Captive Lies

by Victoria Paige

  I huffed and decided to concentrate on my meal, taking the meat out of its shell, and dropping it into the broth. I preferred to de-shell all the mussels first. Grant always found it amusing as he did now. Although, I’d say there was an indulgent look in his eyes that caused my heart to skip a beat. He took a healthy bite of his burger, chewing thoughtfully. I enjoyed spoonfuls of succulent mussel, alternating it with bites of garlic toast that had been drenched in the briny liquid.

  We ate in silence for a while, drowning our senses in the chatter of the brasserie patrons and the aroma wafting from the kitchen. Butter and garlic—a heavenly combination.

  “I’d like for you to attend an art exhibit with me,” Grant said, putting his half eaten burger aside.

  “An art exhibit?” I asked. “You have time for that?”

  He looked affronted. “I have time for you. Actually, the gallery is displaying some of the artwork I’ve inadvertently acquired in my recent property deal.” A smug expression crossed his face. “Apparently, one of the buildings in that acquisition was sitting on almost a billion dollars worth of lost art.”

  “What?” My fork dropped into my bowl. “How long have you known? Wasn’t that business deal of yours almost a month ago?”

  “Yes, the business deal that made me almost lose you,” he said, as a grim look crossed his face. “I’ve known about the art since a few days after the purchase, but it took a while to work things out with the Russian authorities whether the art belonged to me or the state.”

  “And?”

  “For now, I’m its custodian,” Grant stated matter-of-factly. “We’re talking about art stolen from Europe by the Nazis. When the pieces come out, I’m sure people will come forward to claim them. I’m not interested in selling, although Christie’s has already given me a call.”

  I had to pick my jaw off the table. I wiped my lips primly with a napkin. “You’ll do the right thing.”

  Grant had a gleam in his eyes. “Come on, you’re curious about the collection I have.”

  “Oh, I dunno, am I?”

  “Blaire,” he said chidingly before he returned his attention to his burger, but I saw him sneaking glances at me, the corners of his lips twitching as he tried not to smile.

  I stabbed at the poor mussels and continue eating. Finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore. “All right! Whose art do you have?”

  Grant took his time finishing his burger, and when he’d swallowed the last bite, I was, indeed, ready to stab him with my fork. Not really.

  “Well, let’s see,” he said in all mock suspense. “Definitely Picasso, Renoir, Matisse. Degas, Max Liebermann… the list goes on and on. Baby?” he asked in amusement. “Are you okay?”

  “Oh my God. Oh my God,” I whispered. “And you kept this from me? How could you?”

  “I wanted to be sure that I could bring them Stateside,” Grant said. “I didn’t want to raise your hopes and then let you down. I also wanted to secure the art gallery first.”

  “I’m sure you had a lot of offers.”

  “The Guggenheim called as well.”

  Good Lord. How did everyone know but me? I lived with the guy. Of course I couldn’t complain because I was the fool who tried to avoid him for weeks.

  “I’ve picked one right here in SoHo,” Grant continued. “The Prestige’s owner is a friend of mine. The artwork arrives tomorrow. Blaire, are you certain you’re all right? You’re looking a bit pale.”

  I glared at him. “You’re a tease, Grant Thorne.”

  “Would you like to help him set up in the gallery?”

  Containing my excitement took sheer will. I would have shot up from my chair and hugged and kissed him. Instead, I kept my ass planted firmly in my seat and smiled at Grant. “I would love to.”

  “It’s okay to kiss me, you know,” he said with a knowing grin.

  Shaking my head, I smiled into my drink. This man was too charming. I should be alarmed that I was falling for him all over again, but I wasn’t.

  For the first time in weeks, my heart lifted with hope. I looked at Grant who had glanced away to get the attention of our waitress.

  He gave me hope.

