“For now, all our bases are covered.” Derek glanced at the closed door to Griffin’s study. “Are you two doing this alone or do you want me to—?”
“I will speak to Griffin,” Sanders said.
Derek cast Yvette a sidelong glance. She kept her eyes downcast and said nothing. Sanders knew how much she wanted to go with him, to step in immediately and try to help Griffin. But she would do as he had asked, no matter how difficult for her.
“Are you sure you don’t want backup?” Derek asked. “I wouldn’t want to walk into that lion’s den without a whip and a chair.”
“Sanders knows what he’s doing,” Yvette assured Derek. “He understands Griffin far better than anyone else.”
“I guess he does—doesn’t he?—which means he has to be concerned that, once he tells Griff that Nic is missing and presumed kidnapped, Griff just might shoot the messenger.”
Sanders ignored Derek’s warning, fully aware of how Griffin would react when he delivered the news of Nicole’s possible abduction. Without delaying any longer, he reached out and knocked on the door.
“Go away,” Griffin called from inside the study.
“It is urgent that I speak to you,” Sanders said. “It is about Nicole. I have news—”
All within a couple of seconds, the lock clicked, the handle turned, and the door opened. Griffin stood just over the threshold, the room behind him dark except for a glimmer of dying twilight coming through the study windows.
“What about Nic?” Griff asked, his gaze glued to Sanders.
“May I come in?” Sanders didn’t hesitate. He moved forward and Griff stepped back inside the study.
Sanders closed the door behind him.
“What’s going on?” Griffin asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Cully Redmond never reached the cabin in Gatlinburg. He was shot and killed while en route and his Hummer veered off the road and into a ravine.”
“And Nic? Does she know about Cully? Has Maleah arrived at the cabin?” Griffin stormed toward the door. “I’m going straight there now. Call her and—”
“Nicole is not at the cabin.”
Griffin stopped dead still and turned to face Sanders. “Where is she? Did Maleah take her somewhere else?”
“When Maleah arrived at the cabin, Nicole’s Escalade was parked in the driveway and her suitcase was in the master bedroom closet, but ...” Sanders paused for a brief second. “Nicole was not there. We don’t know where she is, but we suspect that she has been abducted by Anthony Linden.”
Griffin stared at him with an incredulous look in his eyes. “Anthony Linden is dead. Luke Sentell—”
“Thorndike Mitchum contacted me less than an hour ago,” Sanders said. “They managed to do a rush job on the autopsy and the DNA testing. The man Luke killed was not Anthony Linden.”
For several minutes, Griffin stood there staring at Sanders. And then like a wild animal brought down by a hunter’s deadly shot, Griffin Powell roared in excruciating pain.
Rafe Byrne escorted the five-nine, luscious blonde through the entrance of the private dining room in the River Restaurant at the Savoy in downtown London. His date was none other than the infamous stage and screen star, Cassandra Wilder, and she, not he, had been invited to this exclusive party hosted by Sir Harlan Benecroft. As luck would have it, he had known Cassie for a number of years, having deliberately cultivated her acquaintance because he had once seen a newspaper photo of her with Sir Harlan. Rafe was a patient man. He had no problem biding his time and waiting for the right opportunity. And his casual relationship with Cassie had finally paid off when in a recent telephone conversation, she had mentioned tonight’s dinner party at the Savoy.
“If you’re in London next week, you simply must accompany me, darling. I’ll be the envy of all the other women.”
Cassie couldn’t have known what her offhand invitation had meant to him. He had been searching for a way to gain entry into Benecroft’s elite circle of friends, hoping that Yves Bouchard would be among them. Bouchard was a wily old fox who kept a low profile and had proven impossible to locate. But if luck was on his side, Rafe just might meet the elusive billionaire tonight.
“I have no idea who the other guests are,” Cassie admitted in a quiet whisper as they entered the dining room. “I so hope one of the royals is here. I’ve fancied meeting a prince for ever so long.”
Upon close inspection, Rafe saw that the table was set for twelve. A quick scan of the people present told him that he and Cassie completed the party and were apparently the last to arrive. As that nefarious toad, Sir Harlan, rose from his seat at the head of the table and waved a cordial welcome, Rafe steeled himself in preparation for what lay ahead this evening. Every instinct he possessed urged him to go in for the kill, to rip out the old pervert’s heart, and feed it to his guests.
Harlan Benecroft had grown older, fatter, and balder with age. He had to be at least seventy by now. Age spots dotted his round, ruddy face and not even the elegant cut of his expensive tuxedo jacket could camouflage his wide girth.
