Chapter 29
Four days at the Paradise Resort without a word from York. Four days of waiting. Griffin divided his time between tending to business and marathon walks every morning and evening. Yvette had not left the hotel since their arrival, but she had joined Sanders, Barbara Jean, and him for dinner each evening. Sanders had done the exact opposite. He had escorted Barbara Jean on afternoon excursions to explore the island, but they had not ventured out alone. Two of the six Powell agents temporarily assigned to bodyguard duty on Amara went with Sanders and Barbara Jean whenever they left the hotel.
Half a dozen photos of Nic lay spread out on the dining room table in Griff’s penthouse suite. Afternoon sunshine flooded the room through the wall of windows overlooking the ocean. The light shimmered across the photos, spotlighting them with a bright sheen. As much as he had wanted to rip the pictures into shreds and burn them, he couldn’t. The candid snapshots, no doubt taken by one of York’s flunkies on his command, were all he had to prove that Nic was still alive. He loved the photographs as much as he hated them.
Griff downed the last drops of the water in the bottle he’d been nursing for the past half hour while he had been conducting business via telephone and e-mail. He had been able to delegate a great deal to others, but some matters required his personal attention. Employees around the world depended on the large network of Powell corporations for their livelihood. He had people counting on him, people Nic would not want him to let down while he was scouring the globe for her.
Those damn photos called to Griff as if they possessed some type of magic power. He should have stuffed them in an envelope and locked them in the safe, not left them nearby where they posed a constant temptation.
Slamming shut his laptop, he cursed under his breath. Frustration had begun eating away at him, the waiting and not knowing like droplets of acid dripping continuously into his mind. But that was what York wanted—for Griff to go slowly but surely out of his mind.
He shoved back the desk chair and stood, took several deep, huffing breaths, and crossed the room. Standing by the dining table, he stared at the photos. He reached down and picked up the one of Nic with York, apparently taken the night after Nic’s first hunt. She looked exhausted, her expression blank, her face streaked with dirt and perspiration, her clothes filthy and tattered. York stood beside her, a rifle strapped across his shoulder, a triumphant smile on his face.
Goddamn it, he looked just like the real Malcolm York. Whoever had given him his new face had been a talented surgeon.
Griff’s gaze zeroed in on Nic’s hand clasped in York’s as he held their arms up in a gesture evoking “the winner and today’s survivor” for the camera.
There on the third finger of her left hand was her engagement ring. Odd that York allowed her to wear it.
Griff kept Nic’s wedding band anchored just above the knuckle on his pinky, the only finger the ring would fit. Using his thumb, he twisted the ring around and around, remembering the day he had placed it on Nic’s finger.
Their wedding day.
Nic hadn’t wanted a big fancy wedding. He could have given her a wedding fit for a princess, but that wasn’t what she’d wanted.
“I had the white gown, the bridesmaids, and the flower girls when I married Greg,” she’d told him. “I was young and starry-eyed and put more thought into the wedding than I did the marriage. With you, it’s different. I’m different.”
And so they had gotten married in a little chapel in Gatlinburg. Barbara Jean and Sanders had been their witnesses. And they had spent their wedding night in a rental cabin, the one he had eventually bought as a gift for her, the same cabin where she had gone the day she left him.
If he could go back to their wedding day or the day before or the night he had proposed, he would tell her everything about Amara and his relationship with Yvette. If he could do it all over again, he wouldn’t keep any secrets from Nic. But there were no do-overs in this life. You got one chance to get it right.
Griff laid down the photo he held and carefully chose another, looked at it, and then took his time studying the other four. All the snapshots were of Nic. One with York and two with the man York insisted was her lover taken the night after the hunt. Three were of Nic alone and apparently taken before the hunt, perhaps several days before. The last photo he looked at, the one he couldn’t put down, showed Nic, wearing shorts and a halter top, sitting on a wooden bench. She wore no makeup, her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, and although she faced the photographer, she appeared to be looking beyond the camera, her thoughts far away.
Had she been thinking about him? Had she been wondering why he hadn’t found her, why he hadn’t rescued her? Or had she been remembering the two of them together, just as he was doing right now? Had she been thinking about the first time they made love? Their wedding night? Their honeymoon?
There had been a lot of women in Griff’s life, before he’d been abducted and shipped off to Amara and in the years after his escape from York’s hellhole.
He remembered some of the women, recalled several with fondness, and had genuinely liked many of them. But until Nicole Bellamy Baxter had stormed into his life with her take-no-prisoners attitude, he’d had no idea what it felt like to need a woman the way he needed air to breathe. From the moment they first met, they had mixed like oil and water. She had disliked him on sight, both personally and professionally. And although he’d found her undeniably attractive, he had figured her for a ball-bashing bitch.
As an FBI agent, Nic had been all about law and order, following the rules, doing everything by the book. Griff, by his very nature, was a rebel—always had been and always would be. He lived by his own rules and did whatever was necessary to see justice served. They had locked horns more than once whenever the Powell Agency had taken an interest in one of the bureau’s cases.
And then the inevitable had happened.
He would never forget the night they made love for the first time. Every detail, every word, every touch, every sensation was imprinted on his brain.
“It’ll just be sex,” she’d told him.
“Sure, honey. Whatever you say.”
But it hadn’t been just sex for them, not that night, not ever.
He never forgot to use a condom, but he’d forgotten that night. Afterward, they had been concerned that she might be pregnant. But it hadn’t happened. Now, he almost wished it had. After they’d been married for a while, they had decided they wanted a child, but try as they might, Nic hadn’t conceived.
