Hunted (15 page)

Morgan didn’t turn around. Instead, she asked, “Can you at least let me know when she gets to wherever she’s going? Just so I know she got there safely.”

For a minute, he didn’t answer her. Finally, she turned around and faced him. His eyes were so dark, so intense. Barely nodding, he said, “I guess that wouldn’t hurt. Would it matter to you?”

Not wanting to be around him, she didn’t answer the stupid question and walked by him, heading up the stairs. A headache pulsed behind her eyes. Just as she reached the top, his voice stopped her. “We really need to talk, you and I, Morgan.”

She sighed and looked down at him from the top of the stairs. “About?”

“Everything that happened, everything you remember saying, everything.”

Irritation sharpened her words. “We’ve been over everything.”

“And we’ll go over it again. We need to know, so that we can decide what to do with you.”

Not wanting to know what that meant, not wanting to dwell on anything right now, she shrugged and walked away.

Inside her room, she lay on her bed and stared out the window. For totally selfish reasons, she felt like crying, which was stupid. Amy was alive and starting a new life. But the loneliness cloaked over her again.

She didn’t want to think about the unknown the future held, the horrors of the past or the loneliness of the present. Instead, she closed her eyes and thought about the ranch.

Home.

Please let me go home.
She didn’t dare ask the question, too afraid they’d deny her and ship her off as some nonexistent person with a new location and job.

In her mind’s eye she saw what the ranch would look like this time of year, what it would smell like . . . baking, and cedar from the fire going in the fireplace. Would they put up lights this year?

And in her mind she sat on the old porch swing, closed her eyes and drifted in a swing to an imagined breeze.

Please let me go home. Let it be safe. Please
.

* * *

The sweet summer breeze floated through the window. She looked out over the Vltava River and wished she knew what to do. Behind her, she heard him shift on the bed. Simon. Simon Dixon, the man she’d thought was perfect, the man she loved—if she even knew what love was.

Now? Now her wrist hurt where he’d grabbed her and twisted when she’d mouthed off to him.

Twenty-five and thinking she was a woman of the world. A woman who wouldn’t be a statistic. Instead something had blinded her until she finally realized what he was, a gold-digging bastard. Thank God, he didn’t know her trust fund wasn’t empty, just blocked. When she got home, she’d kiss both her brothers for pulling whatever legal stunts they’d wrangled. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw his tousled brown hair spiky on the pillow, the sheet wrapped around his body. Simon did have a body, he was great in bed, and he’d said he loved her.

Vanity was a terrible thing. He thought she was beautiful. She knew that, she was a model—on hiatus, since he wouldn’t let her leave. He’d destroyed her identification when she’d started packing. She was still waiting on the U.S. Embassy to get back to her, but without proper ID, things slowed way down.

But once she had everything she needed, she didn’t care what he threatened, what he did to her, she was leaving, she was going home, and if he ever stepped foot back in the U.S., she’d have his ass thrown in jail.

Standing, she pulled the silk robe on and sniffed, walking into the small kitchen they had in the flat.

Vain and proud. Two of her biggest faults. She flaunted her beauty and now that she didn’t care about it, only wanted to go home, did she once swallow her damned pride and call her brothers? They’d be on the first plane over here to get her.

But no, this was her screwup, she wanted to fix it. Get home on her own and show them she wasn’t as stupid and flighty as they thought.

She scooped coffee grounds into the coffeemaker.

The door to the apartment flew open, slamming against the wall.

She whirled as a man with a gun pointed at her strode into the room followed by two others. One was clearly the leader, she’d seen him before with Simon two days ago while she’d been shopping.

Simon had told her the man’s name was Michael, or something. His summer-blue gaze raked over her and he smiled, licking his lips. He motioned with his finger for her to come to him.

She shook her head. Reaching behind her on the counter for the knife.

The man with the gun
tsked
. “Don’t think about it.”

