Until You (56 page)

"Vince?" Joey said plaintively. "Can I look now?"

Vince sighed, let go of Miranda's chin, and straightened up.

"Yeah, you can look."

The little man turned around. His face was flushed.

"It's not fair," he whined. "Why do I have to wait? I could just do some stuff, get off like you did."

"De Lasserre doesn't want her spoiled, you know that."

De Lasserre. De Lasserre.
Miranda moaned against the gag. The name tolled with the resonance of a funeral bell.

Vince winked. "An old friend of yours, right? He told me to take good care of you, loosen you up, get you ready." He chuckled. "And I will, I promise."

"He gets to fuck her first, right?"

"He's the boss, Joey. The boss always gets his first. We'll handle the video cameras and when he's done, we'll get our chance."

"Just so's I get to do her," Joey said petulantly.

"Right after me."

The little man shivered with pleasure. "And then the big finish," he whispered.

"That's right." Vince looked down at Miranda and smiled. "And what a finish it's going to be." He leaned closer. "You know what a snuff film is, darling?"

Miranda felt her flesh turn cold. Vince laughed.

"She knows, Joey. That's too bad. I was kind of looking forward to explaining it to her. I mean, people say snuff films aren't real, that the whole idea is just an urban legend..." He laughed again. "But they're not legends. They're real. And we're going to make one tomorrow. Well, not a film, exactly. A video. You're going to star on the internet, darling Miranda. Isn't that wonderful?"

Miranda screamed silently against the gag, her body arching off the bed in terror.

"Here's the part you'll really love, Miranda. I've heard you like animals. Is that true? I hope so, because when we finish the taping, we're going to take your body out to sea and feed you to the sharks."

"Jeez," Joey said, licking his lips, "you keep talkin' about it, I'm gonna come in my drawers."

Vince chuckled. He grabbed a blanket from the foot of the bed and drew it up over Miranda.

"There you go," he said softly. "We wouldn't want you to catch your death of cold, would we, Joey?"

Joey snickered. Vince clapped him on the shoulder and the men began to laugh. They were still laughing as they sauntered from the room.

* * *

Crisis-time in New York wasn't like crisis-time in Pakistan or Afghanistan or any of the other endless stretches of no-man's-land Conor had encountered.

On an opponent's soil, a man working on his own was a man without access to necessary resources.

Conor stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets and squeezed them until he could feel his nails digging into his palms.

He was on his own turf. That was the good news. The bad was that a man who wasn't working on his own could end up in the middle of a three-ring circus, which was what this was rapidly becoming.

Miranda had been snatched more than a day ago and the Winthrop library was jammed with bodies. Cops, FBI agents, city officials, Hank Levy and Dave Scotti... and for all he knew, there were more to come.

The door opened and a pair of detectives from the local squad strolled in, self-important in dark suits that didn't quite fit over their bellies. They went straight to Hoyt Winthrop, who was standing alongside Eva, his arm around her shoulders with a look that said "I am a worried Daddy" on his aristocratic face.

It was all Conor could do to keep from heading across the room and punching out his lights.

But it wouldn't do any good. Oh, he'd settle that score, but now wasn't the time. The son of a bitch wouldn't get away with what he'd done to Miranda. Now, though, the only thing that mattered was finding her—finding her before de Lasserre did what the photo he'd sent her in Paris suggested.

Jesus. He couldn't think about that. He couldn't think about the dead cats, either. Conor patted down his pockets, cursed himself for not having a cigarette and for being such an ass.

Why had he left her? Why?

Hank Levy was a good man, so was Scotti, but he should never have left her alone.

If only he knew where to start looking. They had the Mercedes impounded. Hank had managed to get a partial reading from the license plate and the computer at the Department of Motor Vehicles had done the rest, but so what? The Mercedes had been stolen; the owner knew nothing. And despite a nationwide alert, nobody had reported spotting the car.

Conor felt his pockets again, cursed under his breath and began pacing the room. The damned circus was getting bigger. Another pair of uniforms had just marched in, followed by the precinct captain, and here came the mayor himself, surrounded by his retinue of ass-kissers.

"Hoyt," the mayor said in the deep tones that had won him the election, "all the city's resources are at your disposal."

Hoyt offered his hand along with a grave smile.

"Thank you, Your Honor. Eva and I are very grateful, aren't we, dearest?"

Eva, pale and regal and plastered to her husband's side, nodded brokenly as she drew a lace handkerchief from her pocket.

"Yes," she whispered, "oh, we must find my poor baby!"

Enough, Conor thought grimly. He pulled his phone from his pocket, moved into the hall, and punched in a number. A second later, Harry Thurston snapped a crisp 'hello' in his ear.

"Harry, I've had enough of this crap."

"Calm down, Conor."

"Don't tell me to calm down! You should see what's going on here, goddammit. It's a fucking joke."

"You know that what you're seeing is nothing but surface glitter. Beneath all of it, we're hard at work."

"There's nothing new?"

"Nothing. De Lasserre disappeared after he left for Charles de Gaulle airport yesterday."

"There's no record of him anywhere?"

"We're checking. He's not a fool, Conor. He probably used a couple of bogus passports. We'll find him, but it takes time."

One of the uniforms scurried from the library, spotted Conor and headed for him. The cop was just a kid, probably fresh out of the academy. He had a round face and freckles and his eyes glowed with the excitement that came from rubbing shoulders with the rich and infamous.

"You know where the kitchen is? The mayor wants some coffee."

Conor glared at him, got to his feet and walked into the foyer.

"By the time you find him," he said into the phone, "it may be too late. The guy's a sicko. He's not going to hold Miranda as a negotiating tool, I'm telling you, he's going to hurt her. Big time."

