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Sara reached over and put her hand on Tate’s. “I’ll support you no matter what, okay? Think it through. Make sure this isn’t going to make things worse.”
“It can’t get much worse.”
Sara sighed. She looked around the solarium, at all the plants and flowers, the miniature fruit trees and the tall grasses by the fountain. “I want you to be happy. For what it’s worth, I think Michael’s a really great guy, and you could do a lot worse than getting back in the game with him. But let him in on the kidnap plan. Let him make sure nothing goes haywire.”
“No. He can’t be there or it won’t be real.”
“It’s not going to be real.”
“You know what I mean.”
Sara sighed. “Yeah, I do.”
Tate grinned. “Can you stick around for a movie?”
“Sure I can. But only if I get to pick.”
“We’re not going to watch Notting Hill again.”
“Spoilsport.”
“Deal with it.”
Sara lifted her glass of wine. “To stubborn women.”
Tate raised her own glass. “Amen.”
SHE DIDN’T THINK about the kidnapping or Michael until after Sara left. Tate had gone to her bedroom where she’d washed and gotten into her sleep shirt, then climbed into her bed. She wished she had a cat or a puppy, something to sleep with her. Her father was terribly allergic, so she’d never had her own pet, but this was her house, and if he didn’t like it, he didn’t have to visit.
The moment she closed her eyes she knew it wasn’t a pet she wanted sharing her bed. She wanted Michael.
He really was an exceptional man. She knew he wasn’t thrilled with his life, that he wished he was back doing his 007 thing, but when they were together, him in the front seat, her in the back, there was a connection between them. Even Sara had noticed.
Of course, there was no real future with Michael, but that was all right. Sara had hit the nail on the head—Michael would be ideal as her first after so, so long. He’d be gentle and caring….
A fling. That’s all she wanted. Really.
4
AS HE STOOD LEANING against the limo, waiting for Tate to finish her shopping, Michael thought once more about going to William. It had been a week since Tate had told him she’d agreed to the kidnapping. In that time Michael had met with Brody, talked with three of his past “victims” and gone over the plan about fifty times. He still thought it was a ridiculous and dangerous game, but Tate had made up her mind.
There was still time to go to William, who would put a stop to this nonsense, but Tate was adamant that her father be kept out of the loop. When he’d suggested that he come along for the stunt, Tate had nearly wept insisting that he stay the hell away.
Wasn’t going to happen, of course. Although Brody had said he’d give no warning before the actual snatch, Michael was going to see him tomorrow to persuade him that it was in Brody’s best interest to take him along. Tate wouldn’t know, and that was fine, but there was no way he was going to let her get taken to some unknown location for an indeterminate period of time without him watching every goddamn second. He could just see himself trying to explain to William how Tate had been hurt—or worse—while he’d been watching basketball on ESPN.
Of course, if Brody continued to object, Michael had a plan B. He always had a plan B.
He checked his watch and figured he’d give Tate another five minutes. She was in the Prada store having a fitting. He still couldn’t figure that damn store out. There was practically nothing on display. It was all hidden in some way that clearly appealed to women.
He’d waited out enough fittings to know he couldn’t rush her, but he also didn’t like her to be out of his sight. Of course, Elizabeth was with her, and he trusted her. Even better, Tate trusted her. A former CIA case officer, Elizabeth knew her way around a weapon.
His cell phone rang. It was George, one of his tech guys who worked on the alarm system at Tate’s. They were replacing some of the equipment, and Michael had asked for regular updates. As in all things concerning Tate, he wanted the hard-core work to be done when she was sleeping or out of the penthouse. She tended to get nervous when she caught glimpses of what it really took to keep her safe.
“What’s going on?”
“It’s all good, boss. We have the equipment in and we’ve just finished the test run. We’ll be all cleaned up in ten.”
“What did you think of the test?”
“It’s everything they promised.”
“Good, I—” He saw Tate come out of the shop carrying two large bags. Just as she reached the center of the sidewalk, she stopped and handed the bags to Elizabeth, then she looked inside her purse. “George, she’s coming. I’ll talk—”
A movement caught his attention, someone in a hooded coat right behind her. A second later the man shoved Elizabeth into a passing group of students. Michael tossed the phone and got out his weapon as he ran. A white van drove up onto the sidewalk, the side door wide-open. The hooded man shoved Tate inside and the van took off.
He lifted his weapon to shoot out a tire, but civilians crowded in front of him and he lost the shot. Brody had covered the license plate with mud, and there was nothing else identifying about the van as it turned the corner out of his view.
He raced back to the limo, cursing Dr. Bay fifty ways to Sunday. If it was the last thing he did, he was going to find Jerry Brody and break his neck.
He picked up the cell phone he’d dropped. It still worked, and as he pulled out of the shopping mall valet parking lot, he hit *2.
“Elizabeth here.”
“I’m going after her,” he said, “but I’m dropping off the limo and taking my own vehicle. Got that?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry—”
“Just make sure Daddy doesn’t get inquisitive. If all goes well, I’ll have her back by nightfall.”
“Yes, sir.”
