by L. Steele
So, we are no closer to finding out who was behind our kidnappings. Antonio? Well, the man had disappeared. I’d had my PI on his tail and Antonio had given her the slip. He hadn’t been seen or heard of in the last three weeks since the party…
And that message. Why doesn’t that reassure me in the least? The hair on the nape of my neck rises. Shit, I am simply imagining things. The man is long gone. He’d gotten what he wanted—the USB which had been sent to me.
He can keep it, for all I care.
If it leaks on the internet… Well, it would only lead to more speculation—not that I care—but it would be easy enough to suppress it.
If it were to happen, which it won’t. Clearly, the man had wanted to get his hands on it. For what, though? Why was it so important to get a hold of it?
The phone buzzes in my hand. Fucking Weston. I silence it. It rings again, I switch it off. The phone on my desk rings. I walk to it and snatch it up, "What?"
"It’s Weston."
"Tell him to fuck off."
"He says it’s urgent." Meredith’s voice is patient, "I think you should take this call."
"Fine," I glower at the receiver.
"Asswipe," Weston drawls back.
"Jesus, can’t you fucking go away to a place where there are no phones—preferably no means of communication—so I don’t have to hear from you?"
"Same to you, with knobs on," he snickers. "Listen," his voice turns serious, " I called you because I've gotta come clean to you about something."
"What?"
"Promise you won’t go all apeshit when I tell you."
"Shit." My heart begins to thud, "Just say it."
"I don’t know, I promised her I wouldn’t."
"Who?"
"Victoria."
"You and she spoke?"
"At the hospital that day, and I’d been hoping for the two of you to come to your senses. Hell, I’d hoped she would tell you herself. Not that I should be breaking doctor-patient confidentiality... But I warned her."
"Fuck that. If you don’t tell me right now—"
The sound of honking reaches me over the line.
"Bloody cunt," he swears.
"What?"
"Not you. This fucker who’s trying to overtake me—what the hell—?" he swears aloud again. There’s more honking, the sound of brakes screeching.
"Weston, what the fuck—?"
The sound of metal scraping against metal, then Weston’s voice comes on the phone again, "Shit, Saint, this is not over not by a long shot. She’s preg—"
The line goes dead.
"The fuck?"
I glare at the receiver. My fingers tremble and my knuckles are white. How strange. I place the phone back in the cradle. Then reach for my phone. She’s what? She’s…fine. She has to be. And Weston? Shit, my heart begins to race. The noise in my head clears. He was in an accident. I need to get to him. I reach for the phone and dial my operative.
Half an hour later, I race up the corridor of the Whittington hospital. My investigator had tracked down Weston with a speed that had impressed even me. Well, I owe her a small fortune—but she’d delivered. This time, I barrel into the private room, and swerve. A jug of water misses me narrowly and crashes to the floor behind me.
"The fuck?"
I glance at Weston, sprawled on the hospital bed. His arm is in a sling, cuts and bruises mar his face, and his shirt is torn… Other than that, he seems fine. Which is more than I can say about the white-faced nurse who turns to me.
She throws up her hands, "Are you family?"
"A friend."
"Fine. Then," she thrusts a small plastic cap filled with pills at me, "you make him take those."
She brushes past me.
"Hold on, is he okay?"
"He won’t be able to use his arm for a little while." She raises her shoulders.
"The fuck?" He snarls, "I am a surgeon. I need to use my hands."
She winces, then turns and scurries from the room.
I turn to face my friend. Sweat beads his forehead and dirt smudges his face.
"You okay?"
He sets his jaw, "Totally."
I glance at the pills.
"You’re not going to make me take those," he growls.
"Nah, man." I set them down on the table next to the bed, "I am not your nurse. Besides, you’re funny about painkillers, right?"
"Yeah," he scowls at his injured arm. "The fuckers say I need to rest my hand," he growls.
"What happened?" I ask.
His face reddens, "I fractured my finger, apparently."
