Nic opened her eyes, blinked a couple of times, and turned to look straight at Linden. “You’re a sadistic son of a bitch, aren’t you?”
He laughed. Lifting his hand, he grazed his knuckles across her cheek again and then down her neck. “You intrigue me, Nicole Baxter Powell. I feel certain that Mr. York will find you as intriguing as I do.”
“Just when am I going to meet Malcolm York?”
“Soon. Be patient.”
“What’s the holdup? I thought he was eager to meet me.”
“He is. He is. But he’s made all these interesting plans for you. He wants to give you time to become acclimated to the situation, to find out for yourself that you are completely at his mercy, that he owns you body and soul.”
Nic stared at Linden, hating him with every fiber of her being, but hating the pseudo-York even more. “And just what plans does Mr. York have for me? More of the same? Being awarded as a prize to another victorious hunter?”
“Mr. York has a series of games he wants you to play to keep him entertained and also to help you adjust to your new position as his property. The game on Shelter Island was only one game and you’ve played it now. We’ll be moving on to something new and even more fun.”
“I can hardly wait.”
Linden laughed again. “I find it interesting that you haven’t lost your sense of humor yet. But you will, Nicole. You will. Before long, you won’t be uttering any sarcastic remarks. You’ll be begging for mercy.”
Nic tugged on her bound wrists. “How about I start now?” She held up her hands. “Please, take these off. I promise I won’t try to scratch your eyes out.”
Linden grabbed the back of her neck and jerked her toward him until they were nose-to-nose. Her breathing quickened. Damn it, she had waved a red flag in front of this raging bull. He threaded his fingers into her hair, tightened his hold, and yanked hard. Pain shot through her head and brought tears to her eyes.
“I would like nothing better than to beat you until you couldn’t open that pretty little mouth except to moan and groan.”
If her hands weren’t tied ... If Linden wasn’t armed ... If she wasn’t afraid retaliating would endanger her baby ...
“Who knows, maybe when Mr. York finishes with you, he’ll give you to me. Something for us to look forward to. Right, Nicole?”
He eased his fingers from her hair and his hand from around her neck. “But for now, you’re safe from me.”
She stared at him, hoping he noticed the defiance in her eyes. She needed for him to know that even if she didn’t put up a physical fight, she was not defeated. Linden was wrong about York owning her body and soul. They could use and abuse her body. They could even kill her. But her soul belonged to her and she would never relinquish possession. No matter what.
Before she realized his intention, Linden unbound her wrists. While she rubbed the raw flesh on first one and then the other, he unsnapped her safety belt, grabbed her arm, and pulled her out of the seat and onto her feet.
“Mr. York has arranged a surprise for you.” Linden shoved her in front of him. “You remember the way to the sleeping quarters on this airplane, don’t you?” When they reached the private cabin, Linden opened the door. “Go on. Go inside and see what’s waiting for you.”
What sort of surprise?
Nausea churned in her belly. Overwhelming fear ate away at her resolve to stay strong.
You can’t escape. You have no choice but to face whatever unknown terror is waiting for you.
She squared her shoulders and said a prayer for strength and endurance as she tried to prepare herself. And then she took a deep breath and walked into the bedroom.
The area was dimly lit, so after Linden closed and locked the door, it took her eyes a couple of minutes to adjust completely to the semidarkness. She scanned the room from floor to ceiling, from side to side, and then the length from end to end.
Something stirred in the far corner.
Something large and hairy rose up from the floor and stood on two feet.
When the beast came toward Nic, she screamed.
Chapter 11
“Thank you for agreeing to help us.” Yvette exchanged a cordial expression with Barbara Jean Hughes.
“I’ll do anything I can to help find Nic.” Barbara Jean lifted a tortoiseshell hairbrush from her lap and offered it to Yvette. “This is Nic’s. She used it every day.”
“And yet she didn’t take it with her to the cabin.”
“There was no need. She has an identical vanity set there.”
Yvette nodded. Staring at the hairbrush, she hesitated taking it from Barbara Jean. She had learned not to touch others, not even in a friendly handshake, unless she knew beforehand that she could block that person’s energy. Otherwise, a simple swipe of her hand against theirs could result in an unintentional invasion of their privacy. In the years she had known this kind, understanding woman, they had gradually built a fragile friendship, one sustained by the fact that they never discussed the past that Yvette shared with Sanders and Griffin.
“It’s all right. I don’t mind if you touch me.” Barbara Jean extended her hand farther, holding out the brush for Yvette to take.
Being careful to avoid any skin-to-skin contact, she cupped the back of the brush and cradled it in her hand. But even without touch, with only the hairbrush acting as a conduit between them, Yvette sensed a momentary flash of emotion from the other woman.
Pity. Sympathy. Uncertainty. And a hint of curiosity.
Yvette shivered. The uncertainty her friend felt was understandable, as was the curiosity. They knew the basic facts concerning each other’s lives, but they had never shared confidences. The pity and sympathy Barbara Jean felt were both for Yvette. She wanted neither from Barbara Jean or anyone else.
