Chapter Thirty-Three
Meg awoke groggy and disoriented, every muscle in her body limp with exhaustion. Her head pounded and nausea churned in her stomach. Nothing around her looked familiar. She smoothed a hand over the pale peach satin comforter spread over the big king-size bed where she lay, her mind a jumble of disconnected thoughts.
A trickle of memory came creeping in. She remembered arriving on a plane, a sleek white jet that landed in the middle of nowhere, remembered the sun shining down on an arid landscape stretching for miles around her.
She frowned. She seemed to recall a car traveling over a winding road, but she didn't remember how she got to this bedroom, or how long she had been there.
Her gaze swung to bright light outside her window. Ignoring a bout of nausea, she forced herself to slide out of the four-poster bed and cross the room. Late afternoon, she would guess by the angle of the sun shining down on the reflecting pool in the middle of a formal garden.
Ignoring the headache pounding behind her eyes, Meg studied the landscape, no longer arid desert but tall, forested mountains. From what she could see of it, the house itself was a white colonial mansion, two tall stories with a flat roof and a long wing off each side. There was a swimming pool and a cabana.
There was also a high wall around the perimeter that looked as if it completely encircled the property. Her pulse kicked up when she spotted armed men in towers and patrolling the top of the wall, soldiers dressed in tan uniforms, automatic weapons slung across their chests.
Fear snaked down her spine. Where was she? How had she gotten there? Wherever she was, she was a prisoner, not a guest.
Her mind cleared a little more and she realized she no longer wore the skinny jeans and knee-high boots she'd had on when she'd left her house that morning.
She rubbed her aching temple. No, not that morning. She remembered going to Starbucks, remembered the white van parked outside. Dear God, she remembered being drugged and dragged inside the vehicle. Her pulse raced, pounded so hard her head spun.
Focus! Think!
She was in trouble. She had to concentrate, had to keep her wits about her.
She studied the position of the sun, remembered the long plane ride and drive up the mountain. The abduction had to have happened yesterday morning. She was missing at least an entire day.
Her chest clamped down.
Breathe!
She dragged in a lungful of air, turned away from the window, and looked down at the elegant satin nightgown falling gracefully over her hips to the floor. It was expensive lingerie in her favorite shade of peach, the sort she would have modeled for La Belle.
Except the sheer, ridiculously low-cut beige-lace bodice that barely covered her nipples would never have been allowed on national TV. Who had undressed her? Who had chosen the revealing nightgown and helped her put it on?
She struggled to recall, couldn't come up with the faintest memory. What had happened to her that she had forgotten? Dear God, she had to find out what was going on.
More memories jelled. She remembered the sickly sweet smell of the white rag pressed over her mouth and nose, the same as the chloroform that had lingered in Charlie's bedroom. She'd been unconscious. For God's sake, anything could have occurred.
Her fear inched up until her palms were sweating and her mouth felt dry. Whoever had removed her clothes, she prayed it wasn't the men who had abducted her. They were rough men, crude and brutal. Surely she would know if she had been molestedâor worse.
She examined the peach satin gown. Neither of her abductors had the style and class to purchase such a lavish and elegant garment. Nor likely have the money to own a house with a bedroom fit for a queen.
She turned to survey her surroundings. Twelve-foot white molded ceilings, polished hardwood floors, thick-pile, cream-and-peach Aubusson carpet. Heavy peach silk draperies hung at the windows and a fireplace with a sienna marble mantel rested against one wall.
Who owned the house? Was it the person who had undressed her? She shivered at the thought, then clamped down on her fear. Better to stay calm, not imagine the worst.
Her mind moved backward once more and a bitter memory surfaced of the van in the lot outside Starbucks, of Jonathan being inside the van.
Dirk had been right. Her ex-husband must have been involved in Charlie's abduction. Jonathan had tried to ransom his own son for ten million dollars. When his plan had failed miserably, he'd had Meg kidnapped instead. How much was the ransom this time? Fifteen million? Twenty?
