Chains of Fire (5 page)

It wasn’t that Samuel was ashamed of his father’s profession, but . . . Samuel didn’t serve. He didn’t crawl. He didn’t wait on anyone. Ever.

He moved toward the door.

Darren didn’t budge.

“Dad,” Samuel said, “it’s cold out here.”

“Of course.” Darren moved aside, so much the proper butler he wouldn’t even tell his kid to behave or get the hell out.

Samuel strode inside to the top of the stairs by the cloakroom—and paused, arrested by the sight of Isabelle as she walked across the ballroom. She moved like a model, arms gracefully curved at her sides, her long neck held proudly, the sleek, cool, gold ankle-length silk gown draping her body and framing the warmth of her skin. She had pulled her straight hair back into one of those bun things at her neck, and diamond hairpins sparkled like stars in midnight velvet. The gown was designer. He didn’t know which one, but at an event like this, the Mason women always wore designer. The gown flowed around her body, swaying with every motion. The way the silk caressed her . . . he couldn’t take his gaze away.

He broke into a sweat.

Did she wear any panties under that skirt? Did she wear any underwear at all?

She looked absolutely natural, absolutely beautiful, her almond-shaped eyes lifted by expertly applied makeup, her coolly golden skin flawless.

He wanted to go to her, kneel before her, bare his chest so she could put her stiletto heel over his breastbone and push him flat onto the floor. Then he would do anything she commanded. Kiss her manicured toes. Run his lips up the inside of her leg. Let her sit on his face while he licked her, sucked her until she came once, twice, so often that she forgave him everything.

Isabelle looked so serenely chic, most men couldn’t imagine that Isabelle Mason would play the dominatrix.

He knew better. Only he knew that beneath the elegance a passion burned so intensely a man could die trying to contain her fire.

She joined Michel Moreau, the French ambassador.

Moreau, short, stout, middle-aged, and bald, couldn’t take his eyes off her.

Which figured. What man wouldn’t want her?

Not Samuel, for sure.

But then, he was crude and vulgar and unfit for a lady like Isabelle.

At least, that was the gospel according to Patricia Mason.

Too bad. Because he meant to win Isabelle once more.

Todd, tall, handsome, with a haircut that cost as much as a small car and a suit that cost more than the budget of a third-world country. Todd, the wealthy. Todd, the worthless.

What burned Samuel was that, as far as Mrs. Mason was concerned, Todd would be an appropriate mate for Isabelle. Todd was heir to a fortune, but more than that, Todd had no rough edges. He was a suave, useless George Clooney, just the kind of man Patricia Mason could successfully manipulate into doing her bidding.

Now Todd stood indolently, a glass of port held between manicured fingers, surveying the ballroom from the steps leading up to the cloakroom.

Samuel joined him, alive with malice. “Lose something?”

“My grandmother. She’s probably huddled in some corner, snoring with her mouth open.” Todd sounded absolutely disgusted, although whether with his grandmother or with the fact that Samuel spoke to him, Samuel did not know.

“It’s very late for a woman of her age.” Samuel made a show of checking his watch.

“That’s for sure. I don’t know why she insists on coming to these functions.”

“Because she likes to get out occasionally?”

“But it’s not pleasant to see her.” Todd spoke smoothly, warmly, as if he weren’t being absolutely offensive. “She’s so bent and saggy, clothes aren’t attractive on her, and don’t even ask about the time wasted getting her into a coat and into the car, then out of the car and out of the coat; then she’s not at the party for an hour before she’s whining that she’s tired and wants to go home.”

Samuel smiled and nodded as if he were sympathetic. He had always had a natural talent for acting. “I did see her not long ago make her way toward the library with that gentleman . . . I can’t remember his name. You know, the distinguished gentleman with the gray hair, the one who romances wealthy women and marries them?”

For the first time, Todd faced Samuel. “That Czech? That phony nobleman? Count Ladislav Kucera?”

Samuel shrugged with elaborate casualness.

“That perfidious bastard.” Outrage vibrated in Todd’s voice. “The library, you say?”

“Well, down the corridor toward the library. They could be anywhere.” Samuel spread his hands in a display of innocence. “By now, they could be in the bedrooms.”

Todd took off like a shot down the stairs, across the ballroom, toward the family rooms.

Samuel watched, satisfied that Todd would not enjoy the rest of his evening. He was going to be too busy searching for Lady Winstead.

Samuel’s gaze returned to Isabelle. And Ambassador Moreau.

He started down the stairs. To speak to Isabelle. To rescue her from Moreau. Before Moreau leered himself into a major ass kicking.

But before Samuel took more than two steps, a Frenchman’s low, urgent voice caught his attention.

