Then again, most of the homes here didn’t have porches.
Large entrances, yes, but no porches.
Large trees swept down and hid the house from the sidewalk. He’d taken the
Sold
sign down and tossed it into the bushes when he knew what he needed to do—take her. Why there was a
Sold
sign anyway had to be mistake. This was his house. His.
He just needed to get into his house.
Were the police there? They had been a few weeks ago when he’d wanted to come home and get some things. He didn’t know if anyone was watching his house or not, so he hadn’t even driven down the street.
But he wanted his things. His things from the basement.
Apparently, rumors were already circulating about the others.
Someone must have said something. And they remembered before when he’d dated a nurse who’d suddenly disappeared. He’d told them all she decided to move, took another job in New York.
No one had questioned him then.
But his mother had asked him when he’d called to see how things were. She’d asked him to turn himself in, that he was
embarrassing
them.
His mother.
She also wondered why he couldn’t simply marry a girl from his own standing. Why he always had to go after these less-suitable females.
Because high-society girls expected certain freedoms, wanted certain things. Had become educated in the recent decades.
He liked those who didn’t really have any family to call, anyone who would sincerely miss them. He wanted to mold, to train, to create the perfect mate. The perfect wife. How else could their lives together begin correctly?
Katherine had the makings of a fine wife, and would be his again. He just had to have time alone with her, get her to see and understand she was his.
He climbed from the car and walked through the shade to the next house and then walked along the sidewalk. He wore a fedora and camel overcoat. Maybe no one would recognize him.
On his block, a house before his, he turned and quickly made his way around back. He knew the Pleevants wouldn’t be home yet. They were away in Europe until Christmas and the house sitter only came home at night.
He hurried through their backyard and into his own. Breathing a sigh of relief, he unlocked the door and leaned back against it once inside the kitchen.
Taking a deep breath, he could swear he smelled the dust. He’d been gone from here almost a month.
And it was her damned fault.
Kinncaid’s damned fault.
He should be here, in a clean home, with her cooking his dinner and— Landon shook off the thoughts and went down into the basement, only turning on the light once he’d closed the door.
He pushed the bookcase aside and stepped into his room.
Ah, his room.
Their room.
A peace settled over him.
So many memories . . .
Curls of hair hung in a perfect row atop the mirror. He remembered each of them. Each one he’d had to let go because they didn’t suit. Their rings hung on small hooks with the hair. All of them were enclosed in a wooden box he’d hung on the wall. Yes, he’d want to take that with him.
He looked around. This was where she was supposed to come. This was where he would have to punish her, but he couldn’t.
Damn Kinncaid was ruining everything. Everything!
He picked up a bottle of perfume and hurled it against the wall. It shattered and the room filled with the heady floral scent he’d gotten for Katherine. The white satin bedspread glowed in the light behind him.
He passed the bed, went to the closet he’d built and opened it. New clothes for Katherine.
The white wedding gown was in the plastic bag. He’d had it hanging in their room, but he’d moved it down here when she’d run off without a word.
He unzipped the bag and pulled the dress out, hanging it on the front of the closet door. He leaned down and grabbed the shoebox. White satin pumps, with lace, perfect for the dress.
Of course a bouquet would be missing, but that was expected.
He wanted it perfect for them. He really should just grab the things and go.
Or did he have to?
Maybe he should just bring her down here, lock the door, push the bookcase into place. He could come and go as he wanted or needed.
And if he were caught, then he’d have a bargaining tool.
If she were left alone too long down here, she’d die.
But if he ran, with her, with their things, then he could take her to the cottage. No one knew of it. No one.
Yes, it was the smarter way to go.
He sighed and looked around the room. The carpets needed cleaning. The vanity needed dusting.
At least the cottage was clean when he left it two days ago.
The problem would be containing her there. There were neighbors, and he’d already learned the older couple went for walks every morning right by his place on their way to the beach.
What if she did something to draw their attention? Or screamed and they heard?
He would cross that bridge when or if it became an issue.
There wasn’t much time. He needed to hurry.
But he wanted her here. Here where the others had been. Here where things were . . . were . . . the way he liked them.
The cottage had so many unknowns.
But the police were already looking for him. It would not take them long to come look here.
He put the dress back in the garment bag, settled the shoes in the bottom. He was reaching for the white lingerie when a noise scraped from somewhere.
He stilled.
Had they already found him?
• • •
Jock Kinncaid zoomed through the residential areas of Baltimore until he reached the more stately homes. He knew which one was the bastard’s. He’d already been here.
He slid the car into the driveway and looked around.
An unmarked car pulled up to the curb and two men got out.
“Can I help you?” one of them asked, pushing his jacket back to show his gun.
Jock really didn’t have time for this. “Yeah, get on your radio and let the chief know Kinncaid’s here and I’m not fucking waiting.”
They looked at each other, then at him. “The chief?”
“Of police. He’s an old friend.”
Another car turned the corner and pulled to a stop. The chief unfolded his tall frame from the passenger side and shook his head. “You always were a damned hothead.”
“He. Has. Her.”
“Jock.”
“I’m not waiting,” he said again and jogged up the front steps.
