Thea walked into the bathroom, slipped out of her torn dress, and stepped into the steaming shower, the powerful jets battering the knots in her shoulders. The last twenty-four hours had been hell—Papa’s kidnapping, Piers’s murder, and the street fight. She could still see her attacker’s dark eyes, intent under the balaclava, his strong hands clamped around her neck, tightening. She rubbed her neck, her throat bruised from those powerful fingers.
She couldn’t fight off the overwhelming dread of what might happen to Papa. Captivity was the worst form of mental torture, the hostage constantly thinking: Is this the day I’ll die? Of course, Christos Paris was made of titanium and had limitless patience. That part of a kidnapping he could handle. The problem would be his inability to let others dominate him. His independence and stubbornness had played a big part in his financial success but had also made him plenty of enemies along the way. No doubt about it, he could be a difficult SOB if his mind was made up about something.
Being uncooperative in business negotiations was one thing, but as a captive, you had to play the game of yielding to the kidnappers’ authority, or you might not survive. Bottom line: if something went horribly wrong, the easiest move for the kidnapper would be to kill the hostage and bolt. She told herself that Papa was way too valuable a captive for that to happen, but then, this wasn’t a typical hostage situation.
He’d always been there for her. Even though his business had been all-consuming, he’d attended every important event of her life—school plays, tennis matches, graduations. He’d been delighted when she finished her master’s degree in international relations—probably because he’d wanted her to join the family business—but he’d graciously congratulated her when she’d accepted a job with the Defense Intelligence Agency instead. And when she’d left the DIA for Quantum, he hadn’t been happy, but he’d supported her decision.
Exhaustion and grief overcame her, and she sagged against the shower wall, sliding down the tiles until she sat huddled in a ball, arms hugging her knees. She released all the pent-up emotion in a crying jag, her tears lost in the rivulets running down her face, her body shaking with each sob.
The shower had always been her sanctuary, the one place where she could lower her defenses. Crying wasn’t approved of in the Paris home—Papa considered it a sign of weakness, and Nikos never cried. Her brother had once been compassionate and caring when she was afraid or upset.
Until he’d been taken.
Thea’s childhood bedroom in Kanzi had a looming four-poster bed and vaulted ceilings with swirling bamboo fans, the blades casting eerie shadows on the stucco walls. Her stuffed-animal collection perched on a bookcase, the faces becoming lifelike as darkness dominated the room. During the rainy season, the heavy downpours battered the bay window, and the hardwood floors creaked with the gusting winds. Dark, stormy nights always brought nightmares of losing her mother on the sailboat all over again.
A vigilant sentry, Nikos would hear her sobbing through their bedrooms’ connecting ducts and come support her. He’d prepare a makeshift fort for her, using the daybed on the far wall, a large comforter providing the roof. Tucked into the fortress, Thea felt protected, safe. He then often crashed on her four-poster, on guard until the morning light broke through the bay window, dispelling her fears. He’d wind up her music box so she could hear the soft notes of “Tie a Yellow Ribbon” as she drifted off to sleep.
Once, after a particularly loud rumble of thunder, she’d cried out for her brother. In seconds, he’d rushed in and carried her to the daybed on the far side of her room.
“I saw Mama in the water again.” Their mother had disappeared in the sea while sailing in rough weather. Her body had never been recovered.
“She’s up in heaven, happy and safe, watching over you.” Another flash of lightning slashed the sky, followed by booming thunder. The windowpanes reverberated, making Thea’s teeth chatter. Nikos pointed to the sky. “That was Mama telling you to get some sleep so you’ll ace your spelling test tomorrow.” He hugged her tightly.
She relaxed in his protective embrace. “Quiz me. Ask me anything.”
“Triskaidekaphobia.”
She scrunched up her face. A tough one. “T-R-I-S-K-A-I-D-E-K-A-P-H-O-B-I-A.”
He frowned. Her heart sank. Then he started laughing. “You nailed it, Athena the Brilliant. Now, let me get some rest, or I’ll get the strap for falling asleep in class tomorrow.”
Tall for his age, Nikos was confident, regal. He tucked a blanket around her, and she snuggled into her cocoon of safety, watching him climb into her four-poster, where he’d remain for the night, guarding her dreams.
“I’m ten steps away if you need me.”
She burrowed under the blanket and settled in. Having him nearby cast all the ghosts and monsters away. Happy dreams awaited, and she drifted off.