Thirty-Eight
Lukas
Bastien is in his study when I find him, snipping the end off a cigar.
He waves me to the chair before his desk. “How did you get on with Victoria?”
“I’m not sure,” I say carefully. “On balance, I think the woman is far more intelligent than she lets herself appear, and I think she’s dangerous.”
He nods. “I agree. I’ve asked her fiancé to keep a tighter leash on her.”
“Do we have a tight leash on him?”
Bastien lights his cigar, puffing blue-grey smoke into the air, then waves the match until it goes out. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve asked Haynes to manage it.”
I lean back in my chair, frowning. “Why? Victoria Callahan is targeting me, after all.”
“Yes, but there’s nothing to find, is there? Nothing to worry us. So leave it with Haynes.”
“True, but—”
“Lukas.” Bastien fixes me with a look I know all too well. “Did you or did you not request time off when the Volkov situation was resolved?”
“I did,” I concede grudgingly.
“And isn’t it resolved?”
“It is. So long as they stick to their side of the bargain.”
“If they don’t, we’ll crush them. They know that.” He points his cigar at me. “So you’re done, my friend. Nothing pressing, a man of liberty. And your wife needs you.”
He’s not wrong, as usual.
I’ve had the opportunity to spend time with my Little Stray, and I haven’t taken it. At first, I thought she needed space. Then her drinking got worse, and that both concerned and repulsed me.
Now my worry for her is mixed with my own guilt. She’s drinking because of me. Or if not me, then what I’ve done, what I’ve allowed to happen.
“I’m losing her, Bastien,” I say quietly. “She’s withdrawing.”
“Of course you’re not. If there’s anything amiss, it’s nothing that can’t be remedied.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
“Me? Wrong?” His lips quirk. “She’s a prickly one, your Amelia, but the chemistry between you is obvious. There’s no question of that.” He smiles. “She is your wife, after all.”
“A wife that said ‘I don’t.’”
“Don’t you think she would’ve fought tooth and nail if she really objected?”
His response gives me pause, because he’s right. She’d have burned my house down, for starters.
“You may have a point.” I chuckle, then turn it around on him. I’ve had enough of being the one under examination. “Which begs the question: what are you going to do about Natalie?”
“Watch her, I suppose.” He flaps his hand at me. “You’re prevaricating. Be gone with you. Give Amelia my best.”
“I’m going, I’m going.” I walk to the door, then pause with my hand on the handle. “For a man who keeps women for no more than a night, you’re surprisingly insightful.”
He blows a smoke ring toward the ceiling. “The secret to success isn’t merely good looks and charisma, my friend. It’s understanding people.”
“Some might say it was hard work.”
“No, no. That’s for fools.” He taps his temple with one finger. “Far better to work smarter.”
I huff a laugh and let myself out. His enormous study feels crowded with his ego in there too.
There’s a spring in my step as I walk back to our suite.
Victoria Callahan and her fiancé have left.
The Volkovs are managed. For the first time in years, I’m free to do what I want, and what I want is Amelia.
There’s work to do, I’m aware of that, but now I have time to deliver to her on all the promises I’ve made.
And she need not be a captive any longer.
That will go a long way to making amends.
My thoughts bring me to our suite, and I don’t bother to knock. But when I try the handle, the door is locked.
I rap twice, irritated. She shouldn’t be able to shut herself away from me, even in Bastien’s house.
There’s no answer and no sound of movement. I thump the door harder, wondering if she’s taking a nap. Maybe she’s gone for a walk with Nat.
Pulling out my phone, I call Anna.
“Mr. Van Wyk?”
“Where’s my wife?”
“A moment while I check with security, please.”
I try the handle again while I wait. Definitely locked.
Anna comes back onto the line. “In your rooms, sir.”
“Override the lock, will you? And get me another keycard.”
“A moment, please.”
The handle clicks green and I cut the call, walking in. “Little Stray? Where are you?”
The living room is empty. Her bottle of wine has gone. She must be in the bedroom, taking a nap. But it’s only lunchtime. Has she really drunk so much already?
My irritation grows. That conversation we began on the plane is long overdue.
I pause outside the bedroom, composing myself so that at least I can be calm. I owe her that much. Then I open the door.
