Love Found Me (A City Love Novel, Book 1) (18 page)

She'd wiped her eyes, not a moment too soon. Before she even realized what had happened, she'd snapped a section of cord lighting just after her head smacked the ship's mast with full force. There was nothing to catch her fall as she careened on sturdy steel that felt like a sheet of concrete to her bones.

And then the next second...

She was out cold.

Chapter Sixteen

Danielle woke up with a start, eagle-spread on the geometric marquee flanking the center hall of a double en suite cabin. Her eyes wide, and face flushed. Her body still wasn't certain which continent it was on.

With the bump on her head seesawing her alertness, Danielle felt like she'd knocked back a bottle rather than a couple of sips. She saw stars. But beyond the stars, the cognac hadn't dulled her senses. She'd felt weird about it all. But that strange feeling was about to seem even stranger.

Watching the clandestine activity from earlier had evidently done quite a number on her. That, coupled with fervent exhaustion and the timing factor, she forged a path of defiance against the odds. Time was running out, and she still hadn't a clue where or what Barton and his crew were in a ravaging hurry to smuggle onboard the other yacht.

Her hands and feet were still, her head hugging a satin pillow. "W... Where am I?" she stammered, as moonlight sprouted in the stained-glass dome overhead.

Smoothing her palms against the marquee floor, she propped herself up off the veined marble. Her bones were still pulsing from the stiffened granite, as the glittering string of lights shellacking the harbor appeared hazy and distant.

Danielle tugged at her bustier, expecting to find delicate lace and spaghetti straps, as she careened toward a wooden cornice. She drew a long breath with half-lidded eyes, as the chill still rode the flesh of her torn denim.

But that night, she tried to picture the men she'd seen when she boarded the yacht, but the image was still vague and motionless. After lying unconscious from her earlier ordeal on the upper deck, she hadn't been able to keep worry from turning her inside out. She had been unaware and tense after another heart-wrenching breakup, and the nightmare looming on this side of the Atlantic.

The instant she'd opened her eyes, she knew something was wrong. The noise. The noise was wrong. There was dead silence. In her entire adult life, Danielle never slept without the spirited rhapsody of a concerto, and the room was too quiet to hear a pen drop.

The noise was wrong; the ambience was wrong, and that voice...

Danielle rolled over and felt her whole body quiver when she saw who was arched over her. Oliver. Oliver Trumball, with new creases at the corners of his gray-blue eyes, looking at her with his familiar slanting grin. She cradled her head on the neck roll pillow barely managing to bite back a scream.

As Trumball leaned closer, and Danielle could see his face more clearly, she was stunned to see her former boss all the way across the Atlantic-- on a yacht-- holding her captive. Her eyes blinked shut as she slouched against the coppiced bearing in an unfocused gaze.

"So, we meet again. Only this time under unfortunate circumstances," he grimaced. The backlighting glinted off the silver threads in his hair, and his hands were ice on her exposed shoulder.

She forced herself to look him straight in the eyes as she said, "Tolliver?  Ah... Owwww," but then her stare shifted to half-closed eyes.

"Who's
Tolliver
?" Trumball replied.

Her heart began to beat hard and fast again as she slowly opened her eyes, still disoriented enough that she didn't recognize a former
Finch Young
executive.

He was looking at her strangely again. "Oliver. Remember? It's Oliver," he repeated. "What's wrong with her, she was always so astute-- one of my star pupils... one of my best employees. Too bad we have to--"

"Tolliver?" she said just before she hunched and rolled over a satin pillow.

"She's delusional." Barton's words were curt when his eyes darted to Trumball's as he shook her shoulder, "Prentiss!  Prentiss! Get up. I said get--"

Even the slightest movement jarred her head like it had been split in two. "Owwww..." her words fell away as she slid limply to the marble. She tried to sit up again, but her muscles were still too rubbery.

Danielle's eyes were blinking shut as Barton swung his polished wingtip aimed for her behind. His daggered toe had just about grazed her leather when suddenly it froze in midair the instant Trumball grabbed his arm and bolstered, "Hold it."

