“When Griffin first heard rumors about York, I tried to help,” Yvette said. “I went against my better judgment and my own rules and asked Meredith for help because at the time she was my most gifted student. None of the others were advanced enough or disciplined enough to help and even now only Adam has progressed enough to be of possible assistance.”
“Nic! No, Nic, don’t go. Please ... Nic!” The shouting came from inside Griffin’s study.
Yvette and Sanders exchanged concerned looks. “You have a key,” she said. “Use it. Unlock the door now.”
Without hesitation, Sanders removed his key ring from his pocket, chose a small brass key, and inserted it into the lock. When he opened the door, he paused, intending to allow Yvette to enter first. But the moment she saw Griffin, she stopped immediately. He looked right at her, but did not see her. His shoulders were slumped, his face haggard, his eyes glazed, and tears poured down his unshaven cheeks.
Nicole stood on the main deck of the
Isis,
now docked out at sea, but within viewing distance of a nearby port, and watched the sun set and twilight descend. Surprisingly, Linden had given her permission to explore the yacht beyond her luxurious guest suite. But not alone. An armed guard followed her every step. More than once she had thought about trying to overpower the man and take his rifle, but he would be useless as a hostage, and the odds that she could actually manage to escape were zero. From what she could tell, none of the staff spoke English. There were at least half a dozen armed guards posted at various intervals throughout the ship. And unless she could swim several miles to shore, jumping overboard would accomplish nothing except her drowning halfway to her destination.
Taking note of her surroundings, she concluded that the landmass was due west and that the ship had been sailing south/southwest all afternoon. If her assumption was correct that Linden had originally taken her to an island somewhere in the Caribbean, that meant they were probably now docked near the coast of either Venezuela or possibly Colombia.
So how do you think having some idea of where you are will help you?
It wouldn’t, not really. But being able to figure out her possible location gave her the illusion of having at least an iota of control over her present situation.
After sharing lunch with Linden in the elegant wood-paneled dining room, she had not seen him again until a couple of hours ago. She had been lounging in the salon, on the twelve-foot-long sofa situated beneath a row of windows overlooking the main deck. Or were those called portholes despite their square shape? As often as Griff had explained sailing lingo to her on their infrequent yachting trips, she had yet to master ship-speak.
“I’m going ashore,” Linden had told her. “While I’m gone, you be a good girl. If you’re not, I’ve left orders that if necessary to shoot you in the foot and then lock you up below deck until I return.”
She had wanted to ask him where he was going and what business he had ashore, but she had simply smiled at him as if she didn’t have a care in the world. After all, why not play the role she had been assigned, that of a pampered guest? From the luxurious bedroom suite she had been given to the designer slacks and blouse she had found in her closet and now wore, to the respectful way the crew and even the guards treated her, no one would suspect that she was being held against her will.
Concentrating on the colorful beauty of the sky bathed in the remnants of dying sunlight, Nic did her best not to think about why Linden had gone ashore. But try as she might, fear overrode her determination. Would he bring back guests, men she would be expected to entertain tonight? Was he gathering up a new hunting party? Would they be going to another island to participate in their sadistic blood sport ritual? Was that why Jonas MacColl had been brought on board and was now somewhere below deck?
Nic seriously doubted that Jonas had been given a guest cabin with his own private bathroom. More than likely he was locked away in a storage area in the boiler room. Or was it called a generator room or maybe an engine room? Griff had once told her that their yacht, the
Nicole,
was equipped with full electronics, four generators, two 400 horsepower engines, and that most of the equipment had been duplicated for backup purposes. But if he had ever referred by name to that area of the ship, she didn’t remember.
Dear God in heaven, what she would give to be aboard the
Nicole
right now, with Griff standing at her side, his arms draped around her. She could see him in her mind’s eye, could hear him whisper her name, could almost feel his powerful embrace. She swallowed the lump in her throat, refusing to cry. Tears were useless.
Off in the distance, she caught a glimpse of a motorboat zipping along across the water, heading straight for the
Isis
. Her heart stopped for a millisecond as she held her breath while an unknown terror approached the ship.
