Chains of Fire Read online

  He broke into a sweat.

  Did she wear any panties under that skirt? Did she wear any underwear at all?

  She looked absolutely natural, absolutely beautiful, her almond-shaped eyes lifted by expertly applied makeup, her coolly golden skin flawless.

  He wanted to go to her, kneel before her, bare his chest so she could put her stiletto heel over his breastbone and push him flat onto the floor. Then he would do anything she commanded. Kiss her manicured toes. Run his lips up the inside of her leg. Let her sit on his face while he licked her, sucked her until she came once, twice, so often that she forgave him everything.

  Isabelle looked so serenely chic, most men couldn’t imagine that Isabelle Mason would play the dominatrix.

  He knew better. Only he knew that beneath the elegance a passion burned so intensely a man could die trying to contain her fire.

  She joined Michel Moreau, the French ambassador.

  Moreau, short, stout, middle-aged, and bald, couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  Which figured. What man wouldn’t want her?

  Not Samuel, for sure.

  But then, he was crude and vulgar and unfit for a lady like Isabelle.

  At least, that was the gospel according to Patricia Mason.

  Too bad. Because he meant to win Isabelle once more.

  Chapter 5

  Samuel started down the stairs toward Isabelle. Glanced toward the side. And halted.

  Todd stood there.

  Todd, tall, handsome, with a haircut that cost as much as a small car and a suit that cost more than the budget of a third-world country. Todd, the wealthy. Todd, the worthless.

  What burned Samuel was that, as far as Mrs. Mason was concerned, Todd would be an appropriate mate for Isabelle. Todd was heir to a fortune, but more than that, Todd had no rough edges. He was a suave, useless George Clooney, just the kind of man Patricia Mason could successfully manipulate into doing her bidding.

  Now Todd stood indolently, a glass of port held between manicured fingers, surveying the ballroom from the steps leading up to the cloakroom.

  Samuel joined him, alive with malice. “Lose something?”

  “My grandmother. She’s probably huddled in some corner, snoring with her mouth open.” Todd sounded absolutely disgusted, although whether with his grandmother or with the fact that Samuel spoke to him, Samuel did not know.

  “It’s very late for a woman of her age.” Samuel made a show of checking his watch.

  “That’s for sure. I don’t know why she insists on coming to these functions.”

  “Because she likes to get out occasionally?”

  “But it’s not pleasant to see her.” Todd spoke smoothly, warmly, as if he weren’t being absolutely offensive. “She’s so bent and saggy, clothes aren’t attractive on her, and don’t even ask about the time wasted getting her into a coat and into the car, then out of the car and out of the coat; then she’s not at the party for an hour before she’s whining that she’s tired and wants to go home.”

  Samuel smiled and nodded as if he were sympathetic. He had always had a natural talent for acting. “I did see her not long ago make her way toward the library with that gentleman . . . I can’t remember his name. You know, the distinguished gentleman with the gray hair, the one who romances wealthy women and marries them?”

  For the first time, Todd faced Samuel. “That Czech? That phony nobleman? Count Ladislav Kucera?”

  Samuel shrugged with elaborate casualness.

  “That perfidious bastard.” Outrage vibrated in Todd’s voice. “The library, you say?”

  “Well, down the corridor toward the library. They could be anywhere.” Samuel spread his hands in a display of innocence. “By now, they could be in the bedrooms.”

  Todd took off like a shot down the stairs, across the ballroom, toward the family rooms.

  Samuel watched, satisfied that Todd would not enjoy the rest of his evening. He was going to be too busy searching for Lady Winstead.

  Samuel’s gaze returned to Isabelle. And Ambassador Moreau.

  He started down the stairs. To speak to Isabelle. To rescue her from Moreau. Before Moreau leered himself into a major ass kicking.

  But before Samuel took more than two steps, a Frenchman’s low, urgent voice caught his attention.

  It said, “What do you mean, you had to injure le petit garçon?”

  Someone had hurt a little boy.

