Chapter Seventeen
Christien bathed Madelaine’s head with a cool washcloth. Her face was nearly gray but for now she was resting between bouts of violent nausea. He didn’t know how much more her body could handle as it tried to rid itself of the poison.
GHB, the doctors said. Gamma Hydroxy Butrate.
Street name G, Gook, Easy Lay, Vita G or G Juice, take your pick.
Similar to the date-rape drug, Rohypnol, but more insidious and dangerous.
He was told to expect the nausea as well as disorientation, dizziness, unconsciousness and memory loss, but the warnings didn’t make it any easier to watch.
She was in and out, throwing up when she was awake and sleeping fitfully in between.
A rage unlike he’d ever experienced before swirled inside him. He would discover who did this to her and he would kill the bastard. Slowly. He had a bad feeling this John guy wasn’t acting on his own. If they found him, maybe they’d discover who was behind this.
She moaned and her eyes fluttered open, but there was nothing there, no recognition. She was still under the influence, awake but not conscious.
Sabine entered the hospital room. “Ronald wasn’t able to find the John guy. A few people said they saw him leave and head west, but he was gone before Ronald could follow.”
Christien nodded, outwardly calm as he continued to wipe Madelaine’s face, inwardly a roiling mass of fury and fear. He would never get the image of her limp body out of his head.
“Ready my plane,” he said quietly. “As soon as she’s released, we’re leaving.”
Sabine hesitated, then nodded and left the room without the questions he knew she was dying to ask. He would take Madelaine away from here. Away from the danger to someplace safe. The safest place he knew of.
Lainie blinked against the light invading her darkness.
Her throat hurt and her bones ached. For a moment she lay perfectly still, afraid if she moved, she’d be sick again.
Disoriented, she searched her mind, trying to remember what happened.
The last thing she recalled was settling onto the barstool of the club.
Had she contracted some sort of stomach flu or had she consumed too much wine?
No. Not wine. Something blue. Blueberry martinis.
She remembered Christien’s constant presence. Every time she woke up he was there, washing her face or holding her hair out of the way while she vomited.
She vaguely remembered him saying something about a trip. Maybe when she got better they’d go on a trip? That sounded wonderful. Hopefully it would be someplace with a private beach and a house right on the sand. Did Christien own his own island? Wouldn’t it be cool if he did?
“Madelaine.”
She forced her eyes open again. She was in a soft bed beneath even softer sheets, in a room that seemed vaguely familiar but she couldn’t quite place.
Certainly she wasn’t in Christien’s bed in his apartment above the club.
No velvet spread with matching curtains tied to the bedposts.
This room was lighter, airier, the windows much bigger with the view of a cloudless blue sky and rolling hills of green grass.
No Lake Michigan in sight. And yet she felt at home here. Almost at peace.
She sat up slowly, relieved her stomach didn’t protest. Christien was sitting on the side of the bed, his eyes weary and bloodshot, a few days’ growth of beard covering his chin and jaw.
“Hi.”
He smiled back but it didn’t reach his eyes. “How do you feel?”
“Much better. Did I have the flu?”
He shook his head, his lips thin and bloodless. “You don’t remember?”
She took inventory and decided she felt fine except for a sore throat and a residual achiness that would probably go away once she moved around.
“I remember coming home from work and wanting to see you. I wanted to get a glass of wine and sit at the bar to unwind before…” Her eyes widened.
“What day is it? I have a huge project due on Monday.” She threw the covers off, surprised to find herself in only a large white T-shirt.
“I have to go to work. Giselle will be furious if this project isn’t finished by Monday morning. ”
Christien put a staying hand on her wrist. “It’s Sunday, Madelaine.”
“Sunday?” She jumped out of bed. The room tilted and she had to grab on to the delicate nightstand beside the bed. Oh my God, she was in so much trouble. Giselle was going to fire her.
Christien eased her back onto the bed. “Madelaine, sit. You’re in no shape to go into work.”
“I have to—” She looked around the room, at the ornate white-and-gold-trimmed dressers, the light yellow walls and the paintings of people from other eras. Obviously this wasn’t Christien’s bedroom in Milwaukee. Or any other room she’d been in. “Where are we?”
When Christien didn’t answer she turned to him. “Where are we, Christien?”
“At my home.” He took a deep breath. “In France.”
