Wildfire Page 18

  “No. But I’m going to be. We’re all going to be.”

  My laptop screamed at me. Bug’s face filled it. “Get here! Now, now, now!”

  I sprinted out the door to Rogan’s HQ, Arabella at my heels.

  I ran through the first floor, pounded up the stairs, and burst onto the second floor. Rynda stood next to Bug, her face pale, her phone to her ear. Kidnappers.

  “. . . scared me. I’m very scared.”

  She listened for a moment. “My husband is everything to me. I’m going to give the phone to Ms. Baylor. She’s authorized to negotiate on our behalf.” She handed the phone to me.

  “This is Nevada Baylor.”

  “Good,” a cultured male voice said on the other end. “Perhaps we can finally get somewhere.”

  “You broke the rules of engagement,” I said.

  Bug’s fingers danced over the keyboard and the man’s voice echoed through the room.

  “Oh?”

  “We had an understanding, and you broke it.”

  “What kind of an understanding, Ms. Baylor?”

  “You want your ransom. My client wants the father of her children safely home. You trust that we won’t involve authorities and that we will surrender the ransom, and we trust that you will keep Brian safe and allow us time to prepare the ransom. You made a demand, you gave us no chance to respond, and then you sent Harcourt to attack Rynda and her children in her house. And now you sent us a severed ear. This is a severe breach of trust.”

  There was a long pause.

  “The Harcourt incident was unplanned,” the man said finally. “It won’t be repeated.”

  “Is Brian still alive?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “We would like proof of life, please.”

  “Very well.”

  The phone went silent. Rynda clenched her fists.

  “Hello.” Brian’s quiet voice echoed through the room.

  Bug pushed a mic toward Rynda. “How are you?” she asked, her voice breaking.

  “In pain,” he said.

  “Did they treat your wound? Did they bring in a doctor?” Rynda asked.

  “Yes, but it still hurts. Please give them whatever they want.”

  “I love you,” she said. “I’m trying, honey. I’m doing everything I can. Please hold on for a little longer.”

  “I love you too,” Brian said. He sounded dull, his words devoid of any emotion. Maybe it was his ear, and he was in shock.

  Rynda clenched her hands into a single fist. She looked like she wanted to scream.

  “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way,” the kidnapper said, “let’s get back to business, shall we?”

  “It would help us a great deal if you told us what we’re looking for,” I said.

  “You cannot believe that Rynda is that naive.”

  “I don’t need to believe anything,” I said. “I’m a truthseeker, and I’m telling you that my client has no idea what you’re asking. The most I got out of Vincent, before he dove through the window, was that it’s something connected to Rynda’s mother.”

  Another pause. Vincent mustn’t have told him. Ha.

  “That should be good enough,” he said.

  “We’re looking for a needle in a haystack and we don’t even know if it’s a needle. It could be a pen or an apple. We’ve gone through Brian and Rynda’s computers. We didn’t find it.”

  “It’s not in the computer.” A note of irritation crept into his voice. “It’s somewhere in the house. Or outside of it, in a personal safe deposit box, or wherever else Olivia stashed it.”

  “You want us to find we don’t know what in we don’t know where.”

  “And you’ll find it, if you want Brian to survive.”

  “Could you at least give us time?”

  “Very well. You have forty-eight hours.”

  I had expected twenty-four.

  “I suggest you make good use of it. I hate to see children cry because they miss their parent, don’t you? If I don’t have what I need in forty-eight hours, I’ll deliver their father to them in pieces.”

  The disconnect signal filled the room. Bug turned the feed off.

  “Someone needs to squish him,” Arabella said. Red tinted her cheeks. She clenched her teeth. He really managed to piss her off.

  I turned to Rynda. “You don’t have to worry about Brian for forty-eight hours.”

  “But what happens at the end?” She hugged herself.

  “We’ll deal with that then. Have you called Scroll?”

  “Yes. They’re on the way.”

