After that everything had gone to hell. Her relationship with Graydon, never great to begin with, had soured until she’d had to get out. She’d started spending more and more time in her apartment, only leaving to go to class or one of her self-defense classes, which, instead of making her feel more in control, had brought her terror into sharper relief.
She had given in to the panic attacks, the nightmares—and they’d taken over.And now look at her. She hadn’t even been able to ask Michael a simple question. She saw him almost every day. They talked and talked, and yet when it came to something as foolish, as personal, as the origins of the scar on his chin, she became tongue-tied and shy as a kitten. It wasn’t as if she wanted to ask him if he preferred boxers to briefs. The scar was right there for anyone to see.
Pathetic.
HE STOOD AGAINST THE wall in the executive dining room along with the two ex-Secret Service agents who protected William Baxter. One, Jim, was William’s driver, and the other, Peter, was his executive secretary. But mostly they were there to make sure no one got too close. Paranoia hadn’t hurt just Tate but her father, too.
Michael despised this part of his job. It would be different if he’d been protecting a president or prime minister, someone who was doing something for the good of the people, not just an industrialist’s daughter. He’d tried to justify his position, given that Tate ran the Baxter Foundation and that they did help people with their dollars, but that had grown as stale as the sandwich he’d been offered in the staff kitchen.
He shifted his gaze to William. The man was sixty-four but he looked a hell of a lot older. He could afford the best of everything, including plastic surgery for that turkey neck of his, but he preferred to spend his money on things that others would covet. This building, his home, his airplane. His daughter. It was hard for Michael to keep his composure when he was with William and Tate. The man treated her like a child. Like an invalid child. And she let him.
He shifted his position so that he wouldn’t get stiff. In all his years in the military he should have grown accustomed to standing, to waiting. He still hated it. He’d rather face a dozen armed men than do nothing but stand and watch.
Tate laughed, which was a damn rare, good thing. He wondered if she knew that she was pretty. That her long neck, her skin, the way her eyes lit up when she was captivated made her incredibly appealing. He didn’t think she thought of herself that way at all. She dressed in the camouflage of a woman who doesn’t want to be noticed. Beige, cream, taupe, khaki. Pale colors that blended with her pale skin.
His thoughts jumped to the information he’d downloaded about the kidnap artist. Jerry Brody was his name. Michael had read everything he’d been able to find. The guy sounded like a first-class jerk, full of himself and how he was exploring the “human condition.” Michael didn’t understand how anyone could be fooled by his shtick. Yes, he had a degree in psychology, but come on. According to the papers, he’d kidnapped dozens of people, stolen them from their homes, their cars, from movie theaters. He’d tied them up, blindfolded them, taken them to a small, barren room and kept them isolated. Feeding and communication were used as weapons to make the experience more realistic.
That Tate’s shrink proposed this idea was unbelievable. Where had William found this quack? The woman should lose her license over a stunt like this.
Michael had to make sure Tate wasn’t going to agree to it. That was all. If it came down to it, he’d talk to William. No way the old man would put up with this crap.
Tate laughed again. It was good to see her so relaxed, but Jesus. They were at the top of the Baxter Building in the middle of Manhattan, on the sixtieth floor, in the executive dining room. Every table but one was empty. None of the managers or supervisors or whoever normally used this place were allowed in when Tate came to lunch. In addition to Michael and the two Secret Service men, there were also men stationed at the door, in the kitchen and at the elevator.
Her whole goddamn life was one big maximum-security prison.
TATE SETTLED AGAINST the black leather seat of her limo, avoiding Michael’s gaze as he shut the door. She had to blink away sudden tears, swallow a lump in her throat.
The lunch had been fine. Her father was in good spirits, the food superb, the conversation productive. All had been right with the world…until she’d looked at Michael and caught the pity in his eyes.
It was only then that she’d seen the empty tables all around them, heard the echo of cutlery on china. Shame had hit her with a wicked gut punch, and she hadn’t been able to touch her sorbet.
He hadn’t said a word to her, not in the elevator nor in the garage. He’d treated her with respect, as always. He’d even given her one of his rare smiles as he’d opened the limo door. But his look of pity lingered in her mind’s eye.
Pathetic. There wasn’t an area of her life that was free from the effects of her own personal monster. Her father only wanted her to be safe and happy, but she didn’t feel, either. She liked administering the trust, but there again she did almost everything from her home office. Her world had shrunk to a pinpoint. If it wasn’t for Sara… How had this happened?
“Tate?”
“Yes?”
“Home?”
“Yes, thank you, Michael.”
“No shopping to do?”
“Not today, no.”
“Okay.”
His voice sounded normal. No reprimand in his tone at all. And in that heartbeat she made her decision. She would do it. Be kidnapped. She would call Dr. Bay first thing tomorrow and she’d start the process.
Her hands shook at the enormity of the decision. Which just made her more determined. This was her life, and as of this moment she was taking control.
3
MICHAEL SAT AT HIS kitchen table, a cold beer half-finished, newspaper and magazine articles spread in front of him. All of them seemed to cover the same territory about Jerry Brody and his lunacy. Unfortunately none of the articles gave him enough information about Brody’s clients to lead him to an actual ID. Michael had put in calls to every one of the reporters, but only two had phoned back, neither one willing to name those who had used Brody’s service.
He’d even left a message with Brody himself, his intention to pose as a would-be client, which would give him a lot of information, and he’d also ask for personal referrals.
He just hoped that all this work was for nothing. He didn’t imagine Tate would be foolish enough to walk into a nightmare scenario like this, but he had to plan as if it were a go. What he couldn’t decide was whether he should tell William about this or just go see Dr. Bay himself.
He stretched his head to the right, then the left, trying to work out some of the tension in his neck and shoulders. What he needed to do was get his ass to the gym. He hadn’t been in three days, and that was unacceptable. Besides keeping him in fighting shape, his brutal workouts were his best defense against stress and depression.
He didn’t belong in New York, at least not like this. He should be in Iraq or Afghanistan, doing what he’d been trained to do. Not babysitting.
He took another swig of beer. Of all the useless things in his life, wishing he could change his situation was the stupidest. He’d left the military of his own free will—but not because he’d wanted to. He still felt the decision was the right one, even if it did mean he’d have to live this life.
Needing the distraction, he went back to reading the last of the articles about Brody. It was as useless as the rest. He turned the page anyway. Maybe—
A knock at his door made him jump, but he relaxed just as quickly. Only one person came to his apartment these days. One person Michael didn’t want to see.
Yep, it was Charlie.