"What?" Barton hedged, as he looked down at his clamped arm, "Don't touch me Trumball," he shrugged, his voice commandeering.

Trumball's hand slid from Barton's shoulder the next moment. He was startled to see Barton's piranha expression turn from pale into a fiery red in a manner of seconds. Barton's temper wasn't hard to arouse, as he raised his hand at Danielle in a spirited defiance of Trumball.

Just as Barton swung aim straight for her, he halted all of a sudden at the razor-sharp cadence, "I told you to hold it," Trumball demanded. "We can see about her later. We've got to finish--" Trumball slapped his back for him to follow. Barton's eyes narrowed, a muscle jumping in his jaw at Trumball's command.

"Move her to the master," Tolliver ordered the two fiends anchoring the double en suite.

Sounding instantly renewed, when she felt a thick meaty muscle tighten a clamp around her forearm, Danielle flinched, "Unhand me," as he heaved her up off the marble. The beastly brute drew his position again, as he acrobated her over his right shoulder.

She'd had her feel of meaty, stinky, sweaty, smelly armpits. Only this time the stench of his meaty arm clamped right to her nose. The smell sucked straight through her bones, releasing a truckload of freshly cut onions as they elevated toward the upper deck.

"Let me go. I said let m--" she commanded, flapping her limp arm and fisting the other into his back as he swung her like a rag doll down the corridor. He kicked open the double-door entrance, as Danielle repeated, "I said unhand me." By that time, he'd already bounced her onto the pillow-top mattress as her wincing echoed the sprawling master stateroom.

Rich blues and greens, stunning red satin and vibrant yellow velvets and gold silks painted the cushions and dressing chair. There was a private open-air patio with its own hot tub, and private veranda. It was obviously a loaded ga--zillionaire's floating mansion.

"Let. Me. Go!" Danielle shrieked so loud that it rattled the chandelier, jingling a chorus of little sparkly crystals. But still, no one answered. And seconds later, a key clicked the lock shortly before a heavy thump spiraled down the corridor in echo. "Hey! I said--" Danielle called, as voices muted and trailed to silence. Suddenly, silence pummeled into a sweeping roar.

Above deck, wind whipped propellers dove to the rooftop helipad rocketing her head into a dozen more pieces. Her breath came in shallow gasps, along with a creeping awareness of what had happened. She heard the echo of danger all drawn from immediate memory. She hadn't felt panicked like this, ever.

Danielle sprouted eagle-wide as she glided across the satiny red bed cover. She was moving a bit slower still, as every second boosted her energy and resolve to keep moving. She elbowed off the bed, weaving past the private dressing area as the shades tinted night.

Trembling from head to toe, she'd managed to form her bearings along the gloss cherry wood as she wrapped her arms around herself and turned to the window. Although there was little to see and even less to hear with the roar of the propellers and the rumble of the nearby vessels, the silence was gone. Except for the occasional low talkers whizzing along the outer decks, and phone conversation. 

Realizing miserably that her theoretical approach to acquiring the evidence she needed was more of an event than she was prepared to handle, she moaned and nearly lost her nerve in a weary attempt to regain composure. And at that very moment, she recalled the two brutes and non-equally third gargantuan, she'd feared were patrolling her whereabouts.

She needed a discreet way out. Danielle combed through the huge master suite looking for another exit. But all she'd kept thinking about were the mistakes that had gotten her into this mess in the first place.

At that moment, she scolded herself for not having the guts to target the cover-up earlier. Even if she was just a junior ranking associate trying to get a leg up in the world of business.

Everything seemed legitimate with this guy-- Oliver Trumball. Overtly professional, ruthless when it came to crushing money-grubbing corporate swindlers from profiting off pocketed funds. Despite the difference in ages, they'd made a great team and deepened their working relationship. Though his fowled associations drew attention, his position commanded ranks near the glass ceiling that at the time she was nowhere near.

By business standards, Oliver Trumball was one of the best, and backed by the top piranhas in industry. He was everything to Finch Young's recent successes. But she should've gone with her gut-- the numbers don't lie.