  30

  The Watcher

  At the corner of Spring Street, diagonally across from the brasserie where Grant dined with Blaire, a man stood against a brick building seemingly occupied with his smartphone. He observed the bodyguards standing discreetly away from the couple and yet keeping a watchful eye on the surroundings. This was why he didn’t approach any closer. Standing near the intersection where pedestrians came in waves from the Prince Subway station was enough for him to keep a low profile.

  Thorne and Ms. Callahan were getting ready to leave. He should too.

  He walked away to make his report.

  Finding a quiet corner, he swiped his phone to call his contact.

  “Yes?” a gruff voice answered.

  “Thorne picked up Ms. Callahan from the therapist office. They just finished lunch. It appears they’re still very much together.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “That’s what I’m picking up on Thorne’s side,” the watcher said. “Ms. Callahan appears more reserved, but I think Thorne said something that made her happy.”

  “Security around her is tight?”

  “Very.”

  “It’ll be a problem if she sees the paintings. My sources tell me they will arrive tomorrow. The Prestige Gallery is handling the exhibit.”

  “What do you want me to do, boss?”

  “Are you sure there’s no way to grab Paulina—Ms. Callahan?”

  “Her guard dogs are alert to her surroundings.”

  “Any indication they’ve made you?”

  “No, I’m pretty sure they haven’t. I change my appearance often.”

  “Good. I want you to watch the gallery and let me know as soon as the shipment arrives.”

  “How about Ms. Callahan?”

  His employer sighed. “If she sees any of the paintings and recognizes them, we’ll have to deal with it then. My people got to her before. I served her to Orlov on a silver platter and he fucked that up.”

  The watcher understood his boss’s frustration. Orlov was supposed to hand Ms. Callahan to him while the ROC, with more than enough manpower, organized a heist of the paintings. But now, that wasn’t happening. The ROC was crippled and his boss had a lot of money on the line if he didn’t get some paintings back.

  “Grant Thorne has thwarted me at every turn,” his boss continued. “He doesn’t care about the paintings, but this girl, Blaire, means everything to him. She has many uses and it’s time I teach Thorne some humility.”

  “Boss?”

  “You watch the gallery and keep me informed if Ms. Callahan shows up. I’ll set things in motion, be ready to take her.”

  31

  Grant

  The unfettered view of the Midtown Manhattan skyline from his corner office at 150 Greenwich Street used to give Grant a sense of purpose. He’d worked tirelessly over the past twelve years. So when he’d finally moved Thorne Industries from their rambling office space in New Jersey to the coveted top floors of this building in Manhattan four years before, he felt he’d reached the pinnacle of his success. And yet, as he stood looking down on some of the skyscrapers that exuded financial power, the rush wasn’t the same. There was resentment there, that the conquests he’d coveted before were the cause of the danger now facing the people he loved the most. He made his first million before he graduated from Harvard Business School and bought his first tech company by the time he’d gotten his diploma. He’d been accused of corporate raiding, but he only took over when he felt an organization’s leadership was incompetent. Did he have to lay people off? Sure, he had, but not without careful consideration. Layoffs hurt company morale and spelled doom for productivity. After restructuring and bringing a business back to profitability, if there were open positions, first priority was given to deserving former employees. Grant was a resul
ts-oriented CEO. He didn’t care how an employee spent his time as long as he or she did the job and did the job well. That meant he had no time for sloth and people who couldn’t carry their weight.

  With his success, he had made enemies, and this success had also meant less time with Blaire. It was time to make changes. He’d have to work fewer hours and hire people to take over some of his work. That might make the board nervous, but he didn’t give a fuck. The high he’d experienced after each business coup was gone. Blaire had become his new drug and she was one addiction he had no intention of giving up.

  The intercom buzzed. “Mr. Lopez is here to see you,” Heather informed him.

  Rafe was his second-to-last appointment for the day.

  “Send him in.”

  His managing director walked in and Grant noted he didn’t look as harried as he did in the past few weeks. He’d let Rafe spearhead the recent property acquisition and, from all reports, Thorne Real Estate was weeks from closing the deal.

  “Grant.”

