Chosen: Part Four (Allure Book 4) Read online

  Or…

  Could the man--and the other I had seen earlier--be working for Adam? But to what purpose? Why would he still be keeping watch over me? To see whom I met with, whom I might tell about what had happened? Or for some other reason-- Because he, too, couldn’t accept that we were over?

  The sudden surge of hope I felt at that possibility dismayed me. How sick was I that I would want any such thing? Yet the thought stayed with me, refusing to be stilled.

  In the bed from which I had been taken, huddled under the covers, I finally slept, only to dream of him. His touch, the sound of his voice, the taste and scent of his skin, above all, the certainty that with him--and only him--could I ever be truly whole again. I woke several times to a tear-dampened pillow and the wrenching sense of need, falling away again into darkness from which I feared I would never escape.

  Chapter Three

  Damn! I turned away from the screen of the laptop standing open on my desk and fought the urge to put my fist through the nearest wall. The notes hacked from the system of the latest therapist Grace had seen combined with the photos of her taken immediately afterward confirmed my worst fears.

  I’d told myself that letting her go was the right thing to do. I deserved the agonizing pain of losing her. She would go back to her world, rebuild her life, and have a future in which I could have no part. But now I had to confront the fact that however noble my intentions in releasing her, she was still suffering.

  My gaze returned compulsively to the images on the screen. Grace was wearing jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, a far cry from her natural elegance. Her head was ducked under the hood, telling me that she was desperate not to be recognized. But the men I had watching her were good. In several of the photos, I could make out enough of her face to see how pale and haunted she looked.

  And thin. She had lost yet more weight. There was a fragility about her that tore at what passed for my heart, so at odds was it with the strong, courageous woman I had stolen.

  Yet even so, she remained achingly beautiful. I drank in the sight of her, remembering the sound of her voice, the scent of her skin, the way she quivered under my touch. Voracious, brutal desire conflicted with the overwhelming need to protect her. Both were tearing me apart.

  “Sir?”

  I swiveled in the chair. Rolf stood at the door to my office, surveying me. His usual impenetrable gaze couldn’t conceal his concern.

  “Miss Delaney?” he asked.

  “More of the same. And getting worse.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  His regret was sincere but it reminded me that Rolf had argued against taking Grace and using her as I had. Only my vaunted pride and the conviction that duty had to come before everything else had driven me to disregard his wise counsel.

  Yet such was the darkness of my nature that part of me exalted at what I had read in the therapists’ notes. She refused to condemn her captor. She expressed feelings of intense attraction and desire for him. She believed that there were reasons for his actions that could exonerate him. Above all, she was convinced that she could not get on with her life until she knew what those reasons were.

  But there was more that far from bringing me any pleasure filled me with dread. Difficulty eating. Indication of significant recent weight loss. Disrupted, insufficient sleep. Pale. Withdrawn. Resistant to treatment.

  Fully aware that I was grossly violating her privacy, I had no regrets. Even from a distance, I was determined to watch over her but given the circumstances, far more was called for.

  Abruptly, I made up my mind. Rising from behind the desk, I said, “I’m going to New York. Please make the arrangements.”

  Perhaps it was my imagination, but I could almost believe that Rolf smiled.

  Two hours later, as the Gulfstream jet banked west out of Malta and climbed to its cruising altitude, I turned my attention to another matter. Too sensitive to exist in any digital form, the folder before me contained the sole copy of information recently compiled regarding my cousin Sebastian.

  Regrettably, the failure of his attempt to challenge me for leadership of the family had not convinced him to moderate his ambition. On the contrary, while nursing his wounds at a private clinic near London, he was reaching out to various rival families in an effort to build alliances with them.

  Sebastian had been perfectly within his rights to challenge me but the duel we had fought, in keeping with the family’s most time-honored traditions, should have put an end to it. To go beyond that, even to the extent of conspiring with potential enemies, hinted at a level of fury bordering on the irrational.

  As much as I was willing to give him some time to come to terms with his defeat, I couldn’t tolerate such behavior. Moreover, I resented the distraction when all my attention was drawn to Grace.

  I debated my options briefly before placing a call. The man I reached out to was of my father’s generation. He hadn’t supported Sebastian, at least not outwardly, but I knew that he and my cousin’s father were close.

  We spoke briefly. Or more correctly, I spoke and he listened. “My patience is limited,” I concluded. “If I have to handle this myself, no one should doubt that I will.”

  He made the appropriate sounds of understanding and assured me that my message would reach the right ears.

  I was satisfied with that for the moment. During the remainder of the flight, I focused on financial reports. That proved a struggle as my thoughts kept straying to Grace--what she was doing, who she was with, whether she was taking any better care of herself.

  By the time we landed at the small airport north of New York, all I could think of was to go to her, take her in my arms, and find a way--whatever I had to do--to heal us both.

  But I could not. I had hurt her too badly. Anything I did was likely to make the situation worse. If there was to be any hope, I had to do what I had not done since my childhood ended in blood and anguish--allow another person to control a situation that was at the very core of my life, vital to me.

  Grace had to be the one to decide what happened between us.