Nic considered running back to her cabin when that initial fight or flight moment kicked in and gave her two options. She could run, but she could not hide. She would stay and meet Linden and whatever terror he had brought back with him. Better to get an up-close look at her enemy, face them, and do battle eye to eye, than to wait and let them sneak up and ambush her from behind.
Staying where she was on deck, Nic watched the boat approach and Linden and one other man climb aboard the yacht. From a distance, the man looked to be in his fifties, but she assumed that age because of his silver hair.
Once firmly on deck, Linden searched for her. When he found her standing there looking directly at him, a surprised expression crossed his face. With her shoulders straight and her head held high, she watched the men as they approached, her gaze gliding slowly back and forth between Linden and the other man. As they drew nearer, she concentrated completely on the silver-haired guest who was tall, slender, and attractive. And not nearly as old as she had first thought. With an aristocratic air and a glint in his sinister eyes, he stared at Nic. His piercing look sliced her to the bone.
The man seemed familiar. Had she seen him before? Did she know him?
When he was within five feet of her, his face clearly visible, his features unmistakable, Nic knew where she had seen this man. No, not the man himself, only old photographs of him.
Smiling broadly, Linden seemed to take great pleasure in introducing them. “Nicole, my dear, may I introduce my employer, Malcolm York.”
After giving her a moment to respond, which she didn’t, he then said, “Mr. York, this is Griffin Powell’s wife, Nicole.”
Chapter 15
Griff paced up and down the hallway outside his study. They had been waiting for hours. Yvette sat on the sofa, her hands in her lap and her eyes closed as she meditated. He wished he could escape from the present reality, that he had the ability to find a peaceful retreat inside his own mind. The solemn. stoic Sanders always appeared unfazed by whatever storm whirled around him. He stood watch over the telephone on Griff’s desk. The others in residence there at the main house—Derek, Maleah, and Barbara Jean—continued their duties as they, too, waited. A couple of times in the past hour, he had heard the soft whir of Barbara Jean’s wheelchair close by, hovering, but keeping her distance. She worried about all of them, but especially about Sanders. Griff was glad his old friend had found someone who could love and accept him as he was, and asked no more of him than he was capable of giving. Although very different types of women, she and Nic had become good friends.
With every breath he took, every step he made, Griff struggled to remain in control. From childhood, he’d had a strong, somewhat volatile personality. The discipline of football had taught him how to channel his explosive energy and control his quick temper. The years on Amara, a slave to a madman’s whims, had brought out both the worst and the best in him. At the worst of times, he had become an animal capable of untold savagery. At the best of times, he had sacrificed himself to protect others.
If given the chance, he would sacrifice himself for Nicole. He would lay down his life without regret if he could save her.
Just as Griff reached the end of the hallway that opened up onto the foyer, the telephone in his study rang. He stopped, stood there unmoving, every muscle in his body fixed, every nerve vibrating on high alert. Instinct urged him to run. Logic instructed him to remain calm.
As he turned and walked steadily toward his study, he heard Sanders’s voice. “Griffin’s Rest. Sanders speaking.”
When Griff reached the open door of his study, he looked directly at Sanders who held the telephone receiver out to him. Yvette rose to her feet, her gaze fixed on Griff. As he crossed the room, feeling as if heavy ankle weights slowed each step, he forced down his fear and anger, caging it inside himself.
He took the phone from Sanders. “Griffin Powell here.”
“Hello, old friend,” the man said, his voice a disturbingly accurate imitation of Malcolm York’s.
Griff did not reply.
“I have someone here with me who is eager to speak to you,” the caller said.
A second later, Griff heard her voice.
“Griff, it’s me. It’s Nic. I’m all right.”
“Nic ... I—I—” Torn between rage and gratitude, Griff struggled for a few seconds and then quickly composed himself. “Tell me again that you’re okay.”
“I’m okay for now,” she told him. “Griff, he really is Malcolm York. Please believe me.”
“I believe you, honey, I believe you.” Griff didn’t for one minute believe that the real Malcolm York was alive, nor did Nic. She’d been told what to say. For some perverse reason the man holding Nic captive wanted Griff to believe he was the maniac who had ruled a despotic empire built on human misery.
