Midnight Storm (Amour Toxique Book 2)

by Dori Lavelle

  When my body starts to ache from sitting in one position for too long, I shift my weight and stretch my arms behind me. In the process I knock something over. It hits the floor hard and starts to roll away, but with my limited vision, I catch the movement and reach for the object. It’s a small bottle. My heart leaps at the thought that it could be water.

  So I was right. The commotion that woke me up was him. He entered while I was sleeping and left without a word, before I could summon the strength to fight him. The thought of his eyes on me while I was asleep makes my skin crawl.

  I unscrew the bottle and lift it to my lips. Then I stop. How can I be sure it’s safe?

  “It’s okay.” His voice slices through the silence and I jolt. “It’s water, trust me.” His words are slurred, as though he’s just woken up. He must have night vision cameras installed that enable him to see me.

  “Laced with poison?” I scoff. I screw the cap back on.

  “It’s not in my best interest to poison you. I still need you in my life.”

  Still.

  “Trusting you is not in my best interest.” My voice is low, but he hears every word.

  “Unless you want to die from dehydration, I don’t see you as having much of a choice here.”

  My thirst is making me lightheaded and nauseous. He’s right that I have no choice—that I have no choices. He stole them all.

  I lift the bottle to my lips and take a small sip, the water crisp and delicious.

  “That’s my girl.”

  Ignoring him, I take a huge gulp, then another. Before long, the bottle is empty. The relief lasts no longer than a few minutes. My thirst is quenched, but I still feel light-headed. The back of my head falls against the door. I squeeze the bridge of my nose. Why am I sleepy? It hasn’t been long since I woke up.

  An uncomfortable thought sneaks into the back of my mind, and I clench my teeth to stop from screaming out.

  Chapter Seven

  I wake up in a room with vaulted ceilings. A woman with a salt-and-pepper bun on the top of her head and a black pearl necklace around her neck is watching me. Concern is etched into the lines on her face, particularly around her thin mouth. She’s wearing a black linen dress that reaches all the way to her ankles. I estimate her to be somewhere in her fifties.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Steel.” The woman fusses around me, straightening sheets and plumping pillows on the king-size bed. “Mr. Steel said you had a lovely honeymoon in Alaska.”

  For a moment I’d hoped a miracle had happened, and I’d been saved from the clutches of my captor. Wrong.

  I press the heel of my hand to my head as a bolt of lightning explodes in the middle of my forehead.

  “That’s not my name.” I pull in a breath. “Who are you? Where am I?”

  “I’m Hanna.” She has the hint of an Eastern European accent. “You’re in your home, Mrs. Steel. You slept for a long time. You must be hungry.”

  I shake my head. Pain bounces off the walls of my skull. “This is not my home.” My anger bubbles to the surface. “Where is he?”

  She stops fussing and goes to arrange a bouquet of yellow tulips by the window. Then she turns back to me, freckled hands clasped in front of her. “He will meet you for dinner in an hour.” She returns to the bed. “I’m here to help you get ready, Mrs. Steel.”

  “Stop calling me that,” I retort. “I’m not Mrs. Steel. I’m not his damn wife. My name is Ivy Hollifield.” I peel off the bedspread. I’m still wearing the same pajamas I had on before.

  In a moment of desperation, I grab her hands. They’re the softest hands I’ve ever touched. “Please, help me.” Tears cling to my eyelids like drops of dew. “I don’t know what he told you, but he’s a dangerous man. He killed someone. He kidnapped me. Please, please call the police.”

  She withdraws her hands and takes a step back. Her expression hasn’t changed. “Mr. Steel is the kindest man I know.” She tips her head to the side. “He explained that you’re still recovering from your illness and need a lot of time to rest.”

  “Illness?” My brow creases. “What illness? What has he told you?”

  His voice pours into the room. “You don’t need to answer that, Hanna.” He must have heard the whole conversation. Of course he was watching. He’s always watching.

