by Kira Blakely
George shook his head and pulled out a gun. “I’m really sorry about all this, Belle.”
“Because I wouldn’t sleep with you?” I asked as he kept the gun trained on me.
He shook his head as he stalked over toward me. Arching his arm up, he shook his head. “No, because you know too much.”
With that, he brought the butt of the gun down hard against my skull, and I fell to the floor and into darkness.
Chapter Eighteen
Drake
“Drakey, don’t you want another shot?”
Rose’s voice grated against my ears like nails on a fucking chalkboard. I was doing the PR for her show, Sabrina, which was some witch crap or teen drama. I didn’t really know all the details; one of my assistants handled the account personally. Still, when I got home from the cluster fuck that was the Bahamas, I’d gotten back into whatever routines I could without Belle. What a joke that was. It was as if I’d never had a life before her. Every night, the flashbacks dragged me down, thrusting me into nightmare after nightmare until I woke up to my own voice screaming until it was raw. Every day, I went through the motions. I caught myself replaying the three voicemails that Belle had left me dozens of times a day.
I wanted to call her.
But she’d been so hurt. What could I say? Maybe I was a distraction. I felt the guilt as well, that sensation that we could have done negotiations in a couple days, and she could have been home for Angelique, there when her mother got sick. It helped that I’d been able to get her Mom good care and that from all the doctors’ reports, Angelique was doing better. It also helped to be able to give her money, give her back the wealth and station her family had once had.
It didn’t help worth a goddamn that I had to spend long days with Maurice, wishing that I could ask after Belle with more than a casual curiosity. I wanted to see her, but I just couldn’t because, deep down, she didn’t want to see me.
I was a distraction after all.
But the old tricks weren’t working to keep the PTSD at bay, to keep my beast satiated. The clubs didn’t have any subs I wanted to work with, no one who’d ever compare to Belle, to my princess and her willingness to explore everything. It was worse trying to make the right image for my company and for Rose’s show. It was only a few dates on the deal, nothing more than some drinks at clubs.
But Rose was getting on my last fucking nerve.
Standing up, I tossed a hundred-dollar bill on the table. “Sorry, Rose, but I’m going to call it a night.”
“It’s not even midnight yet, baby,” she pouted. Did this routine really work on any guy?
“Oh, trust me, it feels a hell of a lot later,” I said, hurrying out to my waiting limo.
***
Most of what was happening these days I expected. I expected to be miserable. I expected the constant barrage of nightmares and to be back there, holding dead friends and their limbs in my arms. What I didn’t expect was to have a literal bucket of cold water dumped over my head the next night at close to ten p.m. Ugh, I’d been on a bender of my own after I got back from the club. I hadn’t actually passed out on my own until eleven a.m.
Jesus, what a mess, I thought as I blinked at my digital clock.
Then I groaned when Leonard and Mrs. Johnson were standing on either end of my bed. Mrs. Johnson was smiling widely, even if she had that red bucket still clutched in her fingers.
“Rise and shine, cupcake,” she said, rattling that bucket as if it were a threat. “We need to talk.”
“I think you’re not exactly into talking,” I said, standing up and hurrying into my adjoining bathroom to grab a towel. “Seriously, you two do understand that I’m your fucking boss, right? I could fire you anytime I wanted.”
Leonard chuckled as if that were the funniest joke he’d ever heard. “Operative word, sir, is ‘could.’ We both know you won’t. We’re two of the only people in the world who will put up with your crap and call you on it to your face, and you know it.”
I groused as I ran a towel over my hair. “That doesn’t mean I’m not pretty damn tempted. What the fuck was that all about?”
Mrs. Johnson finally set the bucket down and put her hands on her plump hips. “You. It’s been close to two weeks, and you’re an utter mess, dear. You’re burying yourself in your work where you can, putting out the PR image for the company, and then not sleeping. You’re worse off than you ever were before Belle came.”
