Bounty

Chapter 9

Brodie threw his bags on the floor and took a seat at the table in the middle of the room. He opened his laptop, keeping his cellphone glued to his ear. He had disappeared hours before, and I had waited for him, trapped in the hotel room with only my robe, sure that he had abandoned me.

I was about to open my mouth, but he put his finger up to stop me and pointed at his phone. He was listening to somebody, and it was important. I stood with my arms crossed in front of me, tapping my foot for a while before taking a seat across from him.

"Thirteen hundred hours. Very good. No, I'll contact you. Right." Brodie hung up and tapped on the keyboard.

"I don't mean to be whiny," I started. "But-"

"I couldn't be more grateful, Princess." Brodie interrupted. He closed his laptop and reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a thick envelope. "I've managed to get your papers."

He handed me the envelope. In it were my passport, plane tickets, and a wad of cash.

"Your plane leaves in two hours. You'll go off to the airport shortly," he said, matter-of-factly. "I'll have your belongings sent to you as soon as possible. I've been told that they're ready to take you back at your previous job in New York."

Brodie took the battery out of the laptop and threw it in the trash. He grabbed one of his bags and the computer and went into the bathroom. He pulled a large glass container out of the bag and placed it in the bathtub, followed by the laptop and his cellphone.

"What do you mean, New York?" I asked.

"What do you mean, 'what do you mean, New York?' New York. Big city. Your home. You're going back today. No need to thank me."

Brodie put on a pair of goggles and a mask over his face and rubber gloves on his hands.

"Thank you? I'm confused, here. I need to go back to London, not New York. I have a great, new job waiting for me in London," I said.

I had wondered what the next step would be. My life had been forever altered, but maybe it could be that easy to just return to my life. After all, it was a relatively new life in a new country in a new job.

"I would advise you to stand back," Brodie said. He opened a large bottle and poured it carefully over the electronics. There was smoke, a sizzling sound, and noxious fumes. I retreated from the bathroom.

"I do still have my job in London, don't I? You haven't sabotaged that have you?" I called to him from the room.

After a moment, Brodie emerged from the bathroom and removed his safety gear. "I have no idea about your job in London. But you're going to New York where it's safe."

I liked being taken care of as much as the next girl, but Brodie had moved from being protective to running my life, and I didn't appreciate it one bit.

"New York is not safer than London, Brodie. I should know," I said, my voice pinched. "Look. You've done enough damage. Let's just call it a day and let me go back to my dream job. Okeydokey?"

Brodie stood mere inches away from me. We nearly touched, and I could feel the heat bouncing off of him. He looked in my eyes, his expression grim.

"The Russians killed Taylor. They didn't like him selling weapons to Georgia," he said. He spoke slowly, as if he was trying to explain something to a five-year-old.

"The Russians framed me, and they want me dead. The British government wants me imprisoned. I was last seen with you. Gurzhikhanov wants to hunt us both down to kill me and marry you back home in the mountains of Chechnya."

He let this sink in for a moment. At the mention of Chechnya, my chest grew tight, but it was hard for me to believe I wouldn't be safe far away in London. "But" was on my lips when Brodie put his hand up to silence me.

"Maybe he wants to marry you on a bus for all I know, if you understand me correctly," he said with a scary finality. "Now, all these things are indeed frightening, but one thing I do know, the Russians and the Chechens will not operate in the U.S. This is not mob stuff we're talking about. This is government stuff. They will not harm you-an American citizen-in America. Princess, you're going to New York today."

"You listen to me, Iain Brodie," I said, standing my ground. "I'm not going anywhere with you. You're done running my life. You abducted me. You nearly got me killed. You're not going to ambush my career."

Brodie raised an eyebrow. "You misunderstand me. I'm not going to New York."

I stumbled backward. "You're not?"

"I have other matters to deal with. I have to prove my innocence and keep from getting caught or killed. I have to move around before I'm found out. My whereabouts are secret from everyone except Logan. Not even Gairloch knows where I am. Do you realize what that means? No, I imagine you don't."