  I jump up from the bed and punch the air. “What the fuck did you tell her? That I have some kind of mental illness or something? That I’m mentally unstable?” I laugh through my tears. “You’re sicker than I thought.”

  “It’s all right, rosebud.” His voice is low and purposefully gentle. “I love you anyway. In sickness and in health. As Hanna told you, you’re home now. You slept the whole way here. Now let her help you get dressed for dinner. I’ll come up for you in an hour.”

  Hanna touches my shoulder and I glare at her. “Don’t you dare touch me.” I hurry to the door and turn the doorknob, but it doesn’t budge.

  “Don’t waste your energy, sweetheart. I’ve put security measures in place for your own safety. It’s my responsibility as your husband to make sure you don’t harm yourself while your memory returns. Hanna and the rest of our staff know about your head injury, which caused your memory loss and worsened your mental health. I blame myself. I shouldn’t have allowed you to go skiing.” He pauses. “By the way, Adrian, our guard, will be at your door day and night.”

  “You bastard.” I pick up the vase of flowers and hurl it at the door. It falls to the floor in pieces, water spilling onto the carpet. “Let me out of here. The only person who is sick here is you.”

  Hanna hurries to clear up the mess.

  “My sweet wife. It hurts me to see you like this. But I’m a patient man. I’ll still be here when you remember that we’re married and in love.”

  “That will never happen, because it’s a lie. An ugly lie. You’re keeping me prisoner.”

  “This is not a prison. You can’t be a prisoner in your own home. It’s all in your head.” He sighs. “Now get ready for our first dinner in our home.”

  “Go to hell. I’ll never share a meal with you.”

  “As you wish. Hanna will bring your meal to your room.”

  When Hanna brings my dinner, it comes with a note from Damien.

  My love,

  Your anger burns me from a distance. I only need to look into your eyes to read your thoughts. You think I'm the devil himself, don't you? I'm writing to tell you that you couldn't be further from the truth.

  I can't understand your pain. Maybe I don't want to.

  I'm giving you something precious, something many women only dream about. But you push me away. I'll move a step back for now, but you should know one thing: you can't wish me away. You hold something that once belonged to me. You've stolen my heart, and only your love can fill the gaping hole you left inside my chest. I need you, and with a little time, you'll see you need me too.

  Chapter Eight

  Damien tries to get me to have dinner with him again two more times, but I stand my ground. He insists I’m his wife and that I belong to him. The sooner I accept it, he says, the better. Our mostly one-sided communication is only over the speakers, however. He never comes to see me. In a way, that’s a good thing. I don’t know if I’d be able to hold back from attacking him, as I tried at his cabin.

  Today, his armed bodyguard, who introduces himself as Adrian, is ordered to strip the room of anything breakable or that can be used as a weapon. I guess he’s in his late fifties, with a handlebar moustache darker than his gray hair. For an older man, his body is fit and muscular.

  When he introduces himself to me, he extends a hairy hand. Under normal circumstances, I’d probably shake it and return his smile. He has a gap between his upper front teeth, and his smile is open and genuine. For a moment it touches my heart—a flicker of warmth to melt some of the ice. But these are far from normal circumstances, and I’m not a normal guest in Damien’s house.

  Unperturbed by my lack of warmth, Adrian shrugs a
nd does his job, humming a tune under his breath. He leaves only the necessities—the bed, the table with two chairs, and nothing else. No decorations on the walls, no lamps, no mirrors.

  As I watch him leave, I wonder why a man so obviously good-hearted would work for a person like Damien Steel. Why would he carry two guns, prepared to shoot an innocent woman if she somehow manages to break through a door that doesn’t even open from the inside? It has to be the lies he’s been fed. Like Hanna, he believes I’m sick and mentally fragile, a danger to myself and others.

  A few minutes after the door is locked, a note is slipped under the door.

  I dreamed of you last night. We were in the shower, skin to skin. You gazed into my eyes as you slicked my body with soap from head to toe, and finished the journey with your graceful hands tight around my dick, gliding up and down my length until I lost control. Unable to hold on to my sanity, I spun you around and bent you over. I just had to feel you, to peel back your layers and get to the core.