He clicked off the phone, tossed it on the seat and pulled out another electronic device, the one the size and shape of a BlackBerry. It was actually a GPS—a global positioning system—with only one target. The moment he saw the light on the map he relaxed. He’d find her and bring her home. There would be plenty of time to kill Brody afterward.
For now, he concentrated on not killing any pedestrians or getting arrested as he broke a great many laws. He had to get out of this limo if he wanted to have the least bit of stealth. He’d taken his motorcycle to work this morning, which was a good thing. He could move quickly and get into tight spots with that baby, and there weren’t many cars on the road that could catch him.
Michael figured the van was registered to Brody and that it was heading toward Long Island, where Brody lived. But he wasn’t a hundred percent sure and he wasn’t going to take any chances.
Tate knew about the GPS tracker—at least the one in her wristwatch. She didn’t know about the one in her purse. But that was fine. She didn’t need to know everything. Besides, if she hadn’t actually passed out from fear, she’d be too busy with her panic attacks to think about global positioning systems.
SHE WAS IN A VAN and there was a bag over her head. Tate could barely feel her hands or her feet, but she could feel the bag being sucked into her mouth as she struggled for breath. The air was foul, sick, and her heart pounded hard in her chest.
“Stop,” she said, only it was a croak, not really a word. “Stop.” It was only a tiny bit better. They wouldn’t hear her. He’d promised to stop if she asked him to, but he had to hear her.
“Stop!”
That was louder, that was more of a scream, but the van kept going, kept rocking, and no one touched her or listened. She tried to kick out, to make them listen, but her legs were tied together and she could hardly move.
“Stop! Stop!” She used all her strength to thrash, to get their attention. And her heart—it was filling her chest and squeezing her lungs so she couldn’t breathe.
“Stop, stop, stop, stop!”
No one answered. She was alone and she was going to die in the back of this van. There was no air, no escape. It was over and there was so much she hadn’t done.
The blackness came from the inside out. It was welcome.
HE MADE IT TO THE garage in Tate’s building, then jumped out of the vehicle and climbed onto his rebuilt Suzuki GSX. He docked his GPS just above the speedometer and squealed out of the garage, heading toward Long Island. He wasn’t exactly sure where Brody lived, but he thought it might be Little Neck.
Didn’t matter. He was following the purse. Brody had no reason to scan Tate for a GPS, so he had no need to get rid of her purse. Even if the pervert wanted to take her clothes, they’d still be in the van.
Trouble was, it was Friday and it was four-thirty, and the expressway was a parking lot. He could get around the cars all right, but there was a great chance he could be popped in the process. The last thing he needed now was to have to explain this to the highway patrol.
He inched the bike forward and thought again about Brody. The man wasn’t exactly living on his performance art, despite charging an arm and a leg for his kidnappings. Michael knew Tate had already given him ten grand—half the fee. But Brody himself lived off his wife’s income. She was some big cosmetic surgeon who Botoxed politicos and movie stars. She was why he could afford to play with his art.
As he put his leg down once again to wait for traffic to move, he watched the blip on the GPS moving steadily forward on the same expressway, only about ten miles ahead.
Screw it. He’d explain to the police if he had to. In the meantime, he was gonna find Tate.
Swerving the bike into the fire lane, he gunned it. He tried to keep an eye out for cops, but between looking at the signal and trying not to be killed by motorists, he had his hands full.
There was a car stuck in his way a few miles in, so he went back into traffic. Despite the laws against it in New York, he did the bob and weave, skating past SUVs and Toyotas with a couple of inches to spare.
He couldn’t understand how the van was making such good time, but as the minutes ticked by and the GPS kept purring, he closed the distance.
Just as he thought he might get a visual, he heard the dreaded sound of a police siren.
Glancing back, he saw the NYHP coming up the fire lane.
Michael slowed down and found himself a nice place to idle right in front of a grocery truck. Traffic moved at about five miles an hour, and he just stayed put, preparing his explanation.
The blip on the GPS went farther away with each painstaking inch, and so did the siren. Finally he saw the lights in his side mirror. Even the cops weren’t going very fast. When they reached his side, they didn’t stop, and he let out a held breath. They were after something else, an accident probably, but with them so close he didn’t dare pull any stunts.
He tried to be patient. He wasn’t successful.
TATE WOKE, STILL IN the darkness of the rocking vehicle. She had no moisture at all in her throat and she felt as if she would choke to death. She tried to cry out again, to tell them they had it wrong, but she couldn’t.
Her tears felt hot on her cheeks as her heart pumped beyond its endurance. She thought of her father, how furious he would be at her for getting herself into this mess. How he would have to live with the fact that her death was her own fault.
She thought of Michael and how all this could have been prevented if she hadn’t been so vain. He would have stopped this, he would have saved her.
She’d wasted so much of her life, only to end up throwing her life away on a stunt. On this idiotic game.
What she didn’t understand is why they weren’t following the agreement. Brody had signed the contract. Didn’t he realize he’d be in trouble once they discovered he’d ignored the rules?