“He wants me to tell you that my life depends on your cooperation.”
“I plan to cooperate. I’ll do whatever I need to do to bring you home.”
“I’d very much like to come home.”
Griff clenched his jaw. “There’s nothing I want more.”
“I love you, Griff.”
Indescribable agony invaded Griff’s very being, his body, his heart, his soul. “I love you, too.”
“How sweet,” the York clone said. “You two want to be together, and being the kind, generous man that I am, I plan to give you what you both want.”
“Name your price,” Griff told him.
“We’ll begin with your cooperation. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“I’m going to enjoy making you jump through hoops, but of course, as any good master does with a trained dog, I will reward you for your obedience.”
“The only reward I want is your promise that Nic won’t be harmed.”
“I have no immediate plans to place your wife in harm’s way again.”
Again? What did the son of a bitch mean by that statement?
“What have you done to her?”
“Now, now, you mustn’t get upset. I assure you that she’s none the worse for wear. And if you want to keep her alive, you’ll do exactly as I tell you.”
Tamping down the fury boiling inside him, Griff managed to say, “I’m listening.”
“I want you to take my wife to England, to the Benenden School in Kent to meet her daughter. I’ve already contacted the school to alert them that Suzette’s mother will be visiting her tomorrow.”
The request surprised Griff, but he quickly agreed. “All right, if that’s what you want me to do. Yvette and I will leave tonight.”
“Ah, that is what I like—immediate capitulation. After you and Yvette meet her daughter and the three of you have a family reunion, I will contact you again.”
“I’ll want to talk to Nic then, too.”
“Perhaps.”
“No bargaining on that point. As long as I know Nic’s alive and well, I’ll keep jumping through hoops for you. And I’ll want proof, so that means I talk to her on a fairly regular basis.”
“Trying to locate me by tracing my phone calls is futile. We will be staying on the move, so even if you could zero in on where we are, by the time you or any of your underlings arrived, we would already be somewhere else.”
Before Griff could respond, his caller abruptly ended their conversation. Griff smashed the receiver down on the base and cursed loudly.
“You spoke to Nicole.” Yvette came to Griff, reached out to him, and stopped just short of actually touching him.
“Yes, I spoke to her.”
“And she is all right?”
“She’s alive and she sounded okay, but ... I can’t think about what she’s gone through or what is ahead for her,” Griff said, his gaze connecting first with Yvette’s and then with Sanders’s. “If we have a prayer of rescuing Nic, I have to stay focused on that one objective.” He took in and released a deep breath. “I want the jet readied for a transatlantic flight ASAP.”
“I’ll see to it immediately,” Sanders replied.
When Sanders reached for the phone, Griff grabbed his arm. “While I’m gone, make sure the search for Nic continues twenty-four hours a day. He’s sending me off on what could be a wild-goose chase.”
Sanders nodded.
Griff released his friend’s arm and turned to Yvette. “Change clothes, pack a bag, say good-bye to your students. Do whatever you need to do, but be ready to leave in two hours. We’re flying to London tonight.”
“London? I don’t understand,” Yvette said.
“Malcolm York wants me to escort you to the Benenden School tomorrow to meet the girl he claims is your daughter.”
Linden had marched Nic straight to her cabin after she had been allowed to speak briefly to Griff. The last thing she had heard York say to her husband was
“I have no immediate plans to place your wife in harm’s way again.”
Lying son of a bitch. But surely Griff wouldn’t trust him.
Linden opened the cabin door, gave her a nudge over the threshold and, chuckling to himself, closed and locked the door. Damn slimy bastard.
Nic came to a skidding halt when she saw Jonas MacColl, unchained and completely naked, standing in the middle of the room.
God in heaven!
After a hasty head-to-toe survey, she tried to keep her gaze focused on his face. Despite bordering on skinny, no doubt due to a lack of adequate nutrition during his imprisonment, he was nevertheless a fine male specimen. Long legs and arms dusted with curly dark hair, well-defined muscles, and a washboard lean abdomen. His shoulder-length brown hair glistened with moisture, suggesting that he had just bathed. A fresh bruise colored his cheekbone and recently dried blood covered the cut on his upper lip.
