In Love by Design (The Adventures of Anabel Axelrod) (6 page)

In the long run, it made no difference why James
ran a check on Luke because Charles Barkley would have suggested doing the same, once he realized I had a serious boyfriend. It has never been an issue in my life to consider before now, but Mr. Barkley takes his guardianship seriously. We had the pre-nup “talk” years ago.

I asked James for the
prints detailing Luke’s properties and loans, and then closed down the discussion. No more was said on the subject that night. I’m meeting with James next week to give my answer whether we’ll have a future business partnership.

The only bright side to this
puzzling, disturbing item on my list is that Mr. Secretive has never asked me for a cent or even hinted at getting legally hitched. He’s paid for all of our dates and bought me presents. We’ve done nothing extravagant, but I’ve never had the sense it’s because money is desperately tight.

Of course, why would I if he was up to something?

I know, this is why I think being in love is such a pain!

‘Am I being one of those incredibl
y boneheaded women that people try to warn, but who refuses to see all the signs until the guy absconds with her heart and her bank account?’
This thought was bad enough, but the next one was hideous.
‘Is my soul mate King Con? Does Luke think for one cotton picking minute that I am some dried-up spinster panting for a man and ripe for the plucking in some evil scam?’

Bent over the back of my jeep, I
was really banging the cookie sheets around in my agitation while trying to get them all stacked to carry. My jaw aching probably means I was grinding my teeth over Luke being gone with no word, his shacking up with Svettie, his hidden agenda to be the Land & Loan Baron of Rice County, and being a big, fat disappointing boyfriend in general.

Exasperated,
I thought we’d settled all this trust stuff on Thanksgiving.

I
muttered, “Guess there’s no riding off into the sunset to screw happily ever after for me and my man.” Flipping a hand out, I was really starting to wallow in self-pity. “Oh no, I don’t get to be a girlfriend for more than eight to ten hours before I have to deal with crap, crap, and more crap!”

I could have called Luke these past two weeks, but it has become our custom for him to call me when he’s gone on a job. Besides, old habits die hard. I don’t call men, they call me. Granted, these were the men in my past that hadn’t declared their love to me and become my exclusive boyfriend, complete with commitment ceremony and tattoos.

I snorted.

Straightening up with the trays finally organized, I admitted to myself that most of all, I just miss my Dark Prince. For once, I longed to be held close and hopefully fondled while sweet everything’s were whispered in my ear. I want to be told all is well and that I was missed, too.

‘See, I
AM one of those damn, sex-starved boneheads!’
I despaired on an internal wail.

When the lights went out and the trays went flying from
my hands, I instinctively fought and kicked out, even as my heart thumped with excitement that Luke was starting My Turn.

Somebody was grabbing me from behind and m
y pointed-toe shoe made a solid connection against flesh and I heard a shrill, “Bollocks!”

The
lights going out is a burlap bag over my head. It’s tightly enveloping me, scratchy and stinky. It smells worse than rotten potatoes. The thought that this odor will penetrate my hair and clothes made me gag. It was the last straw. I was suddenly furious that Luke would think to capture me in such an awful bag. At the same time, I realized the high-pitched voice that swore didn’t sound like Luke’s, unless he was faking a bad British accent.

Blind
ed and confused, I felt myself gripped by strong hands around my hips. I was slung off my feet and up in the air with disorienting speed. I was then flopped down against something hard with enough force across my midsection that I gasped out a painful “Oomph”, as all the breath was knocked out of me.

Entrapped in the bag,
I was bent in half and my head was hanging upside down. My air supply was cut off. Wheezing, I tried instinctually to curl up, but an iron band of an arm was tight across my upper thighs. The arm held me immobile while I was jarred violently around. This motion further prevented me from catching my breath.

Right when I
was starting to seriously panic that I’m suffocating, I was flung down on my back against another hard surface. It hurt, but at least I was able to take small breaths and get a little air. I struggled to keep calm and not hyperventilate.

I remembered my purse
then because it was sticking painfully into my back. I had landed on it when flung down. Within the tight sack surrounding my body like a straitjacket, I tried with my left hand to reach my purse. I was slowly inching behind me when the bag is jerked up and a hand reached underneath to grab my wrist.

Half of my arm
was yanked out from under the bag, my jacket sleeve was pushed up, and I immediately felt a stabbing prick. A cold, burning sensation soon followed. Still trying to breathe and feeling dizzy, I could barely make a gasping sound in terrified protest at the needle in my arm. I had no strength to fight, other than to try a futile tug. My arm stayed easily imprisoned within the hand that had me in a tight grip for a few seconds more. The pressure eased up and the hand released my arm.

I heard that same
high voice whisper an out of breath, ‘There, lass. All sorted now.”

The bag was pulled down
to below my knees, so that I am once again bundled tight with no give to move my arms or the ability to spread my legs. I heard a door roll and slam shut, and I started squirming to get loose. An engine revved and then we were moving.

Frightened out of my wits at knowing I’d just been injected with God only knows what,
on a burst of adrenaline, I tried to wiggle back and forth to reach my purse. I got my wish when the van or whatever I was in, took a sudden sharp left turn. My purse was dislodged from under me while I was pitched helplessly around. My fingers could touch the smooth pleather.

An immeasurable
time later, I felt a surreal sense of surprise to realize that I had forgotten what I was trying to do. My gun and cell phone were inside the purse not one inch from my hand, but I wasn’t moving. A hazy, tingly feeling had invaded my entire body like a million, tiny little pinpricks. Not painful, not even uncomfortable, but definitely a strange feeling.

Closing my eyes, I
was positive it would feel amazingly wonderful to stretch my arms languorously high over my head and point my toes far, far in the other direction. I imagined being racked in the old dungeons of the Tower of London like the Protestant martyr Anne Askew and it actually sounded like a good idea at this moment. I wouldn’t want the rest of her punishment, as poor Anne has the painful distinction of being the only woman on historical record to be both racked and burned at the stake.