  “Good. I need you to take this evening and think back over the past few weeks. They seem to be absolutely sure that whatever they want is in your house or somewhere where you would have access to it. Did your mother give you anything as a keepsake? No matter how unimportant? Ask the kids.”

  She sighed. “I’ll do that.”

  “I can talk to the children.”

  “No.” She held up her hand. “No, I’ll do it.”

  “Thank you.”

  She went down the stairs.

  I turned to Bug, held out my phone, and typed a text to Bern, holding the phone so Bug could see what I was typing. I didn’t want to take any chances that Rynda or someone else would overhear.

  Talked to kidnapper. He’s absolutely sure that whatever we’re looking for isn’t on Brian’s computer. Could we check if Sherwood computers were accessed using Brian’s credentials from some unusual location?

  “On it.”

  I leaned to Bug and whispered. “Could you please check the route Brian took to work and find out how many cameras are facing that street?”

  Bug blinked and ran to his workstation.

  My cell rang. Please be something good. I looked at it. Rogan.

  Here we go. We’d have to discuss Garen Shaffer. I knew this would happen sooner or later. “Hello?”

  His voice had the calm, collected overtones of a Prime. “You promised me a dinner.”

  My mind made a 180-degree turn and it took me a second to catch up. “Yes.”

  “I’ll pick you up in an hour and a half. Cocktail attire.”

  Cocktail attire meant there was probably a reservation. I was wearing bloodstained ACUs.

  “Do you need a dress?”

  What was he up to? “No. I have one.”

  “See you at seven.”

  I exhaled and trudged back down the stairs to take a shower and get dressed.

  Behind me Arabella spoke into the phone. “Catalina, what are you doing? . . . Can you cancel that? Nevada needs help.”

  “Did he say what this was about?” Grandma Frida asked for the twelfth time.

  “No.”

  I sat at the kitchen table and tried to work on my laptop. Bern and Cornelius were still going through Brian’s correspondence, so I decided to scour his mushroom Pinterest account.

  When you waited for an important phone call, ninety minutes seemed like an impossibly long time. When you had to go from blood and gore to some sort of presentable, ninety minutes was nothing. Luckily for me, my sisters had mobilized to help. The moment I stepped out of the shower and wrapped the towel around myself, Arabella attacked my hair. Catalina appeared with an airbrush I’d bought her last Christmas, because she kept worrying about her nonexistent acne and told me to sit down and not move my face. I was dried, styled, and had a liquid mist of makeup sprayed at my face. I drew the line at contouring. If I gave them free rein, I’d come out of my bathroom with skull-like cheeks and Cleopatra-style wings on my eyes. But because of them, I had finished in record time.

  Now Rogan had to show up.

  The word of his previous failure to appear must’ve spread, because the entire family found their way to the kitchen one by one. Bern was reading a textbook in the corner. Grandma Frida sat next to me and attempted to knit something that was probably a scarf but looked like a brilliant attempt at a Gordian knot. My mother rearranged the tea drawer, which she’s never
done since we’ve had one. Arabella sat across from me, her gaze glued to her cell phone. Catalina sat on my left, texting furiously. Zeus lounged under the table by my feet, and Cornelius was drinking tea across the table. Even Leon wandered in and leaned against the wall, waiting.

  Nobody was talking.

  “Just out of curiosity,” Cornelius said, “if Rogan doesn’t arrive, will all of you skin him alive?”

  “Yes,” everyone except me said at the same time.

  I sighed.

  The doorbell rang.

  I clicked the key on my laptop. The view from the front camera filled it. A woman stood at the door, wearing a dark pantsuit, her silvery-blond hair caught in a ponytail. A little girl with dark hair stood next to her holding a large white cat. A large Doberman pinscher dutifully guarded both of them. Diana, Matilda, her cat, and Bunny.

  “Matilda is here,” I said.

  “Oh good.” Catalina got up and went to open the door. A few moments later, Cornelius’ sister and his daughter made their way to our kitchen.

  “Daddy.” Matilda held out her hands. Cornelius got up off his chair, crouched, and hugged her. Arabella discreetly took a pic with her phone. I couldn’t blame her. Matilda was too cute for words.

