Twenty-Three
Amelia
As we leave the city, Van Wyk reaches back and tugs my gag down.
“Don’t give me a reason to stop the car and put that back in,” he warns.
I find his eyes in the rearview mirror and glare. “Do you get off on threatening me?”
“I’m sure it’s not the first time someone’s been spanked at the side of this particular road.”
My breath catches and I look out the window as my face heats. He’d do it, too. I know he would.
“Amelia.” He’s still looking at me in the mirror.
“What?”
“Be my good girl from now on.”
I roll my eyes. I’m not his. “No.”
We drive to an address in Dutchess County north of Millbrook.
There’s a gated entrance that he opens with a remote, a guard waiting within—who has a guard?
—and a long drive leading to an enormous white house.
It’s too dark to see much, but the car headlights roll across lawns that stretch in all directions, with other buildings hinted at beyond.
This place must be worth at least twenty million.
It must be Fournier’s.
“I thought we were going to your house?”
“This is my house.”
Huh. Places like this belong to men worth hundreds of millions, and I’ve lost everything I own. I can’t help but feel very small. “Don’t you work security?”
There’s a pause before he barks a laugh. “I do, but it’s not all frisking gatecrashers at art galas.”
“Frisking?” I echo. “Is that what you did?”
“It’s what I intended to do,” he mutters. “You pushed me further.”
“I pushed you further?” I say, incredulous. “You dragged me out into the cold—”
“It wasn’t that cold.”
“It was after you cut my dress off.”
He chuckles, a surprisingly congenial sound. “Would it be too late to apologize?”
“Hell yes.” Besides, he has so much to apologize for, it will be breakfast time before he’s finished.
And after the day I’ve had, I’m exhausted.
The house lights are on, spilling across steps leading up to the door. While Van Wyk walks around to let me out, I look up at the building. The windows run floor to ceiling, and the second floor has balconies.
Van Wyk opens my door, leaning over me to unfasten my seatbelt. It’s not been comfortable with my hands cuffed behind me, but what should I expect when I’m being kidnapped?
“You can take these off,” I say as I climb out of the car, turning to present my wrists to him.
“Are you going to bolt the second I do?”
I pause. “No?” I’m shit at lying.
He gives them a little tug. “They can stay. Besides, I like them on you.”
Déjà vu. We’ve had this conversation, back in my apartment last time he cuffed me, when I admitted they made me feel vulnerable and helpless.
They still do. More than that, they’re a reminder of what he does to me while I’m wearing them.
“Where do you expect me to go?” I ask, throat tight. “I don’t know where the hell we are, and there’s no bus stop outside your gate.”
“No, there isn’t.” He leads me toward the house, his captive. My mouth goes dry, my heart beats harder, and I drag my feet. I don’t want to go in. He won’t let me leave here come morning. I’ll need to escape.
I glance over my shoulder. The gates and fence are a dozen feet high. Mustn’t forget the guard. For now, I have to accept I’m a prisoner. Would playing willing buy me opportunities?
It’s almost too easy to see myself in that role, and that’s the scariest thought yet.
Would I lose myself in the process, seduced by this enormous house, his touch, the peace I might find here? Pretend that this is real, and everything else isn’t?
No. Fantasies are not reality.
We reach the door and a woman opens it from within. She’s middle-aged, matronly, with a ready smile, wearing a simple black skirt and a white blouse. And here I am, still cuffed with a gag loose around my neck. Awkward.
She steps to the side, giving him a deferential nod, like my appearance is perfectly normal. “Welcome back, sir.”
“Thank you.” He turns to me. “This is Linda, my housekeeper. And this, of course, is Amelia.”
Of course?
I look at him in surprise. Am I taking up as much space in his thoughts as he does in mine? A rush of something runs through me. Affection? No, it can’t be. But it’s… unexpected.
Linda gives me a warm smile. “We are very pleased to welcome you here.”
“Thank you,” I say politely, as we all pretend I’m here of my own will.
Beyond her, there’s an entrance hall with a marble floor with a mosaic, and a sweeping staircase. An ornate plant pot sits on a glass table, white orchids within. I expected more of a bachelor’s pad—or at least, fewer signs of a feminine touch.
“Are you hungry?” Linda asks me.
I hesitate. I probably should be, but I’m not. It’s partly the lateness of the hour, partly everything that’s happened. My gallery, the intruders. Being kidnapped.
My life, torn to pieces in one night, and the reality of it all slams into me with a crippling blow. I can’t breathe, my shoulders hunch, my chest tight and hollow, and to my shame, I can’t stop the tears coming.
Not here. Not now.
“Oh, dear.” She lays a hand on my arm. “Why don’t we find you a bite to eat in the kitchen, and then a comfortable bed?”
“I’m sorry.” I blink them back as best I can. “It’s just… it’s been…”
“Some food will help,” she says, then fixes Van Wyk with a stare. “Lukas? If you don’t mind?”
“Yes, of course.” He removes my cuffs, slipping them back into his pocket.
Great. He won’t do it for me, but he’ll do it for his housekeeper.
“Keep still,” he says. A snick announces his knife out again, and he cuts the gag from around my neck.
And I hardly react, save for a cautious glance at him until the blade is back in his pocket.
