Exiled (A Madame X Novel) (15 page)

I
t is rather unnecessarily dramatic, the way you snatch me.

Right off the rooftop terrace, in broad daylight. Just past ten in the morning, in fact.

I am reclined on a lounge chair, my feet up, sunglasses on, clad in a robe and a bikini so revealing I’d never wear it out, only here, at home, for Logan, or alone on the roof. I am reading, sipping herbal tea, enjoying the sunlight of what promises to be one of the last warm days we will have for some time. Cocoa is beside my chair, her chin on my thigh, snoring.

I hear a helicopter, and think nothing of it. This is New York, there are helicopters going overhead all the time. But when the volume of its whumping rotors grows, I become curious. Sit up, look around. Cocoa’s ears prick and twitch, and she too seems disconcerted. Growls deep in her chest. I watch as the hackles on the back of her shoulders lift.

Something is amiss.

I wrap my thin robe around myself and cinch it closed, tie the
belt. Set aside my mug. Clutch my cell phone, ready to call Logan if needed.

The rotors are close now, but the aircraft itself is still somewhere out of sight. Cocoa spots it first, and barks at it. But not the bark she has for another dog, or strangers, or squirrels, or birds. This is her fierce, defensive bark, frightening and feral. The helicopter is swooping low over the rooftops, moving fast. Too fast. News and medical helicopters, even the few police ones I’ve seen, none of them have flown thus, barely clearing rooftops, scudding with precise and unerring speed toward this rooftop.

And I know.

I am in motion as soon as I realize who is in that machine, but it is too late.

The helicopter flares to a stop barely a dozen feet overhead, the down-blast of the rotors nearly flattening me. A door slides open, and two ropes drop to the rooftop. Cocoa is a brown blur of fury, moving to stand in front of me, teeth bared in a snarling rictus. Black-clad figures slide down the ropes, and one levels a handgun of some sort, aims it. There is a quiet thump, and Cocoa whines, collapses. I cry out, grab for her, find a dart protruding from her neck. Hands grab me. I fight, thrash.

A gloved hand goes over my mouth, silencing my scream before it can leave me. The hand is replaced by a gag, a length of cloth tugged between my mandibles and tied tight.

My cell phone is tossed aside.

I am lifted off the ground. My hands are wrenched behind my back, and something hard is wrapped around them with a
zzzzzhhhhrrrrippp
, binding them painfully together. My vision is obscured suddenly, something thick and black draped over my head. A black bag, or a pillowcase, something totally opaque.

Terror claws at my heart.

More ropes are tied around me, but this time in a kind of impromptu harness, under my armpits, around my thighs near my groin on both sides, back up around my armpits, low around my waist beneath my belly, again and again in a swiftly and expertly woven pattern that assures there is no pressure on any one part of my body as I am hoisted off the rooftop. Up, up, up. I am glad in that moment for the bag making it so I cannot see myself being lifted off the ground.

I dangle and sway in the air as I am brought up and up. Hands grab me, pull me in, set me down. Untie the rope harness. Sit me down, and buckle me in, a five-point harness,
click-click—click—click-click
, all centered over my torso.

The noise of the rotors is deafening.

Perhaps thirty seconds have passed, total, since the aircraft halted to hover above me.

No one speaks. A door closes and the noise of the rotors is quieter. I feel the helicopter resume forward motion, and then it is banking. Even without the use of my eyes, I can tell that we are moving with horrifying speed through the canyons of the city.

I am still wearing my sunglasses, I realize. It is an odd thing to notice in such a situation. But it just reinforces the speed and precision of the snatch.

Perhaps twenty minutes of flight, at most, and then I feel forward motion become downward motion. I feel touchdown, a gentle bump. My harness is unfastened, hands lift me and set me to my feet. Hands guide me across what I guess may be another rooftop and through a doorway. I hear a door close behind me, and the sound of the helicopter is muted.

The hands on my biceps guide me, turning this way and that, and then halt. Elevator sounds. A brief downward journey in the elevator car, the only sound that of my captor’s soft breath. I am
nudged forward, and I take three steps. Hear the elevator door close behind me. A sense of wide space, echoing of my breath within the bag, my bare feet shuffling on some kind of cool hard floor.

