Chapter 32
THIRTY-TWO
The companionway steps were slick as Kenzie descended into the yacht’s main salon, gripping the handrail to steady herself.
The salon was larger than she’d expected, all teak paneling and cream leather. Only a single lamp burned near the seating area, leaving the rest of the room in shadow.
She was surprised to see Jean-Pierre Magras.
He was sitting in a club chair as if he’d been waiting for her all evening.
One leg crossed over the other, a crystal tumbler in his hand.
She had a feeling he’d planned just the right pose, as if they were in a James Bond movie or something.
His glacier-blue eyes tracked her descent.
When she reached the main floor, a hand behind her propelled her a few feet forward.
“Ah, Simone.” Magras drew out the name. “How delightful you could join us.”
“I’d thank you for the invitation, had one been extended.”
Smiling, he set down his drink and rose. He approached her slowly.
She could feel the guards behind her, two walls of muscle blocking her escape.
Magras took her hands in both of his, his grip cold and damp from the condensation on his drink. The gesture might have seemed grandfatherly as his thumb traced across her knuckles. But the look in his eyes was anything but kind.
She forced herself not to move.
“You performed your part beautifully.” His smile revealed teeth too perfect to be natural. “That story about your grandmother from Quebec, your work in social media. Charming. I suspected you, but you convinced me.” He tilted his head, studying her face. “You’re quite a talented liar, Miss Wright.”
Kenzie forced herself to meet his gaze. “An amateur compared to you.”
Something flickered in his eyes—amusement, or perhaps appreciation. “You flatter me. But let’s be honest. Neither of us holds a candle to your Jasper, hmm?”
She glanced around the salon, not sure what to say to that. She’d been sure Henry was behind her kidnapping, so why was Magras here? “Nice boat.” She kept her voice casual, as if they were making small talk at one of his parties. “Yours?”
“She is, yes.” He released Kenzie’s hand and gestured to the elegant space around them. “Le Pari. You know what it means?”
“No idea.”
“The gamble—stakes, if you will—because I have taken risks. And won.”
The stakes. She thought about all the stakes in this game she’d never asked to play—her business, her freedom, her life. All of it on a table she couldn’t see, moved by hands she didn’t control. “The game’s not over yet. What is it they say? Don’t count your winnings when you’re still in the game?”
He flicked his hand as if her words were no more bothersome than a fly. “I’m not worried about whatever your friend has told…whomever he’s been talking to. If there was any evidence against me, I wouldn’t be enjoying all this lovely freedom.”
“Maybe.” She shrugged noncommittally. “Why am I here? Aside from telling a few white lies, I’ve done nothing to you.”
“I’m not the one who orchestrated your visit. I just provided the transportation.”
She was tired of bantering, sharing cordial words while guards who’d threatened her life blocked her exit.
Movement in the shadows at the far end of the salon caught her attention.
A figure rose from a wingback chair. He’d been sitting there the whole time, watching. Listening.
He stepped forward, and the lamp caught his features.
Henry still looked like the harmless man she’d met on St. Barts.
She studied him for some hint of the monster he really was, but all she saw were those same eyes, that same mouth. Tanned skin, balding head, wrinkles.
“Jean-Pierre.” Henry’s voice was soft but carried the weight of command. “Thank you for the hospitality. Please tell your crew to get us underway.”
Magras’s jaw tightened as he turned to face Henry. For a moment, something dangerous passed between the two men. Then Magras inclined his head. “Of course.” He retrieved his glass from the side table. “I’ll be on the bridge.”
He moved toward the stairs behind her, pausing beside Kenzie as he passed. “Bonne chance, Miss Wright,” he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. “You’ll need it.”
Then he was gone, his footsteps fading up the steps. Another set of footsteps followed, meaning only one guard remained.
Even so, she felt alone with Henry. Marcus Aldridge. The notorious El Fantasma.
He circled her slowly, hands clasped behind his back, and she tracked his movements without turning her head. The silence stretched, broken only by the gentle creak of the hull and the distant sound of water lapping against fiberglass.
“I suppose you’re not surprised to see me,” he said finally.
“Should I be?” Kenzie kept her voice steady.
