“Ya’ look like a Disney princess exploded all over ya’.”
“This dress wasn’t my choice,” I say grimly. “What’s your name, anyway? You’re not wearing a mask or keeping a bag over my head, so you obviously don’t care if I know who you are.”
Ian puts a glass filled with amber liquid down in front of him, and he takes a long drink before he answers me, just to be a dick about it. “Cameron MacTavish.”
“Why did you kidnap me from my wedding, Cameron MacTavish?”
He crossed his legs, doing that manly thing where they rest their ankle on the other knee. “I told you. You are the first step.”
“The first step in what?”
“Burning your father’s Bratva to ash. And given all the sick shite your intended is into, I’m thinking I might finish him off, too.”
It feels like a cold fist is squeezing my heart. “I see. And what role do I play in this?”
Cameron leaned forward, his handsome features like stone. “Be quiet, don’t cause any trouble. If you do try to get away, and maybe ask someone for help? I’ll kill them.”
He gets up and joins one of the other groups, leaving me alone.
Even if Cameron’s man Hamish hadn’t happily announced in his searing Scottish accent, “It’s good to be home, lads!” I would have known we were landing in Edinburgh.
I remember the first time I visited here, the incredible contrast of vivid green and rough-hewn rock. I’d managed to escape for a couple of precious hours while my father was conducting business. I watched a gathering of bagpipe players in their colorful tartans and how the music soared over the slate roofs of the city, into the cloudy sky and my heart filled to bursting.
It was precious to me, even if it only lasted an hour.
Glumly gathering up handfuls of tattered chiffon to avoid tripping down the jet stairs, I wonder if Cameron would let me change out of this thing. He doesn’t look my way as I’m put into one black Range Rover and he gets in the passenger seat of another one.
If I just reached out… I could crack something over the driver’s head. The car would veer off the road. I’d be out of here and racing away to… Nowhere. I’m in a ridiculous, tattered wedding dress and I’m barefoot. The other guard would catch up with me in a heartbeat.
Cameron’s threat about killing anyone I asked for help; did he mean it? I think he would. Just because he’s Scottish and not Russian, did I really think he would be merciful?
We’ve been driving for half an hour or so when the Range Rover turns onto a private lane, the iron gate closing behind us with an ominous clanging sound. I’m not familiar with this part of Edinburgh, it is close to the river, though, and the huge stone house in front of us is beautiful, a Georgian style with lush trees and towering urns of flowers.
Essentially, the last place I’d expect someone like Cameron to live.
Of course, what do I know about my kidnapper? Maybe he lives here with his beautiful wife and five kids and I’ll be put in the basement in a cell. The front door opens and an elegant woman in a formal suit and tie nods at me, smiling warmly.
“Miss Ivanova, welcome. Please come in and let me make you more comfortable.”
It’s hard to trust a smile from anyone associated with the man who kidnapped me, but I manufacture a weak one in return. “Thank you.”
She leads me down a long hallway, colorful old oriental rugs softening the marble floor. Since I’m shoeless, my feet appreciate it. Instead of taking me down into a sinister basement, she opens a tall door and I walk into a two-story library. My family’s mansion has a library like this, but I was never allowed in it, and though I would sneak books out to read when my father wasn’t around, I doubt most of those rows upon rows of beautiful leather-bound books were ever opened.
This library, however, looks more lived-in. There’s a blaze going in the huge fireplace, framed photos of who I’m assuming are family and friends on the walls, and a book left open on the armrest of one of the big leather chairs.
“Please, Miss Ivanova, have a seat. I have some refreshments coming for you.” The woman has short, silver hair and wears that butler’s suit like a boss.
Seating myself uneasily on the sofa, I ask, “What should I call you?”
“Miss Kevin,” she says pleasantly.
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Kevin.” Another woman hurries in with a tray, putting it on the table in front of me. There is a nice array of cured meats and cheeses, along with some thinly sliced fruit and crackers.
“Can I pour you a glass?” Miss Kevin holds up a bottle of wine, “It’s a lovely Pinot Noir.”
Every part of me wants to grab that wine right from her hand and guzzle it straight from the bottle, but this seems like a bad time to be even the slightest bit impaired. “No thank you, but a bottle of water would be wonderful.”
“Of course,” she says, smiling pleasantly, pulling one from the wine fridge underneath the bar. “I’ll give you a moment alone, but just call for me if you need anything.”
