CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Damn. Frenchy could hit.

Eric pulled his heavy head up from his shoulder, and twisting his neck, spat the blood out of his mouth. Carlson’s guard had been working him over for what seemed like a year, but had probably only been an hour. Time didn’t matter after the first fist in his gut. His spleen had to be jelly. Blood oozed into his eye from at least one orbital laceration. He could barely see.

The brutal Frenchman wore gloves to the party. Leather gloves. With razor sharp, cutting seams running up the back of each finger and over his knuckles. Guess flunking the truth serum class had consequences.

Eric figured he would die in this sonofabitchin’ chair rather than betray Finn. Finn. Finn. Finn. He focused on that single name. Didn’t let another flit through his wandering mind. No way. No how. Concentration was the only line of defense against the seductive lure of psychoactive meds. Most bullies used some kind of truth serum to bring their mark to the edge of Never-Never land. Too much would put him to sleep. Permanently.

Unfortunately, shooting a victim up also reduced his hold on reality. Eric had enough in his veins to be dizzy, incoherent, and seeing things. Just not enough to spill his guts.

The gloved fist looked like a giant hammer from cartoon land coming at him. Ouch, shit. His head flew back on his spine. Frenchy grabbed a handful of hair, jerking his face to the ceiling. Eric huffed through his mouth because his nose was too full of blood. By then, his eyes were too swollen to see the bastard, but what the hell. Time was on Eric’s side. The human brain could only take so much before it shut down and lapsed into unconsciousness.

“Come on, Reynolds,” Frenchie hissed. “I’m tired of beating your lazy ass to make you talk. You were the last one with Powers. Where’d he go? What’d you do with him?”

Eric pushed the tip of his swollen tongue to the back of his bottom teeth. All were loose, but none were missing. “Bog,” he wheezed for the millionth time. “I hid him… at the bog. I think. You find him yet?”

He would’ve laughed, because his fuzzy brain found everything funny for some stupid reason, but he didn’t. Last time he laughed, he got—

SMACK!

Yeah. That.

Another fist landed to his right cheek. Then his left. “Stop lying! There weren’t no bog!”

Oh yes, there were. Umm, was. Aw, shit, who cares.

More spit and sweat flew. Blood. Maybe a brain cell or two. It made no difference. Eric could only endure what Frenchy dished out, so endure he did. But he had to know. “You going to the... ball, Sally?”

“Merde!” Frenchy about knocked Eric’s head off that time. “The ball is Monsieur Carlson’s problem. Stop calling me Sally!”

Eric let the twilight claim him with a whispered, “Good to know.”

Murphy was as good as his word. He was back in precisely thirty minutes with what looked like a large coat box under his arm. He must’ve gone shopping for himself and gotten a shave too. Dark glasses concealed his eyes. An Irish tweed cap perched on his head and he wore a new jacket. He took a seat facing the manicure booth where Shea was being thoroughly attended to. The briefest smile graced his mouth as he rested the box upright against the wall by his chair.

Maybe he’d bought a rifle. Shea hoped. That would be better than any coat. They could go into Carlson’s suite together with all guns blazing. Rescue Eric and Jordan. Find Rosie and the cabbie. Get the hell out of there. Lay waste to anyone who tried to stop her.

A fierce warrior wife had replaced the woman she’d been at the crack of dawn. She’d kept Murphy’s jacket on her lap, but now that he was back, she wanted to run to Ashford and rescue Eric. Had to be the hair.

Murphy must have read her mind. He motioned her with both palms to hold on.

The two women doing her nails and make-up chatted non-stop with each other, which was fine with Shea. She had other things on her mind beside whose baby was being baptized on Sunday or the high price of lamb shanks at the local market. She yearned for her husband, trying hard to not think what might be happening to him while she played Disney Princess.

Finally! Her blood-red acrylic nails were dry. The last poof of glittery sparkle was applied to her face and hair. She couldn’t get out of that chair fast enough.

Murphy was gracious enough to pay, although she still had all of the banknotes he’d given her. He didn’t even raise an eyebrow when Miss Redhead gave him the final total. Moira must have trained him well.

Picking up the box again, which had a plastic handle now that she had time to really look at it, his eyes scrolled over Shea’s new look. He helped with her jacket, then offered a cocked elbow like a lord would for a real lady. She rested her hand on his forearm, and the game was on.

They drove back toward Ashford, but this time Murphy drove right through the gate like he owned the place. “I asked for a room in the older part of the castle where Carlson’s staying so we’ll have some place to retreat to once we get our boys back,” he murmured under his breath. “I’ll need you to bring the suitcase while I take everything else.”

“Okay. Then what?” I’m so nervous!

He didn’t crack a smile. “Then we go dancing.”