Did he still prefer pretty young girls who had just reached pubescence? Girls of eleven or twelve with small newly blossomed breasts and their virginity intact?
There had been a time when Rafe couldn’t have been in the same room with Benecroft without vomiting. And even now, the sight of the man sickened him.
With iron control over his emotions—anger, hatred, revulsion—Rafe managed to nod and smile when their host urged them to take their seats. In his role as a gentleman, Rafe assisted his date and then pulled out the chair beside her. Once seated, he ran his gaze quickly around the table, concentrating only on the men, the two older men in particular. He had not seen Yves Bouchard in person for more than sixteen years, not since Bouchard’s last visit to Amara. And there were no recent photos of the man. None.
Would Rafe actually recognize Bouchard?
One of the two older men, he dismissed immediately when he heard him speak to the woman next to him. His accent was decidedly Scottish. And his eyes were blue, not brown.
“I believe that Ms. Wilder needs no introduction,” Sir Harlan said as he focused his gaze on Cassie. “But, my dear, perhaps you would like to introduce your young man to the other guests.”
As all eyes turned to Rafe, his heart stopped beating for one gut-wrenching moment when the white-haired man with the neatly groomed gray mustache and Vandyke looked directly at him. Yves Bouchard, in the flesh.
Got you, you son of a bitch. After all these years, I’ve finally found you.
Cassie reached over and laid her hand atop Rafe’s. “Sir Harlan, please let me introduce my date for tonight, my dear friend, Leonardo Kasan.”
Chapter 3
Derek paced the hallway as he and Yvette waited outside Griffin Powell’s study. Whenever he heard a shout or a crash, he paused to exchange concerned glances with Yvette, who stood serenely at the end of the corridor, her head bowed and her hands folded in a prayerlike gesture. For what seemed like the hundredth time, Derek checked his wristwatch. Although it had been barely twenty minutes since Sanders had gone into the study with Griffin, it felt more like twenty hours. The horrifically painful roar Griffin initially released had sent chills through Derek’s body. Then several minutes later, silence had replaced the sound of unbearable pain. But only momentarily. One loud crash had followed another and then another, interrupted by periods of ominous quiet. And then Griffin had begun bellowing at the top of his lungs. His loud, gruff voice resonated with anguish, his words of remorse and self-condemnation clearly audible through the closed door. And all the while, they heard the soft, steady drone of Sanders’s calm voice interspersed throughout Griff’s ongoing savage tirade.
Derek could only imagine what was happening behind that closed door. If he were in Griffin’s position, if Maleah was missing, presumed kidnapped by a deadly assassin, how would he have reacted?
A strange silence interrupted Derek’s thoughts, a lingering quiet that signaled a conclusion. The door eased open and Sanders stood there looking as if he had survived a vicious battle, his facial features drawn and haggard, his gaze a blank stare. After he stepped out into the hall, leaving the door open behind him, Derek glanced into Griffin’s study, a room he now barely recognized. In his tortured rage, Griff had destroyed the beautifully elegant and classically masculine room he had personally designed for his private use. Every stick of furniture—tables, chairs, ottomans—had been overturned. Only the large, sturdy Jacobean table remained upright, but the surface had been swept clean, the items scattered about on the wooden floor. Shattered lamps littered the Persian rug, as did the porcelain figurines that had once lined the mantel over the massive rock fireplace.
Yvette walked toward Sanders, her steps increasing in speed as she neared the study entrance. She paused in front of Sanders and waited for him to speak.
Derek suddenly sensed that his presence was superfluous. At this moment, there was nothing he could do for Griff. Sanders had done his part. Now, it was Yvette’s turn. Without a word being spoken, Yvette and Sanders passed each other as he left Griff’s study and she entered. When Sanders approached, Derek was still staring into the ransacked room, watching as Yvette walked up behind Griff, whose back was to her, lifted her arm, and placed her hand on his shoulder.
“She will help him,” Sanders said.
Derek nodded.
“We have a lot to do,” Sanders told him. “It may well be tomorrow before Griffin is able to take charge again. In the meantime, I will need your assistance to address certain urgent matters.”
Snapping out of his trancelike state, completely absorbed by the way Yvette doubled over and groaned in pain as she struggled to hold on to Griff. When she dropped to her knees, her hand clinging to Griff’s leg, Derek forced himself to face Sanders.
“Yvette can do more for him now than you or I.” Sanders reached behind him and closed the door. “But there is much you and I can and must do as soon as possible.”
