But she’s wrong about the one-bed. My Vicky deserves the best I can give her, and the fresh opportunities the Company presents will allow me to offer her just that.
“I think I’d like somewhere with a swimming pool,” I say, my mind conjuring up images of her nude in the water, or relaxing on a recliner in the sun as I put lotion on her body.
“We live in New York,” she points out.
And there it is again.We.
She doesn’t seem to have noticed.
The ring I’ve given her glints on her hand, back where it belongs, marking her as mine. As does her language, now.
The helicopter touches smoothly, and I’m already finished with this trip.
“Let’s get this meeting done and back to the hotel room,” I say, keen to be alone with her. I get up from my seat and reach for the door, but Davis beats me to it, opening it from the outside.
“Up there, please, sir,” he says, gesturing. “Thank you for flying with us; we will return you when your meeting is concluded.”
I climb out of the helicopter then help Vicky down, and we walk through the gardens and toward the house, taking the flight of stone steps he indicated.
Inside, the house opens into a cavernous timber hall with beams the size of tree trunks crossing the ceiling. Hardwood floors and thick rugs keep the lodge theme,and the head of a moose is mounted over the fireplace, its antlers easily five feet wide.
We’re met by a woman and two uniformed staff. “Mr. Reyes, Miss Callahan, welcome to Montclair. My name is Anna and I’m Mr. Fournier’s personal assistant. You may leave your coats here. If you’d come this way, please?”
I take Vicky’s coat for her, and she looks so delicate and vulnerable in her pale blue summer dress. Yet her chin is up, her spine straight, uncowed by the wealth and largesse around us. We leave our outerwear with the staff, and follow Anna through the house.
Vicky’s hand slips into mine.
“Mr. Fournier has asked that we meet in his study, sir,” she says, leading us past several rooms. I glimpse a circular dining table with a dozen chairs, a library with stone floors and dark wood paneling, a games room with a snooker table.
Anna stops before a wooden door at the end of a hallway, knocks twice, opens it, then stands back, inviting us forward.
The room beyond is expansive, a leather sofa suite in one corner almost incidental, a meeting table with half a dozen chairs opposite. An antique mahogany desk dominates the center of the room, and the man lounging in his chair behind it is Bastien Fournier. Unexpectedly, Van Wyk is here too, leaning casually against the wall, and a large man stands just inside the door, his suit stretched tight over exaggerated biceps and shoulders.
“Ah, Alexander.” Fournier snaps his chair uprightas he rises, walking around the desk to come and meet me, smile easy and hand outstretched.
I release Vicky’s hand and step forward. “Thank you for inviting me.”
We shake, appraising each other. His grip is firm and brief, his eyes alight and intelligent, almost playful.
“I like to get to know all our newest members,” he says, taking a half-step back. “Find out what makes them tick. Test their loyalty.”
Vicky gives a surprised gasp behind me, and I spin. She’s in the grip of that oaf of a bodyguard—or whatever his role is—held to his chest, his big meaty hand around her throat.
My fists clench. My pulse jumps. I take a step toward him, and his hand tightens on her neck. Her eyes widen in fear, and a yelp slips from her. But I see the moment it’s replaced by anger, face hardening, indignation tightening her jaw. She knows she’s a pawn, and she hates it as much as when I manipulate her. And I’m the object of her rage.
That’s my Vicky.
Van Wyk pushes off the wall, straightening, his stare fixed on me, flat and hollow.
“Make sure you take Victoria, hmm?”The memory of DeLuca’s voice rings in my ears.
It’s a game, I tell myself. A test. Loyalty, Fournier said.
But they’ve made a mistake if they think they can touch Vicky.
In an instant, my rage races through hot to ice-cold,emotion stripping away, survival kicking in. I let out the breath I’m holding, and composing myself takes no more effort than that. Appearance is everything, and when I turn back to face Fournier, my expression is as neutral as I can make it.
“Am I supposed to ask, ‘what’s the meaning of this?’” The words come out as dry and disinterested as I could wish, masking my fury. I hope.
