Lap of Luxury (Love Don't Cost a Thing)

“For, uh, allergies?”

I smile, admiring the tracings of her blue veins on her throat through her translucent skin. “No, not for allergies. I don’t have to use it. You can come with me willingly. In a few moments there’ll be a car waiting downstairs.”

Bethany licks her lips. “Why would I do that?”

I wrap a hand her throat and hold her head against the leather headrest, moving behind her. Instinctively, she starts to struggle, both hands coming up to pull ineffectually on my wrist.

“Shh,” I breathe in her ear, undoing the little bottle one-handed. “This is all out of your control. You may as well just go along with it.”

She catches the astringent scent of the anesthetic, and asks in a strangled voice, “Will I wake up?”

“Why don’t you think of what happens next as a delicious surprise?”

Her eyes are very wide as she stares at the bottle. “I’d just like to make it clear that I don’t want this.”

I feel my smile curve against her hair. What a strange little thing she is, making her protest for the record. “Noted, princesa. Any final words?”

Her pulse is thrumming beneath my fingers. I want to press my lips against her throat.

“Ciara’s not a bad person. She did what she thought she needed to do in order to—”

Angrily, I pinch her words off by tightening my grip on her throat. I’m not interested in hearing anything about Ciara and Mikhail right now. I hold the bottle to one of her nostrils and press the plunger. Bethany gasps, and then a moment later her body slumps forward. She’s out cold.

I watch her sleeping in the chair for a moment while I tuck the bottle back into my pocket and ring for my driver. In the silence that follows, looking at my brother’s things, my brother’s assistant, I know I’ve been a fucking fool. I’ll never not trust my instincts again.

I gather Bethany into my arms and head for the elevator. The net is closing in. It’s time for us to disappear.

My driver is waiting downstairs on the busy street with the car and he opens the back door quickly so I can place the sleeping Bethany onto the back seat. I get in behind her and pull her head into my lap. The dark tinted windows conceal us from view. I stroke Bethany’s hair, remembering how she moved like liquid gold in my arms amid the blood and carnage.

“Where to, sir?” asks my driver.

I name a marina on the south coast where I know a business contact has his superyacht moored. It wasn’t purchased legally, and so the owner will be unable to report its loss to the police. I call Boris and tell him to gather the men we can trust and meet me there. “We’re leaving the country. For good.”

His reply is grimly determined. “Yes, boss.”

When we pull on to the M3, Bethany is still slumbering in my lap, and I receive another phone call. Mikhail and Ciara landed in Cape Town, but evaded capture and left the airport by vehicle.

They’ve disappeared.

Chapter Seven

Bethany

My head is pounding and my mouth is dry. There’s a queasy feeling in my belly like I had tequila on top of red wine on top of beer last night. The bed feels weird too, not like my own. I drag my eyes open and see that I’m in a room I don’t recognize, and my hand is cuffed to the bed.

“What the hell?” I whisper softly.

I struggle up, the blood pounding hard in my ears. It looks like a hotel room. A really nice hotel room, with a king-sized bed and gold and cream furnishings.

Then it all comes rushing back. Mr. Ravnikar and Ciara leaving me behind. Damir coming for me. That weird phone call he got telling him it was all over. I thought I was going to be all right after that. Damir actually went gray as he listened to whatever that person was saying. If everything was over, I could go free and catch that ferry to Spain like I planned. Right now, I should be eating tiny bits of tapas washed down by a glass of rioja the size of my head, but instead I’m tethered like an animal to a bed in a strange hotel.

Did I fight hard enough? Could I have stopped him? Did that small, disgusting part of me that responds to him get me into this mess? Or am I rotten through and through, like an apple you bite into only to throw away in revulsion?

The room starts to spin and I lay back, afraid I’m going to throw up. The drugs are making me feel like the room is moving, and is that an engine I can hear somewhere far off? Maybe the staff are cleaning the pool or something.

Okay. Get a hold of yourself. Listen for the footsteps of the chambermaids or hotel guests, and then scream blue murder. I soften my breathing as much as I can and lie still, my ears tuned for any sound at all.

It’s eerily silent out there. No footsteps. No housekeeping c