Considering the hostility they had felt when they first met, who would have ever thought they would wind up madly, passionately in love, married, and wanting children? He wasn’t sure who had been the most surprised by that turn of events. Nic or him?
“God, woman, I love you,” Griff said aloud. “Whatever you do, don’t give up. I’ll find you. I swear I’ll find you.”
Once again, Nic had no idea where she was. They had left the jungle compound yesterday morning and the jet had landed at a private airstrip shortly before dawn. Neither Jonas nor their trainer, Vartan, had traveled with her. She had tried questioning York about their destination and about Jonas, but he hadn’t been forthcoming with information about either.
“You have experienced the thrill of the hunt,” York had told her. “It is time for you to prepare yourself for the next phase of your captivity.”
And that was all he had told her.
While still nighttime, York had whisked her from the airplane straight to a waiting limousine with shaded windows. Wherever they were, the climate certainly wasn’t tropical. When she had deplaned, she had felt a definite chill in the air. She suspected they were in a big city somewhere. As the limo had zipped along a well-paved road, they had passed through block after block of well-lit streets. After at least a thirty-minute drive, the car had pulled up in front of an old house on the outskirts of town, a two-story stone-and-brick residence flanked on either side by what appeared to be deserted buildings. Upon entering the house, York had turned her over to a stern, sullen-faced woman, whom Nic had suspected wouldn’t hesitate to kill her if ordered to do so.
Nic had been confined to her room since their arrival, a small, dark room on the second floor. As soon as old Sourpuss had left her alone, she had explored the bedroom and the tiny connected bathroom with antiquated fixtures and no windows. And then she had checked out the single window in the bedroom, which she quickly discovered couldn’t be opened. Numerous coats of paint over the years had glued the window permanently shut. At daylight, she had peered through the window in the hopes of figuring out where the house was located. No such luck. The only thing she’d been able to see was a garbage-strewn alley and the backside of other run-down buildings.
During the examination of her new quarters, she had discovered a basket filled with small bottles of water and juice and a loaf of crusty whole grain bread. The corner armoire, a seen-better-days antique, had been empty. Apparently there was no heat in the house, at least not upstairs in her room. She had pulled a blanket off the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders, plopped down in the single chair in the room, and curled her feet up and under her on the ratty floral cushion.
She must have fallen asleep for quite some time. Glowing sunlight now swept over the room, casting pale shadows on the dingy walls and brightening the rough wooden floors. Every instinct she possessed urged her to rebel, to scream and pound on the door or to break out the window, tie the bedsheets together, and escape. But common sense reminded her that acting irrationally would only get her killed. No doubt York had the front and back entrances guarded, so risking her life to climb out the window and possibly make it down into the alley would be futile. Screaming and pounding on the door would be stupid and gain her absolutely nothing, but a sore throat and bruised fists.
Admit it, you got used to having Jonas around all the time, to never being alone. You can’t let solitary confinement make you stir-crazy. It’s probably part of York’s master plan. He wants to unbalance you by changing tactics, taking you from semi-luxurious quarters in a tropical setting, with Jonas at your side 24/7, to a drab room in a colder climate, with you isolated and alone.
York’s voice echoed inside her head, his last comment replaying repeatedly—“... prepare yourself for the next phase of your captivity.”
Did the “next phase of your captivity” mean The Ring or The Execution? Did it really matter? Unless Griff found a way to rescue her, she would face both eventually and each would end in someone’s death.
But it damn well wasn’t going to be her death. She was going to live!
Nic paced the floor, back and forth, back and forth. Her head ached. Her stomach fluttered. The stress created by her intolerable situation was getting to her. The stress was understandable, all things considered, but it was counterproductive, and perhaps even harmful.
Don’t do this to yourself. Think about your baby.
How much longer would she be able to hide her pregnancy? By her own calculations she was between four and four and a half months. She had heard that women begin showing sooner with a second pregnancy, that often with a first baby you didn’t look pregnant until you were close to six months. God, she hoped that would be true for her.
Her stomach fluttered again, as if a tiny butterfly had awakened inside her and was testing its wings. What an odd feeling.
Nic stopped in the center of the room, laid her hand over her belly, and gasped when she realized that her unborn child was moving inside her.
Oh my God!
Almost indiscernible little ripples pulsated with life, a life that she and Griff had created. Their baby.
Tears gathered in Nic’s eyes. Overwhelming emotion flooded her senses.
Damn it, she hated weepy women. She had prided herself on not being one of those silly, weak females who cried at the drop of a hat. But ...
“Griff, I wish you were here to share this moment with me.” Only she heard her soft, heartfelt whisper.
A peculiar feeling of contentment came over Nic suddenly, as if somehow she actually was sharing this moment with Griff. She walked over to the chair, picked up the discarded cotton blanket, wrapped it around her like a shawl, and curled up in the chair.
If only she had told him about their baby.
She had no idea why it had taken her years to conceive. She and Griff had undergone testing procedures only to be told there was no physical reason why Nic couldn’t get pregnant.
The first time they had made love, neither of them had been in their right mind. They’d been wild for each other. They hadn’t even made it to her bedroom. There had been no soft music, no candlelight and no sweet words of love. Only raw passion. Afterward, she had reminded herself that it had just been sex.
Nic smiled. Yeah, but it had been damn good sex.
She caressed her belly. “Your daddy is a wild man in bed. And he’s told me I’m pretty wild, too.” She laughed. “That’s not something you’ll ever hear me say when you’re old enough to understand.”