“Maleah should be here anytime now,” Derek said. “You work up the game plan and we’ll expedite it immediately.”
“The first order of business is to assign agents to go to the cabin and search for any clues that might tell us what happened to Nicole.” Sanders motioned for Derek to follow him as he moved down the hall, away from Griff’s study and toward the foyer. “I need to tell Barbara Jean what has happened. She is waiting in our quarters. While I fill her in on the situation, will you please get in touch with Saxon Chap-pell and send him to Gatlinburg? And see if you can get in touch with Shaughnessy. Ask him to return to Griffin’s Rest as soon as possible. If ...” Sanders cleared his throat. “If it were to become necessary for us to subdue Griffin, Shaughnessy is the only agent we have who has the physical strength to help us do that.”
“Anything else?” Derek asked.
“Get in touch with headquarters and have all available personnel called in and put to work tracking every airplane, boat, bus, and train that left the region in the past eight hours.”
“Airplane departures should be the top priority,” Derek suggested. “In all likelihood, if Anthony Linden abducted Nicole, he would have a private plane waiting to take her out of the country.”
“Agreed.” With a curt nod of his shaved head, Sanders walked briskly away, through the foyer, and down the hallway that led to his and Barbara Jean’s quarters at the back of the mansion.
Derek headed toward the state-of-the-art-equipped office suite there at Griffin’s Rest. He had taken only a few hurried steps when the front door opened and a voice called out to him.
“Derek!”
He turned, sighed with relief at the sight of the woman he loved, and rushed toward her as she raced straight into his arms. He hugged her to him before capturing her face between his open palms and kissing her long and hard. When she broke away and sucked in a deep breath, he grasped her hands and held them between their bodies.
“I am so damn glad to see you, Blondie.”
“Yeah, you just made that perfectly clear.” Maleah tried to smile, but the effort failed. “Has there been any word on Nic?”
“Nothing.”
“How’s Griff?”
Derek grimaced. “Not good. Sanders told him that Nic is missing and Cully is dead. Now Yvette is in the study with him.”
“If it wasn’t for that woman—”
“Don’t.” Derek squeezed Maleah’s hands. “Now is not the time to assign blame. We have to work together to keep Griff halfway sane and to do everything possible to locate Nic and bring her home.”
With her lips pursed in reluctant, silent agreement, Maleah bobbed her head affirmatively.
“And for now, I think it’s best if Griff doesn’t know that Nic is pregnant,” Derek said.
“Oh, God ...” Maleah softly butted her head against Derek’s shoulder. And then she stopped and looked up at him. “I know Nic. If she weren’t pregnant, she would fight tooth and nail, but she’s at a disadvantage because she is not going to do anything to jeopardize her baby’s life.” Tears gathered in Maleah’s hazel-gold eyes.
He grasped her shoulders and shook her gently. “We have things to do. Go wash your face, pour yourself a stiff drink, and pull yourself together.”
She offered him a fragile smile. “I’m okay.” When he gave her a skeptical once-over, she told him, “Really. I’m fine. Let’s get to work. Just tell me what I need to do first.”
Rafe Byrne had used numerous aliases over the years; Leonardo Kasan was one of many. Since he had walked out of the London hospital over sixteen years ago with a face even he hadn’t recognized, he had never once used his real name. He had been born Raphael Byrne, his lineage an equal mix of Irish and Italian, but that name meant nothing to him now. As a boy, he had dreamed of becoming either a priest like his uncle Stephano or an artist like his grandfather Byrne. Those dreams, along with every other worthwhile thing in his life, had been brutally and irrevocably stolen from him. First by Malcolm York. And then by York’s special guests who had visited Amara for sport and pleasure, hunting young men in their prime by day and amusing themselves sexually in the evenings, each in his own way.
To say that he had hated York was a vast understatement. Malevolent to his very soul, York had taken a sweet and innocent boy with a kind heart and gentle spirit and turned him into a savage animal. On the island of Amara, Rafe had joined the other “perfect” specimens in York’s dungeonlike prison, men and boys such as he who had once been normal human beings. He had been thrown into a world he had never known existed, into a dog-eat-dog world where one motto ruled supreme: Kill or be killed.
If not for a man named Griffin Powell, Rafe would not have survived even the first month on Amara. He owed Griff his life. But there were times, those lonely, soul-searching moments when a man cannot hide from himself, that Rafe wished Griff had never intervened. For three years on Amara, the angelic boy who dreamed of devoting his life to God had endured every aspect of hell here on Earth. And for the past sixteen years he had existed for one purpose. He had become a brutal, merciless fallen angel, a weapon of vengeance and punishment. He killed in the name of justice and had never asked forgiveness from the God who had forsaken him.