Her breath caught in her throat. France. She was in France. She’d never been outside the country before. “I don’t have a passport.”
“Taken care of.”
Of course. Was he so powerful even in France? Sure he was. This was his country and he lived in this huge house full of antique furniture and paintings that in her na?ve estimation were probably worth a lot of money. His wealth far exceeded even what she had guessed.
But why didn’t she remember flying to France? She didn’t remember anything past Christien introducing her to Ken the bartender.
“I’m going to miss my deadline,” she said in horror.
“I’m afraid you are.”
“I’m going to get fired.” Her dad was going to lose his place in the nursing home and her student loans would go into default. Suddenly her stomach started to churn and it had nothing to do with the flu.
Christien took her hand in his. “Listen to me, Madelaine. Something happened at the club Friday night.”
She searched his face, waiting for him to continue but it seemed he was finding it hard to go on, which made her fear double. “What happened?”
“You were drugged.”
She yanked her hand away. “Drugged? How?”
“I don’t know, but I’m looking into it.” His voice was hard, his eyes flashing steel. “You’ve heard of the date-rape drug?”
Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my God, I was raped?”
“No, no.” He took her hand again. “Someone slipped a similar, but far more lethal drug into your drink. You passed out and were rushed to the hospital.”
“Why don’t I remember this?” She didn’t recall anything of a hospital. All she remembered was… She searched her brain but was unable to come up with anything past meeting Ken. “Was it Ken?” she whispered.
Christien shook his head. “We believe it was a man named John. He was talking to you. The two of you were…” His face twisted. “Close.”
Lainie touched his knee, shocked at what she was hearing and horrified she didn’t remember any of it. “Oh, Christien, please don’t think… I would never—”
“I know, ma chérie. I knew immediately something was wrong. I thought you were drunk.” He huffed out a laugh.
“Ken’s blueberry martinis can be powerful, but he’d watered them down after the first one.
We think this John dropped the drug in your drink.
It’s a side effect of the drug that you don’t remember. ”
“Why would someone do such a thing?”
He looked at her with the full force of his fury. “I assume to get to me.”
He thought the accident with the minivan was to get to him and now this. “Why does someone want to hurt you?”
He looked away, his fingers flexed in hers. “I have something people want. Something powerful.”
What was so powerful they were willing to hurt her to get to Christien? He was a businessman. By everything she’d read his business was clean and legitimate. Was he involved in something illegal? Drugs? Oh, God, was he dealing arms to the terrorists?
No. Not Christien. He was kind and honest. But who knew what people would do when their backs were pressed against a wall.
She smoothed the oversized T-shirt over her thighs and glanced out the window to the unfamiliar scenery. Did anyone know where he’d taken her? Would they be able to find her in France?
Christien shot her a hurt look. “By the fear on your face, I imagine you think I’m some sort of criminal. Money laundering? No? Drugs? Ah, yes. You think I’m dealing drugs.”
She shook her head, but the words wouldn’t come to deny the charges. The nightclub would be an excellent cover for a drug operation.
“I’m not dealing drugs, Madelaine. I’m not involved in anything illegal,” he said sadly.
She winced at his tone. She didn’t mean to hurt him. “Then what?”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Something far bigger and far more evil than drugs. But not illegal. At least in the eyes of the law.”
“Unethical?”
“Possibly. But I’m on the side of right here. You have to trust me in this.” He stood and paced to the windows. The bright sun shone behind him, creating an aura of light that surrounded him. Like an angel. Her angel.
What was she thinking? Of course he wasn’t doing anything illegal. This was Christien. The idea of him dealing drugs or negotiating arms with terrorists was ludicrous and she’d been an idiot to think it in the first place.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I know you would never do anything illegal.”
He laughed, but the sound was cynical. “Don’t be so sure. At times I’ve done what I had to.”
“You had your reasons.” Just like he had his reasons to believe she was in danger. Proven twice now.
“I’m humbled by your faith in me,” he said sarcastically.
His words bit, but she absorbed the pain. It was no more than she deserved for doubting him when he’d done nothing but take care of her and try to protect her.
“Forgive me.”
“Ah, Madelaine. There’s nothing to forgive, mon coeur. You have every right to your doubts after what you’ve been through. I never meant for you to get hurt.”
She stood again to join him at the window. Her legs wobbled a bit. “It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have known.”