Untrue Colors (Entangled Select Suspense) (19 page)

He yanked her up. “Disobedience is never acceptable. The next one down is that little boy with the blond hair. My men have a perfect shot through the side window into a family room.”

Anna’s son. It must be. The realization that Luc stood in close proximity to her family with an armed assassin ready to kill on command crumbled her defenses and crushed her will to fight.

“No. I’ll do anything. Please leave them alone.”

Luc clasped her arm and pulled her toward the street, forcing her to walk away from her home for the second time in her life, this time in bare feet and under armed guard.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The trees in North Carolina had the audacity to bloom green, pink, and white, despite the fact that Henry’s world had crumpled to pieces. Just to spite him, warm breezes flowed among a cluster of modern office buildings. Henry had headed to Charlotte after Simon informed him of Gabe’s unusual purchase of a large television set at a Walmart. Then the rental car company had contacted him after locating the Mustang in a garage within ten miles of that same Walmart. Three days combing this small Southern city, and he’d learned nothing. Searching for her in Oxford had been one thing, but trying to find her in an entirely different country was like finding a granule of sand in a silo of grain.

His mobile rang during his walk back to the hotel room after another useless day exploring hotels, stores, museums, the railroad terminal, and the bus depot.

Simon.

“Any new information? Because no one remembers her in this entire city.” Henry tried to sound more upbeat than he was, but why bother? Simon had already figured out he harbored strong feelings for Gabe when Henry had willingly parted with Lady Elizabeth and the future of the women’s shelter to find her.

“Actually, I did.” Simon’s voice reflected Henry’s serious mood. “Alex is female. Luc Perrault’s ex-girlfriend. From what my source tells me, she’s a native of France, although fluent in English and Ukrainian. She’s also an experienced art appraiser.”

Alex is Gabe?
The news energized him. It made perfect sense. If she saw Luc at the auction, she’d run away as quickly as possible to avoid the man who had beaten the hell out of her and threatened to kill her.

Henry could have helped her, and he should have told her about his background. Perhaps she would have trusted him to protect her. On the other hand, his training hadn’t provided him with the means to decipher the identity of the most important person in his life. What an idiot. He should have added two plus two and reached four. Instead, he ended up with a small fraction of a personality and nothing of substance.

“What’s her surname?” Hopefully, it would shed light on her location.

“Lemoine, but I think it’s an alias.”

“Alex or Lemoine?”

“No idea.”

“No idea?” Henry’s voice lowered, and he squeezed the phone tighter.

“My source only knew her briefly through Luc. And don’t get your hopes up too high with this information. She has more personalities than the cast of Monty Python.”

“I can’t stay here any longer. As far I know, she took the first train or bus out of here or hitchhiked with a rock band to Seattle.”

“Let me see if I can confirm her surname with a few art contacts in Paris. If we don’t have it by morning, you might as well fly home. Talk to you soon.” He hung up, leaving Henry with only a crumb of new information. Enough to make him hungry for more.

The idea of leaving Gabe in the States bothered him. That blasted hole in his heart had opened wider and deeper. It would never be filled until he saw her again. If he saw her again.

During his walk back to the hotel, he analyzed everything she’d said to him and everything he’d subsequently learned about her. Control freak father, fleeing the United States for Europe, amazing ability in art, fluent in many languages, abusive boyfriend, hiding out in England. He was missing something important, he just didn’t know what.

Once in his hotel room, he wrote “Alex Lemoine” on a piece of paper from the desk. He then wrote “Gabrielle West” and “Belinda.” He sketched her acorn tattoo and “L.P.”

Glancing over at the pile of luggage, he tried to think of where she would go. She didn’t have much with her, except a few hundred dollars and the euros and pounds in her wallet, but she’d probably acquired more from her television transaction. Her suitcase remained by his bed, waiting for her to claim the contents. He’d already searched it over and over again, looking for secret compartments, a scrap of paper in a pair of jeans. Anything. Nothing. She’d abandoned some old dirty clothes on the floor of the Atlanta hotel room, her ingenious way of slipping past everyone at the auction.

Turning on the news, he stretched out across the bed and mustered the energy to call room service. The national news broadcast the growing violence in Afghanistan.
“The Afghan National Army confiscated twenty weapons caches from rebel forces…”

“
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?”

“The senior trust officer at your parents’ bank became a wealth of information with the proper incentive.”