  “Rafe. You’re looking more rested today. I heard things are going well with the Meridian deal.”

  Rafe blew out a breath and sat on the chair in front of Grant’s table. “Yes, we’ve finally managed to convince the Russian government to sell us the land the structures sit on.” The recent rise in real estate interest in Russia was spurred by the relaxing of ordinances regarding property ownership. Russian law dictated that the land and the structure on it were treated as separate legal entities, thereby, making private ownership complicated. For a prime location in Moscow, Grant’s company preferred the outright purchase of the land rather than a long-term lease, especially given volatile relations between Moscow and D.C.

  “I knew you had this, Lopez,” Grant grinned, pleased.

  “I don’t know how you do it, man,” Rafe gave a lopsided smile. “Stay above all the dirty business.”

  Grant walked away from the wall of windows and perched on the edge of the table. “Who?”

  “Who else?”

  “Ivan Yashkin,” he muttered. The Russian oligarch was a pain in the ass. These new-monied businessmen emerged after the fall of the Soviet Union and rise of Russian privatization and had made Grant wary of doing business in the country. However, having a U.S. Senator for a father had its perks, not because he relied on his father’s position of power—although one couldn’t argue its advantage—but because of the political and business connections he’d forged. It definitely leveled the playing field for his company to do business in the country. The oligarchy had their influences in the Kremlin; Grant did as well. What his company wouldn’t touch was the use of organized crime to influence the decision-making process of the entities they do business with.

  “Yup,” Rafe confirmed. “He’d been a nuisance player in our bid for the Meridian.”

  “He really wanted the Galleria Development and, when we won the bid, he released all kinds of bad press about Thorne Industries in the Russian media.”

  “I never understood why he wanted that development so badly,” Grant said. “His interests are energy and technology.”

  “Maybe he wanted a piece of the real estate market boom.”

  Grant shrugged and nodded at the binder Rafe was holding. “Those need my signature?”

  “Can’t wait to get rid of me, boss?”

  Grant winced. “I hate it when you call me that.”

  His friend chuckled. “Well, it’s true. You sign my paycheck.”

  He took the binder from Rafe. “I’ll look over these tonight. Now get out of here.”

  Giving Grant a mock salute, his managing director left the office.

  As soon as the door closed, his intercom buzzed again. “Jake Donovan here to see you.”

  His head of security entered with long, easy strides. Grant had increased pressure on his investigative division and Jake Donovan in the past month to do thorough background checks on his father’s associates and especially his security. The senator didn’t know this.

  “By the look on your face, you have something for me,” Grant observed.

  Jake gave a brief nod. “Nothing on the senator’s personnel. Everyone’s got a clean record. We do have a lead on the explosive device.”

  “And?”

  “Gazinef Holdings mines the triptinum ore. It’s a subsidiary of YGE.”

  “You’re fucking kidding me,” Grant rasped. “Yashkin Global Enterprises owns Gazinef?”

  “Yes. There are several companies that make the explosive device, but the blast didn’t leave any signature as to whom the bomb maker was. Our only link right now is YGE, which makes me wonder if this isn’t partly about your recent face-off on the Galleria deal.”

  “The Russian oligarchs do have strong links with the Russian mafia. Have you found any communication between Yashkin and the ROC?”

  Jake shook his head. “Not through regular channels. I’m looking into his associates. I don’t think he’d do his own dirty work.”

  “This troubles me,” Grant said. “I just announced to the whole world that Blaire and I are together again.” The picture of he and Blaire hit the tabloid news sites immediately after their lunch that day. “Rafe just informed me that Yashkin is giving him heartburn. What if he’d found a way to go after Blaire again?”

  “We’re speculating right now. Everything is circumstantial,” Jake cautioned and then heaved a sigh. “I’ve uncovered another piece of information that I think might piss you off.”

  “What?”

  “The paparazzi who hounded you and Ms. Peterson and took those pictures that were posted on the Tattler website? The tip came from Senator Thorne’s office.”

