Leonie Foucher had waited patiently for her chance to escape Harold Beecham’s clutches every day for the five months he’d held her captive. Less than a month ago, he’d brought her news of her mother’s death at the hands of her cousins, and the grief nearly sent her over the edge into madness. If she hadn’t suspected it was his intent all along—to hone her into a grief-stricken, vengeful weapon to use against Alastair—she might have been easier to manipulate. As it was, she was fairly certain Alastair Thorne had had no choice. He didn’t strike her as a man who would kill indiscriminately.
She remembered him as a kind man. Granted, one who didn’t suffer fools lightly, but in all the times he visited her mother in the past, he’d shown nothing but affection for their small family. His visits were less frequent since Aurora Fennell-Thorne had fallen into her stasis. He’d once explained to Leonie he felt the need for hands-on care. He didn’t like to leave his Rorie alone for long periods of time. This, she understood. When Armand had fallen ill the one and only time in his young life, she never left his side except to sleep, and only then because her mother was there to care for him in her stead. No, Alastair wasn’t cruel, and he wouldn’t have killed or had Delphine killed for no reason.
Armand. Her boy. How she missed him! Without her mother, Leonie feared he’d been thrust into a foster care system. Small for his age, he might suffer at the hands of bullies and the like. Mother had parted ways with her sister, Rachelle, early on in life. Leonie was doubtful anyone would know to contact her aunt to help with Armand. Her heart ached for her son.
The door cracked open, and one of the night guards entered. Matthew. Tension eased from her shoulders as he smiled her way. Tall, he had the muscular makeup of a bodybuilder. With his mussed blond hair and his carefree smile, he’d found a place in her heart. Not that she’d ever let him know because she couldn’t be certain this wasn’t another ploy of Harold’s to get her to do what he wanted.
Matt paused in front of her, a dinner tray in his hands. “You look sad.”
“Nothing like stating the obvious.” She shrugged and shifted to take the food. “I miss my son. I don’t know what’s happened to him since Mother’s… death.” Clearing her throat, she set the metal tray on the table. “Anyway, thank you for dinner. You may go.”
She felt more than heard his approach. Her nerve endings became live wires.
“Do you want me to see what I can find out?”
Boy, did she ever. Again, she gave a delicate shrug. “What can either of us really do for Armand while I’m here? I don’t know if it would torture me more to know if he was handed over to the State or not.”
“Leonie, look at me.”
Unable to comply with his request, she removed the tops to the dishes then replaced them. Perhaps she could eat later, when she wasn’t so upset.
“Tell me how to help you,” he whispered achingly.
Anger rolled through her. Spinning to face him, she snapped, “You can release me.”
“Beecham would kill us both.” His left eye twitched. “I won’t go against my employer.”
“Then you can’t help me, can you?”
They stared at one another, and in his blue eyes, she saw frustration. What she couldn’t tell was whether that frustration was born from her rejection of his affection or from his inability to manipulate her. At this point, she didn’t dare trust anyone.
His frown dropped away, and a cool, indifferent mask replaced his expression. Turning his back to the south side of the room, he looked around. His lips scarcely moved when he lowered his voice and said, “Be ready to go at midnight tomorrow.”
Hope flared to life within. Did he mean what she thought he meant? Would he help her escape?
Casually, she presented her back and toyed with a lid again. He moved to the table and began laying out the silverware, his back to the camera in the corner of the room. “If I don’t arrive by fifteen past the hour, I’m not coming,” he said, whisper-soft. “Who can I contact on the outside to help you?”
“Alastair Thorne.”
He rolled his eyes. “Could you pick someone a little more accessible?”
She lifted the lid as if to sniff the contents. It blocked the lower half of her face from the camera. “He has a son, Nash Thorne. He’s in charge of Thorne Industries. I imagine getting a message to him might be easier. You could also try my cousin, Preston Thorne. He runs an antique shop in Leiper’s Fork, Tennessee.”
Matt twitched slightly. “Preston Thorne is dead.”
She tried not to react badly to the news. Placing the lid to the side, she eased into a chair. Matt’s body now blocked the camera.
“How? How did he die?” Preston had seemed invincible to her as a child. How anyone could hurt someone so large and vital was beyond her comprehension.
Concern and discomfort warred on Matt’s features.
“Matt. How?”
“He was shot and dumped in the woods of Leiper’s Fork.”
As she processed the information, tears came unbidden and slid down her cheeks. Ducking her head, she used the linen napkin to wipe them away. “My mother and Beecham were responsible, weren’t they? It’s the only reason Alastair would end her life or allow anyone else to.”
“I can’t begin to speculate. I only know the Thornes are a little harder to get to now. They’ve closed ranks.”
“Try Nash. If you can’t reach him, it’s likely I’m screwed and on my own.”
“No, you aren’t. I won’t let you be. Whatever happens, you and I are out of here tomorrow night.”
She wanted to grab his hand and offer up her thanks, but Beecham would have his security team watching her closely. Instead, she picked up her fork and pushed around the mashed potatoes.
Because he could no longer delay or account for the time in her room, Matt moved toward the door. It was the same whenever he was on duty. The brief minutes he visited with her at dinner were all the stolen moments they dared. He was almost to the door when she spoke.
“Matt? Thank you… for dinner.”
“You’re welcome, Leonie. I’ll be back to remove the trays in an hour.”