“Here she is, sir.” A deep, accented male voice. European accent, of some kind. German, possibly. I am not sure.

Then your voice. “Thank you, Kai.”

“Of course, sir.”

“I’ve added a bonus, to ensure that you and your men remain . . . discreet.”

“Discretion is the byword of our business, Mr. Indigo.”

“It had better be. You wouldn’t want me to have to buy your silence through . . . other methods.”

Kai’s voice, behind me, is cold. “That would be unnecessary, and ill advised, sir, even for you.”

“Good-bye, Kai.”

“Auf wiedersehen.”
Bootheel-clicks recede.

Silence. I can only breathe through my nose and fight panic and fear, and hope my knees do not give out.

I feel you.

In front of me. Close, so close I can feel your body heat and smell your cologne.

“I apologize for the dramatics, Isabel.”

I would not say anything even if I weren’t gagged.

You breathe, just breathe. Looking at me, I assume. And then I feel a touch. Hear you inhale. Your nose, sliding along the curve of my neck. Your fingers, then, tracing the V opening of my robe.

“What are you wearing beneath this, I wonder?”

You loosen the knot, tug the belt open, and the edges of the robe slip aside. Your fingertips brush down the sides of my throat, to my clavicle, along my breastbone. Gentle, tender. Your fingers shake on my flesh. I am breathing hard past the gag. Blinking furiously in
the darkness within the bag blinding me. You nudge at the robe, and it droops off my shoulders, baring me. Now the scant coverage of the bikini leaves me feeling utterly naked.

“Ah . . .” An appreciative sigh. “So lovely, Isabel. Far too lovely to be covered.”

Snick.

A terrifying sound. Metallic. Sharp.

Something thin and cold touches my chest, my cleavage, right between my breasts. I stop breathing. Hold completely still.

The sharp edge does not pierce or cut as it traces the outline of my breast. A quick jerk between my breasts, and the string holding the tiny cups of the bra is severed. My breasts fall and sway loose.

I resume breathing then, but now my breathing is ragged with fear.

The blade tickles lower. Down my side, to the knot at my hip. Another quick jerk, and the string is cut. The bottom falls around my feet, and I am naked.

Gagging on my panicked breathing.

“Hush, Isabel. Be calm. You know I’d never hurt you.” Your breath, your voice, a whisper in my ear. “I couldn’t mar such perfection.”

Your presence recedes.

I hear a
click
, the snap of a camera shutter. Ticking of smartphone keyboard keys. The
bloooop
of a message being sent, and received.

Bbbbbrrrrriiiinnnnggagg!
Your ringer, so familiar, the old-fashioned metallic blat of a rotary landline phone from decades past.

“Logan.” A pause. “Calm down, Mr. Ryder. As you see, she is unhurt. And she will remain unharmed. But if you leave your office, you will never see her again. No, you idiot, I won’t kill her. I will merely . . . keep her. I have, as of this moment, every intention of returning her to you in the same condition I received her. The
photograph is merely proof of life, I suppose you could call it. I’m not going to hurt her. Nor you, for that matter, although I do have eyes on you, and those eyes are in possession of a rifle, capable of putting a bullet between your eyes from a mile away. Remain where you are.”

Another pause, as you listen. I can hear Logan on the other side, yelling, tinny, distant.

“What do I want? A moment with Isabel, that’s all. To talk. Just she and I.”

Logan’s voice.

“I will have her returned when we are done with our conversation.” You sigh, a sound of long-suffering. This is pure Caleb, calm, in control. “Your dog? She is unhurt as well. The dart merely contained a dose of sedative. She will wake up in a few hours none the worse for wear. And now I must let you go, Mr. Ryder. Remember, stay where you are. Stay in that very room, if you please. Do not leave for anything. In fact, it may be best to not even stand up, for now.”

And then you are in front of me, again, close enough to smell.

Silence, for a long, long time. An eternity, in which you are there, in front of me, not touching me, not speaking. I don’t know what you are doing.

And I can only endure it.

At long last, I feel your hands tugging at the hood. Removing it.

The light, even with sunglasses still on, albeit askew, is blinding after the total darkness.

I blink, and feel you adjust the sunglasses so they sit properly on my face.

My robe is still draped behind me, hanging from my bound wrists.

