Easton paced across the office. “You got them outside the bar?”
“Yeah. They loaded her into a sedan.”
Easton knew he was hovering, but he couldn’t stop. Every ping on Ace’s computer had him leaning over the man’s shoulder.
To his credit, Ace didn’t say anything, but it wasn’t long before Vander appeared in the doorway.
“Easton, you’re slowing Ace down, not helping.”
Fuck. He pressed a hand to the back of his neck. He hated this helpless feeling.
For a second, everything blurred, and he heard shouts and echoes in his ears. Knowing that a terrorist attack targeting US troops was imminent, but unable to get the required intel from the captured insurgent. The man had just laughed and laughed. Easton hadn’t been able to save them.
“Easton?”
He jerked, and met his brother’s gaze.
“Come with me.” Vander spun on his heel.
Easton followed Vander upstairs. His brother had a fancy electronic lock on the door, and he pressed his palm against it. It beeped and opened.
The entire floor was open plan, with only Vander’s bedroom and bathroom walled off. The place had an industrial vibe, with lots of natural wood and black iron. The sleek, modern kitchen was tucked into the back of the space, and accordion glass doors could be opened up onto the large roof terrace.
Vander didn’t have parties up here, or people over often. He guarded his personal space zealously.
Vander crossed the living area and went to a built-in bar. He grabbed a bottle of Scotch, poured two glasses, then turned and handed a glass to Easton.
“Here.”
Easton tossed it back and savored the burn.
“So, she’s the one, huh?”
Easton looked at Vander. “What?”
“Never seen you like this with a woman.”
Easton set the glass down on the coffee table. “Like what?”
“Like you’re a rottweiler, and she’s your favorite bone.”
“I’m not sure that flatters me or Harlow. I want her. Desperately. And I want her safe.”
Vander nodded. “Her father’s in deep, Easton.”
“I suspected as much.”
“Could be she’s using you for money.”
Easton paused, then laughed. “You think I can’t spot a user? I can pick them before they open their mouths. Harlow won’t fucking take anything from me because I’m her boss.” He straightened. “When we get her back, that’s going to change. Get her back, Vander.”
“I will.”
Vander’s phone rang.
Chapter Ten
She was trying not to freak out.
Harlow’s mouth was dry, and she was sitting in an uncomfortable chair in front of a shiny, black, lacquered desk.
There was a man at the door in an ill-fitting suit, with an obvious gun holstered at his side.
She swallowed, her chest so tight it hurt. She had vague memories of the couple in the ladies’ room at ONE65, a scratchy-feeling wig on her head, and then just haziness. She’d come to slumped in this fancy office.
“Why am I here?” She’d already asked once, but Mr. Scowly was not a talker.
Again, he didn’t respond.
The office had no windows, which was weird. It was a little over-decorated for her taste, with lots of black, and splashes of red, and a lot of weapons displayed on the wall. There were swords, knives, and even a crossbow. It all looked expensive. In a corner was an ornate pedestal that held an old, detailed vase. Maybe Chinese.
Harlow clutched her hands together. Easton would be losing his mind. Her heart bumped in her chest. He’d be looking for her. At least, she hoped he was looking for her.
The office door opened, and she heard a man in the hall murmuring to her scowly guard.
If this was Antoine’s doing, she’d be pissed. He promised them forty-eight hours.
Yeah, well, criminals probably don’t keep their promises, Harlow.
Through the open door, she heard more distant voices—murmurs, laughter. Like there was a party going on.
The door closed again.
As she sat there in silence, the dread inside her grew.
“Can I get some water please? Whatever drug you guys used to kidnap me made me thirsty.”
Mr. Scowly’s glower deepened. He moved to a side table, where a carafe of water and several tall glasses sat. He poured her one, stomped over, and handed it to her.
“Thanks.” She shot him a glare, then drained the glass.
She’d just set it down, when the door opened.
A thin, stylish woman with salt-and-pepper hair strode in. She wore a sleek black pantsuit with dashes of red details, and a pair of sky-high stilettos. Her hair was cut elfin short, showcasing a long, swan-like neck.
She circled the table and sat. She had whiskey-colored eyes, surrounded by dark eyeliner, and they were like a laser on Harlow.
“So, you’re Harlow Carlson.” The woman’s voice was husky, a smoker’s voice.
Well, this wasn’t a mistake.
“Yes. And I’m guessing you’re Rhoda Pierce.”
The woman sat back in her high-backed chair. “Yes, I am.”
“Why did you abduct me? If you wanted to talk, there are normal ways to do that. Phone calls, appointments.”
“I don’t have time for comedy, Ms. Carlson. Your father stole something from me, and I want it back.”
A sick feeling washed over Harlow. Rhoda Pierce’s gaze was direct, flat, and pretty darn scary.
Harlow dragged in a breath. “I’m sorry, but that has nothing to do with me.”
Rhoda cocked her head. “You gave your father money, and you had dinner with Antoine Armand.”
Harlow lifted her chin an inch. “Believe me, I didn’t want to do either of those things. He threatened my father.”
Rhoda smiled—it was sharp and scary. “I’ll do more than threaten him. He came to my gaming tables and lost dismally.”
God. Harlow’s stomach tied into knots. Damn you, Dad. That was his plan? Win money back by gambling.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Oh, it’s worse than that, Harlow. Can I call you Harlow?”
“Sure.” Like she had a choice.
“After losing seventy thousand dollars…”
Harlow tasted bile. Seventy thousand? She was going to kill her father herself.
“…he then stole a dagger from my collection.”
Harlow stilled. “What?”
Rhoda opened the laptop on her desk and turned it around. The video on screen showed her father in a suit, shoulders slumped, walking down a wide, red-carpeted hallway. The dramatic art on the walls matched Rhoda’s office.
She watched her father run a hand through his hair, lines cutting deep into his cheeks.
Oh, Dad. He looked so dejected.
Then he paused next to a collection of daggers on the wall, just staring at them.
The knives were small, with curved blades, and jeweled hilts.
Then her father snatched one, tucked it into the internal pocket in his jacket, then hurried out of view.
Oh, no.
“The dagger is from the seventeenth century, from Mughal India. It’s set with emeralds and rubies, and is worth just over a hundred thousand dollars.”