I did imagine. "You're leaving me alone?"

Brodie scratched behind his ear and shifted his weight. "You'll be safe, and I'll make sure of that personally once I get everything settled with the Russians."

"Oh." I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. Brodie stared at me a long time, like he was trying to read invisible words written on my face.

"Do you want me to go with you to New York?" he asked, softly.

"No, of course not," I said. It wasn't a total lie.

I wanted him, but I didn't want what he was. He was the perfect man wrapped up in the worst kind of man. He was an unreliable, uncommitted Superman. He was both my kidnapper and my savior. He made my head spin in a good way and in a bad way. I had to get away from him, fast.

Brodie hooked his finger under my robe. "We have a little time," he said.

I grabbed his hand. "My robe! All I have is a robe. How can I go anywhere?"

"Oh, that. I forgot." Brodie handed me the other bags.

Inside were a strappy black dress and strappy, four-inch, high-heeled sandals. "I thought you would like to show off your feet," he said.

My eyes swam with unwanted tears.

"Did I get you the wrong size?" He took the dress and read the tags.

"No, it's perfect."

"Oh, good. I saw it, and I thought you'd look lovely in it. It's Chanel. Do you like Chanel? I've never bought a woman a dress before, and I don't know anything about fashion. I could get you something else, if you prefer. We have a little time."

I took the dress from him. "I love Chanel," I said. "And I love the dress."

"Good. Perhaps you could try it on." His face was suddenly boyish, despite his dark stubble, long scar, and furrowed brow.

I put the dress on in the bathroom. "You forgot to get a bra and panties," I called out. There was no answer. I slipped on the dress and opened the door. "Brodie, you forgot to get a bra and panties," I repeated.

"I didn't forget," he said.

"So, where are they?"

"I didn't buy any." For the first time, Brodie treated me to an ear-to-ear smile. It hit me right in the uterus. My biological clock started up, and I gasped.

"Put on the shoes," he urged. "I want to see you in the shoes."

They were the nicest shoes I'd ever worn, and they probably cost a fortune. I was amazed at how someone could take a couple strips of leather and make such a gorgeous thing. My feet looked beautiful in them. I was thankful for goat s**t, that's for sure.

I stood in my new outfit for Brodie's inspection.

"I think that I see a lady far more lovely than a tree," he said.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. You reminded me of a poem."

"What do you think?" I did a little twirl, careful not to let the dress rise up too far.

"What do I think? I think I was right. I think you're dangerous, Abigail Williams. I also think we have a little time before Logan comes to take you to the airport."

He held me around the waist and drew me to him. Our lips met in ferocious need. At the touch of our tongues together, my head swam, and I pressed further into the kiss. I was not merely the recipient any longer; I was the aggressor.

Perhaps it was the pent up emotions or the impending goodbye, but I was fully engaged in taking my pleasure from him. I took his hand and slipped it under my dress, over my breast.

"Touch me," I commanded, my words coming out thick and throaty.

I pulled away from the kiss and kissed the side of his neck. Brodie groaned softly, but I wanted a bigger response. I sucked and scraped with my teeth until I made a mark.

"Look at me," I said. His eyes were huge and pitch-black. This is how he looks when he's ready to do battle, I thought. This is how he looks when he wants me.

He cupped and squeezed my breast and captured my lips again. I sank into him and prayed for the kiss to never end. I wanted to be found like this, in his arms, centuries from now, frozen in time. I wanted the world to melt away and let me have Brodie without any problems invading our moment.

But then there was a knock at the door, and Brodie stopped. Slowly, he removed his hand from my breast, his lips from my mouth. His breathing came in deep, ragged waves, and he took a moment to catch his breath, resting his forehead against mine.

"We're out of time, Princess," he said. He righted himself and went to the door.

"What on earth are you driving?"