“Leo, please let’s go with the others.” Cassie Wilder tugged on his sleeve, her touch jerking him abruptly from his memories. “Harlan knows the most decadent places in London where all sorts of wicked things go on.”
“If that’s what you would like to do.” Rafe slid his hand down her back to rest in the curve of her spine, playing his role as her attentive date. “Is the entire dinner party going?”
“I don’t think so. Just a few of us.”
The group mingled in the private room, several saying their good-byes with air kisses and insipid mock hugs, while others lingered, apparently eager to follow Harlan Benecroft to whatever den of iniquity he planned to visit.
“You two simply must join us.” Harlan came over and draped his hefty arm around Cassie’s shoulders. “I know this delicious, exclusive club where the entertainment is marvelously titillating.”
“We wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Cassie assured him as she snuggled against Rafe. “Leo is such a darling about doing whatever I want to do.”
“A man must never give a woman everything she wants.” Yves Bouchard joined the conversation, a wide smile on his aging pretty boy face. “You must remember that a woman wants a man to be a man and never a doormat.”
Rafe forced a phony, amused laugh. “I am always prepared to learn from an older and wiser man.”
Bouchard searched Rafe’s face for any sign of sarcasm and apparently seeing none, he laughed as he slapped Rafe on the back. “I believe I’m going to like you, Kasan.”
“The limousine is waiting,” Harlan said. “Come, children, the night is young and full of promise.”
Rafe kept his arm around Cassie’s waist as they joined Harlan’s small group of fun-seekers. On the deepest level of his being, two emotions stirred to life—revulsion and anticipation. The moment Bouchard’s hand touched him, Rafe had cringed, wanting nothing more than to kill the man on the spot. The last time Bouchard had touched him ... But anticipation outweighed the revulsion. After over a decade and a half of searching for the elusive billionaire, he had found him. It was only a matter of time until he sent the son of a bitch to meet his maker.
Patience.
Over the years, he had cultivated the invaluable qualities of perseverance, patience, and self-control.
Rafe was one of six who entered the elevator with Harlan. Cassie and a bone-thin, middle-aged brunette were the only two women in the group. And the way the older woman kept eyeing Cassie, made Rafe suspect she was a lesbian. He knew for a fact that Cassandra Wilder swung both ways and proudly boasted to the press about her sexual exploits as a bisexual woman. Bouchard, though cordial with the others, seemed disinterested in the two women, in Rafe, and in the other three men.
Once ensconced in Harlan’s limo, the group of seven settled back as their host popped a fresh bottle of champagne and filled their glasses to overflowing. Rafe sipped the sparkling wine while the others devoured theirs. He occasionally nuzzled Cassie’s neck and laid a possessive hand on her knee, all the while subtly observing the others.
Twenty minutes later, the limo pulled up at the back of a dark warehouse near the Thames. A slightly inebriated Harlan exited first. His guests followed his lead like ducklings waddling behind their mama. After removing a key from his pocket and unlocking a heavy metal door, their host entered the building and led them down a dimly lit corridor to a service elevator. As the clanking elevator ascended, the sound of music and laughter drifted downward from the loft area.
When they reached the top level, two naked, muscular black guards opened a set of double doors to reveal the private club.
Heavy, room-darkening drapes covered all the windows, cocooning the massive loft in shadowy warmth. The diffused lighting, soft pinks and vivid reds, created a mysteriously wanton atmosphere. Small stages set up at ten foot intervals around the outskirts of the huge room surrounded the crowds of onlookers, men and women of various ages and races. On eight of the twelve separate podiums, one or more performers participated in some type of sex act for the entertainment of the club’s patrons.
Rafe had seen this type of club before and knew that for the right price any of the performers could be bought—for the night, the week or indefinitely.
Around the world, people were bought and sold as if they were livestock, some sold into servitude, some into sexual bondage, and others as prey in hunting games for bored sadists who no longer found hunting wild animals a challenge.
He knew only too well the nightmarish hell in which these boys and girls, who ranged in age from preteens to young adults in their early twenties, existed. That world was populated by rich and powerful perverts such as Harlan Benecroft and Yves Bouchard, a world created and perpetuated by men such as Malcolm York. A world from which he had barely escaped with his life. A world that had robbed him of his innocence, his dreams, and his very soul.