  Then I opened my eyes and the dream turned to ashes. The damn wall between us has not come down. I'm waiting, rosebud. I'm waiting for you to give me the permission to crush the wall that separates us with my bare hands.

  Sleep well tonight. I’ll see you soon.

  On the third day, Damien comes to see me. He’s wearing a crisp blue shirt rolled up at the elbows, and black dress pants. His dark hair is trimmed and teased with a little gel.

  A thread of longing whispers through me, followed by an ache deep within my gut, in the place that used to be occupied by butterflies.

  “You’re eating dinner with me tonight. No discussion.” He allows the door to lock behind him and strides into the walk-in closet. He exits with a black-and-white silk fabric draped over his arm, and a pair of kitten-heel sandals hanging from a forefinger.

  I turn my back to him and look out the windows, at the darkening sky outside, wondering as I do every day where in the world I am. The steel shutters are always opened automatically first thing in the morning, and closed again after the sun sets.

  “You have two choices. You either get dressed yourself, or I do it for you.”

  Damien touching me with the same hands that once brought me pleasure? It’s too much to bear. If I have to get dressed, I’ll do it alone.

  The idea of dining together as though we’re an ordinary couple sickens me, but after days inside a locked room, I’m desperate to get out, even if only for a few minutes. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to get to know my surroundings beyond this room, in case I ever have to hide from him. Though, for the same reason, I doubt he’ll show me around.

  I’m right. After I get dressed, he blindfolds me before walking me out of the room.

  After going down what I assume to be a long, winding staircase, he presses my shoulders down.

  I sit, and he removes the blindfold.

  Chapter Nine

  The dining room has floor-to-ceiling bay windows overlooking manicured gardens, which are accessible by double doors. A rectangular, glass-topped dining table sits majestically in the middle of the room, surrounded by eight white leather and dark wood dining chairs. Built-in cabinets line one wall, and antique sconces light up the room.

  I start when Adrian appears beside me, holding a long, red scarf in his hairy hands.

  “Tie her legs together,” Damien orders.

  “You must be kidding.” My body locks with rage as I glare at both of them.

  “Not at all, rosebud.” Damien buries his hands in his pocket. “I need to do what’s necessary to keep you safe, remember? What are you waiting for, Adrian?”

  I make it hard for Adrian to get the job done, kicking my legs so he can’t get a firm hold. In the end, he’s stronger, helped along by Damien, who holds me down by the shoulders.

  Once his job is done, Adrian moves to stand by the door. He doesn’t meet my eyes.

  “Give us some time, Adrian. I need to be alone with my wife.”

  Once Adrian leaves, Damien pulls out the chair to my right and pours us both a glass of wine. I ignore mine.

  “You look beautiful tonight. I hope you like the clothes I bought for you.”

  The walk-in wardrobe is filled with all kinds of designer clothes and shoes. In my normal life I gravitate toward jeans and t-shirts, wanting to forget my past life as a model. I hated having to dress up for shoots and events.

  Still, I have to admit that he has great taste. The black-and-white evening gown I’m wearing would be perfect for the red carpet. It has a beaded black bodice, a scoop neckline with a slit down the middle that ends at a flat bow band at the waist, and a sleek A-line skirt. The type of dress I would have chosen for a formal dinner.

  Before I can respond, a pair of double doors on the far side of the room opens, and Hanna enters, followed by two other women. They exchange greetings with “Mr. Steel” and lay out covered silver serving dishes on our end of the table, around the candelabras.

  Before she leaves the room, Hanna glances at my bound legs, then nods at Damien and walks out. The doors close behind her.

  “Perfect.” Damien uncovers one of the dishes—herb-coated beef tenderloin steaks in a bed of mushrooms.

  I’m horrified when my stomach groans audibly.

  He looks up with a raised eyebrow. “I’m glad you’re hungry.” He opens another dish—chicken cordon bleu.