"This, my lovely lady, is an Aston Martin. You're going to the airport in proper English style. Hop in." Logan was dressed in designer jeans and a shirt that hugged him in all the best places and probably cost a month's worth of my salary.

"If I hop, I'll make it right over the car." It was low to the ground and made for supermodels and James Bond, not corn-fed, American girls.

"Right this way." Logan opened the door for me, and I struggled to get into the race car without giving an eyeful of what was under my dress. Logan thoughtfully averted his eyes.

The engine roared to life, and Logan drove like a bat out of hell all the way to the airport.

"I'm coming in. I have to make sure you get on the plane." He parked the car at the curb and escorted me to the counter. Check-in was easy. I didn't have any luggage, and I already had my seat. First class. We walked toward the security checkpoint together.

"He let me go," I said to Logan.

Logan arched an eyebrow. "Isn't that a good thing?"

"I mean, he let me go to New York without him. He didn't even say goodbye."

"Ah," said Logan, understanding. "You may have noticed, Abby, Iain doesn't say much. Goodbyes don't come naturally to him."

"Don't defend him, Logan. You guys are the same. You may know how to lay on the charm better than Brodie, but you guys are both thugs. You're the bad guys."

Logan shrugged. "Perhaps you're right," he said. We arrived at the security gate. "May I kiss you goodbye, even if I'm a bad guy?"

"I suppose so," I said, and Logan gave me a chaste kiss on the lips.

"You're something special, Abigail Williams," he said. "You got through a rough patch with style."

"Is that what we're calling kidnapping these days? Rough patch?"

"And you look rather stunning in that dress, I should add."

"Good save, Logan."

Logan smiled and ran his fingers through his thick, blond hair. He was Brad Pitt times three, and I could feel the daggers shoot through me from passing females, all drawn to his drop-dead gorgeous looks.

"Listen, Abby. Brodie likes to say I have a rather big mouth, but I have to tell you that Brodie saving you, that's out of character for him. I have an idea why he did it, but you're a big danger to him, as you're probably aware. You can finger him for the kidnapping, let the police know where he is for the Taylor hit."

"I didn't think of that." Liar, liar, pants on fire. I was thinking of turning him in nonstop since leaving Chechnya.

"You were too busy to think," he said, smiling. "I can tell you I was surprised to see you yesterday in his room sporting matching robes."

My face went hot. I was probably a deep purple.

"It's not what you think," I began.

"Never mind what I think," Logan said. "I'm thrilled. I'm going to rib him about it for a long time to come." Logan patted me on my shoulder. "Stay safe, Abigail Williams."

He disappeared into the crowd, and I made my way through security, but I had no intention of going to New York. I walked past my gate and headed straight for British Airways flight number 727 to London.

Everything looked the same. My apartment, my belongings, they didn't seem to realize that I had just been kidnapped and had lived through a horrible, life-changing experience. I had changed, so, why hadn't everything else?

No voice mail messages and no e-mails. As far as anybody knew, I was still supposed to be away on a tropical island, sipping exotic drinks, poolside. The Simoros Islands seemed like a million years ago. I couldn't even remember why I ever wanted to go there.

My apartment didn't need to be cleaned, and I wasn't in the mood to watch TV. Without anything better to do, I headed out to my office. At least I could get some work done and show off my Chanel dress.

London was gray and chilly, but I walked the eight blocks to the office, enjoying the feel of the breeze and my flowy dress on my skin. I was reluctant to take it off, not only because it was beautiful and Chanel for heaven's sake, but because he gave it to me, and I could still feel his hands on it.

I wasn't bereft without him, but I had it bad. I missed him more than I thought I would, and I was resentful that I couldn't have him and resentful that I wanted him.

I was disoriented, too. One minute kidnapped and running for my life. The next minute walking to the office. An office that was unfamiliar, too, a new office. I had only arrived in London a few weeks before, and was just getting my bearings, when I was offered the trip to Simoros.

