Vortex (Cutter Cay) (31 page)

“Wasn’t … kid … napped.”

“Cutter and his band of cutthroat pirates kidnapped you, transported you halfway across the world, and tried to extort five million dollars from me.” ”

“Delusional,”
was all she could manage. Even though the kidnapping was cut from whole cloth, Victor’s team would spin any grain of truth in it into whatever he wanted.

His political idol was JFK, and he emulated him in every way he could. Up to and including the president’s sexual fetishes and aberrant behaviors. Victor’s PR machine had started weaving and fabricating Kennedy comparisons the day after they’d started dating. God, his sense of entitlement, and his misconception that they were the perfect, golden couple, would be laughable if it wasn’t so totally terrifying.

Someone cleared his throat, startling her. Daniela didn’t dare take her eyes off Victor. Her throat was dry, and her voice sounded raspy and frighteningly weak as she pushed out the words, “Lo—They’ll find me.” Logan will find me. Please God, Logan
will
find me.

In time?

Probably not.

Behind his glasses, the color of Victor’s brown eyes confirmed he was still as full of bullshit as he’d always been. He kept his gaze on her, but asked someone behind him. “
Will
they find her, Mack?”

Mack with no neck and rough, cruel hands, who used to hold her down. Daniela couldn’t even stomach the sound of him, much less the sight. “No, sir.”

“I’ll take that off my list of concerns then,” Victor answered smoothly, his eyes scanning her face. “How long will it take to get her ready?”

“She’s a mess!” Daniela recognized the voice of Mena Bobrov, Victor’s stylist. The woman sounded fearful of what would happen if Daniela didn’t look her best.

This hair color is similar to Victor’s, Daniela,
she’d said a year ago.
This buttery color will look good with her skin, and she won’t look quite so … Mexican.

I’m American/Peruvian
—Daniela had inserted, annoyed that they’d talked over her.

Blondes have more fun. Victor had stood by and adjusted the cuff links at his wrists, then bent to kiss her cheek. They’d conferred without her input, and Daniela remembered exactly how uncomfortable she’d become. But she’d loved him, and if being a blonde got him more votes, what did she care what color her hair was? She hadn’t understood then how far he’d go to achieve his goal of becoming the youngest American president. He just needed the right accessories.

In the mirror, Daniela had caught the two of them making eye contact behind her. That should have been her first tip-off.

You know what he means,
Mena had said smoothly.

It meant he wanted a blond Hispanic woman on his arm.

Nothing too ethnic, nothing too specific.

“I’ll need at
least
four hours,” Mena said now, sounding panicky. “Five hours would be better. I have to color her hair, do something about her skin—”

“She was kidnapped and kept in deplorable conditions,” Victor snapped, as if repeating himself. “She shouldn’t look perfect, just suitable. The press conference starts at four. That gives you three hours to work your magic, and do the job you’re paid for.” He reached over. Daniela froze, but instead of striking her, he disdainfully flipped her hair between his fingers. “Do something with this.”

“I just sai—” Victor cut off Mena with a glacial glare. “Of course.”

“Not too much makeup. She’s in a delicate mental state, make sure she looks the part. A few strategically placed, suitably brutal bruises, I think. Visible, but not on the face. I want that clear for pictures. Ligature marks on her wrists would be interesting and photograph well.”

“Real, or makeup?” Mack asked hopefully, rubbing his hand over his beefy fist.

“Now don’t be greedy, Mack. I’ll let you have her when I’m in the White House. Let Mena do her thing. You can do whatever you like with her. Later.”

“How alert
do
you want her?” an unfamiliar voice asked diffidently.

Daniela tried to sit up, to get off the bed. To—she could barely move. God … “No. Can’t … do … this—”

Victor turned, sneering as he wrapped his fingers around her windpipe, holding her by the throat so she couldn’t breathe. Daniela mentally counted to fifteen before he let go, scared that he might not. Black snow danced in her vision.

