“Are you cold?” he says, brow furrowed as if his massive penthouse is no longer perfect if it doesn’t offer the exact ambient temperature, even outside.
“No.Sir,”I add hastily when his gaze cools. While nibbling my croissant, my gaze darts around the terrace, trying to spot potential weak points in his security. There must be a fireescape, right? The old brownstone to the right of his is two stories lower. I could make the leap between the buildings, but the fall to that roof would likely break something I’d need. Like my leg. Both legs.
My eyes move in the other direction, looking for a ladder, a ledge,anythingI could use. If he allows me to come out here again, I’ll find something. The terrace wraps around all four sides of his penthouse, the floor is a mosaic of wood and stone and potted trees line the perimeter, offering privacy. An elegant little stream flows along the side where we’re sitting.
As I’m sipping my tea, my heart sinks as I see three men in their ubiquitous uniform of dark suits strolling along the perimeter of the penthouse. He has guards out here, too? As he carried me shrieking through the lift doors yesterday, I learned that it requires a retinal scan to open. The windows are bulletproof and don’t open and there are alarms on all the doors leading outside.
I have to find a way out of here. He may not have hurt me yet, but it’s only a matter of time. No decent man buys another human being.
While his attention is on his phone, I stare at him.
Very handsome. Check.
Insanely strong with muscles upon muscles. Check.
Whatever his criminal enterprise is, it’s very successful, hence the penthouse and the plethora of guards. Also, the stunning sum of one hundred million pounds. He paidone hundred million poundsto buy me.
Who does that? Who has that kind of money?
He must really,reallyhate my family.
He won’t address me by my name, nor let anyone else. It’s a cruel psychological tactic I’d studied in my online psychology course. Depriving the victim of their identity makes them weaker, easier to control. He won’t tell me his name. But at this point, why? He didn’t kidnap me, he bought me. Who am I going to tell? And after that terrifying comment about wanting “MacTavish blood,” I expected to be thrown in a concrete room with a chair bolted to the floor and a drain under it.
Waiting for the other shoe to drop is definitely its own kind of torture.
When he finishes his breakfast, he stands, coming around the table to pick me up. My mouth opens and closes as I stare up at him, pleadingly. This ‘no speaking’ rule is likely the one that I will violate enough that he’ll lose patience and murder me.
“What?” he snaps impatiently.
“Do you think I could just sit out here for a minute?” I plead. “Please? Sir?”
Checking his watch, he looks down at me, sternly. “Ten minutes.”
“Aye. Thank you!” I try to smile at him but he’s already turned away, disappearing back into the penthouse.
“Think!” I whisper, “There has to be something.” I’m so discouraged, even with more time to really examine the terrace, I don’t see anything useful, no weak spots in his perimeter.
Two of the men on patrol walk past, carefully avoiding looking directly at me. Is this more of the “I’m so insignificant that I may as well be invisible” game he’s been playing?
Of course, in my family, the MacTavish security men never stare at my sisters-in-law, because my brothers are eejits and wildlypossessive. It’s also considered a sign of disrespect. Somehow, I doubt respect has anything to do with what’s happening to me.
Then the third guard passes by, and he shoots me a quick glance and a little smile, so fast that I almost don’t catch it. I memorize his face. Maybe he’s sympathetic to what’s happening to me? He could be helpful, maybe I can catch him alone. Before Helpful Lad can come around again, Alastair’s back, face thunderous like an oncoming storm and he scoops me up, striding back inside and locking me back in my room.
Chapter Eleven
In which Alastair is forced to break the news to his best friend. It does not go well.
Alastair…
A few minutes earlier…
I groan when my phone goes off, seeing Alec’s name flash on the screen. No more putting this off. It’s time to tell him.
“Greetings, A. It’s about bloody time,” he chuckles, “where the hell have you been? There’s no excuse for avoiding your best friend’s calls.”
“I don’t have any friends,” I say blandly, “just a brother who spends most of his time acting like a complete tosser.”
“It is my specialty,” he says, “how did it go with Senator Arsehole?”