He ignored the question. “I should’ve recognized you at the party, but the wig, the dress…
They threw me off. When I spoke to Jean-Pierre the next day, I learned he’d suspected Jaz was involved in the explosion on the Blue Fantasy…
until he met you. It was Francine who guessed your true identity.
She found your photograph online. I should have known who you were immediately, the daughter of the man who killed my brother.
By the time we knew who ‘Simone’ really was, we didn’t know where you’d gone. ”
She turned, not willing to let him circle her like a shark. “When Jaz called you today—”
“Of course I knew what he was up to.” Still creeping around her, he met her eyes, expression smug. “I have a man watching the building in Phillipsburg. I was alerted to your visit yesterday afternoon. It was lucky that your friend returned last night to search. He was followed back to your hotel.”
He’d known exactly where they were and what they were up to. What had he done to Jaz?
Henry’s gaze didn’t waver, daring her to ask.
She wouldn’t believe the man, no matter what he said. “We know who you are, Marcus.”
He stopped, just for an instant, before resuming his slow orbit. “Do you, now? And what exactly do you think you know?”
“You were the son of missionaries, kidnapped in Venezuela by the Salcedo family and held for months.”
“Your information is false. I wasn’t kidnapped by the Salcedos. I was rescued by them.”
“If they rescued you, why didn’t they return you to your parents?”
“They couldn’t. It wasn’t safe.”
“You believe that, don’t you?” When he only glared, she continued. “After you were returned to your parents, they took you home to the US, but you never really left that jungle, did you, Marcus?”
He finished his circle, and she turned with him, her back once again to the guard.
“My name is Henry.”
“If you say so.”
“Please, go on. Tell me my life story.”
Should she? Or should she shut her mouth? She wasn’t sure. He wanted to know what they’d learned, and she couldn’t think of any reason not to tell him.
“When you were old enough, you went back to Venezuela to work for an oil company.”
He didn’t respond or react.
“Were you in contact with Rafael all those years in the States, or did he reach back out to you when you returned? Or did you reach out to him?”
Again, Henry/Marcus said nothing.
“In any case, Rafael drew you in, made you part of the family.”
“I was already part of the family.” His voice was cold and measured.
“I see. So after Rafael died, you helped Sebastián take over.”
“As anyone would help his brother.”
“Interesting.”
She heard the low-pitched mechanical groan of the anchor being retracted.
The engine started, vibrating beneath her feet.
Henry smiled.
She refused to react, even as the yacht got underway.
“It seems to me,” she said, “you weren’t really part of the family. If you had been, then why weren’t you put in charge? You were the elder of the two of you, were you not? But you weren’t blood.”
She expected Henry to get angry or defend the man he’d considered a father, but he didn’t. His lips pressed tightly closed but curled up at the corners as if he held a secret in his mouth.
She was missing something. Which meant they’d all missed something. And then it clicked.
Henry hadn’t taken over after Sebastián’s death. He’d been running things all along. Sebastián had been a figurehead, no different from what Rios was now.
“I see you’ve figured it out.” Henry shuffled backward and leaned against the arm of a sofa, crossing his arms. Despite his age, he exuded power. He was similar to her own father in that respect.
“Sebastián was volatile,” Henry said. “We’re not all born for leadership.
Rafael loved his son, of course, but he knew what Sebastián was capable of, and what he wasn’t.
The world believes Rafael died suddenly, but that’s not what happened.
Rafael had been diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer.
Though treatments existed, they would only extend his life by months.
He decided not to put himself and the rest of us through that.
He was a kind man, trying to spare his family any more pain.
In the weeks that followed his diagnosis, he called together his sons”—meaning Sebastián and himself—“and his most loyal men. He told us that Sebastián would manage day-to-day operations, but I was to run things behind the scenes. Papa believed my American passport and Caucasian face would gain me access to people and money that would never have been available to Sebastián. At the time, at only eighteen, Sebastián was happy not to be in charge. I’ve always wondered if he would have come to resent me over the years. ”
“That’s how you became El Fantasma.”
Henry’s lips stretched in an evil little smile.
“The Ghost.” He pushed off the sofa and stepped closer, close enough that she could smell his cologne that would seem perfectly right on a gentle old man.
On him, it was just one more distraction, one more element of his carefully constructed persona.
“Do you know where that name came from?”
She saw the threat in Henry’s face, the joy at being able to share this story. She kept her mouth shut.