“I can do whatever I want—you should’ve figured that out by now.” He looked to the voice. “I want her incapacitated, so she’s not difficult. At three thirty? Mobile.” Victor got to his feet. “Capable of walking on stage on my arm, smiling. Out of it is fine. She won’t be required to say too much. And thanks to your statement last week, they already think she’s mentally unstable.”

“One more shot now, then.”

“Do it.”

Someone took her arm.

No!

A sharp prick in the bend of her elbow made her flinch. Not because it hurt, but because of the intent. She struggled against the insidious darkness …

Then nothing.

Seventeen

Daniela surfaced slowly, disoriented, but already frightened. It wasn’t that difficult to remain limp and unresponsive as they moved her around the hotel room like a rag doll. Brain sluggish, she had no control over her body thanks to the drug they’d administered. Her brain felt dopey and slow, but she was capable of listening and comprehending what was going on around her, even if it took several seconds for her to understand some of what she heard.

Mena colored her hair, allowing the dye to sting Daniela’s scalp, not bothering to add Sweet’N Low to cut the chemical burn as she used to. While the color processed, Daniela allowed her heavy lids to remain closed, conserving what little strength she had. Time must’ve passed, because Mena was painting her nails the next time she swam to the surface. French manicure, she knew without looking. Victor had an image of her he liked to have presented to his voters. She should have known there was something the matter when he’d referred to her bright cherry nail polish as Hooker Red. He would know.

The timer dinged, startling her as the sound broke through her stupor. Oh, God. She’d been out at least thirty minutes that time. She lost all concept of time as she drifted in and out. From nothing black to drifting formlessly in a soft brown fog.

The stylist used too-hot water, which would have really hurt if Daniela was fully aware. Still, it was unpleasant enough to help clear the fog. Unfortunately, the sound of running water made her desperate to pee. It took everything in her to control the urge without moving and giving herself away. The last thing she wanted was another damn shot.

Mena wrapped a towel around Daniela’s wet hair, then roughly dried the newly blond strands. The yanking at her scalp was enough to take her mind off her bladder, but accentuated a dull headache throbbing behind her eyes. She drifted, everything around her insubstantial, and just out of reach. She kept her eyes closed, her mouth slack. Victor had never drugged her before. He’d scared her, branded her, and attempted to control her before she’d escaped. But feeling disassociated from her own body, unable to stay awake or focus, was by far more terrorizing.

He had all the control, she had none.

If he’d done all those things while she’d been able to think, what new torture would he devise now that she was vulnerable? Helpless? Daniela realized, even in her doped-up state, that there were several levels higher than mere fear.

She’d never liked Mena, and had only allowed her to color and style her hair because she was Victor’s stylist, and he “trusted” her. Victor had always been paranoid about his privacy and he had no real friends, none that Daniela had ever met. The people he kept around him had been with him for years and were incredibly loyal.

She’d assumed it was because he paid them extremely well, and suspected, after her discovery in the storeroom of the Blue Opal, that he probably supplied them with just enough drugs to keep them needing him. Or maybe he flat out threatened to kill them or their loved ones if they made a single mistake.

Mena had always been cold with her, but Daniela had chalked it up to jealousy. It was pretty obvious that the older woman was very much in love with Victor. Good luck with that.

She flinched as she suddenly felt rough hands slide under her back and knees. Smelled Mack’s sour breath, as he carried her to what felt like an easy chair, propping her up while Mena started to dry her hair. Minutes drifted by in a listless fog, because the next time Daniela was aware of what was going on she could feel the hot rollers in her hair. And then what felt like a second later, Mena was finger-combing the curls and spraying. Not sneezing or gagging on the cloud of hairspray was a feat. Daniela was so thirsty she was almost tempted to open her eyes and demand a glass of water. But if they knew she was conscious, they’d drug her again. She toughed it out, even when she heard Mena pouring herself a soda inches from her ear. Her throat constricted with thirst and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.

Mena grabbed her chin, shoving her head against the upholstered chair back. Her breath smelled of onions and breath mints. She used a clip with teeth to hold Daniela’s hair off her face. Daniela welcomed the bite. Everything, anything that would bring her mind and body back in sync was welcome. Even Mena’s intentional small cruelties.