  Matilda blinked. She looked a lot like her late mother, Nari Harrison, but her expression, serious and somber, was pure Cornelius.

  Behind her, Diana frowned. “What is that?”

  Matilda’s eyes widened. “A kitty.”

  “I have a surprise for you.” Cornelius smiled.

  Oh. He hadn’t told them.

  Zeus shifted under the table, a massive furry shape, and his huge head poked out half a foot from Matilda’s face.

  Matilda opened her mouth, her eyes wide.

  “Oh my God,” Diana said.

  Bunny froze in place, clearly unsure what to do.

  Matilda held out her hand. Zeus nudged it with his nose. She backed up, and the huge beast squeezed all of himself out. He was a foot taller than Matilda. She gasped.

  The blue beast lowered his head, and Matilda hugged his furry neck. “He’s so soft.”

  My sisters snapped simultaneous pictures.

  “He is beautiful . . .” Diana crouched and scratched under Zeus’ chin. “The eyes, Cornell. Like jewels. How did you even manage this? This isn’t possible.”

  “Feel him,” Cornelius said.

  “I do. That’s remarkable.”

  The door chimed again. I checked my laptop.

  Rogan stood at our front door. Behind him a gunmetal-grey Mercedes-Benz E200 waited, its lights on. Rogan wore a black suit. He was perfectly proportioned, and unless I stood next to him, it was easy to forget how large he was. The suit emphasized everything, from his height and long legs to his narrow flat waist and broad shoulders. He’d shaved. His short hair was brushed. He looked every inch a billionaire.

  He was definitely up to something.

  “He’s here!” Grandma Frida announced.

  My family forgot about the tiger-hound and crowded all around me.

  “Hot!” Arabella declared.

  “He’s going to propose.” Grandma Frida rubbed her hands together.

  “Mother!” my mom growled.

  “He isn’t going to propose. We’re going to dinner. Let me up!”

  I managed to escape the table.

  “A date?” Diana asked, smiling.

  “A dinner,” I said.

  “You look like a princess,” Matilda told me.

  “Thank you!” I hugged her, but she had already forgotten about me. Zeus was much more fascinating.

  I marched through the office to the front door and walked out into the Texas winter, where Rogan was waiting for me. He tilted his head, and I saw the exact moment heat sparked in his eyes.

  “You look fantastic,” he said.

  I wore a black dress, an Adriana Red original, from an up-and-coming Houston designer. I bought it for three hundred dollars last year, when her boutique store had just opened. Two months later a young star wore her green gown to the Emmys, and suddenly Adriana became a fashion name. I couldn’t afford her anymore—her prices had tripled overnight—but as far as I was concerned, I was wearing her best work. The dress was simple, but it glided down my body in a controlled cascade, emphasizing all the right curves while still making me look elegant. Its hemline fell a couple of inches above the knee, the perfect length to show off my legs while still remaining professional. The V-neck plunged a little lower than was strictly appropriate for a business dinner, but I wasn’t having a business dinner. My hair fell on my back in soft waves. My shoes gave me four inches of extra height. My outfit wouldn’t take any fashion prisoners, but nobody could find fault with it.

  Rogan’s eyes had turned hot and dark.

  “You look great too,” I told him.

  “The dress needs a little sparkle.” He pulled a rectangular black box out of his pocket and opened it. A beautiful emerald lay inside. A little larger than my thumbnail, the stone caught the light from the lamp above the door and shone with breathtaking green tinted with a hint of blue. It dangled on the pale gold chain like a tear.

  “Yes?” Rogan asked. There was a slight wariness in him, as if he expected things to go terribly wrong any second.

  “It’s gorgeous,” I told him honestly.

  He took it from the box. I held up my hair and he slipped the chain over my neck. The stone settled on my skin, a radiant drop of light.

  “Just for dinner though,” I told him. “I can’t keep it.”

  “I bought it for you,” he said. “I meant to give it to you for Christmas.”