You are impeccably dressed. Three-piece charcoal pinstripe suit, tailored to fit your trim waist and wide shoulders. White button-
down, a crimson tie, knotted but loose around your throat, topmost button undone. Hands in your hip pockets. Just eyeing me.

I glare back. Pretend to bravery I do not in any way feel.

“Isabel. Oh . . . Isabel. You are, as always, lovelier than ever.” You step closer. Closer, yet. I am unable to slow my breathing, then, when you press up against me. Inhale against my throat once more. Back up, run your palm up my side. Cup my breast and release it. “Pregnancy suits you, I must admit. It adds a softness to your already full figure.”

I am still gagged. I want to vomit at your touch. It is an immediate and instinctive reaction. And surprising.

Yet . . . welcome, considering my former addiction to you, my former susceptibility to your sorcery.

A tear escapes, slides down my cheek, appears beneath the rim of my sunglasses.

You reach up, wipe it away with a thumb.

“I’m sorry, Isabel. I’m sorry for all this. I . . .” You turn away, scrub your fingers through your hair. “I couldn’t help myself.”

Back to me, then. An abrupt whirl, two harsh paces. The hand still in your trouser pocket flies up and out, a black something clutched in your fingers, and then there’s that horrible
snick
as a blade snaps open. I stumble backward, screaming past the gag.

You grunt in irritation. “Oh, shut up and hold still, would you? I said I would never hurt you. Surely you understand that much, at least.”

It’s a quick, efficient move, the way you slide the flat of the blade between my cheek and the gag. Twist, so the blade bites into the gag and parts it. I feel a sting, however, and you frown. Lick your thumb, and wipe at my cheek where the tip of the knife, razor sharp, nicked my cheek.

You lean in, kiss the wound.

I flinch away. Work my jaw.

Tears blur my eyes. “What do you want, Caleb?”

“You heard what I said. To talk, that’s all.”

“You could have called me.”

You laugh. “Oh no. That wouldn’t do at all. You and I, our history? It deserves so much more than a mere phone call.”

“But this?” I am cold with fury; you hear it in my voice.

My hands are still bound. The robe hangs from my wrists. My breasts are bare, my core exposed, and my thighs tremble with the furious, fearful knocking of my knees. I do not know any longer what you are capable of. Anything, I think. Anything at all.

You still have the knife out, and you spin the blade in a circle on your palm, a casual demonstration of mastery and familiarity with the weapon. You approach. Your motions are those of a predator, smooth gliding steps of a panther, a prowling lion. Your eyes rake my body. You move around to stand behind me, slink your knife-wielding arm around my neck, trace my cheekbone with the dull back edge of the knife. Your other hand toys with me, flicks at my nipple, cups my breast, smooths down my rib cage, flattens possessively against my hip.

“You are my siren, Isabel.” Your voice is a rough murmur against the shell of my ear. “Your body sings a song I have never been able to resist. Yet I am not so fortunate as godlike Odysseus that I can bind myself to a mast as he did to resist his siren. I have only my will, and where you are concerned, my will is entirely insufficient.”

I still have not even registered where I am; I look around, trying to not even allow myself to process your words. Not your home, not the cavernous penthouse at the top of your tower. This is somewhere new. Windows all around, a mammoth, gaping, totally empty space. Windows, and light. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls, showing Manhattan in all four directions. Behind me, an elevator shaft.
The only feature of the entire room, which is the footprint of a skyscraper. Tens of thousands of square feet in every direction. Bare concrete underfoot.

“Did you hear me, Isabel?” You tap my cheekbone with the tip of the knife, gaining my attention.

“Yes, Caleb.” I step forward, pivot in place. “Or should I call you Jakob?” It is a test, to see how violently you react. It is a dangerous game, I think.

But you do not react. Perhaps you didn’t hear the last part. I do not know. You move up close to me, so the tips of my breasts crush against the front of your suit coat. You lean in, as if to kiss me. Brows furrowed, eyes tormented, but lucid. Instead of kissing me, you touch your forehead to mine. I don’t dare move, because you still have the knife, and you are reaching past me with it. Around to my back. I am not breathing, not moving. Don’t even blink as you breathe on my cheek, touch your ear to mine, your chin to my shoulder. Looking over my back, watching your movements as you slip the knife blade between my wrists, and . . . flick.