Chains of Fire (24 page)

John shot his rifle through their windshield, then shouted, “Go!”

Charisma put her foot to the floor.

The engine raced, but for a moment, they didn’t move.

Then, with a lurch, they pulled free.

Shotguns blasted as they pulled away, but in the rearview mirror, Charisma saw steam and smoke rising from under the Others’ hood.

They were dead in the water.

Aleksandr crowed with laughter and shoved Charisma’s shoulder. “Good driving!” For a moment, he looked as young as he had the first day she’d met him.

She was glad. So glad. After the loss of Samuel and Isabelle, she couldn’t stand to lose more people she loved.

They made it to the hospital in record time.

As Billy went into surgery, he took Charisma’s hand and said, “Looks like you kids have got a lot of work in front of you. If I make it through—”

“You’ll make it through,” she said.

“If I make it through, I will enjoy watching to see how it turns out.”

He was out in record time while the doctor muttered about miraculous recoveries and how he’d never seen a man of Billy’s age with such recuperative powers.

Caleb and Aaron walked in, smirking about disabling the goons hired by the Others, although they didn’t want to talk about the spooky girl Billy feared or how she’d escaped them.

Most wonderful of all, John got a text that brought him to his feet right in the waiting room. “Isabelle just walked into a rescue station. She’s alive! She’s fine. She’s relieved. And they’re going back to dig Samuel out of a snowy grave right now.”

She was fine. She had to be, or the crowd wouldn’t be so happy.

So where was she?

He played to the cameras, smiling and waving, saying all the right things while walking through the crowd: “So glad to be out. . . . Thank you to all the noble rescuers. . . . Never gave up hope. . . . Just want a hot meal and a shower . . . and a milk shake.” Catching sight of Mrs. Mason, he cut off the reporters. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I see someone who’s here for me.”

Not a lie. Mrs. Mason was there for him. She stood beside her long limo, door open, chin tucked into her ankle-length down coat, her large dark glasses covering her eyes.

Darren Owen stood beside her, dressed in a chauffeur’s outfit, even now clearly disapproving of Samuel.

What did Samuel have to do to gain his praise? Rescue a dozen infants and die in the attempt?

Yeah. That might do it. Especially the dying part.

A member of the ski patrol grabbed at Samuel and said, “We need to perform a physical.”

“But first, this is very important.” Samuel indicated Mrs. Mason, pulled away, strode toward the car.

Mrs. Mason slid inside.

He followed.

Darren shut the door on them, ran around, got in, and while reporters and ski patrol shouted, Darren drove them away.

Samuel didn’t even have to glance around the interior of the limo. He knew Isabelle wasn’t waiting inside. Turning to Mrs. Mason, he bared his teeth. “She’s not there when I get dug out. She’s not here with you. Where is she?”

Patricia Mason should have been afraid of his anger.

She wasn’t. As far as he could tell, Patricia Mason wasn’t afraid of anything. “She’s on her way back to New York.”

“What did you do? Hug her, say, ‘Honey, I’m glad you’re alive,’ fling her into a car, and send her away? As soon as you confirmed she’d spent five days trapped with me?” He leaned toward Mrs. Mason, ignoring the oversize sunglasses to keep aggressive eye contact. “Anything to get her away?”

“That’s not the way it worked.”

“Tell me how it worked.”

“She wanted time to think.”

“Time to think?” He was so angry—at Mrs. Mason, but mostly at Isabelle for allowing her mother to control her again. “Is that your euphemism for, ‘I don’t want my daughter sleeping with you no matter how right it is’? ”

“It wasn’t me!” Mrs. Mason whipped off her glasses. Her pale blue eyes were indignant. Insulted. “I didn’t tell her to run away.”

“Oh, really. This from the woman who made sure her daughter got away from our teen romance without being besmirched by any rumors about the butler’s son.”

The glass partition between the seats was down.

Darren cleared his throat, and, when Samuel glanced up into the rearview mirror, he glared meaningfully.