  “The kid wouldn’t stop fighting.” The voice was young, male, surly. And American. Very American.

  Samuel stood absolutely still, listening, trying to pinpoint the source of the muffled voices.

  “How badly did you hurt him?”

  No answer.

  Something thumped against the wall of the cloakroom. “How badly?”

  “When I left, he was clutching his chest and bitching about the pain.” The American sounded as if he’d been what thumped against the wall.

  “Merde, Bull! You are the dumbest imbécile I ever worked with!”

  Samuel eased himself closer to the open door, slid behind a ficus, and prepared to listen.

  “His arm is a little broken,” Bull said.

  “I told you not to hurt the merchandise.” The Frenchman sounded furious. “Do you want to explain to the boss why we can’t collect the ransom?”

  “The boss can’t be that tough.” Bull was cross.

  The slam this time shook the wall by Samuel’s head.

  “The boss will dine on your beating heart.”

  Who are these guys?

  “All right,” the Frenchman said decisively. “We’ll move the schedule ahead. I’ll deliver the letter to his papa ASAP. If we can get the ransom fast enough, we can give him his kid before he dies.”

  Samuel barely breathed as the Frenchman—six-foot-three, two hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle, dressed in a waiter’s suit—strode past him, scowling.

  Inside the cloakroom, the flunky muttered and kicked the wall. Repeatedly.

  When the Frenchman disappeared from sight, Samuel stepped inside the cloakroom and softly shut the door behind him.

  No wonder the Frenchman called this guy Bull. He looked Hawaiian and Japanese and like a young sumo wrestler on steroids. And he was fast—at the click of the latch, he turned, saw Samuel, and charged. He had the speed of a linebacker and the hostility of a young gangster who a minute ago had been chided by his superior.

  But Samuel had trained for this. At the last second he stepped aside, then kicked Bull in the ass. The youth smashed into the freestanding chrome coatrack, sending it and the jackets, furs, hats, and gloves crashing against the wall. Bull’s head slammed a hole through the plaster before he and all the paraphernalia toppled onto the floor.

  He seemed to feel nothing. He came up in a flash and charged again, eyes gleaming with rage.

  Samuel stepped on a hat, waved his arms in exaggerated dismay, fell over—and when Bull lifted his foot to smash Samuel’s ribs, Samuel grabbed the guy’s boot and lifted.

  Bull fell. The floor quaked.

  Bull shook his head, trying to recover whatever wits he possessed.

  Samuel rolled behind him, grabbed a silk scarf, and wrapped the length around the sumo’s stub of a neck. He twisted hard, cutting off Bull’s air, making him spasm and claw at Samuel’s hands.

  Bull had hurt a kid, almost killed him, and the street-smart little boy Samuel had once been exalted in the guy’s writhings. He wanted him to suffer. He deserved to suffer.

  Samuel twisted tighter and tighter until Bull’s motion ceased and his eyes rolled back in his head.

  Putting his mouth by the man’s ear, Samuel asked, “Where’s the child?” He loosened the scarf to allow Bull to speak.

  Bull came to life like an animated corpse. Grabbing Samuel’s ears, he used them like levers to pull Samuel forward.

  Samuel felt his flesh rip. His head slammed into Bull’s hard skull. Blood trickled down his face on both sides, and he saw stars.

  B
ull grabbed Samuel’s hair and rolled over the top of him. “Who are you?” He slammed Samuel’s head against the floor. “Who are you?” Slam. “Who are you?” Slam.

  The only thing that saved Samuel’s life was the fur coat underneath him, cushioning him from the impact. He groped beside him, seeking something to use as a weapon. A can! Mace! He sprayed Bull’s face.

  It was hair spray.

  But it did the job. Bull yelped and let go to dig at his eyes.