Resuming her relentless pacing, she zigzagged past the onslaught of Venetian glass light fixtures and the barrage of polished stainless inlay, darting from the bed-- past the en suite marble bath-- to the dressing cabin.

Danielle double-backed to the sumptuous soaking tub that could've housed four comfortably. Her eyes lit up, and then slowly she took a deep breath, suckling a steamy caress that brushed over her. The vision of luxurious marble smoothed against her skin and tickly little lavender scented bubbles foaming a sensual prowess, made her zone out for a few moments that felt like a few hours.

That was until she saw the chocolate fretted towels, champagne and citrus oak winding the lip of the tub. The same glimmer laced her face in virtue. It was like Roman had probed the depths of her subconscious. It was like sweet, passionate love all over again.

She couldn't allow herself to enfold the pain of its hollow. The hole in her heart she'd believed Roman was meant to fill. But still, she was left with the pain of a heart that would never love hers. Maybe she hadn't quite grown to accept it. Or maybe she had after all.

The hole in her heart was too big for Roman to fill. But the truth of the matter was, he could never fill the hole inside of her. Danielle had to feel complete in her own mind, body, and soul. She had to feel herself whole.

Stay calm and focus
, she told herself.

She took another quick deep breath, and then another.

And then all of a sudden, her past had once again begun to sneak up on her. A vision burst to memory of something Jack had told her once. She'd almost completely wiped it from her mind.

You don't have time for anything but work. Work is your fiancé. Work is your love, not me. Danielle, I just can't do it anymore. I can't marry a woman obsessed with her job ... A woman who'd rather spend her late nights with her calculator rather than her man.

Maybe I seem a little selfish, but I get it. We both have stressful jobs. But one thing I do know is that I want a woman that will make me her priority-- a woman that will love me and be waiting when I get home.

Danielle knew at the time, she just wasn't that woman. But she'd only known love the way she wanted it. When she was ready to give and receive it.

The only tape she'd played was Jack walking out the door without reason. All she'd recalled was, "I don't love you." Despite Jack's faults, Danielle just realized the part she'd played in it all.

At the time, she hadn't accepted that Jack just wasn't--
The One
--for her.

Danielle turned her focus back to her pursuit. Barely a moment after she'd resumed her path, she'd suddenly glanced over her shoulder. Hidden near the far end of the suite was a quaint private office niche tucked around a corner. An oversized painting that was completely camouflaged from the rest of the room flanked the area.

There's gotta be another way out over here.
Speculation raced through her head, as her heels paced the floor towards the office, she'd been moving steadily. But then suddenly, she realized everything was different except for the extravagant luxury.

Oh. My. God. The other yacht... But how did I--

In all the chaos, Danielle didn't know Barton and his crew had already transitioned to the nearby yacht.

Pressing her ear up against the office door, she listened for any noise. Her own swallowing was the only sound she'd heard aside from her breathing beginning to stir a little louder. She'd tugged at the handle, realizing it was locked, not by surprise. But, mostly she was relieved when she'd heard silence, and the fact the fiends obviously had other things to be concerned about.

"What's with all the locked doors?" Danielle murmured, as she clutched the sheathing of her asymmetrical zipper. She gripped the zipper’s skeletal head and wedged the prickly-edge in the keyhole of the private office door. "Come on..." she coached herself jangling its daggered tip in the lock.

Click
. Lock picking was another skill she'd picked up-- well, somewhere in her youth.

After she'd jimmied the lock, she pushed open the office door, fumbling for a light. A patch of moonlight lit the desk nearly enough that she found a desk lamp and flipped it on. The same fine wood polish swept across the entire room, along with the pungent aroma of oil-rubbed leather and a scholarly blend of books scattered across spacious floor-to-ceiling bookcases opposite tall windows that flanked the veranda doorway.

The entire room showcased a wall of french doors pouring midnight from the terrace outside. Clearly, this was a space for a man with culture and refined taste-- the fine art and wine connoisseur displaying his most prized possessions. Only the modern-day technology hugging the walls in acoustics would have distinguished the space from anything but an era beyond Impressionism.