She needed time to figure this out. And she’d have some. “There’s a waiting period and a residency requirement. It could take months to get married.”

“You’ve been living with me for the past year, according to my documents. And any other waiting periods can be waived.” Luc grinned.

He released her face, slapped her cheek gently, and walked toward the back bedroom. “I’m going to take a nap. Don’t embarrass yourself by screaming like a little girl. I don’t wish to disturb the pilots.”

Her cheeks throbbed from where he’d squeezed her cheeks into her molars. The ache in her shoulders cramped up, but Serge wouldn’t release her arms. Alex yawned, her body’s attempt to shut down from the fright and fatigue, and trying to appear as though their treatment of her didn’t matter. She shifted her shoulders to convince the idiot to free her. He wouldn’t.

Pascal approached her again. Standing to her side to avoid being kicked, he gripped her left leg with one hand. His other hand secured her knee. Her arms burned from their locked position and were no help. She tried to hit him with other leg, but only succeeded in flailing it around. Besides, he was too fast.

Like watching a car accident in slow motion, Alex’s body jerked back as Pascal stomped the full weight of his foot onto her shin. She could feel the break, feel the horrific pain spreading out from her leg to her whole body. Her lungs stopped functioning, her throat constricted, and she gasped for air. A second wave of pain shot through her, and her airways opened. With lungs filled to capacity, she screamed, loud and long. She must have stopped after she passed out.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Henry’s cab traveled from Logan Airport through quaint New England towns filled with white steeple churches and grassy town commons to the Northrop family home in Concord, Massachusetts. He arrived a few minutes before 7:00 a.m. Dressed in a comfortable pair of jeans and an untucked black dress shirt, he’d concealed Simon’s lethal present in his belt and thrown the rest of his Alex-approved wardrobe in his suitcase. During the flight, he’d stored the gun in his checked luggage. Simon conveniently provided all the documentation needed to carry a concealed weapon in all fifty states. He’d thank Simon later for taking care of him during the trip.

The Northrop estate, because it sure as hell wasn’t just a house, rivaled the grounds of Ripon Manor. The enormous colonial mansion stood on a hill overlooking the Concord River. Lights, still visible in the early morning, illuminated a path down the sloping lawn to the water. Alex’s mother never allowed her to have a hedge maze? Poor little rich girl. And he’d thought she’d grown up impoverished. She must have been hysterical thinking about his lectures on social graces. No wonder she fit in. She wasn’t acting as a wealthy heiress. She
was
a wealthy heiress.

He paid the driver and took his suitcases. He’d call for a ride back to the airport after he’d spoken to Mr. Northrop and, hopefully, located Alex.

When he knocked, a security guard dressed head to toe in black opened the door, stepped out, and shut the door firmly behind him. The same height as Henry, the guy puffed out his chest and sucked in his cheeks as though the presence of any guest before eight in the morning could get him and the guest terminated.

“Can I help you?”

Henry smiled to lighten the mood. “I’m looking for Alex Northrop.”

“Alex?” His eyebrows furrowed.

“Yes. Is she here presently?”

The guy’s eyes sighted on the bulge near Henry’s hip where he’d holstered the gun. He should have left it in his suitcase.

Henry reached to take it out to hand to the guard. “I can…”

“Hands up.” The guard grabbed Henry’s arm, twisted him around, and shoved his face into the wall. Pain exploded near his jaw. He tasted the metallic tang of the asshole’s aggressive tactics. Henry pushed back and forced the guard slightly off balance.

As Henry struggled to get free, he grabbed as much of his aggressor’s hair as he could and slammed him into the wall beside him. He dodged the bloke’s attempt to pummel him away. Without letting go of his hair, Henry forced the guy to the ground face-first and wedged his knee into the base of his spine. Pulling out the gun that had started this confrontation, he aimed it directly behind the guard’s ear.

“What the hell was that for?” His breathing was still heavy as he regained control.

Before three seconds passed, two guns punched into the back of his head from two new security guards.

“Drop it now,” one of them called out.

Henry held steady for a moment. He’d seriously misjudged the security at the Northrop house.

“Drop it.” Someone shoved a gun into his head again. The barrel dug into his scalp. If he didn’t turn up dead, he’d be sore for a week.

Henry loosened the grip on the gun. A large hand pulled it away from him. Another hand took the form of a large rock and connected with his cheek, shoving him against the house. The impact hammered through his face and his ear. Henry’s lip was bleeding, and the back of his head stung.