In an odd way the thought was comforting. Her dad would pay the money, no matter how much it was. Her dad would pay and she would go home. Then again, they'd planned to kill little Charlie. Perhaps no amount of money would be enough to keep her alive.
Her throat tightened as she thought of her little boy. Dear God, was Charlie all right? He'd been home with Mrs. Wills. She had to believe he was still there, that she and Dirk would make sure he was okay.
Her eyes burned and her vision blurred as Dirk's strong, handsome features rose in her mind, his sexy tattoo and hard-muscled body. So much between them remained unresolved. She wished she had told him she loved him.
She remembered the way he had saved her son, the way he was always there when she needed him, and hope stirred. She had left Dirk a message, mentioned she was meeting Jonathan. Dirk would figure out where she had been taken and he would come after her.
She knew it without the slightest doubt.
Dirk would come. All she had to do was survive until he got there.
Wiping away the wetness on her cheeks, she forced back her fear and noticed the huge bouquet of long-stemmed peach-colored roses rising out of a sculpted Lalique crystal vase. What kind of kidnappers treated their victim like royalty?
Anger began to replace her fear. Who the hell had the nerve to bring her here and hold her against her will? Dammit, where was she?
* * *
An hour passed. Meg considered banging on the door, but she wasn't ready to face her captors, at least not in a nightgown that left her nearly naked.
She glanced up at the sound of a determined knock and her pulse leaped. The door opened and a blond girl walked in. Early twenties, slightly pudgy, plain except for the pale hair pulled into a single long braid and her pretty blue eyes. She was wearing an old-fashioned maid's uniform, a white blouse and a black skirt with a white ruffled apron tied around her waist.
“My name is Gretchen. I am here to assist you with whatever you may need.” A faint German accent ran through the fluent English the girl was speaking.
“Are you . . . are you the one who undressed me when I arrived?” Meg asked hopefully.
“Yes,” she said, but it sounded more like
yah.
“I will be your maid for the length of your stay.”
“Exactly how long will that be?” Meg asked, anger creeping into her voice.
The girl ignored the question.
“At least tell me where I am. I would very much like to know.”
A hint of smugness tipped the corners of Gretchen's lips. “All your questions will be answered soon enough.” There was no humility in the reply. This was no humble servant; more like a watchdog the kidnappers were using to keep tabs on her.
“I want to speak to whoever is in charge. The man who owns this house, perhaps. And I need some clothesâsomething that actually covers my body.”
Gretchen walked over and opened the door to a huge walk-in closet. Dresses, skirts, tops, pants, jeans, long gowns, belts, purses, and shoes lined the walls. Meg knew clothes. These were all extravagantly expensive designer fashions.
“I was sent to find out if you are feeling well enough to join your host for supper,” Gretchen said. “I can see that you are.”
The girl walked into the closet. In seconds she reappeared with a long, backless white silk gown. A Valentino label flashed as the girl draped the garment over the foot of the bed and placed a pair of white, ankle-strapped Gucci heels on the floor.
A chill swept down Meg's spine. She could tell at a glance the clothes were exactly her size.
“I'm sure you will wish to shower and refresh yourself before you dress for supper,” Gretchen said. “You will find everything you need, including makeup, in the bathroom. Supper will be served in the dining room at seven. Someone will come to escort you.”
Gretchen turned and walked out the door, which closed with an ominous click behind her. Meg ran over and turned the antique brass knob, but the heavy door was solidly bolted from the opposite side.
Meg crossed the room and sank down on the bed. Wherever she was, she was far from her family and friends. Far from Dirk and little Charlie. She thought of her little boy yesterday morning, remembered standing in the kitchen as Charlie came pounding down the stairs.
Meg had grinned down at him. “Slow down, cutie. You're gonna fall and break your head bone.”
Charlie laughed his sweet little boy laugh and Meg scooped him up in her arms. Carrying him into the kitchen, she'd set him down on the table, his legs dangling off the edge.
“When is Dirk coming?” Charlie asked.
“He's working right now, but he'll be over later for supper.”
