"We're checking. He's not a fool, Conor. He probably used a couple of bogus passports. We'll find him, but it takes time."
One of the uniforms scurried from the library, spotted Conor and headed for him. The cop was just a kid, probably fresh out of the academy. He had a round face and freckles and his eyes glowed with the excitement that came from rubbing shoulders with the rich and infamous.
"You know where the kitchen is? The mayor wants some coffee."
Conor glared at him, got to his feet and walked into the foyer.
"By the time you find him," he said into the phone, "it may be too late. The guy's a sicko. He's not going to hold Miranda as a negotiating tool, I'm telling you, he's going to hurt her. Big time."
"If you have any ideas, I'm listening."
Conor ran his hand over his face. The only idea he had involved killing Edouard de Lasserre the slowest, most agonizing way possible, but to do that, he had to first find him. And he had to find Miranda.
God, if anything happened to her...
"You see?" Harry said gently. "You can't come up with anything we haven't already thought of. Think positively, my boy. We're narrowing the search, minute by minute."
"Sure." Conor smiled bitterly. "We've almost done Europe. All that's left is the U.S., Asia, Africa and the fucking Caribbean." The Caribbean! Conor's breath caught. "Harry," he whispered, "dammit, Harry..."
"What is it?"
"Get back to Amalie de Lasserre."
"I told you, our people spoke to her. She doesn't know a thing."
"She does," Conor said. He was trembling; he could feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins. "When I talked with her, she said Edouard had been in the States on business."
"So?"
"She also said he'd been checking some property he owned, in the islands."
"And you think...?"
"The islands, Harry. People say that, they mean the Caribbean."
Harry whistled. "I'll get back to you, ASAP."
Conor slammed down the phone, reached into his back pocket and took out his wallet. The picture he'd taken from the file at Miss Cooper's School for Young Ladies was still there, only a little the worse for wear.
He stared at Miranda's face, at the sweet, girlish smile.
"I'll find you, sweetheart," he whispered, "and when I do, I'll never let go of you again."
A few hours later, he was in a helicopter, urging the pilot on as the craft lifted off for an island nobody had ever heard of except for an irritated Amalie de Lasserre, who'd finally dredged its name from her memory.
* * *
Miranda's arms and legs ached. Her wrists and ankles felt chafed from her constant twisting against the silken bonds that tied her to the bed.
Everything felt raw, including her throat. The gag seemed to be soaking up all her saliva. Her lips felt swollen, too, as if the skin might split at any minute.
How much time had passed since Vince and Joey had tied her up and left her? There was no way to tell. For all she knew, night had turned into day again. She'd tried finding a way to keep track of the passage of time, but it was impossible. Vince had returned just once, to turn on a lamp in the corner and draw heavy drapes across the windows. The drapes blocked out everything, even sound, though sometimes she thought she could hear the distant beat of the surf.
Or was it the beat of her heart?
It could be. She was wild with fear, caught up in it in a way that would have been unimaginable before she'd raced out of Eva's house and been dragged into the car. The notes, the picture—they'd been terrifying, but not like this. Never like this. A picture wasn't real, it wasn't the same as lying here, spread-eagled and half-naked, remembering Vince's hands on her, and on himself, and the things he'd said about what would happen to her after Edouard arrived.
No. She couldn't think about that. She had to think about something else, about being found and rescued.