Gradually, the castle appeared through the trees. Breathtaking. The view looked as if it had been taken right out of a fairytale. Towers. Turrets. Gardens. White swans on the nearby lake. Utterly gorgeous in an overwhelming way. The epitome of decadent wealth. A veritable stone edifice of upper crust splendor.

Through the two stone guard towers they went and over the bridge to Ashford. Murphy parked along the front entrance to the lobby and instantly Shea felt shabby. If the cars in the parking lot were any indication, she was way out of her element. A McLaren. The Rolls Royce two cars down looked just as expensive. Latching onto the suitcase, she focused on her reason for being there.

“Can I get that for you, ma’am?” a smartly uniformed bell cap asked the moment she set both feet to the ground.

“No thank you. I’ve got it.”

Stepping out of the way, he gestured her forward. Murphy took her arm and escorted her inside. “Smile. People are watching. As far as they know, you’re my young wife and I’m a lecherous old bastard.”

She glanced up at him. “That’s the plan?”

A tender emotion shifted over his face. “Yes. I hope Moira’s not here.”

“Is she supposed to be?”

He chuckled, his voice softer. “I’m kidding, Shea. Loosen up. At least act as if you like me.”

Shea pasted on a big smile and tossed her head, pushing her glistening mane over one shoulder. She latched onto Murphy’s arm and stepped in closer to him. “I can do that,” she said. To prove it, she tipped her head back and laughed as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

“That’s the spirit.”

They cut across the parking lot and ran up the stairs between two stone Irish Wolfhounds. At the top step, an older gentleman announced heartily, “Welcome to Ashford.”

While Murphy checked in, she stayed close by and gawked, thoroughly taken aback by the opulent lobby with its suits of armor and massive paintings.

“Will you be joining us for tea?” the woman at the counter asked.

Murphy tucked the stem of his dark glasses into his shirt collar. “We’d like to shake off the dust of our travels first if you don’t mind.”

“Right this way, sir.” She stepped away from the counter and led them to their second story room. Shea was nervously impressed. The room was grand, but she had Eric on her mind.

The woman explained how to control their environment from the bed. The universal remote controlled everything from the power sun-blinds to the big-screen television. Fancy that. And in case they wanted to watch the movie, Quiet Man, just press star.

Murphy dropped the box and garment bag on the bed. He yawned. He stretched. Then he hinted. “Thanks, ma’am. I can take it from here.”

As soon as she closed the door behind her, Murphy tossed a smaller box across the bed to Shea. A computer box. “I bought you a new toy. Now get your spider friends to work. We need to know where Carlson is in this joint. Then get dressed. I’ll lay out the duds.”

At last. Something she could do. But instead of spiders, this time she reached out to the frequency of Mother’s Tattle Tales and narrowed the band-width until…

There they are.

The very distinct sound of men’s laughter lifted up from the laptop’s speaker. “If Reynolds doesn’t snap out of it, I’m going to fill the tub with ice water and drown his ass. That’ll open his eyes.”

“What are you listening to?” Murphy leaned over her shoulder to peer at the screen.

“One of Mother’s Tattle Tales. I’m inside Carlson’s suite, but I can’t get any video.”

“Carlson won’t approve,” a definite smoker’s voice rasped. “Him liking his showers like he does. You’ll make a mess of that tub in there, and we’ll never hear the end of it.”

“I should’ve stayed in Africa,” the first man groused. “Could’ve done as I pleased with the prisoners in Darfur. Didn’t have no pretty boy screening my calls, neither. You know how long it’s been since I been inside a woman?”

A snicker.

Shea cringed.

Murphy tapped her shoulder. “Your dress and shoes are in the bathroom.”

She lifted her chin, but couldn’t hide the tears. These guys weren’t men. They were monsters. “He’s hurt,” were the only words she could squeeze out of her dry throat.

Murphy nodded somberly. “I get that, but I know that man of yours. So do you. He’s a fighter, isn’t he?”

But fighters got killed, too. So did heroes. It happened every day. Just read the papers.

Lifting her out of the seat, Murphy turned her toward the bathroom. “Happy hour begins in thirty. Let’s be early.”

She did as she was told, her fierce warrior persona subdued at what Eric was living through. Now was not the time to play dress up, but if this crazy scheme got her man back, then by hell, she would pretend she was Madonna.

Closing the door behind her, Shea turned on the light. There in steamy red elegance hung the dress. A silky pair of black French-cut panties lay on the vanity. Matching black heels stood near the door, ready for her to slide into them.

Murphy had thought of everything. Blushing, she slipped into the panties and then the dress, careful not to smudge her make-up or break a nail. She shimmied and jiggled until at last—she was in. All she needed was someone to zip her up.