“Can we go for ice cream in the Wiper?”
“After we eat maybe we can. Dirk's usually up for ice cream.”
Charlie grinned. “Dirk's just like me.” He tapped a small fist against his chest. “I like when Dirk stays at night. I don't have bad dreams.”
Meg's heart squeezed. She kissed Charlie's silky red hair. “Neither do I, sweetheart.”
When the little boy squirmed to get down, Meg set him back on his feet and he raced for the stairs. Charlie wanted a real father more than anything in the world, and he was falling for Dirk.
Meg had already fallen hard.
Now as she stood in the opulent bedroom suite, her heart aching for the men she loved, she prayed yesterday morning wouldn't be the last time she would ever see them.
* * *
Flying at forty-five thousand feet, the Burton-Reasoner jet, an impressive Gulfstream G650 that had to be worth at least fifty mil, winged its way southeast from Seattle. The interior, with its wide, buttercream leather chairs, sofas, and polished burlwood tables, was configured so the passengers could conduct business while traveling in elegant comfort and style.
The bar and galley were fully stocked. There was a captain and cocaptain and a second crew to spell the men on the long, straight-through flight.
Dirk and Nick sat across from each other at the table while Luke leaned back on the sofa, his laptop on his knees. The plane was equipped with Wi-Fi, making it easy to dig around on the Internet as the trip progressed.
“Let's go over what we've come up with so far,” Dirk said, ending the tap of fingers pounding away on keyboards. He shot a glance at Luke, the only one who had been to South America before.
“I know a little about Argentina,” Luke said.
Translation: I was deployed down there doing the stuff of nightmares, but I'm not at liberty to talk about it.
“Been there a couple of times,” he said, “but not the alpine region. As you know by now, in a way we got lucky. The seasons are reversed down there. Right now, it's summer. Gets hot in places, but that close to the Andes, heat won't be a problem. Be mid-seventies in the daytime and cool at night.”
“You speak Spanish,” Dirk said. “That's a big help.” Luke had a gift for languages. It was one of the reasons he'd been such a valuable operator.
“It's beautiful,” Luke said. “But in a lot of ways, still a third-world country. Lots of social problems, economic trouble, political turmoil, pockets of poverty, lots of corruption and crime.”
“The corruption might work in our favor,” Dirk said. “Payoffs can get things done when trying to plow through a mountain of red tape doesn't do jack shit.”
“Plenty of cash in that bag Edwin handed us,” Nick said. “Turns out some of it's in high-denomination pesos, which saves us a lot of trouble. It's about ten pesos to the buck right now.”
“Guy's no dummy,” Dirk said.
Luke's penetrating blue eyes fixed on his face. “O'Brien's no dummy and neither is his daughter. Meg'll know we're coming. She'll figure a way to keep herself safe until we can get there.”
Dirk swallowed past the knot in his throat. “Gertsman went to a lot of trouble to get Meg down there. Whatever he wants, he'll take it, one way or another.”
“Jonathan said Otto was obsessed with her,” Luke said. “I don't think he'll hurt her. Not right away. Not as long as she plays it cool.”
Dirk glanced away. “She's got a little boy. She'll do whatever it takes to stay alive.”
“That's right,” Luke said softly. “And she's got you. She knows you'll love her no matter what happens down there.”
His chest clamped down. His gaze fixed on Luke. “You think she knows that?” It was true. His friends could see it. But he wasn't sure Meg knew.
“Yeah, I do,” Luke said a little gruffly.
Nick's features hardened. “We're bringing her back so you don't need to worry. We'll get there before anything bad happens to her.”
Dirk managed to nod, grateful these men had his back. “So . . . how hard you think it's going to be to get her out of there? I went back into Google Maps. In those satellite images, the place looks like a fortress. No way to tell how many men he's got guarding the compound.”
Luke shrugged. “Might be nothing to it, just a quick snatch and grab. Might be Gertsman doesn't figure anyone will try to go in head-on. He might think he got away clean, that no one even knows he's the one who took her.”