High Life magazine was my dream job and despite a London-induced case of itchy feet, I was thrilled my old college friend Deanna had looked me up in New York and more or less begged me to be her new features editor. She had started her own magazine, and she promised me a makeover, a made-over salary, and a plush office. She kept all her promises and threw in one more perk.

"This is Amy," Deanna told me on my first day of work, her perfectly toned arm and perfectly manicured finger swaying gracefully toward a mousy little girl, as if she was a prize I had won in the Price is Right. Deanna was dressed entirely in Ungaro and ungodly high heels, her back ramrod straight, and her manufactured boobs slightly on display through a gap in her blouse.

Tiny little Amy was Deanna's polar opposite. Her black hair was curly and frizzy and floated about ten inches out around her head, completely defying gravity and making her a little reminiscent of the bride of Frankenstein. She was dressed entirely in gray, everything stretched out and washed too many times. Despite her diminutive size, she wore ballet flats. She had an aura of ease and comfort like a well-worn shoe.

And that seemed to be Amy's raison d'être. She lived to make me happy. If I was happy, Amy was happy. If I was very happy, Amy was deliriously happy. I got used to her enthusiasm for everything me very quickly. She got me situated in my office, in my job, and opened my mail, which included the invitation to the Simoros Islands.

But my return to the office after being away was met with silence. Deanna was out of town on business, and no one seemed to know where Amy was.

I sat at my desk. Everything was still peach and pristine. I lit some candles and turned on the corner waterfall.

Sanctuary.

My desk was clean. I couldn't find any mail to open or stories to edit. Until Amy came back, I had nothing to do except play solitaire on my computer. I cheated my way through winning three games.

I fiddled with the buttons on my phone. Scotland Yard, MI6, FBI, there were so many people I could call to report Brodie and Logan and everyone else involved in my kidnapping. I tapped my finger against the headset.

Who to call? Who to call?

I weighed my revenge quotient. I was angry enough to get Brodie renditioned to a secret jail in Pakistan where he would be tortured. The CIA would be best for rendition, I thought. They could pick him up, slip a black hood over his head, Tase him (Oh, beautiful karma!), and waterboard him in a dark cell somewhere.

I would have loved to see him waterboarded. I wondered if they would take a photo for me, and I could frame it in my office.

I visualized the photo on my office wall, and I pondered the long distance call to CIA headquarters. Then I wondered if I really wanted to have Brodie tortured. He did save me after all, and he was a good kisser. But he saved me only after he kidnapped me, I reminded myself. And I should never have let him kiss me. Big mistake.

Brodie's lips had magical powers. They distracted me from hating him. His lips, his arms, his everything. Distracting. I thought about his everything. His everything could probably beat the CIA's everything. Even if I called them, how would they ever catch him?

And would they even believe me? How would I ever explain or prove what happened to me? I looked down at my healthy feet. No, that wouldn't be proof enough.

What was the statute of limitations on kidnapping? It had to be more than a week. I had time to make a call, I told myself. No need to rush things. To top it off, I promised Brodie I would forget about the kidnapping.

Moreover, my heart wasn't in it. If they caught Brodie, they would try him for Taylor's murder, and that wouldn't be fair. I wouldn't have minded him being tortured, but Brodie didn't deserve to be accused of a crime he didn't commit.

And, I figured London was safe. Gurzhikhanov's operation had been blown up, and it would take a long time for him to reorganize and find somebody else to kidnap me. By that time, he would probably be dead or on to some other scheme.

"Miss Williams." Amy appeared at my door, out of breath.

"Amy!" I jumped up to hug her. Finally, a friendly face.

"You're back early," she said. She was not her usual ebullient self. In fact, she looked worried and not entirely pleased to see me.

"Well, the trip wasn't all that it was cracked up to be. Hey, something's different about you," I said. I gave her a thorough once-over. Amy didn't seem as shlumpy as usual. "I know. You have makeup on. You look great."

"I do?" Amy rubbed her face with the palm of her hand.

"Don't wipe it off. It looks great."

