“We have to assume that it’s a possibility. Or perhaps he sold them to a collector.”
A collector? An image of Dylan automatically flashed into my head. Was Alexander Dylan’s procurer? That would explain the in-person visits. Was Alexander the one who had arranged for my kidnapping eight years ago? He would have been in his twenties then. With enough money, anything was possible, and god knows Alexander had enough money and more.
“I can take care of myself,” I said, but it was a lie and I knew it. For just a few days, my fear of Alexander had disappeared as I lived in my little fantasy world. But it was back and stronger than ever.
“Check in every two days,” he said flatly. “Don’t miss a check-in, or I’ll have to act.”
I felt a spiral of panic coil in my belly. Lucien could raise an alarm after two days. But by then, I could be anywhere in the world. I could be dead. I could take care of myself if I was fighting someone one-on-one. But I had no gun in Paris. No knife. No backup near at hand. I wasn’t equipped for this fight.
“Has he asked you to Hanoi yet?”
“It hasn’t come up.”
“Do you want out of this situation?”
“No.” I had to deal with my fear. Surmount it. Conquer it. For me to be able to sleep at night, Dylan McAllister had to die. Without my revenge, I had nothing.
The bubble had burst. My heart was slowly breaking, but I ignored it. I’d put my true mission on the backburner long enough. Alexander was exactly who he was and every fantasy of mine had been foolish and ridiculous. “I’m good. I’ve got to go.”
***
Elodie was preparing to go out as I entered the house. I’d gone for a walk after my talk with Lucien, hoping the fresh air would help clear my head. But it hadn’t helped at all. Paris was a city filled with lovers and my heart had just been broken. I couldn’t take it.
“Jenny,” she said to me, looking harassed. “I have to leave early. Will you tell Monsieur Hamilton that I’ve put dinner in the refrigerator?”
“Sure, I’ll tell him, Elodie,” I responded automatically.
My brain was whirring. I’d be alone in the house for the first time. The study was always off-limits to me; the door always locked. I’d never been invited in, except on the day we’d negotiated my submissive contract. But Alexander’s secrets were in that room. His computer. Paperwork. If he was in fact the person who had arranged for my kidnapping, that room might contain some proof.
I tried the handle of the door and as expected, it was locked. I stopped to think, though my heart was pounding in my chest. Elodie did a bit of light housework every day. She’d mentioned that there was a house cleaning crew that came in. All of them would have keys to the room. Somewhere in this large house, there had to be a key to the study.
It was in the most obvious spot, in the kitchen drawer, along with the rest of Elodie’s keys. I slipped the key in the lock and turned it, leaving the door ajar.
Alexander’s study contained his secrets. It was finally time for me to find out what they were.
For the moment, I ignored the computer at his desk. I sat down in his leather chair and I tried a drawer, but this too was locked. Elodie’s stack of keys didn’t work this time, but my eyes trailed around the room, looking for hiding spots. The key had to be in this room. Alexander didn’t carry around more than two or three keys on his Ferrari keychain. I’d noticed it yesterday and I’d asked him about the car logo, because he didn’t drive a Ferrari. If he had cared enough to buy a keychain, I didn’t understand why he didn’t own the car. He’d shrugged. “It’s a long story,” he’d said vaguely.
Secrets. Always secrets. How could I have been so foolish to ignore them all week? How could I have basked in his caresses?
I spun around, my trained eyes assessing and discarding each potential hiding spot. I honed in on the mantelpiece and lifted the heavy marble bust of Caesar up, sliding my fingers underneath. Voila. A key.
My hands were shaking as I opened the drawer. What was I going to find?
Check book. Bills. A travel itinerary. Sylvia’s travel itinerary, which my fingers paused on for a second before moving on. She wasn’t my focus at the present.
Finally, underneath it all was a pad of paper and on it was a list of names of fifteen women. All but one of these names were scratched out, but that wasn’t what my gaze had locked on. My eyes rested on one name and my lips parted with shock.
My pulse beat in my neck like a furious, frightened cornered animal. Because the name I read on his piece of paper was my name. My real name. Ellie Samuelson.