She’s lying on the bed with her eyes closed, peaceful and still, clothing unruffled.
One hand rests awkwardly on the nightstand, her arm thrown wide in her sleep.
She’s knocked the phone out of its cradle, and the insistent, repeated beep, beep of the off-hook tone fills the room.
How drunk must she be to sleep through that?
“Amelia—” I begin, catching sight of the bottle of pills at the same moment.
It’s on the carpet beside the bed, and the top is off.
The world narrows to that image, yet it still takes a moment to register.
Then my heartrate jumps so high it hammers in my chest, filling my ears with the rush of pounding blood.
“Amelia!” I shout her name. She must be asleep, she’s going to wake at any moment. She knocked the pills off, that’s all it is.
But I know it’s not; they haven’t spilled. There aren’t any pills on the carpet.
Cold floods me from the inside out, terror in its rawest form. The tang of metal fills my mouth; I’ve bitten something but I can’t feel the pain. I rush to her, my legs buckling, and I fall to the floor beside the bed, pulling her to my chest.
She’s so limp.
“Help!” The scream is torn from me, a sound I didn’t know I could make, desperation and anguish yet still not loud enough. “Someone help me!”
Her eyes flutter.
“Wake up, goddammit.” I slap her face. I promised I’d never slap her; I do now. “Amelia!” I yell at her, and slap her again. Her cheek reddens. “No… no. Please. Not you, too. God, please. Wake up. Wake up!”
Her eyes open, the lids droopy. “Van… Lukas,” she mumbles. Her lips curve into a pale mockery of her usual smile.
“Help me!” I cry at the door. Where the hell are Bastien’s security? “Hold on, Amelia. Hold on, Little Stray.” How much did she take? How many pills were left in that bottle?
“Not… holding on,” she breathes. “Escaping.”
Her eyes drift shut.
“No. No, no, no.” I’m sobbing, tears blurring my view of her. “Don’t you leave me, damn it. Don’t you fucking leave me like this. There is no escape, do you hear me? You’re mine, damn it. You’re mine…”
“Let me… die.”
“No!” I scream. “No, never! Nothing will take you from me. Don’t you understand?
I love you, Amelia. I always have. There’s nothing I want but you.
” She’s not responding. What can I say? Where is the help I need?
“Don’t leave me, please. We’ll talk. I’ll fix this.
Whatever it is… whatever you need me to be… whatever you want, goddammit!”
Footsteps pound in the corridor outside.
“In here!” I shout at them. “Get the doctor!”
Thank God, that’s who enters, Anna in his wake. She stops in the doorway, a hand covering her mouth. But I only care that the doctor is here.
“Out of the way, please,” he says, and I scramble back.
He pushes past me, dropping his bag on the floor, and bends over Amelia, tilting her head up. Pressing fingers to her throat, peeling back her eyelids. He drives his knuckles into her sternum, and Amelia twitches.
I slump against the wall, fists clenched so tight my forearms shake.
Anyone else, any other time, I’d pull this man off her and smash his head into the wall until he dropped bleeding and unconscious.
Rage burns white inside me. I want to fight, I want to lash out.
Not just at him, but at Amelia for doing this. At me, for letting it happen.
More footsteps, but I don’t look away. A gasp draws my eye for an instant; it’s Natalie.
The doctor opens his bag. “Anna, I need my supplies,” he says calmly as he pulls out a bag of saline, tubes, needles. “Portable ECG and pulse oximeter. Everything in the emergency cupboard. Find flumazenil on the drug shelf.” He throws her a look. “Oxygen first. Got that?”
“Yes, doctor.” She turns and leaves, giving instructions to two of Bastien’s security as she goes.
There are far too many people here, most of them doing nothing. I don’t want them seeing Amelia like this, but I’m loath to prevent it. Not if the doctor needs them.
“What’s the prognosis?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer, only pulls out a cannula and pushes it into her arm. “Pick that up.” He nods at the bag of saline. “Hold it high.”
I’m grateful for something to do, at last. Even if all I am is a human pole. A tube runs out of the bag and he fits it to the cannula.
Amelia isn’t moving. I can’t even tell if she’s breathing.
