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Sleep wouldn’t come. She was too excited.
Finally, she began to drift off. Then something made her eyes fly open.
A figure stood over her. Looming in the dark. She opened her mouth to scream.
“Scream and you’re dead.” The figure pointed a gun at her head. Anne closed her mouth.
There was a prick and sting in her neck, then nothing.
Chapter Eighteen
Anne was dizzy. And nauseous. She was seated in a chair. Leaning over, she vomited on the floor, her stomach convulsing. Her hands were tied. Fear coiled in her belly. She was terrified. Tears leaked from her eyes.
She was in a sumptuous living area. The ceiling was at least twelve feet and through the doorway she saw a wide staircase leading upstairs. The furniture was heavy and antique. A Persian rug blanketed the wooden floor.
“Now, now, don’t cry,” a male voice chided.
Anne lurched back, startled, and looked up.
It was the man from the deep-fake video. The man who’d really been the one to follow and kill her brother.
“It’s you,” she breathed. “Who are you?”
“You don’t need to know.” He smacked her. Anne’s head reeled.
“You killed my brother,” she ground out.
“That was an easy kill, too,” he said with a shrug. “Your brother served a useful purpose.”
“And what was that?”
“To implicate Kirk and his brother, of course. But since that plan went awry, we’re trying a different route.”
“Who is ‘we’?”
“You ask a lot of questions.” He hit her again. Pain exploded and she landed on the floor. Her hands were still tied and she couldn’t cushion her fall. Her face and head hit the floor. She tasted blood.
“Blane will kill you,” she hissed.
“I look forward to him trying.” He kicked her in the ribs and Anne cried out. She curled into herself, trying to shield her abdomen. The baby.
“Pick her up,” the man ordered.
Hands pulled her off the floor and sat her back in the chair. Anne retched. Her stomach ached.
“You’re pathetic.” The man’s scathing insult didn’t even land. Anne couldn’t care less what he thought. Her only thoughts were about Blane and when he would find her. And if he’d be in time to save her and their baby.
* * *
Blane’s blood ran cold.
Anne had been taken. Kidnapped.
Her father had called him when Anne wasn’t in her bedroom this morning. He’d been hoping she’d stayed with Blane last night. He wanted to call the FBI.
“Don’t do that,” Blane said.
“Why not?” Her father was very agitated. “They specialize in kidnappings.”
