,” Grant returned with a maddening grin. “And the aggravation only makes me want to kiss some sense into you.” His eyes traveled down my body. “And other things.”

  I blushed to the roots of my hair and for the first time in week
s I felt a heat below my belly. Oh, hell no.

  “The sessions are very helpful,” I said, desperate to change the subject.

  “What about your nightmares?” Grant cut in.

  “How did you …,” I frowned.

  “I hear you, Blaire, when you cry in pain,” he grated, his eyes darkening. “I hear your pleas for him to stop hitting you, that you don’t know where it is.” Grant took a swig of his beer, his knuckles turning white around the mug. “Several times I was tempted to unlock your door and go to you, but just when I couldn’t stand it anymore, your cries would stop.”

  “I wasn’t sure if I was having nightmares,” I mused. “I’ve been startling awake for the past four weeks. It is less now, but I don’t remember my dreams.”

  “Let me back in your bed,” Grant said softly. “If only to hold you.”

  “I’m not ready.”

  Grant nodded. “At least unlock your door at night.”

  I looked at him dubiously. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea either.”

  Before Grant could answer, someone called our attention. We looked, and then to my chagrin, a paparazzi took our photograph. “Mr. Thorne, are you back together with Blaire Callahan?”

  Grant didn’t say anything, because Tyler and another bodyguard materialized to confront the photographer who took off rather than have his camera or flash card confiscated. But I knew better. The photographer wouldn’t have gotten through Tyler if he hadn’t been allowed to.

  I narrowed my eyes at Grant who stared at me in all innocence. “You planned that scene, didn’t you?”

  “It’s about time those tabloids got the story straight,” he said with not an iota of repentance.

  “What story? We’re not together,” I hissed.

  “Yet.”

  “Your overconfidence is aggravating,” I retorted.

  Just then, our food arrived and I had the childish urge to flick one of my mussels at him and wipe that wide, self-satisfied grin off his face.