A Kiss Stolen

“Oh God. Thank God. Oh, Jake, Oh God, I’ve been so worried. Thank God.”

“Have they found Lil, Mum?” I hear my second daughter, Laura ask.

“Yes, yes, Dad found her,” my wife says with a joyful, nervous laugh.

I close my eyes. My fist is clenched so hard I can feel the veins on my forearm popping. In the background, I hear Laura shout with relief. She says something I can’t make out then my two sons join in the celebrations.

“Jake, are you bringing her back with you?” my wife asks.

“Well, I don’t have her with me,” I say evenly.

I feel the mood switch. “What do you mean?”

“Liliana is in Spain.”

“What?”

“She was so upset I had spoken with Nesbit and asked him to consider her for the internship that she took off in a temper to Spain, but she must have come to her senses and called me to say she just wants some time to think things out on her own.” Even to my own ears my explanation sounded like bullshit.

“Jake, are you lying to me?”

“No,” I respond immediately. I imagine her standing in our kitchen, the phone clenched in her hand. In the background my other children have stopped celebrating.

“Then I don’t understand,” she whispers. “Liliana went off to Spain without telling any of us because she was mad at you for putting in a good word in Nesbit’s ear, is that what you are saying?”

“Yes, that’s what she told me.”

“I don’t believe her. Do you?”

I stay silent.

“Give me her number. I want to call her,” she demands, the fire coming back into her voice.

“What’s going on, Mum,” Caleb, our older twin asks.

She ignores him. “Jake, are you still there?”

I exhale slowly. “Darling, you can’t call her. She doesn’t want us to contact her. She wants a bit of time to think about her future, but she promised to call again soon.”

“What about Moose? Did she take him?”

“No,” I mutter. “She asked me to pick him up and bring him home.”

“Jake, this is not how Liliana behaves. Something is wrong. I know something is wrong and I know you know it too. You’re just not telling me.” She starts sobbing.

“Lily, you have to stay strong. For Liliana’s sake you have to. Whatever it is I will get to the bottom of it. I will find her and bring her back home. Do you hear me?”

She doesn’t answer. Just carries on sobbing. I end the call, and suddenly the past flashes into my mind. I remember the first time I saw her. Oh, sweet baby Jesus, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven then. She was so damn beautiful.

Slowly, I unclench my hand and the blood rushes into my palm. I lift my head and look up at the night sky. “Where are you Liliana?” I whisper. The only thing I know for sure is: she is not in fucking Spain.

I make my promise then.

“I will find you if it is the last thing I do,” I say to the dark moonless sky.

Chapter Seven

Liliana

For the next few hours I remain in the corner where he left me, crouched on the floor, my arms hugging my knees. The sun rises, filling the room with its pale light. Eventually, there are footsteps outside. More than one person is approaching. So, there are other people in this house. If I play my cards right, they could help me escape. I lift my head as the door is flung open.

A large man and a woman look down at me.

The woman looks to be in her mid-fifties. She is wearing a plain dark-blue dress and has a confident erect bearing. If I had to guess I would say she is the housekeeper. Even though her face is stern, her eyes are incredibly kind.

The man beside her is as brutish as a bull with thick shoulders, a low brow, and a military haircut. There is a blank expression in his narrow set eyes. I spot the gun he wears under his badly cut suit.

I rise on wobbly legs and focus my attention on her. “I’m here against my free will,” I say in a shaky voice. “I’ve been kidnapped. I’m a prisoner here. Please, please, can you help me escape?”

The man snorts with laughter. A horrible sound.

The woman gives him a dirty look before walking up to me and smiling kindly. “You’re not a prisoner, Lass. You’re a guest in this house. I’m Mrs. Parks, the housekeeper, and I’m here to move you over to the main wing. There is a much better room set up for you there. Please come with me.”

For a moment, I think about refusing or insisting I be set free, but it is clear that would be a pointless exercise. She wants to pretend I am a guest. Better if I follow her and find out as much as I can about where I am being held. Perhaps I can try and make friends with her and eventually persuade her to help me.

I expect them to blindfold me as they lead me away, or at least bind me up in some way, but I walk deceptively free out of the room. As if I truly am a guest.

We pass down corridors, and through open doors I see lavish rooms. As we approach an intersection with large windows I see that we are right in the middle of moorland. The windswept scenery is breathtakingly beautiful, but it also looks like we are very isolated in the harsh wilderness. There doesn’t look to be another building as far as the eye can see. When we turn the corner though, I spot what looks like a farmhouse next to a lake in the distance. There is smoke coming out of its chimney. I file away that information and an escape plan begins to hatch in my head.

We enter the adjoining wing and it is almost as though I have stepped into a different world. The main house cannot be described as anything but palatial. Tall ceilings full of frescos, massive chandeliers, tapestries, gilded paintings, pillars, and gorgeous milky statues.

He had not been joking when he said that he had his own money. Which made the notion of my kidnap as some kind of revenge staggeringly baffling. Why would anyone with this kind of money hold a vendetta against me? I have done absolutely nothing wrong to anyone. I have barely even begun my life.

There is only one explanation: I am not the intended target.

Even though the hate I had seen my captor’s eyes was clearly very much personal and directed at me, my capture had to be something to do with hurting my father. Even as a child I was already aware my father was unlike any of the other kids’ mild-mannered fathers. Dad’s circle and influence ran dark and deep. In all the high value dealings he has had over the years he’s almost definitely gained many an enemy. It makes perfect sense. Attacking me is more brutal than going directly for my father.

We tread through galleried corridors, pass three massive lounges, a sun-drenched breakfast room, and eventually arrive at a foyer dominated by a gigantic chandelier. I come to an abrupt

standstill. How absolutely bizarre. The whole place is uncannily similar to the one at my father’s home. Down to the heavy centerpiece of tulips on a black granite stand. I look around me in a daze as we move toward the grand black marble staircase.

Mrs. Parks climbs the stairs and I follow. The bull stays behind me, a very permanent scowl etched into his face. The curving staircase takes us to a landing with a massive stained glass window. A short walk down a red-carpeted corridor and Mrs. Parks stops and turns towards me.

“This will be your bedroom.” She opens the door in front of her and looks at me expectantly.

At this point the bull-like man turns around to take his leave as though his work of escorting us has been completed as I step into the room.

“Isn’t it nice?” Mrs. Parks asks cheerfully from behind me.

The room is impeccably decorated in rich shades of forest green, teal, peacock blue, and accents of burnished gold. It is obviously the work of a very talented designer. The walls are covered in luxury wallpaper and the curtains are emerald green and gold brocade. An intricately carved bed sits on, what seems to be, a luxurious cream silk carpet.

“What would you like for breakfast, lass?” Mrs. Parks asks. “I dare say I could rustle up anything you desire.”

I turn to her in confusion. This is not how a kidnapped victim should be treated. “I have been drugged and kidnapped and brought here against my will. Why am I being served as if I am a guest?”

I see pity in her eyes before she masks it. “He isn’t as bad as you think. Just be patient and all will be well,” she whispers softly. “I’ll send up a tray with a selection of dishes.” Then she turns around and takes her leave.

The door is shut and locked behind her.

For how long I stare at it, I don’t know, but eventually, I push aside the turmoil in my head and go in search of the bathroom. A painful bump of my head hitting the tiled wall jerks me awake. Incredible, but I fell asleep on the toilet seat. It must be a lingering effect of the drug. I shake my head to push away the last webs of sleep, and think about taking a shower. It would wake me up and make me feel less filthy.