  Samuel slammed his fist into Bull’s nose. The crunch was satisfying. Bull’s squeal was even more satisfying. The spurting blood made Samuel almost giddy with glee, and when he wrapped the scarf around Bull’s throat again, he took real pleasure in applying pressure and using expletives he hadn’t used since his adoption twenty-six years ago. He didn’t take a chance this time; he found a real can of Mace in one of the coats tumbled around them on the floor, sprayed Bull, choked him repeatedly, and finally loosened the scarf. “Where is the boy?” he asked again.

  “Château. Schneider Road.” As Bull got his breath, his hand shot up, groping toward Samuel’s head. He didn’t volunteer any more details.

  Samuel sprayed him with the Mace again and, with a sigh, gave up trying to do this the hard way.

  Because mind control always worked . . . and mind control came as easily to Samuel as breathing.

  Chapter 6

  Isabelle coolly ignored the waiter standing by her side.

  But although he was respectful, he was insistent. “Excuse me. Miss Mason?”

  She swiveled gracefully to face him. Why are you interrupting my conversation with Ambassador Moreau? But no, she couldn’t say that, nor could she allow her irritation to show. “Yes?”

  “I have a message from Mr. Samuel Faa. He requests your presence at once.”

  “He’s going to have to wait.” She smiled, teeth clenched. She had been angling for that check from the ambassador for fifteen minutes, and she was not about to give up now.

  The waiter offered her a slip of paper, folded in two and torn from a cheap tablet. “If you had any objections, Mr. Faa said to give you this.”

  She opened it. Roughly sketched on the paper was an empty cradle.

  Damn Samuel. He knew how to get her attention.

  A child was in danger.

  She folded the paper and turned back to the ambassador. “I am so sorry. This requires my immediate attention.”

  The ambassador bowed and once again kissed the back of Isabelle’s hand. “I am desolated. Apparently, we are not allowed a whole conversation tonight.”

  “No.” She kissed his cheek. “Another time.” Catching her gown in her fingertips, she moved toward the door without appearing to hurry, smiling and nodding at the guests, but never slowing.

  She jumped when Samuel stepped out from behind a potted plant dressed in his heavy coat . . . with an amber wool scarf wrapped around his head and tied like a turban. Over the turban, he wore a dark knit cap.

  She didn’t laugh. Not quite. “That’s quite a fashion statement.”

  “I’m a fashion maven.” He stuffed gloves on her hands.

  Samuel had never gotten over his impression that she was still a pampered little girl in need of help.

  “The scarf is quite attractive on you.” She fought back a smirk. “The color complements your eyes.”

  “It stopped the blood from leaking out of my ears, too.”

  She looked. Saw the crimson stains. Realized he had a bruise forming on his jaw.

  He’d been fighting again. He’d been trying to get himself killed again.

  She had to physically restrain herself from reaching out to him, touching him, healing him. He was Chosen; unless he desperately needed help, he would heal quickly on his own. In repressive tones, she asked, “What did you do now?”

  “I got the information we need.” He held out an ankle-length mink coat for her to slip into.

  “That’s not mine.”

  “Close enough.” He shook the coat. “Come on; we haven’t got time to waste, and it’s windy and frigid out there. Like someone else I know.”

  “I’m not frigid”—she slid into the heavy fur—“for the right man.”

  “I know.” Samuel held out a knit cap. “Because I am the right man.”

  She wasn’t getting into that argument with him again. “I am not wearing that hat. It’ll ruin my hair.”

  “Put it in your pocket. We’ll see what you say when you step outside. Now—let’s go.” Taking her arm, he hurried her toward the rear of the château.

  As they walked, she rearranged her fingers in the gloves. “Where are we going?”

  “About a mile north as the crow flies, about five miles by road. The Others commandeered the De Luca château.”

  She led him through the darkened, vacant living rooms on their way out. “It’s empty.”

  “They’ve grabbed a boy. He’s hurt.”

  She expected the news, but her heart sank.

  As they reached the back door, Samuel opened it and rushed through.

  He was right. When she stepped outside, the icy air took her breath away. But she didn’t put on the knit cap.