“I don’t want to hear that name.”
“It’s true,” Leonard said. “You’re avoiding everything, and you know it. That girl said things—whatever she said—when she thought her mother was dying. You know she didn’t mean it because of those voicemails.”
I blinked. “How do you know about those?”
“Please, dear,” Mrs. Johnson said, her voice as syrupy sweet and maternal as ever. “We know everything. Someone has to keep an eye out for you since you can’t do it for yourself. The girl misses you, and all you have to do is contact her.”
“I guess I could call her.”
Leonard snorted. “That’ll really sweep her off her feet, sir, good thinking. You’re serious?”
“Well, it’s polite to return a voicemail,” I said, tossing my towel back to the bed.
“You haven’t spoken to her in two weeks and after a hell of a fight,” Leonard reminded, as if I could ever forget.
“And?”
“That means you’re going to need to do far more than that,” Mrs. Johnson said. “You’ll need to apologize in person with dozens upon dozens of roses if possible.”
I nodded, feeling dumb and chicken shit for avoiding Belle in the first place. I probably wouldn’t have, but I didn’t want to be in her way while her mom was going through therapy. Belle wasn’t sure what she wanted, and I felt she at least needed to stay focused while Angelique was in danger, but with her mother newly released home, that wasn’t a valid reason anymore.
Besides, if I didn’t get Belle back in my life soon, I was going to go crazy.
Frowning, I came up with an idea, but I wanted my servants out of the room first. My thoughts weren’t completely legal. They weren’t wrong, per se, but I had a feeling that Mrs. Johnson would object. Leonard? He was harder to call. Guy had a Machiavellian streak of his own.
“You’re right.”
“And another thing,” Mrs. Johnson said, her eyes going comically wide when I agreed with her. “What?”
“I said ‘you’re right.’ I have an idea but can you let a guy get dressed first? Shit, guys, I don’t need prodding like a little kid here!”
“If the shoe fits,” Mrs. Johnson said before Leonard led her out of the room.
He winked at me before shutting the door. “I’ll just go and get the Rolls warmed up then, sir.”
“Sure,” I said, waiting till he shut the door to first get on some clothes that weren’t coated with freezing water.
Then I sat down at my computer and activated a program I’d had one of my techs install years ago. I might have gone through a little bit of a phase where I liked to keep closer tabs on my subs. I regretted that now, but the software still helped me track things like cell phones down if I had the number. Right now, I was planning to see if I could plan a way to “bump into” Belle while she was out tonight or tomorrow. I figured trying to talk to her at her house with all her family would end up being a FUBAR experience. I wasn’t sure her mom, her dad, and Carol wouldn’t have pitchforks and barrels of bubbling oil waiting for me.
Better to surprise her with the roses and the diamonds somewhere with less backup.
As I fed her cell into the program, I frowned. That couldn’t have been right. According to the map and the GPS, she or at least her phone was in a warehouse in one of the shadiest, most dangerous areas of Los Angeles.
What the hell?
Maybe the damn thing had been stolen. I called it first, trying to see if I could get an answer, but the phone just rang through, and things were starting to look ev
en bleaker.
Bracing myself, I called Maurice. I wasn’t sure what lie I could tell that would be good enough to explain why I was calling at close to eleven p.m. to speak to Belle but calling his phone, but the right line of bullshit would come to me. It usually did.
Maurice’s voice was frantic on the other end. “Hello? Drake?”
“Maurice, I was trying to get Belle but her phone went to voicemail. Is she all right?”
“She’s been taken.”
“What?”
“The kidnappers just called. She was working late at the office and the cameras cut out and everything. Cops have already tried to comb through it and couldn’t find anything. The kidnappers called and told me to wait for future instructions and they’d tell me what to do. I… I don’t know what to do.”
“What about the cops?”
“They’re mad that I even called them to start. How they know about that I don’t know.”
