The door cracked open and a petite woman about thirty years old peeked out. Her long brown hair with blond streaks and a pixie nose resembled Alex’s. “Should I call the police?” She sounded nervous, but curious.
“Your father wants to speak with him first.”
The woman disappeared, and an older man, dressed for a game of golf, appeared in her place.
Mr. Peter Northrop himself. Head of Oak Industries and the man who had caused Alex to run away. He looked different dressed in Izod golf separates rather than in the expensive black suit custom-made for a funeral. Henry disliked him immediately, but it may have had more to do with the pain spreading throughout his body than the man’s demeanor.
“Who’s this?”
The guards continued to aim their guns at Henry’s head. “He’s looking for Alex and pulled a weapon on Declan, Mr. Northrop.”
Declan didn’t say anything. He stood at attention, his cheek split and swelling. Blood smeared around the edges of the injury.
“I was attempting to provide him with the gun in order to enter your house unarmed. I’m not an idiot.” Henry tried to defend himself.
Mr. Northrop raised his eyebrows, no doubt challenging his statement. “Let’s start with a name.”
“Henry Chilton.” Lying on his back with blood drooling out of his mouth was not the best way to make a proper introduction, nor the best manner of meeting the parents of the woman he loved. It had to be love, because at that moment he’d have killed everyone in his vicinity to protect Alex. The longer she was out of his arms, the more fixated he became on getting her back into them. If that wasn’t love, then he must be insane.
“Mr. Chilton, before I call the police to tell them you have a gun which I’m assuming you have no authority to be carrying, I’d like to know what you want with my daughter.”
The strange history Henry shared with Alex needed to stay protected until he had a better handle on the father-daughter dynamic. He reduced their story to the basics. “We traveled to Atlanta together for an art auction, and she disappeared.”
“You’re an art dealer or collector?”
“I’m a professor of anthropology at Oxford University.”
“You don’t dress like a professor.” The Alex look-alike called out over Mr. Northrop’s shoulder.
Henry couldn’t help but smirk at hearing a voice so similar to Alex’s. “I left my tweed jacket in England.”
Mr. Northrop directed his anger toward his daughter. “Julia, go in the house until this is over.”
Julia disappeared immediately.
His attention returned to Henry. “Do you have identification proving this?”
“Of course.” Henry reached for his wallet and realized the security detail had pinched it from him while beating him up.
Declan handed it to Mr. Northrop, who proceeded to take out his university identification, a credit card, and his passport and read them thoroughly.
“He’s telling the truth.” Julia, her voice low and directed at her father, pushed past him with an iPad and showed everyone a picture of Henry from the prior year’s faculty awards dinner. “Not only that, but Wikipedia claims that Mr. Henry Elliott Chilton, anthropology professor, is also the Earl of Ripon. How cool is that? We haven’t had royalty here since Princess Margaret stayed for a weekend to support the foundation gala.”
…
Bright lights and a sterile hospital environment greeted Alex when she woke. She glanced toward her leg, wrapped in a large cast from her knee to her ankle. There should be pain, but there wasn’t, only a queasy stomach and a sore throat. A medicated haze weighed her down and muddled her mind. She needed to skip a dose or two of whatever was dulling her senses in order to become coherent enough to plan Luc’s murder. Maybe she’d have the time and energy to kill his minions as well, Pascal in particular.
On the subject of minions, the only other person in her room was Pascal, stretched out in a recliner with a newspaper in his hand. He lifted his head when she tried to shift her body over an inch.
“Enjoying some downtime?” She spoke with a scratchy voice in French.
“Enjoying the sight of you in a cast. Can’t wait until it heals so I can break it again.” A stupid chuckle rumbled out of his mouth.
They both became quiet when the nurse arrived. A younger woman, she cast her eyes away from Pascal and focused only on her job. She checked Alex’s temperature and blood pressure and asked some questions in French about Alex’s leg. The nurse reached for a glass of water and handed it to Alex along with an orange pill. “Take this.”
Alex hesitated, took the pill, and left it under her tongue as she swallowed the water. Some would leech into her system, but she should be able to spit the rest out.
After the nurse left, Pascal walked over to the bed. “Keep it in your mouth.”
She pretended to swallow and then stuck out her tongue with the pill hidden inside her cheek.
He punched at her shoulder. “If the pill comes out, I’m shoving it all the way down your throat with my finger.”
He stood at her side for around fifteen minutes to make sure she didn’t get rid of the pill. It was dissolving and tasted nasty. Too much of the drug had found its way into her bloodstream. She struggled to keep her eyes from closing, but eventually fell asleep.
After what seemed like two minutes, someone shook her. “Wake up, ma chérie.”
She ignored Luc’s command, partly from fatigue, partly from fear. If she was in the hospital, he couldn’t hurt her. He placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. The pressure should hurt, but she’d become impervious to abuse. The medication protected her from the pain. Her closed eyes protected her from the hate emanating from his icy gaze.
He shook her again but caused no pain. The medicine must be working still or someone must be with him. Her eyes opened partway. A man stood next to Luc in a lab coat. After a full stretch, she opened her eyes fully. Could this man help her?
“Alex, this is Dr. Richet. He’s here to release you. We don’t want to miss our wedding.”