  “Where to, sir?” Rolf asked when the airport customs official on hand to greet us had come and gone.

  Settling in the back of the long town car, my resolve threatened to weaken. Before that could happen, I said, “The hotel.”

  The one that I preferred to use when I was in the city, not Grace’s apartment where I would much rather have gone.

  I would keep my distance, for the moment, but that didn’t lessen my need to know everything I possibly could about her circumstances.

  “Tell the security on Miss Delaney to meet me there. I want an immediate update.”

  He nodded and made the call. Meanwhile, I stared out the window, seeing not the passing scenery but memories of Grace--the beauty of her smile, the pain of her tears, her honesty and strength, the exquisite sensuality of her face and form in the throes of pleasure. Above all, her look of wounded betrayal at the very end when I let her go.

  That was a knife twisting in me. I welcomed the torment even as I was determined to find a way to end it. One way or another.

  Chapter Four

  “Hilary?” I couldn’t conceal my surprise. The sight of the director of Haven House standing outside my apartment door took me aback. My first thought was to wonder how she had gotten into the building while I was out. My second was that I should have expected her.

  Hilary Berenson was the real deal--mid-fifties with short, dark curls, a full mouth surrounded by deep smiles, and a no-nonsense manner. She was a rare combination of pragmatism and compassion who actually got things done, especially when it came to helping those society was most likely to disregard, homeless men and women suffering from mental disorders.

  I had nothing but admiration for her but I still wasn’t thrilled by what felt like an ambush, however well-intentioned it no doubt was.

  “We need to talk,” she said.

  “What about?” I asked cautiously as I unlocked
the apartment door and stood aside for her to enter.

  She shot me a chiding look that gave way quickly to concern as she took in my appearance. More gently, she said, “Whatever’s going on with you.” Her eyes swept over me. “We talked once, then you stopped answering your calls and you don’t come by. You must have known that I’d be worried.”

  With the benefit of hindsight, I should have known that. But I was so unused to anyone being genuinely concerned about my well-being that I hadn’t anticipated how she would feel. My family’s interest in me, such as it was, extended no further than the use I could be to them. As for any friends I had, growing up Delaney had taught me to keep them at arm’s length.

  That left Adam and I absolutely was not going to think about him. Not right then when I already was so weak and confused.

  “I’ve just been going through some stuff,” I said. “I’m sorry you were worried and I really do appreciate you coming by but I’ll be fine.”

  I followed her gaze as it moved around the apartment--the blanket and pillow on the couch, the plants I’d forgotten to water, and the general air of neglect. Her mouth firmed, taking on an even more determined line.

  “What kind of stuff?” Before I could reply, she took the small grocery bag I was carrying and strode into the kitchen. Over her shoulder, she said, “You’ve got some tea, right? I’ll make it.”

  Five minutes later, we were seated at the kitchen table with steaming mugs of tea, mine loaded with the extra sugar Hilary insisted that I should have. I had to admit, it tasted good.

  “Sam’s worried about you, too,” she said, referring to the senior security man at Haven House. “He’s got the best spidey sense of anyone I’ve ever met. Man can smell trouble and he’s convinced you’re in it.”

  “Why would he think that?” I was taken aback. Such was the depth of the isolation I’d been feeling that even the idea of someone having such insight into my life was startling.

  “Something to do with a guy who showed up at the shelter a few weeks ago, right before you dropped out of sight. Mega high end car but that wasn’t what got Sam’s attention. He’s as tough as they come but even he said he wouldn’t have wanted to go up against the guy. So what’s the deal, who is he?”

  “No one.” I spoke too quickly. As her eyebrows arched, I tried to backtrack. “That is, we’re not involved.”

  “Now or ever?” Before I could even try to reply, she said, “I know, I’m being nosy, intrusive, crossing the line, all of it. A real buttinsky, as my grandmother would say. But I care about you and not because you dropped a big check on my desk. You’re a good person, Grace. You don’t deserve to be like this.”

  I couldn’t help smiling faintly. “In another minute, you’re going to tell me it isn’t fair.”

  Hilary laughed. It was a truism of hers--life wasn’t fair. Bad stuff happened to good people. Some of them even ended up homeless and with mental disorders because of things they’d done or that had been done to them but mostly because life sometimes just randomly sucked.

  “So what are you going to do about it?” she asked.

  I looked down at my tea, watching the swirling patterns of steam alternately revealing and concealing what lay beneath them. “I don’t think there is anything I can do.”

  “Bullshit. That’s loser talk. See a therapist--”

  “Tried two, got nowhere.”

  Her frown deepened but she went on. “Check into a spa. Wallow in mud wraps and hot stone massages.”

  I shuddered at the thought. The last thing I wanted was anyone touching me. Only one person did that and then only in my dreams. Or nightmares. I was no longer sure which they were.

  “No thanks.”

  “Acupuncturist? Supposed to be great for elevating your mood.”

  “I hate needles.”

  Hilary surveyed me from across the table. “Geez, you’re tough. Wait, I know…come back to work. On a very limited basis because you’re obviously not at full strength. But you can hang out, do some cooking--you’re good at that and you like it. Talk to people. Listen. Just getting a change of scene might help you feel better.”