“Forget it, Dad. It’s way too late for
decorum
.”Samuel placed a heavy, scornful emphasis on his father’s favorite word.

“I won’t lie to you,” Mrs. Mason said. “I don’t want you two together. But she told me what you did to save her. I thought she should stay and thank you. And talk about . . .” She waved vaguely.

“About our
relationship
?” He shot the word at her.

“Well . . . yes. Isabelle doesn’t seem to be able to settle, and it’s because of you.” When he would have spoken, Mrs. Mason lifted her hand. “I don’t want her to be with you. But I do want her to be happy. So I did not send her away.”

He leaned back, shoulders tight, and mulled over Mrs. Mason’s words.

The woman didn’t lie. She didn’t have to. Such a powerful personality never needed to stoop to deception.

Isabelle always did the right thing. And the right thing was to stay here, make sure that he was rescued unhurt, thank him, and speak to him seriously about their time together. The truth was, he had half expected her to tell him the conversation and the sex and the vows were all a fluke built on the belief that they were dying and might as well seize every moment. . . .

The fact that Isabelle Mason had disregarded her mother’s advice and
run
rather than face him meant . . . it meant she was scared.

Not of him, but of herself. Of her feelings for him. She still didn’t trust him. Obviously. But she’d confessed she loved him, had always loved him, and he believed her.

So Isabelle was running in panic.

And he would give chase.

He smiled.

Mrs. Mason saw his expression. She apparently interpreted it in a correct manner, because she gave a huff of distress and turned her head to look out the window.

He relaxed against the leather seat. “Guess I need to go back to New York and check in at Irving’s and see what’s up.”

She knew she shouldn’t be running away. It was cowardly and unlike her. She and Samuel had said so many things to each other: admitted their mistakes and their regrets, declared their love, and done everything to make each other happy.

It wasn’t that she didn’t mean everything she’d said about loving him forever. She did.

But she’d thought they were going to die!

She didn’t have the intestinal fortitude to try another relationship with him. No other man could break her heart like Samuel, and she didn’t trust him not to do it again.

The television camera zoomed in on his face.

As if he knew she was watching, he looked into the lens and smiled with all his teeth.

She stepped back, away from the impact of that ferocious message he was sending, stumbled over a flowered duffel bag, and slammed into a guy walking past. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I wasn’t watching.”

He was a big man, taller than Samuel. Beefier, too, and he looked Polynesian or Japanese, she didn’t know which, but for sure he could be a sumo wrestler. He steadied her with his hands on her arms. “No problem.” His accent was American, and he hurried toward the gate, where they were giving last call for the flight to Amsterdam.

She rubbed her arms where he’d touched her. The contact had been brief, but unsettling. He was . . . odd. Not quite right.

But not her business, and anyway, they were calling her flight to New York City.

She glanced toward the television once more, where reporters chased Samuel for the chance to interview him. Then she hastened toward the gate and away from the image of Samuel and his fury.

“Excusez-moi, mademoiselle!”
a young man’s voice called.

She paid no attention.

“Excuse me, miss!” This time the call was in accented English. Footsteps pattered behind her, and someone caught her sleeve.

She turned to see a teenager holding a flowered duffel bag.

He held it toward her. “You left this.”

“It’s not mine,” she said.

“You have no carry-on?”

“This purse.” She lifted the cross-body bag she’d picked up in the gift shop.

She had refused to go back to her parents’ home to pack. She knew if she paused so long . . . Samuel would catch up with her.

The young Frenchman held the flowered bag and looked around in dismay. “But whose?”

An older woman rushed down the concourse toward them. With a scowl, she snatched the bag from the boy and headed toward the Amsterdam flight.

Isabelle and the boy looked at each other and shrugged.

Isabelle continued on to her airplane, settled into first class, and tried to sleep. Instead she found herself watching the blue waters of the Atlantic and wondering what would happen when she once more saw Samuel . . . and he saw her.