  By the time all the food is on display—including roasted and mashed potatoes, sautéed vegetables, and brown rice—the room is a cornucopia of delicious aromas, and my mouth is watering.

  He reaches for my plate and serves me some of each dish. During the meal, we don’t talk. But once Hanna and her helpers have cleared the table, Damien rests his elbows on the table and clasps his hands. The intensity in his gaze holds me in place.

  For the first time, I notice a small barcode tattoo on his inner wrist, with numbers below the vertical lines. A date, perhaps. The numbers are too small for me to read. I don’t recall seeing it when I visited him in prison.

  “I think it’s time we have a serious conversation.” At his suggestion, my attention drifts away from the tattoo. “I’m surprised you never asked how I got to you—how I managed to get you into my car that day.”

  “It doesn’t help me at this point, does it?” I do my best to divert my focus from the itch on my ankle, where the scarf is tied too tight over the bracelet.

  “No. No, it doesn’t. What’s important is that you’re here with me.” He reaches for my hand, but before his skin meets mine, I move it away. “I don’t know how long you want to play this game. But that’s okay. I welcome a good challenge.” He withdraws his hand and takes a drink of wine. “Anyway, I want to tell you.”

  I shift in my chair and fold my arms.

  “I didn’t do it alone.”

  “Obviously,” I mumble. You were locked up, I want to add, but I bite my tongue.

  He ignores my remark and continues. “A few people helped me along the way. One of them was Adrian, my right-hand man. You’ll probably be surprised to know that the other person was Milton Weiss.”

  His revelation is a hand that closes around my neck, cutting off my breath. Brittle silence descends between us.

  “No.” I shake my head. “Not Milton.” He was playing me the whole time?

  “I’m afraid it’s the truth. Sometimes we don’t know people as well as we think we do.” Damien sighs. “It wasn’t an easy feat to get him on board. He actually did have feelings for you. But I offered to pay him twenty thousand dollars to spy on you, and eventually lead you to me. When I say I, I mean Adrian, who was acting on my behalf. Milton could have had reservations if he found out I was involved. Or rather, Judson Devereux.”

  “You… you… How dare you?” I shout at him, my shock yielding to anger. How could Milton do that to me?

  “Don’t blame yourself for not seeing through Milton. It’s hard to know who to trust these days. Don’t be mad at the kid. He acted the way any greedy person would. He took the cash and ra
n.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat with difficulty. “You won’t get away with this. Someone will find me eventually. Then you’ll go back to prison where you belong. I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you rot in there.”

  “Stop holding on to false hope, Ivy. No one will come looking for you. As far as they’re concerned, you’re dead.” He stands, walks over to the cabinets, and opens one. Keeping his eyes on mine, he pulls out a black folder and returns to the table. He places the folder in front of me. The cover is monogrammed with a gold letter S. Below it are the words Steel Enterprises Inc.

  “Have a quick look inside.”

  My mouth is dry as I open the folder. Sensing bad news, I long to down the glass of wine that has been standing in front of me the entire meal. But pouring alcohol into my system could be a bad idea.

  A black-and-white photo of me is the first thing I see. It’s part of a newspaper article. My throat closes up as I register the headline: Former Model Ivy Hollifield Dies Young. Above the headline is a single word that makes my blood run cold: Obituary.

  Damien clears his throat and takes the folder from my hands. “You don’t have to read the whole thing. I’ll summarize it for you.” He takes the folder back to the cabinet, then comes to stand behind me. His hands are hot on my shoulders, but I don’t move.

  “The day after you came into my life, there was a tragic bus accident in Boston. A bus blew up in flames on a highway. There were no survivors, and the bodies were burned beyond recognition. As soon as I read about that horrible, horrible tragedy, I thought of you and saw an opportunity. As far as everyone is concerned, you were one of the passengers.” He runs a finger down the side of my face. “You’re dead and gone, Ivy, and soon to be forgotten. Except by me, of course.”

  A single tear drops from my eye onto the glass table.

  Chapter Ten