  I was tempted. Being reminded that there were other people who had problems would give me some much needed perspective. Maybe I could even accomplish something positive, even if it only involved making a decent meal.

  “Thanks,” I said on impulse. “I’ll take you up on that.”

  “I’m holding you to it,” Hilary said a few minutes later as she was leaving. “Seriously, whatever’s going on, you don’t have to handle it alone.”

  I blinked back tears and nodded.

  That night, I binge watched Netflix and ate half the macaroni and cheese followed by a vanilla pudding. My stomach might not have felt better afterward but the rest of me did, if only a little.

  I told myself it was a start. In bed that night, lying on fresh sheets, I slept deeply and, for the first time since I had returned, without dreams.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Bright and early the next morning, I was at Haven House. Sam welcomed me back with a smile; Hilary was a little more effusive.

  “Thank God!” she exclaimed. “Another trip to Manhattan and I would have been wrung out.”

  I knew for a fact that she’d been born in Queens, within a stone’s throw of Manhattan--given a really good arm and the right wind direction. And a catapult, but close enough. Still, I laughed just because I could and it felt good, if a little strange.

  “Let’s see how you feel after I’ve been in the kitchen for a while. I may have lost my touch.”

  “Not possible, you’re a natural cook. What’s on the menu?”

  Still winging it on pure instinct, I said, “I’m in the mood to make chili.”

  Straight up, no-holds-barred, in-your-face chili. The first few times I’d made it, I’d dumbed it down. Until a former English professor turned client of Haven House reminded me of what Shakespeare had said about life being too short, therefore best lived to the fullest. Right before she tossed a whole can of chili powder--can and all--into the pot. I’d fished it out but the lesson took.

  “Grace is making chili for lunch!” Hilary yelled out.

  Several people seated at the tables in the day room cheered. Whether they knew what they were volunteering for remained to be seen.

  Several hours later, as the big blue-speckled pot of chili simmered on the stove, I took a break. The air out on the street was fresh and invigorating. I was breathing it in when my phone rang. Glancing at it, I saw that the call was from Will…again.

  Spurred by my new-found resolve to stay in touch with people, I answered.

  “Finally,” he exclaimed. “I was beginning to think that you’d fallen off the planet.” He hesitated a moment. “Or just decided that you’re more pissed at me than you wanted to let on.”

  I had to think for a moment before I remembered that he’d tipped the family to the fact that Adam and I had spoken privately the first time we met at a charity gala that Will had escorted me to. With all that had happened since, it seemed a lifetime ago. My parents and Grandmother had been thrilled, seeing the potential for an alliance with an immensely powerful family. For all I knew they still did, given that I’d claimed not to know the identity of my kidnapper.

  With the greater clarity that food and a relatively decent night’s sleep had provided, I could understand why the therapist was concerned about my protecting Adam. But I had no regrets. Nothing he had done to me was a match for the evil that my family was capable of.

  “Actually, I’ve been down with the flu.” Lying didn’t come easily to me but I decided that the safest route was to stick with the same story that I’d given Hilary. She didn’t believe it but Will might.

  “That sucks,” he said, not quite hiding his relief that I wasn’t angry at him. “Are you over the worst of it?”

  Not remotely but I wasn’t about to tell him that. Instead, I said, “I’m on my feet. What’s up with you?”

  �
�Oh, you know, the usual, work…your brother’s campaign.”

  “How’s that going?” It has almost slipped my mind that my eldest brother, Todd was running for Congress. I assumed he was going to win, partly because I hadn’t heard a word about his opponent but mainly because Delaneys didn’t lose. The family made sure of that.

  “Good,” Will said. “Really good. He’ll have a nice, safe seat and plenty of friendly media exposure. Do two terms to get a re-election under his belt, then he should have a clear road into the Senate.”

  “Larson isn’t going to run again?” I asked, naming the woman who was currently the senior senator from New York. She was barely fifty. I’d had no idea that she planned to step down so soon.

  “It’s the usual arrangement. She’ll go into the private sector for a while, get handed a shitload--pardon me, pile of money that she can claim to have made, then maybe a nice ambassadorship somewhere…London or Paris…then a seat on the Federal bench. You know how it goes.”

  I did, so much so that I was only half listening. With the spread of terrorism, even diplomatic posts in major western capitals weren’t the cushy berths that they had been. But Larson likely didn’t have a choice. Odds were that the family had something on her--either real or manufactured. Rather than contest it, she was smart enough to take what was offered and move on.

  “So you’ll be heading to Washington with Todd?” I asked.

  “Maybe…I don’t know. I’ve been thinking--”

  He sounded uncertain suddenly and apprehensive. The last time Will and I had talked, he’d hinted that he knew something about my cousin Patrick’s death the previous year. On the surface, the cause was clear cut--a troubled young man had fallen victim to a drug overdose. But as was so often the case when Delaneys were involved, nothing was what it seemed.

  The conversation that I had accidentally overheard a few months before between my father and Patrick’s had revealed the hideous truth--the family had arranged Patrick’s death. I still had no idea why but I was determined to find out.