“How long’s that gonna take?” Mack asked. “I need a smoke.”

“The senator told you not to leave the room.”

“Gimme a break. Look at her. She ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Oh yes she was.
The second she knew Mack was well away from the door, she was going to bolt out of there so fast they wouldn’t see her dust.

“Ten minutes. And don’t be late. I need help dressing her.”

“I’ll hurry back for that.” Daniela heard the leer. Her stomach turned over.

“Go.”

Daniela heard his footsteps cross the carpet. The door opened. Shut.

Get up.

The pop-fizz of the effervescence in the soda so close to her ear made her thirstier and thirstier.

She still couldn’t move.

The other woman turned on the radio to some local station playing hip-hop, which blocked the sibilance of the bubbles popping. “He thinks he’s gonna get to play with you awhile.” Mena muttered, amused, as she returned to airbrush foundation on Daniela’s skin. Cool. Don’t breathe. She struggled to corral her thoughts, but floated instead.

“The senator found himself a new guy. Sniper.” Mena’s amusement switched to excitement as she applied eye shadow to Daniela’s lid. “Name’s Harry Smith. Probably not his real name, do you think? Nah. He’s the one they sent to help get you off that boat. And
he’s
the dude who’s gonna pop you in the back of the head and ruin my most excellent color job tonight. He is
hot,
mama! Not ’cause of his looks. He’s kinda nondescript, has to be you know? ’Bout my height, sandy blond hair. Not hard on the eyes, but nothing to write home about. But his
equipment
is the stuff of this girl’s dream. And the man is a
machine
in the sack.”

Daniela tried to sift through the monologue but it was like mentally wading hip-deep through quicksand. Someone was going to ruin her hair? What? No, wait—pop her in the back of the head? Her skin grew clammy.
Pop … pop? Shoot?
Oh, God. They were going to shoot her?

So the offer he’d made to his bodyguard that he could have her after Victor was in the White House had been a lie. She was a loose end and she’d served her purpose. Victor would parade her triumphantly to the eager media. And just when everyone was rooting for them, just when everyone had their happy ending, she’d be shot in front of them. Leaving Victor to mourn her death all the way to the White House.

It was masterful strategy.

And one she couldn’t allow to succeed. Daniela had enough awareness to realize that she had to get out of the hotel room before either Mack or Victor came back.

“Gotta pee, don’t go ’way.” Mena laughed as her footsteps crossed the room. The second the bathroom door clicked shut, Daniela’s eyes fluttered open. The toilet lid clattered. She had minutes, possibly seconds to get out of the room. After that she had no idea. But now—

She tried to push up from the chair and found that the drug had left her muscles flaccid and uncooperative. It was impossible to lift her arms, let alone walk. She fought to flex her fingers and toes. Okay. Those worked. Not well, but at least she could control the movement and crawl her way across the room if she had to. How long did she have to wait for the drug to wear off so she was really mobile?

She couldn’t move her legs, or lift her arms.

The toilet flushed. Water ran.

Hurryhurryhurry!

The bathroom door slammed open, hitting the wall. “Where were we?” Mena asked rhetorically, coming back to stand beside her.

She started applying shadow to Daniela’s other eye. “Man, you’re really out of it, aren’t you? I told him he should a killed you that first night, but he liked you as a couple. He thinks you’re classy. For a foreign chick. Well, la-di-da, he doesn’t want no
classy
in the bedroom. He forgot about that little piece of his Camelot pie, didn’t he, you classy bitch? You didn’t like his games, and he didn’t like you snooping in his beeswax.”

The door opened. “She awake yet?” Mack asked. He stank of cigarette smoke.

Daniela’s heart sank. She’d left it too late.

“Why?” Mena asked sarcastically. “You wanna diddle her before the senator gets back?”

“Hell, yeah,” he said eagerly, his voice coming closer. “Think I’ve got time?”

A flesh-on-flesh slap. “Moron. I was
kidding.
Especially the way you manhandle a woman. You’d mess up my work and then he’d kill both of us. Go stand over there and let me do my job. You’ll have your wish in a couple of days. Play with yourself till then.”