Smoothing her fingers over the shimmering fabric, she looked at her reflection in the mirror. There was a day she and Eric had been the life of the party. They’d danced, they’d laughed, and everyone else had wished they were the charming lovers known as the Reynolds couple. No one was happier than they were.

But today, another woman entirely stared back at Shea. Smokey black eyes glittered with an almost feral excitement. Full red lips matched the fuck-me red dress perfectly. Flawless complexion. Long fluttering lashes drew attention to her deep turquoise eyes. The dark chocolate mane made her look more like herself again. Despite her nerves, that fierce warrior persona had elbowed its way forward, just not quite like Madonna.

A semi-hysterical chuckle bubbled up from the back of her throat. Damn. I look like Jessica Rabbit. Except Jessica had big boobs. Cartoon boobs maybe, but more than Shea’s plum-sized offerings. The sleeveless dress was a bit much, but thankfully, the built-in underwire bra made her assets look like she owned at least some oceanfront cleavage. She’d turned into a thin-busted seductress with her shoulders bare and a lot of skin on display. A lot.

The front of the gown split at the bottom hem of her black panties, revealing most of her left thigh and leg. Shea turned to view her back. Wow, that’s a lot of me showing. If those panties hadn’t been bikini style, the top of them would be on display, too.

Resting her hands on her hips, she swished her backside. Thick fudge-colored curls tumbled over her naked shoulders like a waterfall. The smoky seductress in the mirror stared her timid self down. Red had always been her favorite color. I may not be dynamite like Marilyn Monroe, but I can do this.

Exiting the bathroom, she faced Murphy with her right hand on her hip, giving him her best shot. “How do I look?”

He’d changed into a tux and stood in front of the full-length mirror just outside the bathroom door, working at his bowtie. His jaw dropped as his eyes scrolled down to her feet and back up again. “Umm, good. You look… real good. Almost as good as my wife.”

“Moira,” Shea murmured, fully aware that his eyes had gone hazy. She turned to let him see the finished product. “Her dress fits me like a glove. Can you zip me up?”

“Why yes, it does, and I certainly can.” Clearing his throat, he took two quick steps to her aid.

Warmth spread up her neck at this intimate act of kindness that husbands normally did for their wives. With the zipper undone, Murphy had a good view of most of her back and enough of her panty-clad backside. Without a doubt, Eric would’ve taken advantage of the moment and made sure those panties fit just right.

Murphy didn’t even touch her skin, just pulled the zipper up, then secured the zipper pull beneath the fabric with a gentle pat at the extreme small of her back. “There you go. You’re all set, little lady.”

His voice had turned hoarse. When she pivoted, he took a step back, his eyes glued to her face instead of her bosom. Poor Murphy looked as guilty as sin. A little flushed, too. His tie still dangled at his neck.

“Do you need help with that?” she offered.

He shook his head and stepped farther back, both palms forward “No sirree Bob. I can manage.” He coughed. “Damn, girl, you clean up real good. No one’s going to recognize you at this ball.”

“Isn’t that the idea?” she asked, her palms sweaty at the thought of dancing as if she didn’t have a care.

Tearing his eyes off her, he turned back to the mirror, chuckling to himself and still fumbling with his tie. “I could get myself in trouble if I’m not careful.”

In your dreams, she thought as she swished past him, pulling the elegant gown’s court train behind her. She checked the computer for Carlson’s whereabouts before she turned to Murphy once more, anxious to get this masquerade over with.

Murphy glanced sideways, still tugging his tie. “There’s something for you on the nightstand. Make sure you know what’s in it.”

A sequined red clutch purse beckoned to her, but the second she lifted it into her hand, she knew what he’d given her. Unsnapping the gold clasp, she removed the small revolver. A Walther CCP. Nine millimeter. Sleek. Black. Just my size.

Nine-millimeter rounds dealt significant knockdown power, something Eric had stressed she would need in a concealed carry piece. The weapon fit snug in her palm, the weight and balance perfect. Scrollwork etched the grip, but holding it in her trembling hands now frightened her instead of bolstering Shea’s confidence. This was real tonight. Not practice and not a game.

Hefting it, she aimed out the window as the memory of Eric’s arm around her when he’d first taken her to the range flooded back. They’d practiced for hours with a weapon similar to this one. Then they’d picked up a basket of fried chicken on the way home, and they’d made love on their living room floor. They’d laughed and spilled wine, and they’d loved.

Now that was a memory worth making.

“Shall we?” Murphy asked, intruding on her trip down memory lane.

Shea smoothed her right palm down over her hip to remind herself who she was tonight. Instead of a runner, she was the warrior-wife of the handsome man she intended to get back alive. Damned straight.