death. His violet blue eyes glazed in milky white. The image would be forever branded in memory for her sin of failure.
Love blinded her, made her weak and neglectful. And Nicholas had paid the price. Splaying a hand against the carpet, she lifted her body to a sitting position. Her fingers touched a different texture.
The note inside the hotel stationery provided little information, given the many questions looming in her mind. The instructions were brief and to the point. She had ten days to comply. The ransom to be wired to a Swiss bank account listed in the note—or Nicky would be killed.
Yet with the instructions in English, it left her wondering who was in charge. Did the uniformed man know exactly what Nicky had said in English and only pretended ignorance? Or had someone else pulled the strings? For these men to kidnap Nicholas Charboneau, ignorance would be the least of their problems. They obviously had no idea the extent of their offense.
Once more she stared at the note. No organization laid claim for the abduction. And the ransom was far more money than she had access to. She held no special authority over Nicky's affairs. By outward appearance, he was her employer. End of story. Yet her heart could claim so much more. If only she had disclosed her feelings to him. Now she might never get the chance.
For the first time in her life she felt completely powerless. That was inexcusable.
Her mind began to formulate a strategy. Due to Nicky's reputation, she was not sure how her demand for help would be received. She would direct the attention of the local law enforcement, overseeing the efforts herself. The nearest American consulate would be contacted tonight, the U.S. State Department tomorrow. Time was of the essence.
Surely she could garner support, even in this uncivilized corner of the world. And if money were required, she knew how to get it.
Christian Delacorte owed her a very big favor. Despite Nicky's orders to the contrary, perhaps it was time for Christian to learn about his rightful connection to Nicholas Charboneau.
CHAPTER 2
Downtown Chicago
Three days later
An odd sensation contributed to Christian Dela-corte's fitful sleep, a steady unyielding feeling.
Lying in bed, restless, he stared into the twenty-foot wooden rafters of the old warehouse, an arm wedged between his head and the pillow. Deep shadows edged the pale light of wall sconces he left burning through the night, a necessity since he was ten years old.
Long ago he learned to stay attuned to his feelings, to trust them. Like a sixth sense, his intuition served him well. But this persistent feeling of expectation had been haunting him for days, making sleep almost impossible. He glanced at the red digital clock on his nightstand. Five-twenty in the morning.
Maybe it was his new place. Taking a deep breath, he raised up on his elbows to gaze upon his unique accommodations. He had only recently purchased the old three-story building in downtown Chicago off Michigan Avenue, renovating it for his use. He made the top floor into his living quarters. The middle floor was converted to his personal dojo, filled with martial arts weapons and workout gear. And the ground floor held his new business venture. Delacorte Protective Services offered executive protection to wealthy clientele. After quitting Dunhill Corporation as head of security, it was the next logical step—even if logic had little to do with his decision to leave the international conglomerate.
He ran fingers through his dark hair and heaved air from his lungs. A futile attempt to expel the doldrums. Despite the success of his burgeoning enterprise, he felt like a stranger in these surroundings. The old warehouse was not yet home. That would take time. His newfound independence had an empty feel to it, in spite of the fresh start.
Most days, he endured a disconnection from it all. Living near the Chicago Loop with its cultural offerings, exclusive shops, and the yacht club nearby, he watched the energized downtown hurl past him as if he stood still. Adrift under the influence of a strong current, he sensed its pull out to a turbulent sea of an uncertain future. He didn't have the will to stop it. Mindlessly, he took one day at a time to reinvent his life. It was the best he could do.
Barely out of boxes, his personal possessions were close at hand, giving him an anchor of stability. His former home had been a small yet comfortable cottage situated by the pool on the pristine grounds of the Dunhill Estate, a heavily guarded fortress set in the countryside north of Chicago. In his new urban locale, only the red brick walls defined the open living space. A stainless steel kitchen glistened at one end, with a large bed on the other. A seating area separated the two with a leather sofa and chairs sitting on a colorful Persian rug.
Taken from the estate, his unique collection of ornately framed oil paintings and oversized tapestries adorned the massive walls of rough brick, the artwork glorifying ancient battles and death forever frozen in time. As his eyes drifted from one piece to the other, the violence depicted conjured up savage imagery from his past. A dark memorial to mind-numbing loss.
When his somber mood threatened to influence his entire morning, a faint scent kindled his senses with a remembrance.
He closed his eyes, filling his lungs with the fragrance of Raven Mackenzie. The subtle aroma of her skin, mixed with perfume, created an intoxicating blend. An image of her dark eyes possessed him even when she was not around—eyes capable of great passion, fiery anger, and unforgettable good humor. Feeling like an addict, Christian reached for the pillow next to him, holding it to his face for a fix. He cradled its softness to his bare chest.
In his life, serenity was a fleeting commodity. She had been a welcome change, a lush tropical oasis set amidst a fierce, sun-baked desert. Rare and refreshing like a pond of cool water in a thousand miles of hot sand.
Even with the recent upheaval of his past and the misery it launched, Raven's growing influence dominated his well-being. Saying her name aloud had become his mantra to calm his anxiety when he woke up drenched in sweat from another nightmare. And the touch of her cool fingers on his scorching flesh would sweep through his system like a panacea. Somehow, she made all the changes in his life bearable. Using compassion and gentle persuasion, she wielded a power over him unlike anyone else.
'Raven,' he whispered as he opened his eyes. Her name was like a morning prayer—or a beckoning.
His phone ringing on the nightstand drew him from his thoughts. Only one person would call him at this hour. He had a smile on his face when he reached for it, and before he had a chance to say hello, her sultry greeting teased his senses.
'What are you wearing, hotshot?'
His smile broadened to a grin. Blood rushed to his cheeks.
'Nothing . . . but a smile.' His body reacted to the honeyed sound of her voice. He moved under the sheets, a morning erection inspired by Raven. 'I missed you this morning.'
'Oh, I like the sound of that. And have I ever told you how much I love your sleepy voice?' Her deep sigh teased his ear, as if she were next to him. He imagined the hot velvet of her skin driving him to the brink of sanity. But the reality of her job, as homicide detective for the Chicago PD, broke the spell.
'Tony and I got called out on a domestic turned bad. Open and shut homicide, but the paperwork still adds up. Not sure when I'll finish here, but I'm heading your way when I'm done, honey. And I'll bring breakfast. Keep the light burning for me?'
'Always. And I'll unlock the elevator, send it down. I'm gonna work out, so look for me in the dojo.'
'You should save your strength for my kind of workout,' she purred, whispering another suggestion into the receiver. 'Maybe we can compromise. When I get there . . . keep the blindfold on. I love a man of mystery.'