"Ready to get back to work? I've got some stories here, somewhere." She rifled through her desk, tossing papers this way and that. She followed me back to my desk and handed me a press release.

"This says that they're making a statue of Karl Lagerfeld," I said.

"Lagerfeld is an icon of fashion. This is a very important story for High Life magazine," she said, swatting at errant hairs that had fallen over her eyes.

"Amy, it's in butter. They're making the statue out of butter."

"Butter?" She scanned the article. "It has to be maintained in a just-above-freezing cooler. It sounds like cutting edge technology. We need to be on top of this story," she said.

"So, we're interested in the technology angle? Better yet, we could do the global warming angle. All that air-conditioning needed to keep the Karl Lagerfeld butter from melting is ipso facto melting our polar ice caps. I can see the headline now."

"All right," Amy said, dragging out the words.

"Oh, I know!" I snapped my fingers as if I had just discovered electricity. "Screw the technology angle, this is an exposé on bulimia and anorexia. You can't eat butter if you want to fit into his clothes, but the designer is actually made of butter."

"Right. Sounds great."

"What's going on here?" I demanded.

"What do you mean?"

I waved the press release under her nose. "I mean, what's going on here? Karl Lagerfeld made out of butter? What's up with you? You come in here, late, out of breath. You don't know which way is up." A lightbulb went off in my head. I clapped my hands together. "I know. You've got a boyfriend."

"Uh-" she said.

"Of course. The makeup, the coming in late. You have a boyfriend. Oh, Amy, I'm so happy for you. Tell me all about him."

"Well-" she started.

Amy had been seeing him for a while. He was older and very debonair. He was rich, but Amy didn't care about that. More important, she said, he was brilliant, and he saw the world the same way she did.

I was delighted for her. I was tempted to tell her about Brodie, but I kept quiet. I was happy enough that she was happy.

There wasn't much work to do, but I stayed at the office until early evening. At seven, Amy came in my office, holding a long, black garment bag.

"I have something for you that you're going to like," she said. "Deanna was called away on business, but she has a gala to attend tomorrow night. How about you go in her place?"

My body said to stay in, sleep for twenty-four hours and eat a gallon of rocky road ice cream, but I didn't want to be alone with my thoughts. I needed to be out in the world in other people's company and forget about Brodie and my kidnapping.

"Sounds fantastic," I said.

Amy handed me the garment bag with Deanna's dress inside. She also gave me Deanna's spa day appointment at the chicest salon in London.

"She gets everything done," Amy said with glee. "You'll be there all day. You'll be a new woman from head to toe."

Since I needed to be a new woman, I agreed to take Deanna's appointments.

My hair was cut and highlighted. They did things to my eyebrows that I thought were physically impossible. My face was scraped, peeled, masked, and electrocuted. I was wrapped and sweated and sucked and rolled. I was beaten with leaves, sprayed with water, and massaged with rocks. My hands were dipped in grease, my feet rubbed in brown sugar. My fingernails and toenails were painted "I'm a Tramp Red."

I was spritzed with a custom-made scent, and my face was transformed into someone else's. I was a woman without a freckle, a mark, a line, or imperfection of any kind. I tried out facial expressions in the mirror, and I was still good to go. It was a miracle. For good measure, my tarot cards were read. I was supposed to meet a tall, dark stranger, they said.

The last step in a Deanna Special after all of the primping and pampering was a waxing session with Svetlana, who I later learned was feared and respected by women around the world, her name uttered only in hushed tones.

I walked through the door at the back of the salon and followed a long, dark hallway until I got to a tiny room with two tables in it. They were supposed to be divided for privacy by curtains, but the curtains were not drawn, giving me an eyeful of a woman's bikini wax on the table by the far wall. The table closest to the door was mine.

"Take off clothes," said my waxer woman Svetlana, a twin to the other who was dutifully ripping out pubic hair from the other customer. Both waxer women were short and squat with enormous forearms, muscled from years of waxing, I gathered.