Instead,
I lie there in unmoving lassitude, lazily floating adrift in the dark confines of the stinky bag. I was thinking that while life sometimes sucks these days, it has nothing on the crapola women endured at the hands of evil men back in the day.

It
’s not that I was unaware of being trussed up on the floor of a moving vehicle after being nabbed out of my parking lot and shot up with a drug; I just didn’t seem to give a damn.

“Smooth Criminal” by Michael Jackson

Thursday
12/06/12

11:0
4 PM

Unless I have a spare four hours
to do it right, I’ve learned the hard way not to take naps during the day because it’s almost guaranteed I’ll wake up crankier than your worst toddler nightmare.

Groggily
swimming out of the depths of whatever drug I’d been put out with, I found myself alone and very uncomfortable. I was bound to a wooden straight chair, stripped down to my new jade green teddy, and freezing cold. You can imagine my mood.

T
he fat candles burning in old pickle jars on the floor surrounding the rickety chair where I sat provided little illumination, but enough to tell I’m in a decrepit kitchen. If the candles are meant to coax me into a more romantic frame of mind, it wasn’t working.

My arms
are hanging down past the seat of the chair on the outside. From the wrists up, a length of thick rope is wrapped around me like a mummy and held my arms and torso tightly against the chair. Each ankle was tied to the front leg of the wood chair. Stretching, I could just feel the sticky, cold floor with the tips of my big toes.

I should be scared, but I
was fucking furious.

Mainly, my fury is aimed at myself for not being more careful and aware of my surroundings, but I’m
incensed enough to spread it around to include the Brit who stuck me with a needle.

Struggling to escape the rope
s, my sluggish brain tried to evaluate the list of people wanting me hurt or worse. It could be a buddy of the imprisoned Ron Hansen or the dead Hammer. It could be my cousin Candy, although I reluctantly give her credit for more smarts. She knows something painfully bad will happen to her if she retaliates against me for turning her into a human Slurpee in the SA parking lot. Mike McClain came to mind. Sure he was livid, but I couldn’t see him putting out a hit on me for turning down his marriage proposal. He would more likely want to kill Anna for throwing coffee on his spotless clothes. Nobody I knew had mentioned seeing him since the fracas in my office.

I
t’s possible it could be related to the rescue of Blanca, although again, not probable. Before he left town, Luke verified the pedophile would never be a problem again for any young girl. My faith in him is like a rock in this regard, but I still wanted to satisfy my female need for the dirty details.

Last Sunday, after ten excruciatingly faithful days of watching the daily local news stations, I caught the crime report that a body had been found
. The identity was revealed as one Esteban Garza. This was the real name of the pedophile enforcer after Blanca. The subsequent reports resulted in no arrests, but the police went on record to say Garza was murdered by a gunshot to the head. They speculated from information received through unnamed sources that it was a gang-related killing involving the robbery of money from another gang member.

I
still don’t know if Luke and John killed Garza themselves. Maybe they stole my money back and then made it look like Garza had ripped off his boss. Maybe his own people then killed him in retribution. Either way, I clapped at the news and marveled at Luke’s expertise when having only a day to investigate and plan for Garza’s removal. I recall wondering in admiration what my Dark Prince could accomplish if he seriously took the time to plan something.

Blowing
out a breath at the reminder of Land Baron Luke’s hidden talents, I refocused on the more immediate problem at hand--my imminent rape or worse. Whatever’s in store for me tonight wasn’t going to be pleasant. I needed to get free and get the hell out of here while I still had a chance.

Looking swiftly around the room
confirmed that I can’t see crap past the circle of jar candles around this chair, but I didn’t hear anything. My eyes snapped back to the pile of my clothes neatly folded on the floor and only a few feet away to the right. The strap of my purse is visible under the blazer.

M
y hands clenched the rough wooden seat and I started using my butt and hips to get rocking sideways, back and forth, in the chair.

As I rocked, the
delicate silk fabric of my brand new teddy caught and ripped on the splintery wooden seat of the old chair, along with the tender skin of my ass. I shut out the pain, but silently I was savagely cussing while swearing paybacks for every painfully jabbing splinter.

I
continued rocking side to side and got some momentum going. Throwing the weight of my hips and my straining neck and head to the right with everything I had, the spindly chair and I went crashing to the floor. My fuzzy brain still felt like it was wrapped in cotton from the after-effects of the drug, so the pain didn’t register too much when my skull smacked off the floor. I’d heard a satisfyingly loud crack of wood as I toppled over, but the ropes that bound me didn’t miraculously fall off. They didn’t even loosen when I struggled against them.

Lying
panting on my right side on the curling linoleum squares, I determinedly didn’t think about what kind of filth my cheek was resting on. The kitchen floor stunk. If this freezing old house is abandoned like it appears, kids probably partied in here. Where there was garbage, there are rats.

Not a
big fan of rodents, I almost threw up in my mouth at the thought of those sharp teeth and long tails. In some cultures rat meat was still a traditional source of food in their diet, or worse yet, a delicacy. You won’t catch me dining in North India, although to be fair, I don’t suppose those folks will be joining me for a backyard BBQ of a juicy rib-eye.

Regrouping
for just a second, I looked at the golden flame flickering merrily a foot away from me. There are dead fly carcasses an inch deep on the bottom of the dusty jar surrounding the burning candle. Grimacing, I turned my head upwards. That’s when I started feeling streaks of pain shooting down my neck and into my right shoulder that had taken the brunt of the landing. I gritted my teeth and ignored the pain in my hopeful realization. If I was parallel to the candle, then my purse was nearby where my head rested.