“I’d like to order a BLT on wheat bread, light on the mayo. No chips please. A pot of black tea would be good as well, with milk. Thank you.” He paused as the woman in the kitchen repeated the order.
The news shifted out of Afghanistan to Boston for the funeral of a security guard killed in Martha’s Vineyard. “Peter Northrop, CEO of Oak Industries, and his wife, Gabrielle, were on the property with their family to celebrate Easter at the time of the attack.”
He glanced at the television and saw a tall, fit older man and an attractive woman who looked remarkably like…
Henry hung up the phone and stared at the screen. Gabrielle and a tattoo of a “baby oak.” When the news shifted to the weather, he ran over to his laptop. As it booted up, he tapped his fingers on the desk.
Come on. I need this info three days ago.
He Googled Peter and Gabrielle Northrop and found a few articles about their family. Three daughters, Anna, Julia, and a third who was not mentioned by name. He continued searching for the third daughter using Alexandra Northrop and there, on the screen, was an image of his Gabe in high school. Long brown hair, elfin nose, and a smart-ass attitude evidenced by the lift of her chin and defiant smirk on her face.
“Alexandra Northrop, the youngest daughter of Peter Northrop, recently graduated from the Winsor School. She’ll be attending Bowdoin College in the fall.” He found no mention of her after high school.
Alex Northrop, in whatever form she decided to take, had secured herself a place in his heart and wouldn’t be removed easily. He mentally calculated her age from the date of her high school graduation. The dates didn’t quite add up, unless she’d lied. She wasn’t twenty-four or twenty-six. She was closer to twenty-eight.
He wanted to contact her father immediately. The man’s phone numbers, however, were unlisted, and his offices were closed until the next morning. His energy restored, Henry hustled around the room to pack his belongings while booking the next flight from Charlotte to Boston. He could fill Simon in on his discovery during his cab ride.
…
Most people would love to fly a private jet to Paris. Alex would have preferred a commercial carrier with lots of witnesses and maybe an air marshal.
After takeoff, Luc and his thugs surrounded her seat. He was still pissed about the stab wound in his chest.
“Serge, hold her arms,” he said in French, refusing to speak English to her after they’d left Massachusetts. Serge pulled her arms behind her, one on each side of the airplane seat. Alex tried to stop him, but his strength outmatched hers by a hundred and fifty pounds.
“Pascal, come here. I need you to assist me with something,” Luc said to his first henchman.
Pascal’s physique reminded Alex of Simon’s, only without the devil-may-care smile. He’d spent the afternoon shoving her place to place, generally by her hair. Causing pain seemed to be Pascal’s favorite hobby. As he approached her, Alex tried to kick him away. He lifted his hand to slap her, but Luc stopped him.
“Don’t damage her face.” Luc then directed him to her stomach.
Despite her struggle to avoid a blow to her abdomen, he hit his mark with perfect accuracy. The impact shut her down. Her lungs struggled for breath as traitorous tears fell down her cheeks. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t function. In order to avoid the mocking looks and twisted glances she’d be receiving, she closed her eyes.
“Have you had enough?” Luc’s voice sounded almost calming. He wouldn’t kill her right now. He’d torture her for a while, like a cat playing with an injured mouse.
She nodded as best as she could, but refused to open her eyes.
A man’s hand, smooth and without a callous, lifted her chin and squeezed her jaw until her mouth opened. Her eyes opened as well.
“Keep your eyes open. I want you to see why you’re being punished.” Luc unbuttoned his shirt to reveal a solid chest with smooth muscles, and a large gash under his right nipple.
She shivered at her handiwork. It had been cleaned and was covered with an ointment, but it looked painful.
“I’m sorry?” Her voice gained some strength as the impact of the punch died down.
“No, you aren’t. You want me dead. I want you dead. Only one of us will succeed, and I’m betting on me.”
His threat bolstered her courage. She spoke through gritted teeth. “Maybe I’ll get lucky, and you’ll have a stroke and die in front of me.”
He squeezed her face again. Hard enough to hurt, not hard enough to bruise. One of Luc’s talents. “You get to live for at least a month or two.”
“How exciting for me.”
He grinned as though he’d won the lottery. “It will be. We’re getting married.”
The scowl fell off her face. Marriage equaled a lifetime of torture. “Married? I’d ask if you’re insane, but that would be redundant.”
Luc continued squeezing her jaw and tightened his grip when she tried to shake free. “We’ll be married only long enough to access your trust fund.”
His hand released her, but Serge pulled her arms back a bit more until they felt like they were being pulled out of her shoulders. Alex tried to imagine a painful massage therapy where they needed to pull the muscles beyond their comfort zone in order to get the best stretch. It still hurt like hell, but perhaps she was going to feel better after he released her.
“I don’t have a trust fund. My father cut me off years ago.”
“No, your father cut off your sister Anna and put her money in a trust for her children. Apparently he disliked her choice of husband.” Luc smirked. “He never placed any restrictions on your wealth.”
Why would her father restrict Anna the golden girl’s trust fund and not hers? It didn’t make sense, unless Anna’s husband had tried to access the family wealth. Peter protected his money more fiercely than he protected any of his children.
Still, he wouldn’t have left his missing daughter with access to such an enormous amount. “I don’t believe you. Where would you get that information?”