  “Lynch,” Grant growled. “How did you find this out?” Gus was a source of friction between the senator and Grant since Blaire’s abduction. He wanted the man fired, but his dad and his political strategist had over twenty years of history. Although Lynch had been severely reprimanded, the senator had no intention of firing his aide.

  “Phone records,” Jake paused. “There are some phone calls from Lynch’s phone to Russia, but they were telephone numbers of people working on the senator’s legitimate projects.”

  Grant walked over to his chair and sunk into it. “Lynch is going to blow a gasket when he sees me and Blaire on the web. Blaire’s association with the ROC is in the DOJ file. That’s going to come out when each one of those assholes go to trial. We’ll just have to weather public opinion.” She and the U.S. Attorney and U.S. Marshals Service discussed witness protection, but Blaire told them she was done hiding and all the evidence was with the Justice Department anyway. Grant had pulled the U.S. Attorney aside and vowed to protect her with everything he had.

  “How do you want me to proceed?” Jake asked.

  “Narrow down the list of bomb makers. See if any of them would have been in contact with Yashkin or the ROC lately. Continue to search for a link between Orlov and Yashkin.” Grant paused, rubbing a finger across his mouth contemplatively. “Also, Yashkin and Lynch.”

  “Lynch?”

  Grant nodded. “Lynch wants Blaire out of the picture; Orlov wanted Blaire. Yashkin may or may not have a grudge against me. The Galleria deal wasn’t the first time our companies have clashed. Lynch is our inside guy; Yashkin provides the bomb. By that time, Lynch’s tabloid ruse already had Blaire doubting our relationship. Though I can’t believe Lynch would put Mom in danger, he did jump at the chance to paint Blaire as the problem. The men who abducted her could have been either Yashkin or Orlov’s.”

  “Blaire out of the picture serves Lynch’s purpose, but what does Yashkin get out of this?”

  “I’m not sure. My guess? He needs something from Orlov.”

  “With Orlov dead and most of the ROC in disarray, I guess he’s the loser in this.”

  Grant smiled grimly. “And from experience, he’s not very good at losing.”

  “Should we re-evaluate our security detail?”

  Blaire was going to hate having more men on
her, but Grant didn’t want to keep her a prisoner in his penthouse either. He’d make damned sure she’d have a normal life as much as possible. Her eyes lit up when he told her she’d be helping in setting up the exhibit. “She’s going to be assisting Jeffrey Hawkins with his gallery. I want a man on every exit and inside the gallery with her. I want you to start interviewing additional bodyguards.”

  “Good idea,” Jake said. “Are you going to be explaining the increase in security to her?”

  “She’s probably gonna say I’m overreacting,” Grant sighed. “Am I, Jake?”

  “With all the evidence being circumstantial? I’d say yes, sir.”

  “Well it’s a good thing I don’t give a fuck.”

  It was late when Grant entered the penthouse. All the lights were off except the under-cabinet lighting in the kitchen. He was about to pour himself some Scotch when he heard it.

  The faint cry.

  His jaw tightened.

  Blaire was having another nightmare and this time he wasn’t waiting another second to go to her. He headed down the hallway to her room. He tested the doorknob and it was locked. Grant pulled out the key. He’d always had the key, but his own guilt with his part in Blaire’s abduction dictated he give her space. Although one might argue that forcing her to stay with him while he was giving her space defeated its purpose. But he’d had enough. She needed him and she’d pushed him away enough.

  “No! Stop … I don’t know…” her sobs tore at his heart and shredded his soul. Long strides ate the distance between the door and her bed and he slid between the covers, gathering her into his arms. She fought him, her fist glanced off his jaw, but he held on to her. Emotions burned his eyes as her keening cry shook him to his core. And then she stopped.

  She inhaled him while he held his breath.

  “Grant?”

  “You were having a nightmare.” His voice was gruff.

  She tried to push him away, but he held tight.

  “Please, Angel,” he pleaded. “Let me hold you.”