Somehow, I’ve gotten used to his karambit. It’s stained with the blood of the men he killed in my apartment, but I believe him when he tells me he won’t ever harm me.
Am I feeling safe with my monster?
That’s dangerous, Amelia.
I wipe my eyes on my sleeve as Linda leads me into the house, leaving Van Wyk to close the door behind us. I follow her into the kitchen, past very large rooms that I snatch glimpses of. One of them is a library with a grand piano; I didn’t know he played.
But then I hardly know anything about him at all, and that thought brings more tears. What the hell am I doing here?
The kitchen is as big as my apartment, white cupboards around every wall, a multi-oven range in burgundy beneath a hood. There’s a back door, enough light spilling out to hint at the gardens. Beyond them, the silhouettes of trees against the indigo sky. Are there fences that way too?
Linda sets me down at a central island on a breakfast stool. “A cup of tea? Glass of wine?”
“A water, please,” I say, feeling almost like I used to when I’d go home to see my parents. Linda reminds me of my mother: no fuss, just getting on with it.
God, how I miss her. My father’s safe arms, too. If they were still alive, I could’ve gone to them. They would’ve kept me safe, told me the gallery could be rebuilt, that it didn’t matter so long as I was safe.
I’m crying silent tears while Linda fetches my drink. What must she think of me? I wipe them away with the heel of my hand.
“You’ll feel better soon, dear,” she says, handing me a tall glass of water with ice and lemon. “I know it’s been a trying night, but it’s so nice to finally meet you.”
“Thank you,” I say shakily, taking a sip. She’s already turned away to open an enormous fridge, pulling out Saran-wrapped plates of food. “Did you know I was coming then?”
“Not when, exactly,” she replies, giving me a small smile, “only that you would, in time.”
I have a million questions, but I’m too tired to ask them now. Linda places a plate before me, sliced avocado, mozzarella and tomatoes. I eat slowly while she wipes down already spotless counters.
“That was lovely, thank you,” I say, when I’m done. “Where am I sleeping?”
“Let me show you, dear.”
I follow her back to the staircase in the entry hall, then up to the second floor.
“This place is quite large…”
She gives me a smile. “You’ll have plenty of time to explore.”
Translation: you can check out any time you want, but you can never leave. The line from that song is fitting for all the wrong reasons.
“Here we are,” she says, pausing outside a large room with open double doors. Van Wyk is standing by the windows, his back to me, wearing a black dressing gown that looks heavy, like velvet. He turns when he hears us. Linda leaves, passing me into his care.
I enter slowly, taking in the room. The bed is a massive four-poster with a mattress so high it reaches my waist. Beyond a breakfast table and a couple of chairs, doors lead out to a balcony.
A large canvas painted in a loose, expressionistic style immediately catches my eye, depicting two much-loved, well-worn teddy bears, sitting side-by-side in contentment.
To say it’s incongruous is—
Of course. His recently deceased wife. This isn’t his room, it’s theirs.
The hairs rise on my neck, goosebumps creeping over my skin. This is wrong. All the rooms in the house, and he’s brought me to this one? Why? I don’t belong.
“Feeling better?” he asks.
No, I’m feeling a hell of a lot worse.
“Just tired.” It takes all I have to offer a strained smile.
Van Wyk stuffs his hands in the pockets of his robe, then takes them out again and clasps them behind his back. I’ve never seen him agitated before, but it’s me that’s the interloper.
“Do you like the house?” he asks, like my opinion genuinely matters.
“It’s lovely,” I reply. From what I’ve seen of it, it’s homely and thoughtfully laid out. But it’s not mine and it doesn’t fit him; her touch is in every room I’ve seen so far, from the hallway flowers to the kitchen design and the goddamn teddy bears.
“Good,” he says, with obvious relief. “I’m glad.”
An awkward silence descends.
I say the first thing that comes to mind. “I saw a piano. I didn’t know you played.”
“Oh.” He rubs a hand across the back of his neck, his robe gaping open as he does. “I don’t, unfortunately. Music isn’t one of my skills.”
So that was hers, too. I don’t need to ask to know it’s true.
Why am I here? How soon can I leave?
“Do you mind if I go to sleep?” I need the escape. “I’m dead on my feet.”
“Of course.” He waves a hand toward a door in one wall. “Bathroom, and there’s a robe for you.”
I nod, too wrung out for more.
A brand new electric toothbrush waits with the head still in its packet. Toiletries from expensive brands. A silk robe for when I’m done, that may or may not have also been hers.
When I come out, Van Wyk is already in the bed, the sheet across his hips. There’s no duvet; instead, the room is so warm it’s like sleeping in summer.
I slip off the robe, sliding beneath the sheet, and turn on my side to face away from him.
There’s a pause before he clicks off the lights, and mechanical shutters slowly descend across the windows.
The mattress dips as he moves, and a moment later he’s pressed to my back. I close my eyes, bracing myself, lying as still as I can. His hand runs up over my hip, strokes lightly along my side, then cups my breast. It’s all I can do not to shiver.
“Good night,” he murmurs.
I don’t reply.
“And… I know this is difficult… but I’m really glad you’re here.”
My eyes flick open in the dark.
Before he said that, I was ready for sleep—or at least to try. Now I’m wide awake, adrenaline coursing through me.
Why does Van Wyk being nice raise such alarm bells?