"If you have any ideas, I'm listening."

Conor ran his hand over his face. The only idea he had involved killing Edouard de Lasserre the slowest, most agonizing way possible, but to do that, he had to first find him. And he had to find Miranda.

God, if anything happened to her...

"You see?" Harry said gently. "You can't come up with anything we haven't already thought of. Think positively, my boy. We're narrowing the search, minute by minute."

"Sure." Conor smiled bitterly. "We've almost done Europe. All that's left is the U.S., Asia, Africa and the fucking Caribbean."
The Caribbean!
Conor's breath caught. "Harry," he whispered, "dammit, Harry..."

"What is it?"

"Get back to Amalie de Lasserre."

"I told you, our people spoke to her. She doesn't know a thing."

"She does," Conor said. He was trembling; he could feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins. "When I talked with her, she said Edouard had been in the States on business."

"So?"

"She also said he'd been checking some property he owned, in the islands."

"And you think...?"

"The islands, Harry. People say that, they mean the Caribbean."

Harry whistled. "I'll get back to you, ASAP."

Conor slammed down the phone, reached into his back pocket and took out his wallet. The picture he'd taken from the file at Miss Cooper's School for Young Ladies was still there, only a little the worse for wear.

He stared at Miranda's face, at the sweet, girlish smile.

"I'll find you, sweetheart," he whispered, "and when I do, I'll never let go of you again."

A few hours later, he was in a helicopter, urging the pilot on as the craft lifted off for an island nobody had ever heard of except for an irritated Amalie de Lasserre, who'd finally dredged its name from her memory.

* * *

Miranda's arms and legs ached. Her wrists and ankles felt chafed from her constant twisting against the silken bonds that tied her to the bed.

Everything felt raw, including her throat. The gag seemed to be soaking up all her saliva. Her lips felt swollen, too, as if the skin might split at any minute.

How much time had passed since Vince and Joey had tied her up and left her? There was no way to tell. For all she knew, night had turned into day again. She'd tried finding a way to keep track of the passage of time, but it was impossible. Vince had returned just once, to turn on a lamp in the corner and draw heavy drapes across the windows. The drapes blocked out everything, even sound, though sometimes she thought she could hear the distant beat of the surf.

Or was it the beat of her heart?

It could be. She was wild with fear, caught up in it in a way that would have been unimaginable before she'd raced out of Eva's house and been dragged into the car. The notes, the picture—they'd been terrifying, but not like this. Never like this. A picture wasn't real, it wasn't the same as lying here, spread-eagled and half-naked, remembering Vince's hands on her, and on himself, and the things he'd said about what would happen to her after Edouard arrived.

No. She couldn't think about that. She had to think about something else, about being found and rescued.

About Conor.

Tears blurred her eyes and slipped down her face, into her tangled hair. Conor. Oh, how she'd loved him. Trusted him. But he hadn't loved her. He'd used her, deceived her.

She made a soft, choking sound as she began to weep. Had he? She'd overheard his conversation with Eva, but she might have misunderstood.

If only she'd listened, when he'd tried to explain. If only she hadn't run away...

"Ah,
ma petite,
how good it is to see you again."

Miranda's eyes flew open, her body jerking in startled response to that soft, well-remembered voice. She twisted her head on the pillow and the blood in her veins turned to ice. Edouard was coming towards her, his handsome face set in the smile that had once seemed so charming, his trim body draped in the Armani he'd always favored—and a cold cruelty in his eyes that sent her heart thumping against her ribs.

"For shame, Vincent," he purred. "You have put a gag in Miranda's lovely mouth."

"Yeah," Vince said, leering over Edouard's shoulder, "she was making too much noise."

"Surely, she understands that we are surrounded by sea and sand, and that no one can hear her."

"Sure, but she screamed anyway. It hurt Joey's ears."

Edouard sighed. "Does the gag bother you, my dearest Miranda?"

Miranda nodded.

"Do you wish it removed?"

She nodded again.

"You must not scream, if I remove it. Poor Joey is quite delicate."

Miranda bucked against the bindings. Edouard smiled.

"I take that as a yes," he said, and he leaned down and took off the gag.

She gasped and drew air deep into her lungs.

"Poor darling. The scarf has left marks beside your beautiful mouth." Edouard sat down beside her. "Better now?"

"Water," she whispered hoarsely.

"Of course." Edouard snapped his fingers. "Vincent, a glass of water for my beloved."

Vince brought the water in a tall tumbler. Edouard took it, put one hand beneath Miranda's head and raised her from the pillow.

"Here," he said gently, "that's it. Drink. Not too quickly... ah, you have spilled some on the blanket."

"I'm—I'm sorry," she whispered. "But I was so thirsty..."

Edouard swept the blanket away.

"It is no matter, darling Miranda. Why would we need this blanket, anyway?" He smiled into her eyes and, as he did, he laid his hand against her throat. "We are all friends here, yes?"

"Edouard. Edouard, please, please, let me go. I don't know what it is you want, but—"

She gasped as he turned his hand so his knuckles pressed into the hollow of her throat. For an instant, the pressure was terrifying; she knew that he had only to deepen it and her breath would be cut off. But then he smiled and the pressure lessened; his hand drifted slowly down her skin, to her breasts, and he cupped first one and then the other.

"What I wanted, beloved, was respect."

"I never showed you any disrespect, Edouard."

He laughed. His hand was moving again, down her abdomen to her belly. She told herself not to think about it, or about Vince, looking down from beside the bed and breathing hard, or Joey, who'd come sliding into the room and was standing by the door, watching, his beady eyes gleaming.