Firestorm (Sons of Templar MC 2)

“I apologize for the unpleasantness, Miss Abrams, but unfortunately this was necessary,” George Clooney replied, as if he was talking about a mistake in a dinner reservation.

“Unpleasantness?” I repeated. “You call your two goons dragging me out of a bar at gunpoint, then tasering me and waking up handcuffed to a bed unpleasant? I think the word you are looking for is illegal—seriously fucking illegal. You need to let me leave right now,” I commanded, wishing it would be that easy.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Miss Abrams. I admit this was a last resort, which was unfortunately necessary. I assure you no harm will come to you if you comply, and you will be able to return back to the bar from in which we found you once I get what I want.”

I eyed the man across the table with a raised brow. “Sure. I bet you say that to all the girls. What is it that you want?”

George maintained eye contact; he seemed vaguely disinterested as if this was a meeting he wanted to get through. My conclusion that I was being sold into sex slavery was becoming less likely. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. One thing was for sure…I wasn’t going to do as this wacko said and hope for the best. I’d be getting out of here if I had to tunnel my way out with a spoon.

“Your father is a business associate of mine. We had a mutually beneficial arrangement—that was, until recently. I won’t bore you with the details, but I will say all other civil attempts to persuade your father against certain courses of action have been unsuccessful. So here we are.” He held out his hands. “I imagine your wellbeing is of great importance to your father, and the continued health of his only daughter might prove as a motivation to change his mind.” George took a sip of his coffee, pausing to let this all sink in.

My father. He was the reason I was being kidnapped? The man who summered in the Hamptons and screwed his nose up at newspaper vendors was business associates with a criminal? Granted, he may not know about said criminal activities, but my father was far from stupid and I doubted this guy went from law abiding to Class A felony in one fell swoop.

I let out a small giggle at the absurdity of this entire situation. Given the company I had been keeping over the last year or so, I had thought if I was going to be kidnapped by anyone it would be by someone wearing a cut and jeans, not a ten thousand dollar suit.

“Something amusing, Miss Abrams?” George asked me, eyes more alert.

I waved my hand. “Not amusing. In fact, this is not funny at all. Just ironic. In all the scenarios I would imagine a kidnapping going down, this is the least likely.” I sobered at the memory of my best friend almost dying after being kidnapped, then coming home battered after it happened again nine months ago. We had some bad freaking luck when it came to this shit.

George narrowed his eyes. “Yes, well, I imagine with the company you keep you have been exposed to some more unsavory criminal activities. As long as you are well behaved and your father is obliging, there is no reason for this to get uncivilized,” he said with an air of superiority.

I sucked in a breath. “Are you serious? The man who just had me kidnapped is doling out judgment on the ‘company I keep’? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Let me tell you something you Soprano wannabe, those men are each worth a hundred of you and your tacky watch, which I can assure you screams new money,” I hissed at him, momentarily forgetting the power balance in this conversation.

George’s eyes flared slightly but his face betrayed no emotion. “I imagine this has been an unsettling few hours for you, Miss Abrams, so I’ll let that little outburst slide.” He leaned forward slightly. “But if you ever speak to me like that again you’ll be very, very sorry.” His tone was soft and I shivered at the promise underneath it.

“Now,” he carried on, “please eat something. I would hate for my guest to go hungry.” He moved his attention to his own plate, reopening his newspaper. Apparently I was dismissed.

Deciding my hangover coupled with severe caffeine deficiency made me slightly loopy, I pushed my plate away defiantly. It was a struggle with my mouth watering at the sight of the pastry of the gods but I managed. The coffee cup was another story; I had to actually clutch my hands to my lap to stop from reaching for it. But I was determined. I was not going to accept this situation and eat a (albeit magnificent) croissant and sip (medically necessary) coffee with my captor like this was a weekend retreat. I could handle skipping a couple of meals and forgoing coffee for that. I did the master cleanse, for Christ’s sake. I did however slip a butter knife into my lap while pushing the plate away. I wasn’t too sure what I would do with it; I’m sure it wouldn’t be effective in deflecting bullets but I needed to start somewhere.

“Not hungry?” He didn’t look up from his paper.

“I’m afraid captivity messes with my appetite,” I replied sweetly.

There was a long pause until he spoke again. “Well, I can only hope your appetite returns sooner rather than later. I’d hate to see you starve.” His thinly veiled threat had its effect and he moved on. “If you do not want your food then I will consent to you leaving the table.”

“How gracious of you,” I muttered sarcastically.

He ignored this. “Rafe will show you to your wing. There is a library, a TV room, and a home gym. You have the freedom to move about them as you please.”

I restrained a snort. If they wanted to hurt me they could have just forced me to use the home gym. I’d be much more compliant under the threat of imminent exercise.