It said, “What do you mean, you had to injure
le petit garçon
?”

Someone had hurt a little boy.

“The kid wouldn’t stop fighting.” The voice was young, male, surly. And American. Very American.

Samuel stood absolutely still, listening, trying to pinpoint the source of the muffled voices.

“How badly did you hurt him?”

No answer.

Something thumped against the wall of the cloakroom.
“How badly?”

“When I left, he was clutching his chest and bitching about the pain.” The American sounded as if he’d been what thumped against the wall.

“Merde
, Bull! You are the dumbest
imbécile
I ever worked with!”

Samuel eased himself closer to the open door, slid behind a ficus, and prepared to listen.

“His arm is a little broken,” Bull said.

“I
told
you not to hurt the merchandise.” The Frenchman sounded furious. “Do
you
want to explain to the boss why we can’t collect the ransom?”

“The boss can’t be that tough.” Bull was cross.

The slam this time shook the wall by Samuel’s head.

“The boss will dine on your beating heart.”

Who are these guys?

“All right,” the Frenchman said decisively. “We’ll move the schedule ahead. I’ll deliver the letter to his
papa
ASAP. If we can get the ransom fast enough, we can give him his kid before he dies.”

Samuel barely breathed as the Frenchman—six-foot-three, two hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle, dressed in a waiter’s suit—strode past him, scowling.

Inside the cloakroom, the flunky muttered and kicked the wall. Repeatedly.

When the Frenchman disappeared from sight, Samuel stepped inside the cloakroom and softly shut the door behind him.

No wonder the Frenchman called this guy
Bull
. He looked Hawaiian and Japanese and like a young sumo wrestler on steroids. And he was fast—at the click of the latch, he turned, saw Samuel, and charged. He had the speed of a linebacker and the hostility of a young gangster who a minute ago had been chided by his superior.

But Samuel had trained for this. At the last second he stepped aside, then kicked Bull in the ass. The youth smashed into the freestanding chrome coatrack, sending it and the jackets, furs, hats, and gloves crashing against the wall. Bull’s head slammed a hole through the plaster before he and all the paraphernalia toppled onto the floor.

He seemed to feel nothing. He came up in a flash and charged again, eyes gleaming with rage.

Samuel stepped on a hat, waved his arms in exaggerated dismay, fell over—and when Bull lifted his foot to smash Samuel’s ribs, Samuel grabbed the guy’s boot and lifted.

Bull fell. The floor quaked.

Bull shook his head, trying to recover whatever wits he possessed.

Samuel rolled behind him, grabbed a silk scarf, and wrapped the length around the sumo’s stub of a neck. He twisted hard, cutting off Bull’s air, making him spasm and claw at Samuel’s hands.

Bull had hurt a kid, almost killed him, and the street-smart little boy Samuel had once been exalted in the guy’s writhings. He wanted him to suffer. He deserved to suffer.

Samuel twisted tighter and tighter until Bull’s motion ceased and his eyes rolled back in his head.

Putting his mouth by the man’s ear, Samuel asked, “Where’s the child?” He loosened the scarf to allow Bull to speak.

Bull came to life like an animated corpse. Grabbing Samuel’s ears, he used them like levers to pull Samuel forward.

Samuel felt his flesh rip. His head slammed into Bull’s hard skull. Blood trickled down his face on both sides, and he saw stars.

Bull grabbed Samuel’s hair and rolled over the top of him. “Who are you?” He slammed Samuel’s head against the floor. “Who are you?”
Slam
. “Who are you?”
Slam
.

The only thing that saved Samuel’s life was the fur coat underneath him, cushioning him from the impact. He groped beside him, seeking something to use as a weapon. A can! Mace! He sprayed Bull’s face.

It was hair spray.

But it did the job. Bull yelped and let go to dig at his eyes.

Samuel slammed his fist into Bull’s nose. The crunch was satisfying. Bull’s squeal was even more satisfying. The spurting blood made Samuel almost giddy with glee, and when he wrapped the scarf around Bull’s throat again, he took real pleasure in applying pressure and using expletives he hadn’t used since his adoption twenty-six years ago. He didn’t take a chance this time; he found a real can of Mace in one of the coats tumbled around them on the floor, sprayed Bull, choked him repeatedly, and finally loosened the scarf. “Where is the boy?” he asked again.

“Château. Schneider Road.” As Bull got his breath, his hand shot up, groping toward Samuel’s head. He didn’t volunteer any more details.

Samuel sprayed him with the Mace again and, with a sigh, gave up trying to do this the hard way.

Because mind control always worked . . . and mind control came as easily to Samuel as breathing.