"Finger?" I clear my throat, "Don't tell me... It's..."
"My fucking middle finger." He holds up his hand with the sling, showing me the bird... Or rather, his middle finger in a splint.
He winces, then lowers his hand. "Hurts like a bitch, too," he grumbles.
A chuckle bubbles up; I change it to a snort.
"You think this is a joke, Caldwell?"
"Of course, not." I keep the grin on my face though. "You're a doctor. Can't you make them change the diagnosis?"
He glowers back, "Funny. Should I laugh at that?"
"Don’t care, ol' chap, just don't cry on my shoulder."
He pushes into the bed, "Why are you here, you dickhead?"
I stop laughing. "What happened?" I lean forward.
"This car came out of nowhere and forced me off the road."
"You sure?" I steeple my fingers together.
"Do I look like I am kidding?"
"No," I drag my fingers through my hair. "Well, the good news is, it’s only a fracture."
"To my hand. My right hand. My fucking dominant hand. You know what this means, right?"
I straighten, "You’ll be out of commission for a little time?"
"I am a surgeon, asshole. If the arm doesn’t mend properly, I’ll never be able to operate again."
"Shit," I pale. "I’m sorry man."
"Fuck." He bangs his head back against the headboard, "Fucking, fuck."
"Easy." I frown down at my friend, "At least, you’re alive."
"They weren’t trying to kill me, just put me out of commission."
"By causing you to fracture your middle finger?"
He scoffs, "It wasn’t an accident, man, I’ll tell you that."
"So, you think this was done on purpose?" I frown.
"Sure seems that way to me?"
"Why would anyone want you out of commission?"
"Beats the hell out of me." He straightens his shoulders, "One thing is for sure, we need to double the security on all of the Seven and those who matter to us."
A frisson runs down my spine, "Before the accident, you said something, before you got cut off..."
"That I was being forced off the road?" His forehead crinkles.
"No at the end, you said Victoria was…"
"Pregnant."
"Shit." The world sways around me. I sink into the chair, "That's what she was trying to tell me."
"She told you and you let her go?" he snaps.
"Not exactly..." I stab the heel of my shoe into the floor. "She asked me a riddle, which I couldn’t solve—"
"Hold on." He leans forward, "She asked you a riddle."
"Yeah."
His gaze widens, "You never allow anyone to challenge you."
"I let her, okay?" I squeeze my eyes shut. "Only her," I swallow. "It’s complicated."
"No shit."
I hear the smile in his voice, crack my eyelids open. "Don’t feed me a line about sentimentalism and all that shit."
"You’re doing that, all by yourself."
I sink back in my chair, massage my chest, "I think I’m going to have a cardiac."
"Handy I’m right here, then, isn’t it?"
"Har, har," I snarl. " You’re fucking annoying, man. “
"Speak for yourself.”
"Fuck this shit." I dig my fingers into my hair and pull at it, "Why couldn’t she tell me?"
"It sounds like she did," he says. “You simply didn’t want to answer the riddle."
"She could have simply told me, you know?"
"And then what? Would you have accepted her and the child?"
"Maybe. I don’t know." I lower my chin to my chest, mumble, "This is bloody complicated."
"Tell me about it."
I glance up to find him staring at the sling.
"I’m sorry about your finger."
He sighs, "Me too." He grabs another pillow and props it behind his shoulder, "What are you going to do now—?"
My phone buzzes.
I pull it out. It’s a message from an unknown number. Huh? I swipe open the message.
* * *
Come and get her. She's in East London. You know where to look.
* * *
I pale.
"What’s wrong?" Weston frowns.
"You were right; this is not over yet." I jump to my feet, race for the door.
"Where are you going?"
"To rescue my family."
47
Victoria
* * *
I had been stupid, so stupid. I try to swallow and my throat hurts. A drumming sensation presses in at my temples.