“You will stay, yes?” Yvette asked. “It is not necessary for you to be here, but I would appreciate your being near in case we need your assistance.”
“Please stay, Ms. Hughes,” Meredith said, her hazel-green eyes expressing resignation, accepting the fact that her participation was crucial.
Yvette knew, possibly better than anyone, what courage it took for Meredith to allow her psychic talents free rein. Although she had been with Yvette for a number of years now and was an adept and eager student, she had not yet learned to control her remarkable gifts. It could take many more years of training for her to acquire that ability.
Yvette motioned for Barbara Jean to move her wheelchair opposite the sofa. “Are you ready?” she asked Meredith.
The young psychic nodded and when Yvette sat on the sofa, she took her place beside her. Yvette handed Meredith the hairbrush.
“Take your time. Don’t force anything,” Yvette instructed. “Let it come to you.” When Meredith took Nic’s hairbrush, clutched it in her hand, and brought her hand upward to rest against her chest, Yvette touched her. She gently patted her fingertips up and down on Meredith’s shoulder and sensed an instant connection.
I will safeguard you. If you go in too far, I will bring you back without hesitation. Trust me to take care of you.
Meredith took a deep breath.
I trust you completely.
Yvette broke the connection, knowing it would only hinder Meredith’s descent into a realm of transcendental awareness where she must go alone.
While Meredith held the brush against her heart, her eyes wide open, her expression solemn, Yvette glanced across the room at Barbara Jean. They exchanged a brief look before each focused their full attention on the woman who suddenly closed her eyes and whimpered softly.
“She loves him so, ...” Meredith lifted the brush and cradled it against her cheek. “Secrets. So many secrets. Please, tell me. Don’t shut me out.”
“Yes, Nicole loves Griffin, but she knows he has kept secrets from her,” Yvette said. “Go past that moment, try to leave Griffin’s Rest, see if you can leave here and follow Nicole.”
Meredith’s head swayed slowly from side to side and then she slumped forward, her chin coming to rest on her upper chest. “Lies,” she murmured. “Lies. You lied to me. Damn you! I hate you. I hate her. I hate knowing you had a child with her.”
Tears spilled from Meredith’s closed eyes and poured down her cheeks. She gasped for air between deep sobs. She doubled over in pain, wrapped herself in a hug, and keened with soul-wrenching pain.
“Oh, dear Lord,” Barbara Jean said so quietly that Yvette barely heard her.
Yvette placed her arm around Meredith’s trembling shoulders and while comforting her, she reached out and pried the tortoiseshell hairbrush from her death-grip hold. After she tossed the brush onto the floor, she rubbed Meredith’s back with soothing circular motions.
“You will be all right. Release the pain. It is not yours.”
Yvette continued talking to Meredith, bringing her slowly back from the brink, absorbing some of Nicole’s emotional agony that had possessed Meredith. The intensity of Nicole’s emotions, transferred through contact with an object Nicole used on a regular basis, had dragged Meredith swiftly and completely to the epicenter of the other woman’s pain.
Eventually, Meredith settled quietly. Her breathing returned to normal and she opened her eyes. “She was in such terrible pain.” Meredith stared at Yvette. “She doesn’t truly hate Griffin or you. She hates the way she was lied to. She hates the way the revelation of those secrets made her feel.”
“I understand,” Yvette said.
“I didn’t help, did I? All I sensed was Nicole’s pain and anger before she left home. It was as if her emotions were completely centered here at Griffin’s Rest.” Meredith’s eyes widened with realization. “I need to go to her cabin, to where she was when she was taken. If it’s possible for me to connect with her there, I may be able to follow her to where she is now.”
“I’ll make arrangements for us to go to Nicole’s cabin first thing in the morning.”
“No,” Barbara Jean told them. “Neither of you can leave Griffin’s Rest. It’s too dangerous.”
“We have to go,” Meredith said. “I truly believe it’s the only way I have any chance of locating where she is.”
“It may be unnecessary,” Barbara Jean reminded them. “Griffin and Sanders and the others may be rescuing Nic at this very moment.”
“I sincerely hope they are,” Meredith said. “But if—”
“If Griffin does not find her, then we will go to the cabin,” Yvette said. “I’ll talk to Derek and Maleah and explain the situation. I’m sure I can make them understand.”
“Don’t be afraid,” the man told Nic. “I won’t hurt you.”
With terror immobilizing her body and another scream dying in her throat, Nic stared at the tall, half-naked man standing less than five feet from her. His upper torso was bare, revealing a broad chest and wide shoulders. Despite being much too thin, his body still maintained a semblance of the muscular frame that he had once possessed. Streaks of grime and sweat stained his leather-tan skin and the loose-fitting khaki slacks he wore were faded, ragged, and tied at the waist with a piece of rope. His dirty and matted dark hair hung to his shoulders. A strong scent of body odor wafted across the room. The man stank.