  He led her to an idling four-wheel drive. He opened the door for her, and glanced down as she climbed inside. “Shit. I forgot about your stupid shoes. I should have grabbed you some boots.”

  “From the same shop where you got the fur?” she asked tartly, and tucked her strappy sandals under the seat.

  He shoved the trailing hem of her gown inside. “Yes.” He slammed the door and hurried around the car, climbed in, and had the car in motion before she’d even buckled her seat belt.

  The sky was clear, the moon was bright, and the headlights skimmed over the mountainous terrain, twisting like ice dancers performing a tango. Snow blanketed the icy road, driven by the wind to pile against the trunks of the evergreens and on the banks the plows had piled on the sides of the pavement.

  Samuel drove like a maniac over the snow-covered road, but she didn’t care. She trusted his driving, and she felt his urgency. His tight face, his intent gaze, his taut body—he was ready to fight any way he had to, with his mind and with his fists.

  “Tell me everything,” she said.

  He did, including the part where he probed the other guy’s mind, forced him to tell him the child’s location. She didn’t say a word of reproach. She saw the blood that stained the scarf on his head. She knew very well it had to be done that way to save the child.

  But he said, “What!” in that voice that snapped at her composure.

  “Nothing, Samuel. You did exactly right.”

  “All right then.” He slowed, turned off the headlights, drove using the moonlight.

  “If it’s bright enough to drive, they’re going to see us coming whether we have the headlights on or not,” she said.

  “We passed the drive to the château half a mile back.” He pulled over to the side of the road. “Give me thirty minutes.” He pointed at the clock in the dash. “That’ll make it twelve fifteen. Then drive in, headlights off, and I’ll bring the kid out.”

  “Why don’t we go in together?”

  “Right.” He laid on the sarcasm. “You’re going to be very helpful to me in your Parda spike-heeled strappy sandals.”

  “It’s called Prada. And these are Jimmy Choo. What if you get done early?”

  “I’ll call you.” He handed her his cell.

  She weighed it in her hand. “What if you don’t come out?”

  “Call the cops. And”—he handed her a small, loaded revolver—“use this if you have to.”

  She clicked off the safety. “Believe me. I will.”

  Chapter 7

  Samuel opened the car door. The wind whistled in, biting at her. At him.

  “Sammy,” she said.

  He looked back at her.

  “Be careful.”

  He nodded, got out, and headed back up the road.

  Isabelle climbed over the console into
the driver’s seat. She adjusted the mirrors, eased the car around to face the right direction, removed the voluminous mink and placed it in the back for the child. She examined his phone; it was a smartphone with lots of apps. . . . She played two games of Boggle. And checked the time.

  Only fifteen minutes had passed. It was midnight. She knew from experience the next fifteen minutes would drag, second by second, while she worried about Samuel. And about the child.

  This was the trouble with being a physical empath. When she touched someone who was hurt, she took on his or her injury. If the injured person had a gunshot wound, she developed a gunshot wound, drawing the pain and the shattered skin, muscle, and bone into herself. Using her gift, she healed her patient—and exhausted herself.

  So when she reversed the process and tried to hurt that person, she felt the injury like a shock to her system. The anguish echoed back and forth, amplified by her cruel intentions, and she had to fight her own ability to heal.

  Consequently, she wasn’t worth spit in a brawl.

  Samuel said she had been given the directive from the Powers That Be that she should not exchange blows. The other Chosen agreed.

  Even Isabelle agreed.

  But she didn’t have to like being left behind during a fight.

  Ten minutes left.

  She drove the car to the edge of the château’s driveway.

  Five minutes.

  Samuel’s phone rang.

  She snatched it up.

  “Come on. Come in. Door’s open.” His voice was gruff.

  She tossed down the phone and, with meticulous care, drove up the steep, winding driveway.

  Why had Samuel sounded so worried? The child wasn’t dead already, was he? On those rare occasions when the Chosen Ones failed, when they lost a child to the Others, or found an infant abandoned and still, she cried. They all cried.