  His face told me that rejecting the necklace would be rejecting him. Yes, it was an expensive emerald. I was probably wearing fifty thousand dollars on my neck, which was more than all of the jewelry I’ve owned in my lifetime put together. But then he had more money than he could count in a lifetime, and if he wanted me to wear the necklace, I would.

  “Thank you.”

  He smiled, a satisfied dragon.

  “If you keep looking at me like that, we won’t make it to dinner,” I told him quietly.

  “Then you better get in the car.”

  He held the door out for me and I slid into the heated interior of the Mercedes.

  Flanders’ Steakhouse sat at the top of a twenty-story building on Louisiana Street, just southwest of the theater district, and it took full advantage of the view. Floor-to-ceiling windows presented the spectacular expanse of the night sky, below which Houston spread, glowing with warm yellow and orange against the darkness. Freeways curved among the towers, channeling the current of cars seemingly through mid-air. The floor, ceiling, and walls offered soothing browns, and the delicate chandeliers, wrought iron spirals supporting upturned triangles of pale glass, softened the décor even further. I’d gone out on a few business dinners, and most Houston steakhouses catered to executives with business accounts. They ran either straight into rustic Texas, with longhorn skulls and cow pelts on the walls, or they resembled gentlemen’s clubs, where one had to be a card-carrying member. This was nice.

  It finally hit me. We were on a date. Our first real date.

  An impeccably dressed host led us through the restaurant, past well-dressed patrons. Some of them had to be House members, because as we moved past them, they saw Rogan’s face and stopped what they were doing. I got a few stares as well, some surprised and puzzled, some openly curious, especially from women. Women watched Rogan wherever he went, and I was getting the once-overs as they tried to figure out what was so special. That was fine. They wouldn’t ruin the date for me.

  We arrived at a secluded table covered in chocolate-colored cloth. Rogan held my chair out. He didn’t make it slide out for me with his power. No telekinetic fireworks. Tonight it would be just me and Connor.

  I sat. He took his place across from me, with his back against the wall, a spot that would conveniently let him watch the entire restaurant for incoming danger.


  A waitress appeared at our table as if by magic. Menus were placed in front of us.

  “Wine?” Rogan asked me.

  Why not. “Yes.”

  “What do you like?”

  I liked Asti Spumante. It was sweet and bubbly and it cost five dollars per bottle. “Red. Not too dry.” Here’s hoping I didn’t make a fool of myself.

  Rogan ordered a wine from the list. The waitress bowed her head as if she was granted knighthood by some royalty and glided away.

  I grinned at Rogan from above my menu.

  He grinned back. The set of his shoulders relaxed slightly.

  I stared at the menu. Oh my.

  “I’m starving. I haven’t had anything to eat since I stole a bear claw from your kitchen this morning.”

  “You didn’t steal it. All my bear claws are yours.”

  I studied the appetizers. Roasted Portobello mushroom ravioli. Tenderloin carpaccio. Chilled seafood cocktail.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked me. There it was, that weary caution in his eyes.

  “I’m trying to decide what I can order that has the smallest chances of me spilling it on myself.”

  He laughed quietly under his breath. “I’ve never seen you spill anything on yourself.”

  “That’s not true. When we were climbing through the Dumpsters into the high-rise on Sam Houston, I spilled rancid spaghetti all over myself.”

  And why did I just mention rancid spaghetti. I sighed.

  “That doesn’t count. You stepped on it.”

  More like rolled in it, but now wasn’t the best time to point out that distinction.

  The waitress appeared again with a bottle of red wine. She dramatically opened it and poured a little into two glasses. There was some sort of ceremony here I remembered from the movies. You held the glass a certain way, swished the wine inside, smelled it or something. I raised the glass and took a small sip. It washed over my tongue, warm and refreshing.

  “It’s delicious,” I said.

  Rogan nodded at the waitress. She beamed and stepped aside. Another waiter appeared. A bread basket was placed on our table containing several small loaves, crunchy and fresh from the oven. Small heated plates of two types of herbed olive oil followed. The aroma of freshly baked bread made my mouth water.