I yank at the ropes that tie my wrists behind my back. I try to open my eyes, but the darkness presses down against my eyelids. Shit, had he also blindfolded me? I feel along the floor with my feet... At least, I still have my boots on. Good thing I’d opted for them over ballet pumps. I’d been half way to the hospital, crossing the garden that bordered the side of the building, when someone had grabbed me from behind. I’d opened my mouth to scream and a soft cloth had been thrust into my face. I'd drawn in a whiff of a sweet, cloying scent, and had begun to black out. I’d been drugged, there was no doubt about that.
My guts churn and bile rushes up my throat. The baby… My heartbeat ratchets up. This can’t be good for the baby, surely? I draw in a breath, another. Take it easy. It’s going to be fine. I swallow down the nervousness that clogs my throat. Who could have done this? Antonio? What does he want now? Where am I?
Footsteps sound; I freeze. Who can it be? Will they hurt me?
Silence for a few moments. I hunch my shoulders, hold my breath. Go away, please don’t come close. There’s a sound of shuffling so close. A bead of sweat runs down my spine. Who is out there? My captor? What is he going to do next?
I hear a click and the hair on the back of my neck rise.
"Come out of there." A familiar voice rips through the silence, "I know you’re in there. I’m giving you five seconds to reveal yourself before I start shooting.
"No," I try to say the word out loud but my voice is muffled. "Saint, it’s me," my words are garbled. I can barely speak through the gag in my mouth. I shuffle forward, my feet thumping against a barrier.
"Who’s there?" His voice is tense. The sense of danger ratchets up. Shit, he can’t shoot. I won’t let him hurt me… Us. Worse than what might happen to me and the baby, it would destroy him. I wriggle forward, kick out again and slam into a barrier.
The next instant, there’s a creak of a door being opened and the air shifts. The darkness lightens by several shades. Had I been thrust into a closet? An electric current runs up my spine. It’s Saint. He’s here. I try to speak again, my voice muffled.
"Victoria." My blindfold is pulled off. I blink against the brightness. Arms wind around me. He scoops me up, restraints and all, and places me on the ground.
He pulls off the gag; the bindings around my wrists loosen. I crack open my eyelids to find him kneeling over me. There’s a flash of steel, then the ropes around my ankles give away. I collapse into him. "Saint," my throat hurts and a headache pounds at my temples.
"Jesus, Gigi." He pulls me into his lap and cradles me.
I press my ear to his chest, listen to the thundering of his heart. He rocks me back and forth. "You’re safe," he mumbles into my hair. His grip tightens around me and pain shivers up my arm. I whimper.
"Are you hurt?"
He pulls back to peer at my arm. I look down to find the sleeve ripped. A thin trickle of blood stains the cloth. A growl rips from him.
I shudder, "I… I’m fine."
"You’re bleeding."
"It’s a scratch," I insist.
"Who hurt you?" He pinches my chin, so I have to peer up at him, "Did you catch a glimpse of who it was?"
"No," I swallow, "I was walking to the hospital."
"Hospital?"
"For the check-up."
"Check-up—?" His voice trails off. A strange look comes into his eyes. Fear? Anger? Then his features close. "Is everything okay? Are you—?"
"I’m fine." My chest hurts; the back of my throat burns. Shit, why should it matter to me that he doesn’t want kids? This entire thing had gone wrong. He was supposed to have guessed my riddle, then embraced me, kissed me, and taken me home. To his hotel room, I mean, because of course, the man doesn’t have a place to call his own. He prefers the transience that being in a hotel room gives him. The freedom from relationships, from someone like me.
I push at his chest.
His grip tightens. "Victoria.’
"Saint."
We speak at the same time.
"I…"
"You…" I swallow, "you were saying?"
A dull thud echoes around the space. I stare at him and his gaze widens. "We need to get out of here." He rises, carrying me.
"I can walk," I protest.
He ignores me and heads for the doorway. For the first time, I glance around, taking in the space. It’s an empty room with a closet in the corner, the one I had been locked in. I shudder.
He holds me closer, "You’re safe."