When they’d been here before, he’d taken a set of keys—three—off the peg near the back door and made a set. Then on one of his drives up here, he’d tried the door and realized he’d been right. They opened the front and back doors, and the garage.
“Jock. You can’t just—”
Jock turned. “Oh, but I can. I own this house now. Bought it from the bank, so when the bastard came back I could throw his ass out.”
“And you made certain he wouldn’t work anywhere in Baltimore again,” the chief said. “He’s dangerous.”
Jock unlocked the door and pushed it open, going inside.
The house was quiet. Eerily so. Not like it had been the first time he’d come, or the second to replace the keys. No, now it was like someone holding their breath.
“No one has seen him come in. The driveway and garage are empty.”
“So? He could park somewhere else.”
“And drag a woman here?” one of the cops who’d followed them in asked.
Jock looked him up and down. “You are?”
“Detective Andrews.”
“Well, Detective, did you and your partner pay enough attention to know who drives what?”
The detectives narrowed their gazes on him.
“Kinncaid.”
He held his hand up. “No. She’s mine. I’m not sitting back and waiting. As this is my house, we’re not breaking any laws. I give you full right to search away.” The chief held his gaze and finally jerked his head.
“You bought this house?” the man asked him again.
“Yes.” Jock took the stairs two at a time just as someone slammed a door in one of the downstairs areas.
No one was in the master bedroom. Or the bath, the closets. He checked under the beds, looked in the shower stalls of the bathrooms.
Nothing.
Nothing and no one.
Where the hell was she? Where had Goldburg taken her?
If he was a bad guy and he’d stolen a woman, what part of a house would he take her to?
The basement.
Jock turned and ran down the hallway, down the stairs, and skidded across the entryway.
“Nothing here,” one of the detectives said.
Jock ignored them and went back to the kitchen and the basement door. It was unlocked. The padlock on the outside had been locked before, but now it wasn’t.
He opened it and went down.
The stairs groaned under his weight, but he didn’t care. He skipped the last two and landed on the stone floor. A line of bare bulbs ran the length of the room. A washer. A dryer. Boxes. File cabinets. A worktable and tools on the wall. A bookcase at the end of the basement.
“See, nothing here,” the cop said again.
Jock stood in the middle of the room, paced one way and down the others. At the worktable, he grabbed a wrench off the peg board and threw it across the room, growling.
“Jock, calm down,” the chief told him. “We’ll find her.”
He looked up, took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Where was she? Where was the doctor? What was he doing to her? It had taken so long for the swelling to go down, for the bruises to fade from her pale ivory skin. Jock opened his eyes again, counted the beams on the ceiling to give him something . . . Wait.
He looked at the dimensions.
He knew architecture. Knew how things were built. He built hotels for God’s sake.
“The room’s off.”
“What?”
The other cops had gone back upstairs. Only the chief was down there with him.
He pointed up. “That’s half the kitchen area and maybe the hallway. I know the basement runs to the front of the house. There are small low-level windows along the flower beds. The steps we came up at the front to make it all even. Small front windows marking each side of the five steps.
He looked again at the room. Counted the windows.
Not enough. He looked upstairs. “Can your guys count the windows along the walkway?”
Chief looked at him, looked at the windows, looked at the far wall with the peg board and bookcase.
He sighed and started up the stairs.
Jock walked closer to the worktable and peg board. This whole wall was wrong. The brickwork was different than the long walls. He was leaning over when something scraped on stone. He turned as the bookcase slowly slid open like a door.
Jock eased closer to it until he was practically touching it with his shoulder.
A man stepped out. A man with blond hair.
Someone yelled, and as Jock gripped the man’s shoulder and turned him around, he realized it was him.
Landon Goldburg III.
“Where is she?” Jock hit him, kept his hand fisted on the bastard’s shirt and hit him again.
He glanced beyond the bookcase’s doorway into the secret empty room. A room with a white bed. A garment bag with white satin spilling out.
“She’s mine,” the guy said, jerking his attention back.
“Kaitlyn!” he yelled, but didn’t let the bastard go. “Kaitie!”
He whirled back and hit the doctor again. And again. “Where.” Hit. “Is.” Hit. “She!” he growled in the man’s face.
Dark, empty black eyes stared back at him. “If I can’t have her, no one will.” Then he grinned.
Jock didn’t remember wrapping his large hand around the bastard’s skinny throat. He hit him. Again and again. Face. Ribs. Kidneys. Ribs. He hit him until someone slammed Jock on the head.
“Jock. Damn it, man! You’re killing him. Let go!” The chief’s words filtered through. “Let him go! Jock!”
Jock dropped the man, though he squatted beside him, breathing hard. One of the bastard’s eyes was starting to swell. Good.
“Where is she?” he asked softly and leaned down so he pressed on the guy’s ribs.
“Jock. Step back.”
“Where. Is. She?” He bit out each word.
The doctor’s dark eyes locked on his and he smiled. “She’s mine. You won’t find her.”
Jock hit him. Since the guy was lying on the floor, his head slammed into the stone and his eyes rolled back into his head.
“Damn it all to bloody hell, man. How are we supposed to find out a bleeding thing if you’ve gone and knocked the bastard cold?” the chief yelled. He pulled Jock to his feet and kept on. “You assaulted the man, Jock! You could have killed him and—”