The boss chuckled. “You’ll forgive Luther, he’s very protective of me and he will shoot you. So don’t be foolish. You’re too beautiful to waste.”

She pulled her hand back to her side and looked toward the bedroom. Two more men came into the room and Michael jerked his head toward the bedroom. “Get him.”

Then he nodded to her. “Come, pretty.”

She shook her head.

Luther, with the gun, reached out and grabbed her, jerking her forward and all but throwing her into Michael’s arms.

She jerked, and the man looking down at her only smiled. “You know, I was going to make him suffer, try to convince him to pay me, but I think you’ll do nicely.”

They all rode to an abandoned building. The street, the wooden stairs were rough beneath her bare soles. Why hadn’t they let her dress?

In the building, he held her against him, whispered in her ear, “I’ve always loved beautiful things. You won’t have to worry about the man you’re with anymore. He never really appreciated you, I think. I’m Mikhail.”

Mikhail? Not Michael. She shuddered, worried and scared. The windows were dusty, the room bare. No other sounds emitted from any room of the building. It was silent.

“What the hell?” Simon said. He looked at her, and for the first time she saw the fear—no terror in his eyes.

One man held him, the other two started to hit him.

She trembled. “Please don’t,” she whispered, closing her eyes.

“I don’t like to be crossed. You see, he owes me a lot of money. He gambled and lost, used too many of my goods and never paid me back. I demand payment, preferably in cash, to keep things even. Though I will often take payment in blood once a warning is sent.” His hand grazed up and down her arm, bunching and smoothing the silk. “I’ve warned him. It’s now payment time.”

Oh, God. What the hell had Simon gotten into?

The men kept beating him. The thuds and groans soon turned to pleas and begging to stop.

Mikhail still held her and nodded to Luther.

The man set a case down and opened it. Inside lay knives and cleavers. She felt the blood rush from her face, drain and buckle her knees.

“Don’t worry. I won’t make you watch everything they do to him,” Mikhail said soothingly.

She trembled. Not daring to say a word. She had no idea how long the other two had beat on Simon, it seemed endless, but maybe not. Simon’s handsome face, fair and quick to smile, was already swelling, blood welling from his nose, his mouth, his eyes puffing.

The man holding him dropped Simon to the floor. The two who had been beating him looked to the man that held her.

Mikhail said, “Do you know what they do to thieves in many cultures? What they used to do to them in our own cultures?”

She looked at the man on the floor she thought she hated, and felt pity.

“Do you?” Mikhail asked her again.

Her gaze slid to him and she shook her head. Mikhail was taller than her, and she was five ten. He wore a neatly trimmed goatee, not quite blond, not brown either. His hair was pulled back in a smooth and short ponytail at the base of his neck. It should have made him appear more effeminate, but it didn’t.

She knew he was muscular, could feel it in the arms that held her, saw it in the sharp chiseled Adonis features of his face. This man who claimed to like beauty also believed in keeping it himself.

Oh, God, what was going to happen?

“What the fuck?” Simon slurred. “What are you—hey, hey! Man!”

She started to turn, but Mikhail held her shoulders and shook his head.

Then she heard a bloodcurdling scream behind her. Without warning, Mikhail whirled her around.

Simon kept screaming. One man sat on his legs, another on his chest, holding his arms straight out from his body. Luther held a cleaver and it dripped blood. Simon’s screams ricocheted around the room. And then she blinked and saw . . .

A hand lay away from the wrist. The bloody cleaver.

She swayed. “Oh, God.”

Bile rose up the back of her throat.

Mikhail pushed her away from him as her stomach heaved all over the floor. She heard Simon’s pleas, begging, screaming. She closed her eyes, her stomach heaving again. This time she heard the thud, the bone-chilling yell. And knew.

The other hand.

She couldn’t look, the floorboards, rough and wooden, tilted.

She felt arms around her and screamed. And screamed. And screamed.

