“Both reward and punishment.”
“How so?”
Father Stearns turned his head to her and the handcuffs popped open. At that moment their faces were so close together if she leaned in an inch they’d be kissing.
“I f**ked them.”
Grace sat back on her knees, the keys falling from her hand.
Father Stearns brought his arms around and removed the cuffs. He massaged his wrists and Grace could see purple bruises peeking out from underneath the black cuffs of his clerics. Even drugged he’d clearly put up a fight.
“Thank you, Grace.” Father Stearns came to his feet. “I no longer wish to kill Kingsley. No more than usual, anyway.”
“You’re welcome, Father.” Grace’s voice quivered but Father Stearns was polite enough not to point it out. Perhaps he’d had enough playing with her mind tonight. Pity. She already rather missed it. At least it had distracted her from the gnawing terror for a few minutes.
He reached a hand down to her, a hand she took with more pleasure than she felt comfortable admitting to herself.
“You’re welcome to call me Søren. I’d prefer it if you did.”
“Of course...Søren. That’s what Nora always calls you. She says she can’t call you ‘Father Stearns’ without wanting to giggle,” she said, coming to her feet. She straightened her clothes, which had gotten rumpled while sitting on the floor. “Søren’s a Danish name, yes? What does it mean?”
“It means ‘stern.’ A good name for me, I’ve been told.”
“I beg to differ. I don’t think you’re quite as stern as you’re letting on.”
“Careful, Grace...it’s dangerous behind the wall.”
His tone was teasing but she heard a real warning in his words, a warning she decided to heed.
“So, what now?” she asked, deciding a change of subject might be for the best. “What should we do?”
“The only thing we can do is wait. For a week now she’s been playing a game with us. Sending photographs, breaking into homes—my sister’s, Eleanor’s... She stole a file from Kingsley’s office. This is a woman who wants to play a mind game with us. Eleanor will stay alive as long as Marie-Laure enjoys playing the game.”
“She will be fine. Nora will,” Grace said again, more for her sake than his. “I mean if any woman can get through this, it’s Nora. Isn’t it?”
“She’s strong, intelligent and cunning. She’s well-trained. If forced to defend herself, she can. She knows how to hurt people and hurt them badly. As a teenager she got into a few fights, but as an adult, she’s never hurt anyone without their consent. She may have to now.” He paused and Grace watched as his large hands curled tight into fists before he relaxed his fingers once again. “I would pay any price to save her from this.”
She took his hand in hers and held it a moment.
“I know you would. I’d give anything to know something...anything. What is Marie-Laure waiting for?”“I don’t know. But surely she knows the silence and the waiting are the worst of tortures.”
“It has to end. It’s been a day already. Something has to—”
The sound of heavy footsteps in the hallways cut off the end of Søren’s sentence. She heard doors opening and slamming shut. She and Søren stepped into the hall. The man who’d escorted her to Kingsley’s office, Griffin, exhaled with relief at the sight of him.
“Søren,” the man said, almost panting in his panic. “There’s a girl here asking for you.”
“A girl?”
“She’s down in the front room.”
He looked at Grace and she knew it had happened. Finally. Marie-Laure had started the game.
“Did she tell you her name?” Søren asked as they strode down the hall, Grace following close behind.
“Nope. But she’s looks about eighteen, she’s blonde, she sounds foreign and she’s f**king gorgeous. You got a daughter you never told anyone about?”
“No,” Søren said, his pace quickening. “But I have a niece.”
10
THE PAWN
Laila pulled her knees to her chest on the sofa and shivered. Why was it so cold in here? Was it cold? Somewhere over her head one man spoke to another man. Although she spoke English almost as well as her native Danish, their words did not register with her. She heard static, white noise, and could only stare with fixed eyes at the doorway.
“What’s your name?” a gentle male voice asked in English. “Can you tell me your name?”
Finally the words cut through the static.
“Laila,” she whispered.
“Laila. That’s a pretty name. I’m Wes.”
“Hi, Wes.” She blinked and looked at him. Her eyes finally started to focus and she at last saw the person who’d carried her into the house. Before he’d just been a presence, male and tall. Now she saw him. He had shaggy blond hair and warm brown eyes and easily the most handsome face she’d ever seen on a man in her life. Man? Maybe not. He didn’t look that much older than her. Nineteen? Twenty, maybe.
“Are you hurt anywhere?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t think so.”
“Your face is bleeding a little. It looks like you scraped it on the concrete. We’ll clean it up and you’ll be okay.”