Is this what it was like when they found Juliette?
No. She was already dead. Amelia isn’t dead; she can’t be.
I’ve only just found her, I’ve only just married her.
I wanted to make her happy, to share with her the happiness she’s brought me.
A man races into the suite, and I twitch.
I’m desperate to stop him at the door, but I can’t do anything while I’m holding this bag of fluids save for grinding my teeth.
It’s one of Bastien’s security, and he thrusts a cylinder into the doctor’s hands with a face mask attached. The doctor fits it over Amelia’s mouth.
“Can you hold this too?” the doctor asks.
“Yes.” Fuck, I’ll do anything it takes.
Saline in one hand, arm extended. Mask pressed to her face with the other. “Come on, Little Stray. Wake up for me now.”
I don’t care who’s listening, so long as she is.
“We’re going on a date as soon as you’re well,” I tell her.
“Just you and me. I’ve got ideas… I’ve been making plans for a while.
All that time away? I’ve got a whole list of things.
The theatre? Opera?” There’s no response.
I swallow hard, my throat tight. Tears spill down my cheeks and I can’t wipe them away with my hands occupied.
“I want to take you to a gun range,” I tell her, my voice cracking on the words.
“Show you how to do it properly. There’s one not far from here…
or one in upstate New York. Wouldn’t that be fun? ”
I don’t know if she’d think it was fun. When I had the idea, it was half ironic, half provocative. Hell, at this point, I’d settle for some cutting, sarcastic refusal. I long for a reaction from her.
But there’s nothing.
“Mask off,” the doctor says.
I pull it away, and he pushes a tube into her mouth, working it down until it’s obvious it’s gone into her throat. Inches of clear plastic protruding from her mouth, held in place with a clip wedged between her teeth.
“Mask over the top.”
The tube is in the way, but he must know that. I do it anyway, ignoring the ache in my arm of holding the saline for so long. It’s mild, anyway. I want it to hurt more. I’d take any pain—any pain—if it meant I could see her eyes open.
More men arrive. One thrusts a bottle into the doctor’s hands, others wheel in machines, plugging them in. Anna is back there somewhere, directing. Natalie stands in the corner, both hands covering her mouth as she watches. This isn’t a fucking theater. This is my wife.
And I drove her to this. The guilt is crushing. All my strength, all my resources, all of it useless in the face of my neglect and a small bottle of pills.
The doctor injects a drug into her cannula, then feeds a liquid down the tube. It’s black and muddy.
“Activated charcoal,” he mutters at my look. “It’ll absorb what’s left of the drug.”
That’s less drastic than I was envisaging, and I allow it to kindle some hope. A moment later, he pulls the tube from her mouth. It just keeps coming out.
“I think we got here in time.”
“Oh, thank God.” My legs want to crumple in relief, but I have to hold the damn bag.
Another man brings a pole for it, and the doctor hooks it into position. Our bedroom is now a recovery room, with as much equipment as a typical ER.
Half of Bastien’s security is present, looking at her, seeing her vulnerable and fragile like this.
Judging her. Judging me.
More than anything, I want them out. I say nothing; it’s my penance.
The doctor fixes a plastic clip to her finger, a lead running to a machine, and it starts showing numbers and a heartrate. He lets out a breath in relief. “Now all we can do is wait.”
“And she’ll be all right?” I ask quickly.
“Her oxygen is good, so yes.” He taps the screen. “If this falls below ninety-five, hit this button.”
“And if it does?”
“Then we’ll need to feed her more oxygen, but I don’t think it will. Keep that mask on her for another twenty minutes, then we’ll see. I’ll be in the next room.”
“Thank you, doctor,” I say with feeling, but it sounds so inadequate.
He nods anyway, and I think he gets it.
“Can we have privacy?”
“Yes, of course.”
I don’t wait for him to give the instruction.
“Everyone out,” I bark. “Right goddamn now.” Fuck, it feels good to say that.
Eventually, the door closes behind the last of them, and I exhale softly, then sit down on the bed beside my Little Stray, holding the mask that keeps her breathing.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I’m so… so fucking sorry. It’ll be different, I swear it will.”
She doesn’t respond, but I hope she can hear me.