Guard number one, now on his feet, kicked Henry in the gut. Every last bit of air was punched from his lungs, and the ache radiated through one of his ribs. It didn’t feel broken; he’d already experienced that several times in his life and would never forget that sharp unrelenting pain.

He remained on the ground like a scarecrow that had been ransacked by crows with a vendetta. One of the guards was on the phone while the other two stood over him, guns locked, loaded, and begging for an excuse to kill him. The guard who had started the incident had blood dripping down his chin. Henry couldn’t feel sympathy for the blighter.

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.”

Leaving the hospital would make her more vulnerable than ever. She had to stay as long as possible.

“I can’t leave. I’m not feeling well.”

Luc brushed some of her hair from her face. The move would have been sweet if the man doing it wasn’t trying to harm her. “Can I have a few minutes alone with her?”

“Absolutely. I’ll be in the hall.” The doctor nodded at Luc without a glance toward Alex. Luc’s money would keep him focused on his patron and not his patient.

Alex wanted to scream out to him for help, but remembered the bloody image of the last person she’d asked to help her. Too many innocent people lingered nearby.

“You disappoint me. Where’s the adoration you gave me when we first met?” He pulled out his phone and typed on the screen for a few seconds. “Your future happiness is linked to my happiness and right now, I’m not happy.”

He wouldn’t be receiving her adoration or any positive attention. Instead, she shut her eyes and tried to drown out his image.

The sharp pinch on her arm told her he didn’t appreciate being ignored. “I thought you might like to see your family.”

She opened her eyes again to find Luc’s phone in her face. A photo on the screen showed her family dressed in mourning attire at the security guard’s funeral.
“The
Northrop family mourns the loss of the head of their security team, Adam Miller. A member of the Northrop staff for five years, he leaves a wife and teenage son. There have been no new leads in the murder investigation.
”

Her father and mother stood side by side dressed in black. Julia, Anna, and a man that could be Anna’s husband, Jason, remained behind them. Her mother appeared stoic, but the muscles in her jaw seemed strained. Tension rocked though her, and her stomach heaved. She’d caused this. It was all her fault.

Luc pulled the phone away. “How many pictures of funerals will I be showing you before you obey me?’

After a knock on the door, the doctor popped his head into the room. “Everything all right?”

Alex tried to force a smile, but couldn’t fake it. “Yes. I’m ready to leave.”

“Great. I’ll go finish the paperwork.” The doctor fled the room again without examining her leg, leaving her alone with the two malignant cancers that had caused the injury.

She pasted on her best Gabrielle countenance, the one her mother was wearing at the guard’s funeral. Alex would borrow it for her wedding.

After a painful car drive, they arrived at the
mairie
, a local government office for civil weddings, near Luxembourg Gardens. It was an impersonal place with black vinyl chairs lined up in rows. A wood podium decorated with silk flowers and vines was positioned at the front of the room for the officiate. Most girls who dream of a wedding envision white gowns, flowing bouquets, and being surrounded by family and friends. For Alex, her wedding involved a bright blue peasant skirt over her cast, two witnesses who loved to watch her cry out in pain, and a groom who would prefer to slit her throat rather than kiss her lips.

The officiate still hadn’t arrived twenty minutes later. Alex continued to stand in pain next to Luc and his guards. She felt like an ugly ducking, but she remained cool by breathing in the fading scent of Henry from his jacket. Pascal and Serge wore tailored pants and nice, button-down shirts. Luc was decked out in an Armani black suit and a red silk tie. At least someone dressed for the occasion. He never held her hand or even looked in her direction. No pretending on his part.

She didn’t want to be the brave one any longer. She missed Henry. She loved Henry. He, no doubt, hated her for leaving him alone in Atlanta. Leaving the engagement ring in his pocket should have convinced him she didn’t want anything to do with him. As painful as that would be, she was glad he wouldn’t be searching for her. She rubbed her thumb against her ring finger, remembering the feel of the engagement ring.

“Will you be putting me up in your summer home on the Riviera? I’ll suffer alone there without complaint,” she asked Luc.

He shook his head, as though the possibility had crossed his mind and he’d dismissed it. “Regrettably, you have to work. I need a qualified appraiser for a few transactions, and you owe me for not killing any family members, yet.”