"I'm sort of a wax virgin," I said modestly, slowly removing my pants.

"Weer-gin?" she asked through her thick, Eastern European accent.

"I've never done this before," I said, more than a little nervous.

"Take off clothes," she said. "Get on table." She made it clear that she was in no mood for weer-gin talk or nervous clients. She was all business.

I took off my pants and began to climb onto the table, but she insisted that I remove my panties, as well. I swallowed and reminded myself that I was supposed to be sophisticated and cosmopolitan. Who cared if a waxer woman saw my hoo-ha?

I removed my panties and hitched myself onto the table, silently complimenting myself on my daring when she pointed at my never-before-waxed private part and started yelling in her native language. This brought the attention of the other waxer woman who walked over to my table to see what all the fuss was about. She, too, pointed and yelled, disapprovingly. The tirade continued in a Slavic language with a disgusted look on their faces. I blushed from my ankles all the way up.

"H-hey!" I finally stammered, covering myself up. "I've never gotten any complaints before, you know."

"No razor!" shouted the woman.

"No shave!" the other added for good measure.

"Huh?"

The other customer turned to me lazily. "They don't want you to shave down there. Your bikini line," she drawled.

Svetlana nodded. "No shave!"

"Okay! I promise I won't shave!" I would have said anything to get their attention away from my privates.

Pacified, they got back to their business. I lay back and felt the warm wax smear onto my lower leg. She gently put a cloth on top of the wax and rubbed it. It felt wonderful. Why hadn't I done this before? It was like getting a massage, and if I switched to waxing permanently, I wouldn't have to shave every few days anymore.

The massage took a turn for the worse when she ripped the cloth off my leg in a swift motion. My mouth opened in a silent scream. I looked down to see if my skin was still there. "Oh, my God," I murmured.

"You get used to it," the other customer said.

But I didn't get used to it. By the time she reached my upper legs, I was cold and shivering and ready for a hospital. I searched my memory of medical knowledge and wondered if a person could die by waxing. I was horrified at the thought of being found dead this way, naked with leg hair-covered cotton strips next to me.

But I didn't hop off the table and leave. I felt a little ashamed at the scolding by the women who were probably former East German shot-putters, and I didn't want to be a coward when the woman next to me was taking her torture without the teensiest complaint.

"Legs up!" Svetlana commanded.

I lifted my knees, but it wasn't enough. "Up! Up!" she ordered. I didn't know what she wanted. Annoyed, she lifted my legs herself until they were up over my ears.

"What on earth-" I started.

"All off. You get all off," she explained.

She dripped wax where I never thought wax could be dripped and ripped away. They probably heard my scream back in New York.

Deanna's dress turned out to be a magical confection that flowed to the floor in shades of blue. The dress was backless, and there wasn't much front, either. I hesitated wearing it, but one look in the mirror took my breath away.

"You will never look better than this," I told myself.

It turned out that the gala took place just outside of London in a mansion straight out of a Jane Austen novel. I rode in the back of a taxi up the long, lighted driveway past a forest of trees to get there.

A row of servants greeted the guests. There was a steady stream of people walking through the marble columns into the house. I took out my invitation nervously, and handed it to the woman just inside the door.

"Miss Williams," she said, all smiles. "We are expecting you. You will be at table number three. I've picked out a charming dinner companion for you."

"Thank you." I was a little unnerved that she knew who I was, but I reminded myself that as features editor for High Life magazine, I would be expected at many social engagements.

"This is a beautiful place," I said.

"Yes, it is. Lord Gairloch has done a marvelous job maintaining his family home."

I stumbled. "Excuse me? Lord who?"

"Gairloch," she said and tended to the next guest.

I scanned the crowd. How did Logan describe him? Papa Bear. He was Brodie and Logan's man in the government, the one looking out for Brodie but looking for him, as well. I had no idea what Papa Bear Gairloch looked like, but I had a hunch he knew exactly who I was.