* * *

December 16

Lincoln looked at the woman across from him as she picked at her food. He’d run down to the café around the corner and grabbed some pastries. Shadow had stayed with her until he returned, then left.

He’d been looking in the refrigerator when she’d screamed. He’d raced up the stairs and into her room.

Tears had tracked from her closed eyes to wet her cheeks. By the time he’d gotten to the bed she was jerking herself out of the nightmare, but she’d startled at his approach.

Then her arms had wrapped around his neck as more tears poured out and she’d shuddered in his arms.

That had been half an hour ago. Now they sat at the table in silence.

“Want to talk about it?” he tried.

She picked at the pastry, her eyes weary, her shoulders dropped. Finally, those icy eyes rose to him. “I keep dreaming about what he did.”

He nodded. “I know.”

“I don’t want to dream about it anymore, about him, about blood and screams.”

He frowned and crossed his hands, leaning up on his elbows. “The girl again? The one you dreamed of before?”

Her eyes didn’t leave his, and he saw it. That flash of terror, of pain, of dark, black secrets no one should know of.

She swallowed. “No. A different dream. Of Simon, they day they took me.”

Oh. Lincoln sighed. “Your sessions with Dr. Rothillow will be starting after the holidays. She’s still working with one of our other girls who’s on suicide watch.”

Nothing, no emotion. Morgan shrugged.

She was probably depressed and it didn’t surprise him if she was. Yet, considering the other girl. “Promise me we won’t ever have that particular worry with you.” He hadn’t meant the words to be that sharp, but couldn’t pull them back, or the panic that fluttered inside him at the thought.

He frowned again, and leaned forward, reaching for her hand. “Promise me, Morgan. No matter what happens, no matter what the future brings, you won’t ever let him win, won’t give him that final victory over you.” He tightened his hand and rubbed his thumb over her left hand. Shocked, he looked down and saw she still wore the gold band he’d given her. He blinked and concentrated back on her eyes.

Those icy eyes narrowed on him, then she nodded. “I promise. Sometimes, I wished he’d pulled that trigger that night by the grave. There were even times I wanted to break the window in my room and just end it all.”

Linc didn’t say a word, just held her hand, stroking his thumb over her cold fingers.

“But I never did. I just couldn’t.”

“Because that would have given him everything.”

She licked her lips and nodded. “Yeah, that would have given the devil my soul—or more accurately, the Devil’s Advocate—my soul.”

Her fingers turned and linked with his.

Why did she still wear the ring? Did she even notice? Of course, his was in his pocket, easily accessible if he needed it.

“Can you really keep me safe?” she whispered. “Can you?”

He squeezed her hand again. “They’d have to kill me to get to you.”

Her eyes raked up and down him. “Mikhail and his men are good at killing.”

He cocked a brow.

“But then again,” she continued, “you’re rather efficient at it yourself.”

Chapter 12

Prague; December 19

Jezek looked at the wreckage around him. His beautiful room was demolished. Blood still beat against his temples, roared in his head.

What was left of an erotic Baccarat crystal sculpture he’d had custom made crunched under his shoe. There was another fifteen thousand koruny ruined.

And that was nothing compared to the insult of it all. He honestly couldn’t remember when he’d been this angry.

“There’s not a single trace of them?” he asked, piercing Luther with a glare.

Luther shook his head. It had been two days.

“The busboy in Germany from the Four Seasons had no idea. They were just Mr. and Mrs. Ashbourne. We’re checking rail stations to see about passes that fit that name.”

He nodded once. Double-crossing bastard.

Mikhail wanted the man who lied to him. Who took what was his.

The diamonds.

The woman.

Dusk.

Her eyes, that pale color of blue reminding him of light hitting the facets of the diamonds.

Stupid bitch. He’d wanted the bloody diamonds
for
her. A gift, a fucking present.

This was all her fault. If only she’d accepted him when he’d asked her. And she damn well should have accepted him. There were hundreds of girls that would die to have been in her shoes.