“I’m sorry about this,” Jonas said.
“It’s not your fault,” Nic told him. “I’m afraid I don’t have any clothes that would fit you, but there are some large towels in the bathroom.”
“Thanks. I haven’t had a chance to look for anything. They just shoved me in here about sixty seconds before you arrived.” He turned his back on her and headed for the bathroom.
Nic looked away quickly, but not before she caught a glimpse of his firm buttocks and narrow hips.
There had to be a reason why she and Jonas were being thrown together again. Was he her prize for good behavior or was she his prize?
She walked around the room, visually inspecting the ceiling, walls, baseboards, and furniture, looking for a hidden camera. Just because she didn’t find one didn’t mean there wasn’t one. As she lifted the bedside lamp, checking it for any sign of a bug, Jonas cleared his throat. She lifted her head and glanced at the open bathroom door.
“Well, what do you think?” He gestured to the lower half of his body, now covered from waist to midthigh with a plush beige cotton towel.
“Charming. I understand it’s all the rage in Paris this season.”
He grinned. “Lady, you’re something, you know that? Considering what’s happened to you, I can’t believe you’ve managed to keep your sense of humor.”
“You’re something yourself, Mr. MacColl.” She glanced from his bruised cheekbone to the cut on his mouth. “Even knowing that you can’t win, you’re still putting up a fight.”
“Stupid, huh?” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “But you know that fighting back every once in a while keeps me from totally hating myself.”
Nic walked across the room, all the while Jonas never took his eyes off her. When she leaned against him and placed her mouth to his ear, he shuddered.
“There’s probably a bug hidden in here somewhere so they can record what we’re saying and maybe even a hidden camera,” Nic said so softly that she hoped only Jonas could hear her.
He looked her in the eye and nodded.
She slipped away from him and sat on the edge of the bed. He followed and sat down beside her. Keeping her voice whisper soft, she asked, “What do you think this is all about, their putting us together like this?”
“They’re getting us used to each other,” he whispered. “Sooner or later, they’re going to expect us to perform.”
Griff’s heartfelt plea for her understanding this past Sunday morning replayed in her mind.
“We weren’t lovers. Not ever. What Yvette and I did was not making love. God, Nic, it wasn’t even having sex, not really. We were forced to perform in front of York.”
“Have they made you”—Nic swallowed—“perform?”
He looked away from her. “Yeah.”
When she laid her hand on Jonas’s shoulder, he tensed. “You don’t need to be ashamed.”
He clamped his hand down over her hand resting on his shoulder. “It was only a couple of times. The first time was because one of the hunters was pissed because I had been able to outsmart him during the hunt and stay alive.” Jonas ran his gaze in every direction, and then laughed. “Did you hear that, you sons of bitches?” he yelled, talking to whoever might be listening.
Nic felt his rage. Hell, she shared it.
And then the oddest thought went through her mind.
I’m lucky that they chose to pair me with Jonas MacColl.
Yvette felt ashamed because she was glad that she and Griffin were leaving tonight for London and tomorrow they would drive to the Benenden School and meet a young woman who might be her daughter.
She was allowing emotion to overrule her basic common sense. The York imitator was in charge, pulling their strings, issuing orders that Griffin did not dare disobey. Whoever the man was, he wanted revenge. And since she and Sanders were each as guilty as Griffin of the real York’s murder, it stood to reason that they were included in the pseudo-York’s plans for retribution.
After changing from a silk shirt and blouse into black tailored slacks and a pale cream linen jacket, Yvette had packed two changes of clothes in a small suitcase and her toiletries in an overnight bag. She had been ready for an hour now and waiting for Griffin to summon her.
“Yvette?” Meredith called as she tapped on the closed bedroom door.
“Yes?”
“Sanders is here.”
“Thank you.”
Yvette picked up the overnight bag. Sanders opened the door and entered. Without a word, he lifted her suitcase and motioned for her to follow.
Walking side by side to the front entrance, neither of them spoke. After placing her bags in the town car, he opened the back door for her.
“How is he?” she asked.
“How do you think he is?”
“This is not my fault,” she said. “As badly as I want to meet Suzette, I did not want it to be like this.”