His voice rumbles in his chest. I shouldn’t feel the need to lean on him, to thrust my nose into the strip of flesh that peeks out from between his lapels, and inhale his scent. My lungs fill with his essence and my heart rate stabilizes. Shit, why do I feel so secure, so protected when I’m with him? For so long, I had depended on myself—my instincts, my ability to withstand anything thrown my way. And how had that worked out, huh? I’d done a slap-up job of it—negotiating Nina's release, and my continued freedom, by agreeing to play a role in Saint’s downfall.
Tears prick at the backs of my eyes. Even my bloody hormones are no longer on my side.
"I’m sorry," I whisper.
"For what?" He prowls down the steps, reaching a landing that opens into another vacant room.
"For everything."
"I should be the one apologizing for being so hardheaded."
"No arguments there," I snicker through the ball of emotion in my throat.
"Guess that’s one more thing we agree on."
He walks out onto the landing, glances around, then continues down the dilapidated steps toward his Jaguar, parked outside.
A couple of boys in hoodies mill around nearby. I take in the house next door—paint peeling, garbage cans over-filled, with trash on the pavement outside. Across from us, there’s a boarded-up store. The other houses on the street seem as deserted. The electronic lock beeps, then he opens the door on the passenger side and places me in it. "Buckle up."
He leans back, shuts the door, and walks around. One of the boys stops him. They speak, then he pulls out his wallet, pulls out a few notes, and hands them over. He reaches into another pocket to pull out a card. He slips that to the second boy and they fist bump. In seconds, he’s in the driver’s seat, and starts the car.
"What was that about?" I ask, as he eases the cars from the curb. The boys step back, watch us as we pull away.
"Told them to call me if they see anyone coming in or out of the house."
"How did you find me?"
He pulls out his phone and hands it to me, then focuses on the road ahead.
I read the text. "Who sent it, you think?"
"Antonio?" he growls.
"Perhaps." I lean my head back into the seat. "It’s confusing. Why
would he ask you to call off those following him, then kidnap me, only to send you my whereabouts? And how did you know exactly where to look?"
His jaw tics. "When we were abducted, that’s the house where we were held. I should have bought it and torn it down a long time ago. Guess none of us wanted anything to do with it. After that incident, we simply wanted to put it behind us and move on." His knuckles turn white.
"Saint," I turn to him, "Why...would he send you to the same place?"
"A warning about what would happen if I screwed with the Mafia?" He growls, "He has no idea how personal he's made this. No way, am I letting him go without having my vengeance. He dared touch you, Gigi. He's going to pay for it."
His harsh tone slices down my spine, my nipples bead, and lust curls in my belly. Hell, hearing him all worked up on my behalf is way too much of a turn on to resist.
The phone in my hand—his phone—pings again. I stiffen and my heart begins to thud. I glance down at the screen.
"What does it say?"
I wet my lips. Read, and re-read the message.
"Aloud, Gigi."
Maybe it's the fact that he uses my nickname, or the way his voice stretches with tension, or the command in his tone that whips across my skin and makes my pussy clench. Shit, I want every dirty thing he can do to me again. Is this any way for a pregnant woman to be thinking? Is it the hormones? The fact that I am carrying his baby, that’s making me so aware of his nearness.
His voice lowers to a hush, "Don’t keep me waiting." That dominant edge of his intent slices through my barriers, reducing me to a trembling mess inside.
I swallow, then scan the words again, "You found her. Don’t let her go."
"What?" he snaps.
"That’s it." I dig my heels into the floor, "That’s all it says."
He stops at a traffic light, then snatches the phone from me. He scans the screen again, then swears under his breath, "The hell does that mean?"
I twist my fingers in my lap, "Apparently, Antonio has a conscience after all."
"What do you mean?" The signal turns green, he presses down on the accelerator, and the car leaps forward. My breath catches; my heart thuds in my chest.
"Sorry," he mutters. "It’s just— I don’t get it. Did he stage this, to get us to speak again?"