“Maybe watching the building,” I supplied, thinking like the commander I used to be. “So, you have to wait for their orders, play on their schedule.”
“Yes.”
“Okay, let me at least call my security team on this. They’re more discrete and can do more than the boys in blue. I’ll meet you over at your place in a couple hours. I have to round the team up first.”
“Drake, thank you,” he said. “I… I don’t know what happened between you and Belle on that retreat, but she misses you. I see it every day. I just want her back, and I know you do, too.”
“You have no idea how much, Maurice,” I said. “I promise you, I’ll get her back safely. You have my word.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll see you as soon as I can.”
I hung up the phone and hurried to my walk in. I kept a few of my old service arms there in immaculate condition, just in case. I wrote it off as keeping home protection for if I was ever robbed, but the truth was there was something oddly soothing about cleaning and caring for the weapons, something rote about it my muscles were used to after years in the service. I was glad I had them.
The cops might not be able to go in and get Belle; not without making the kidnappers taking risks with her life if they felt backed into a corner. But I wasn’t a cop, and these fucking animals were about to pay.
They were about to scream.
Chapter Nineteen
Belle
The warehouse reeked of mildew. Rot and other smells assaulted my nostrils. Coughing as I came to, I almost shrieked as a rat scurried past me in the dim light. Then the overhead fluorescents flickered on, and I went from being ready to scream to launching into a tirade against the man who’d done this to me. George stood there next to a table with a small tray of food on it with a gun trained on me.
“It didn’t have to come to this.”
“You didn’t have to turn out to be a fucked-up wannabe rapist either, but I guess we all have made some shitty life choices lately,” I bit back, struggling against the bonds tied around me. “I’m serious. You just let me out of here. I’d like five minutes with you, you piece of crap!”
“I’m deadly serious, Belle.”
I stopped thrashing as I eyed his Glock. “I’m pretty sure you are. But why are you doing this? George, there are tons of other women in L.A. Fuck, any other woman. I’m not interested. I’m going to make sure you go away forever.”
“This isn’t about you, not in that way,” he said.
“Then can you please enlighten me? Because I’m getting whiplash from your Jekyll and Hyde act.”
He nodded. “I wasn’t going to come after you. Don’t get me wrong, I was going to head to Switzerland long before my trial, but I wasn’t dumb enough to keep pursuing you. You’re drop dead gorgeous, Belle, but you’re not worth federal prison.”
“Thanks,” I deadpanned. “So, why I am in a deep, dank dungeon and tied to a chair?”
“Gee, sis, don’t be so harsh,” Carol said, as she slipped through the shadows to hold her own gun trained on me. “It’s a warehouse. Sure, our company hasn’t used it in years, but it’s hardly a dungeon.”
“Carol?” My heart pounded so hard against my breastbone that I thought it would shatter. “What’s going on?”
“You’re piecing it together, aren’t you? You were the one who couldn’t just take a hint and go home instead of poking her nose into everything.”
My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe anything I was seeing. My brain was fitting the parts together, like the world’s shittiest jigsaw puzzle, but I had to be wrong. I just had to be. “What?”
“Say it,” Carol screamed, brandishing her weapon. “Tell us all what’s going on, Belle.”
“I… you’re the one embezzling from the merger? I don’t… why would you do that? After we all worked so hard to secure it?”
“No, George and I worked hard to sink the company. We wanted to be free of Dad and his outdated ideas. I thought we’d clenched it, and then you go off and sleep your way into Drake’s billions, didn’t you, sis?”
George clenched his jaw. “Like I’d touch you now. I don’t want McManus’s sloppy seconds.”
“Fuck you, George!” I shouted.
“Not ever, Belle. You’re tainted by that trash,” he said, slipping his hand into my sister’s. “I have the good one.”
“The one who should have been Daddy’s favorite. I worked my ass off at the company for years before you ever came on. I was the one trying to explain over and over about social media, but he’d never get it, never modernize. He’d always lean on me, but he’d never see me, not with precious Belle there.”
