He chuckled. “I guess I’m safe, then. The police won’t be searching for me, even though I didn’t break the law. Much.” But he couldn’t help the little thrill of ego-stoking male pride that shot through him at the description. So Alana saw him as a superhero, did she? He liked that idea. No, he loved that idea. Because while the opinions of those he rescued had never been important to him before, Alana’s opinion of him mattered. A lot.
* * *
The High Tiger of the Eight Tigers triad organization—although it had far more than eight members—sat in a hastily called conference with the seven other leaders of the triad. Each of the seven was an enforcer, overseeing a cadre of men. Each cadre was responsible for a different aspect of the criminal endeavors that constituted the backbone of the Eight Tigers: drugs, gun-running, prostitution, kidnapping, extortion, money laundering and pornography. And they all answered to the High Tiger—chairman of the board, as it were.
The Eight Tigers was a radical departure from most Hong Kong triads. Except when it came to women, it was an equal opportunity employer—if they cared about such things, which they didn’t. All they cared about was whether a man had it in him to carry out the dicta of the ruling tribunal...and could keep his mouth shut in the unfortunate event he was arrested. Of the eight men seated around the conference table, three were Chinese, two were British, two were American and one was Australian. And they’d had a secret stranglehold on crime in Hong Kong and Macau for years.
The High Tiger turned to the enforcer in charge of prostitution and demanded, “How did it happen?”
The man on the hot seat nervously cleared his throat. “Unclear.”
“What do the men say?”
“All they know is she was gone when they went to move her to the boat. Then they got the hell out of there.”
The High Tiger’s voice was soft, yet his tone was threatening, when he asked, “Are you aware this was an RMM rescue?”
The other man blanched. Every man at the table knew of RMM. Knew it was more to be feared than the Hong Kong Police Force or the Public Security Police Force of Macau for three reasons: it was a highly secret organization, more secret than their own; its members were impervious to bribes, unlike many on the police forces in the jurisdictions in which the Eight Tigers operated; and it was bankrolled by a man who seemed to have an unending supply of money...even greater than theirs.
“No, I...I was not aware,” the man finally admitted.
The High Tiger then asked the question that held the most importance to the men assembled there. “What trail might lead RMM...or authorities...to us?”
“Nothing.” The man being questioned glanced around the table, reassuring the assemblage. “Nothing at all.”
* * *
Alana woke at her normal time. Dirk had told her as they’d left the hospital last night to take it easy, to sleep in and recuperate from her ordeal, but she wasn’t going to act like an invalid. Okay, her arm and shoulder muscles were stiff and sore from being bound. And yes, her wrists were raw and chafed from the rope she’d tried to wriggle out of. And...
She tentatively touched the back of her head where she’d been hit. Ouch! she thought. It was still tender to the touch. There was a little swelling, too, but her nausea was gone and she felt fine. Energized to jump right back into her job. She didn’t want to lie in bed and remember her close brush with all the bad things that could have happened to her—including rape and death. She needed the distraction of work to take her mind off what had nearly occurred.
She dressed quickly and was brushing her teeth when a good memory surfaced...her miraculous rescue. That was immediately followed by memories of the man who’d rescued her. The way he’d held her so securely she hadn’t been afraid, even dangling from a harness hooked to a cable, with terra firma far below. The incredible hardness of his body plastered against hers. Not to mention the arousal that had intrigued her to the point where she’d almost said something about it.
She wished she knew who he was. Wished she at least had a first name she could use when she thought of him, instead of the slightly blasphemous “savior” that came to mind.
Okay, so maybe she’d exaggerated his physical characteristics when she’d described him to the police last night. And he probably couldn’t walk on water, either, although she had a feeling he would try if it was necessary to save someone. He would have done whatever was necessary to save her, even though he didn’t know her. She couldn’t have said how she knew, but she was absolutely certain that from the minute he’d entered the room where she was imprisoned, he wouldn’t have left without her. Even if her abductors had surprised them, he would have done whatever was necessary to effect their escape. And that was such an incredibly glorious, albeit humbling, feeling, knowing there were still heroes in the world willing to risk their lives for others.
But darn it, she needed a name!
Then she remembered what Mei-li had told her last night, that he worked for an organization called RMM. If Dirk’s wife knew that much, she just might know him. It was worth a shot anyway.
On that thought she made her way downstairs to the kitchen.
Hannah, the DeWinters’ housekeeper, was at the stove, but she turned the fire off and bustled over to Alana when she entered the room, enveloping her in an encouraging hug. “I’m so glad you’re safe!”
“Thanks, Hannah.” She stepped back and looked around. “Where is everyone?”
“The twins are still sleeping, and so is their nanny. Mr. DeWinter had an early call on the set. He said to tell you there’s some fan mail to go through in his office...but only if you feel up to it. Mrs. DeWinter also went out early. She said she might be back for lunch, but she’d let me know.”
“Darn it!” Alana said out loud. “I was hoping to catch her before she left.”
Hannah resumed her cooking. Oatmeal, Alana saw, which both she and the DeWinters’ daughters loved. “Was it something urgent? You could always call or text her.”
“Important to me. But not urgent enough to interrupt whatever she’s doing. If she went out this early, she must be working on a case. I’ll see her at lunch or dinner.”
Hannah took down a bowl from one of the cabinets and served Alana from the pot on the stove. “Here you go, Miss Richardson. Put yourself on the outside of this.”
Alana smiled and accepted the bowl. She’d only been living with the DeWinters for a month, but she adored Hannah almost as much as the twins did. Not just for her quaint expressions and her insistence on addressing Alana with old-fashioned formality, but for the heart of gold that was obvious within minutes of meeting her.
She sprinkled a spoonful of brown sugar on her oatmeal and stirred, then seated herself at the kitchen table with a despondent sigh. She’d tried to love her own mother; she really had. But except for the residual attachment left over from her childhood, it wasn’t possible. How could she love a woman whose outlook on life was totally alien to her? Who judged people by their social status...and more?
She couldn’t help wishing her mother was more like Hannah. For that matter, she couldn’t help wishing her father was different, too. Not like Hannah so much, but like her uncle Julian. She’d never envied Juliana anything except the close relationship she had with her father, a father she could be proud of. If only Uncle Julian had been her father, too, instead of—
Don’t go there, she warned herself. No pity parties. That never does any good. Think of all the people in the world who would change places with you, she reminded herself as she ate her porridge, enumerating all the positives in her life. Your parents never abused you. You never went hungry. You always had a roof over your head and decent clothes to wear.
But...those weren’t the only things that mattered when raising a child.
The fact that her parents were