After he left, she was careful to keep her expression bland, as she had every day since she’d been here. To allow even a glimmer of excitement or hope, was to alert Harold of a potential escape plan. She prayed to the Goddess that Matt wasn’t playing her false.
Just as Nash was gearing up to return to his father’s estate, the main line for his office rang. Normally, he’d let his assistant answer or let it go to the after-hours service, but the second the light flashed on his main number, a sense of importance rippled through him.
“Hello?”
The person on the other end of the line cleared their throat and spoke low into the phone. “Hi, I need to get in touch with Nash Thorne. It’s urgent I speak with him.”
“Who’s calling?” Before he confirmed or denied his presence at the office, he wanted to be sure he wasn’t being set up.
The man on the other end of the line cleared his throat a second time. Although his voice was still laced with tension, irritation replaced the uncertainty. “Look, I don’t have much time. My name is Matt Turner, and I’m calling about his cousin. Is it possible to speak with him or not?”
Nash channeled and processed the energy of his caller. The man was on the level as far as he could tell. “This is Nash. Which cousin are you referring to? I happen to have quite a few.”
“Oh, yeah, sorry. Her name is Leonie Foucher. She’s being held against her will by my employer.” A gusty exhale came across the line. “If we’re being honest, man, I am worried for her safety. She seems to think you can be trusted to help her.”
“I can. Is it safe for you to talk now?”
“As safe as it ever will be. My co-workers think I’m out for a smoke.”
“Okay. Tell me what you know.”
Nash listened as Matt explained where Leonie was being held. Other than a location and the identity of his employer, the man was clueless as to why she was a prisoner to begin with. Matt continued on to say he’d promised to get her out the next evening, whether Nash would help or not.
“I could use an assist. If Beecham even suspects, I doubt my life would be worth anything. He’s a bad seed, man.”
“Can you memorize these coordinates?”
When he agreed, Nash gave him the location of a downtown warehouse owned by a corporation under the umbrella of Thorne Industries.
“If I can determine you aren’t setting me up, I’ll be there to get you and Leonie to safety.”
“One more thing, Mr. Thorne. Leonie’s son, Armand—is he okay? She’s supremely worried about his welfare.”
“Tell her not to worry. Armand is receiving the best possible care.”
“Thank you. She’ll be relieved.” He swore softly. “Gotta go. Tomorrow night. Don’t fuck us over.”
The line went dead. Nash hoped to hell Matt hadn’t been discovered. If he was, there would be no doubt the man’s corpse would turn up somewhere in the next few weeks. The other concern would be what Matt spilled if he was tortured by Beecham’s elite security team.
He replaced the receiver in the cradle and picked up the book he’d stopped for, then teleported back to Alastair’s estate.
“I had the most interesting phone call,” he told the group without preamble. He went on to detail the conversation. “I think Matt Turner is on the up and up.”
“I’ll run a background check,” Ryker offered.
Nash stopped him with a hand on his forearm. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. It’s possible it could electronically trigger an alert to Beecham. Oddly, I trust the guy I spoke with.”
His father nodded. “I agree. If you feel we can trust him, then we will.” He checked his watch. “There’s plenty of time to send a team to fortify the warehouse. I’ll have Alfred assign a group of ten men to stage the rescue and another three to watch the location Mr. Turner gave you. No Thorne sets foot near that building until we can determine it’s safe. No exceptions. I won’t lose another family member to Beecham.”
“Understood.”
When Alastair left to inform Alfred of his wishes, Nash glanced around, his attention stopping on Spring. He grinned. “If you’re here, you’ve come up with something exceptional, cousin.”
“I don’t know about exceptional,” she objected good-naturedly with a twinkle in her eye.
“Right. Tell me.” After she explained, he gave her a one-armed hug. “Like I said, exceptional.”
Hearing her light laughter, he smiled. He’d become close with his cousins over the last year, and his respect for Spring’s intelligence was through the roof. She not only had a photographic memory, she somehow catalogued the contents of both the Thorne and Carlyle grimoires in her mind. If she needed, she could draw forth a spell at a moment’s notice. When Spring claimed she was “checking” the books, she made sure she had the most minute detail of a spell written down for whomever she might be obtaining it for. It had nothing to do with her ability to recall what she’d read. At times like these, when she mixed and matched the magic, she left the others shaking their heads in awed wonder.
Handing her the book he’d brought, he asked, “What do you make of this to extract the blood from my mother’s clothing?”
She opened the tome to the bookmarked section. A quick skim of the page caused her to nod. “This is perfect.”
“All we need is for Sebastian Drake to retrieve the evidence related to Trina’s death, and we can get started,” Ryker added.
Alastair returned, and Nash pulled him aside. “What do you mean to do with Leonie after we meet her?”
“You and I are going to evaluate her mental health and determine if we can get a sense of her intentions toward anyone involved in her mother’s death. If we suspect for even one second she might want revenge, she’ll trade one prison for another.” His father’s expression hardened. “As I said, I won’t lose another family member.”
The hair on Nash’s arms rose, and a chill chased along his spine. There was no doubt in his mind that Alastair would do what he thought was necessary, even to the point of murder should the need arise. Nash rested a hand on his father’s shoulder. “You’ll get no argument from me, Sperm Donor. Let’s try to gain permission from Isis. I’d like to clear Uncle Ryker and bury Beecham in the process, if we can.”