When he made no attempt to come closer, Nic relaxed her tense muscles as she looked into his brown eyes. At that moment, she realized where she had seen this man before, and his presence here on the private plane puzzled her.
“You were on the island,” Nic said. “I saw you in one of the cages. You—you spoke to me.”
“You told me that you were there against your will just as I was.” Fury and frustration edged his deep baritone voice. “You do know that they killed the others.”
“Yes. I heard the gunfire and I saw some of the bodies.”
“It seems that you and I were kept alive for a reason,” he told her, his country Southern accent unmistakable.
“Do you have any idea—?”
“Why they didn’t kill us? Why they’ve put us together on this airplane? I don’t know, but you can be sure whatever the reason, it won’t be good for either of us.”
“Linden—the man who abducted me and took me to the island—told me before he forced me into this room with you that Malcolm York had arranged a surprise for me.”
“Ah, Malcolm York, our benevolent benefactor.” A quirky smile twitched the man’s lips.
“You know Malcolm York? You’ve met him?”
“I don’t know him. And I haven’t exactly met him, but I have seen him.”
“Where? When?”
When the man inched closer to Nic, she backed away, instinctively wary of his intimidating glare. As if realizing her distrust, he stopped immediately.
“I’ve been one of York’s multipurpose captives for quite a while, probably close to a year now, although I’ve lost the actual count. They’ve moved me around from place to place. York has been on hand for one of the hunts and both of the arena fights I took part in.”
“Arena fights?” Griff had never mentioned anything about arena fights on Amara. Had this been another secret he had kept from her?
“Think Roman gladiators.” He grunted with disgust. “Only with two unequal, oftentimes untrained, opponents fighting to the death.”
“Are you saying that you’ve been forced to—?”
“Kill or be killed. Yeah. Something I can be proud of, right? I’m tough enough to have survived by killing a couple of poor bastards who wanted to live as much as I did.”
“Who are you?” Nic studied his hairy face, his beard and mustache sun-streaked brown and as dirty as his long, tangled hair. He looked every inch a wild man, except for his intelligent brown eyes. “Why were you taken prisoner?”
Twenty years ago, Griffin Powell, star quarterback for the University of Tennessee, slated to be drafted by the Dallas Cowboys, had mysteriously disappeared shortly after college graduation. The real York had personally chosen Griff because the men he handpicked for Amara were the best of the best in their fields. Always young, most of them in their prime. Griff had been a star athlete. What was this man’s claim to fame?
“Does my name really matter?” he asked.
“It does to me.”
“I could ask you the same question. You’re a beautiful woman, but you’re older than the usual women they abduct as sex slaves.” He surveyed her from head to toe. “Judging from your physique, I’d say they plan to use you in the arena.”
“Linden kidnapped me less than seventy-two hours ago. I have no idea how they plan to use me in the future, but last night I was handed over to the winner of the hunt. I was one of his prizes, along with the privilege of chopping off his quarry’s head.”
“I’m sorry you were raped.” He inclined his head toward the locked door. “I think that may be what the man you call Linden had in mind when he put you in here with me. They think that if they treat us like animals, we’ll eventually become animals.”
“A servant girl named Lina saved me last night,” Nic confessed. “She drugged the man and this morning, he didn’t remember what had happened.”
He chuckled to himself, the sound barely audible. “Good for Lina.”
“No, bad for Lina. I don’t know if Linden sent her away for punishment or if he had her killed.”
“My name is Jonas.”
Their gazes met and locked.
“I’m Nicole.”
He held out his big, dirty, battered hand. Without hesitation, she grasped his hand and shook it firmly.
When he released her, he kept his gaze focused directly on her face. “I won’t ever intentionally hurt you, Nicole. But there may come a time, when I won’t have a choice. They can force you to do things you don’t want to do.”
“Like kill someone or be killed yourself. Like being forced to have sex in front of an audience. Like thinking and acting like an animal in order to survive.”
“You seem to know an awful lot for a woman who’s been held captive only a couple of days.”
“I was aware of the type of man Malcolm York is before I was taken hostage.”
He cocked his head at an angle and narrowed his gaze. “You’re a cop, aren’t you? Some sort of international—”
“I used to be a federal agent,” she told him. “What did you used to be?”
“I was a NASCAR driver.”
“Jonas ...” She mentally repeated his name. Realization dawned. “You’re Jonas MacColl. You’re not just a NASCAR driver. You’re
the
NASCAR driver. Oh my God, you were in a plane crash nearly a year ago. The plane went down over the Atlantic somewhere and none of the bodies were ever recovered.”
“That plane might have crashed over the Atlantic, but it went down without me in it,” he said. “I did a little too much celebrating one night and when I woke up the next morning, I was on a plane all right, one headed straight for hell, not the bottom of the Atlantic. Since I have no memory of anything except getting drunk, I figured that last drink was drugged.”
“And you were chosen because you were the best of the best.”
Malcolm York’s trademark, choosing the cream of the crop.
“Yeah, so it would seem. So, Nicole, what’s your claim to fame?”