She gasped again, licked a tear off her lip. She would give anything, any amount of money, if only they would let her go. She’d never do anything this stupid again. She’d be good, she’d pray every night, she’d—
The truck turned, causing her to roll to her right, then stabilize again. Maybe they were close to wherever they were taking her. They’d have to listen then, wouldn’t they?
But she probably wasn’t going to make it. Not when she couldn’t catch her breath. Not when her chest was about to explode. It was over. Her life was ending. What a pathetic waste.
IT HAD BEEN AN accident, a big one. Two SUVs, one overturned, a fire truck, an ambulance and several patrol cars. Michael had no choice but to wait until he’d passed the worst of it before he could even get to a decent speed.
The van was already past it all. It had turned off the expressway onto the surface streets of Port Washington. He knew the area, but not well.
By the time he got to the right exit he saw the van heading toward Sands Point. According to Michael’s research, neither Brody nor the wife were Sands Point rich. Hell, he knew of one estate that was for sale there right now—price tag of twenty-eight million. That was William Baxter territory, and it didn’t sit right.
The traffic wasn’t all that great even now that he was off the LIE. Too many commuters coming in from the city, trying to make it to their nice Long Island homes. The blip on the GPS had stalled. He lifted the unit from the cradle and pressed a couple of buttons. Seacoast Lane. That was on the very edge of Sands Point.
He’d driven Tate to Sands Point once about four months ago, to a literary luncheon given by an author who lived there. Susan somebody. Tate and he had talked about the village. She’d told him that there were no stores of any kind in Sands Point. Only homes and gardens and an animal shelter. The residents—who included the CEO of a large pharmaceutical company, a former governor of New York and the family that owned the estate that many believe was the inspiration for “East Egg” in Fitzgerald’s Gatsby—were all rich enough that they could live in this garden suburb where the gates and the security guards kept out all but the anointed.
None of that colorful history helped him now. He drove past well-tended yards and kids toting backpacks filled to the limit. Even the frequent suburban stops didn’t slow him down as much as the expressway traffic, and soon he was in Port Washington, the town that supported the wealthy lives of those who lived in Sands Point.
It was all so peaceful out here. No honking horns, hardly any pedestrians on the main street. Only twenty-five miles from Manhattan, it felt like another world.
As he approached the gated community, Michael turned his attention to his GPS screen. The blip had stayed right there at Seacoast. He pressed another button, moving in on the target.
Not a second later he was looking at an aerial view of 200 Seacoast. It was a huge estate with only one big semicircular road in and out. The house looked large enough to supply a battalion, and the grounds were expansive. It had to be at least twenty acres. The estate was also surrounded on three sides by Long Island Sound.
Michael put all his concentration now on getting to Seacoast. First he had to get past the guards, but that was ridiculously simple. He followed another motorcycle—one with a teenager driving—gave the guard a wave and that was that. Then he found the estate, and it was just as impressive as the GPS had indicated.
Ditching his bike was simple in the vast acres of old trees. The last thing he wanted was for Brody to get wind of this rescue and pull some other stupid stunt. By the time he was finished, no one would find his bike.
He had his gun just in case he needed to get pushy. And he had his GPS, but now he used his old-school skills to lead him to his target. He had no idea what kind of security there was and he didn’t relish setting off any alarms.
It was still light out, this being the middle of March, so he’d have to be damn careful. He hoped Tate was holding up all right. He also didn’t think Sands Point had a psychiatric hospital.
TATE WOKE TO DARKNESS. She lay on a mattress, her right handcuffed to something behind and above her head. Every part of her body ached as she shifted her position.
She tried to think. She’d been in the store with Elizabeth. Karen had been doing a hem. And she’d bought two shirts for her father. It was blank after that.
This was it, of course. The kidnapping. She could feel the familiar symptoms of a panic attack coming over her like a wave. Her accelerated heartbeat, her constricted throat, the narrowing of her vision as she felt as if she was going to die.
“Please,” she said, but her voice broke and turned into a sob. “Please, stop this.”
She wept and struggled for breath as her stomach churned. It felt as if she was on the water, rolling with the waves, but that couldn’t be.
All she wanted was to go home. She’d been crazy to think this was a good idea. It was her worst nightmare come to life. “Please,” she said again, this time louder, but no one answered.
He hadn’t covered her eyes though he’d said he was going to use a blindfold. But it didn’t matter because she couldn’t see anything but dark and she couldn’t hear anything but her own silent scream. Her body spasmed and she barely felt the pain in her wrist. Everything was too closed, too tight, and she couldn’t breathe. If she could just get outside, stop this pounding in her chest…. She would die, and then Michael would never know. He would only remember her being so stupid. God, please, make it stop. Please, please. Can’t breathe. She was going to throw up, she knew it. She would die like this, in this small room, and she hadn’t lived at all.
A light burned her eyes and she struggled more, desperate to get out, get free. Someone was over her, touching her, holding her shoulders.
“Please stop it. Stop. I don’t want this. I have to get out, please!”
“Quiet, you damn fool. You’re bleeding.”
She opened her eyes, adjusted painfully to the light. The man was dark and small and she didn’t know him. She’d never seen him before. It wasn’t Brody. Brody had promised….
“Stop struggling. You’re tearing open your wrist.”