“So, what? You worked to help speed up crashing the company?”
“Yes. He deserved it,” she said, stating it as calmly as any other fact like the time or the weather outside. That was what chilled me so deeply. Carol didn’t care. How long had my sister been like this? How had I never seen the cruelty seeping into her heart? “Then we figured once you pulled off the impossible that we’d just set up a slush fund and disappear, but you couldn’t even let us have that.”
“Is that why George attacked me?”
“That wasn’t part of the plan, exactly,” Carol snapped.
“It wasn’t? Huh, sis, sounds like you’re second runner-up again,” I snapped, my anger burning through me, leading me to say things that would probably get me shot. “I bet getting a call from George in prison shocked the hell out of you. How many strings did you pull to get him bail?”
“It doesn’t matter now. I don’t want McManus’s leftovers,” George said again. “But I do want my money, and if you report what we’ve done, we don’t get our Swiss nest egg.”
“Actually,” Carol said. “I think I like the way this worked out better. Sometimes, kidnappings go wrong, you know. Sometimes, they don’t collect the money and the victims… well...”
I swallowed hard. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Daddy will always love you better. If I take you out, then he won’t,” she said, cocking the gun.
I closed my eyes, bracing for the impact of a bullet. “Drake, I love you.”
There was a shot, so loud it deafened me. But there was no impact.
Dear God, had she missed?
Opening my eyes, I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw Drake stalking into the room, his own gun trained at George. My sister was on her knees, cradling her arm as best she could. Her shoulder was gushing blood, but I knew Drake. He’d had some of the best training in the Marines. He’d have missed an artery, have known how, but Carol wouldn’t be shooting anyone else tonight.
“Drop it, George,” Drake said. “Drop it now or I blow your fucking head off.”
George shook his head. “You think you’re something, don’t you? Riding in here like her knight in shining armor, but you’re not. You’re a joke.”
“Maybe, but you need to drop that or I will drop you.”
George cocked his gun and aimed it for my head. “She only wants you, and I can’t
understand why.”
“We can talk about that,” Drake said, inching toward him.
I placed my feet flat on the floor and bent my knees as best as I could. Everything happened so fast after that. Drake edged forward again, and George shot. I kicked with everything I had and my chair flew backward, causing the bullet to miss me by inches, leaving the bullet flying by my ears so close I could feel the breeze it blew up. When I crashed hard to the floor, the ancient spindles shattered and I wriggled out of my bonds. Hopping up, I rushed to Drake, to help him.
But he didn’t need help finishing this fight.
Just like that night in the alley with the men who’d tried to hurt me, Drake was out of control. He had George pinned under him and was whaling on the other man. His fist pounded again and again into George’s nose and eyes and his hands were slicked in blood.
Rushing forward, I fell on Drake’s arm. “Please, stop!”
Drake stilled but his voice was still rough, still unfocused when he spoke. “He hurt you.”
“I know, but he can go to jail. Please, Drake, don’t kill him.”
“He hurt you,” Drake repeated as if it was the most obvious, simplest fact in the world. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
I knelt beside him and put my hand on his cheek. “No, you don’t, but I won’t let you hurt yourself, Drake. I promised myself that. Now, Master, let him go, for me.”
That seemed to cut through his confusion, through the blood lust and memories of battle that sometimes played with his mind. Drake stood up and backed away from George. I didn’t worry about securing him. He was breathing, blood bubbling up from his nose, but he wasn’t going to be walking out of here anytime soon.
“Do you have a phone,” I asked, my voice still wavering as the nausea consumed me. “I want to call my parents and the cops, too.”
“I… Christ!” he shouted, almost retching. “What did I do?”
“Nothing,” I said, finally noticing clarity back in those sincere brown eyes of his. “You saved me, Drake. That’s all that matters; now let’s call the police and go home.”’