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“Lunch time?” My assistant, Monica, gave me a cheeky grin. We’d become close over the last few months, and she knew how fluttery I got—still—over my new husband.
“Valentine’s lunch time,” I corrected her with my own grin.
Price and I normally worked through lunch, ordering in and eating with our associates, but today he’d invited me to steal away for a romantic sandwich and beer at our favorite hole-in-the-wall pub near Times Square. I got a mirror out of my bag to touch up my lipstick, fluffed my deep brown curls, then put on the red Gianvito Rossi heels I’d kicked off under my desk soon after I’d arrived that morning.
“I’ll be back in an hour—or two,” I said, pulling on a matching wool coat.
“Take as long as you need, boss.” Monica gave me a thumbs up. “I’ve got everything here.”
I headed to the door with the familiar surge of excitement that overtook me whenever I was about to see Price.
On my way down, I texted from the elevator.
Car’s waiting out front, he texted back. I’ll be down in a sec.
I eyed the rain outside as I crossed the lobby. Fortunately, a uniformed valet was waiting by the door with an umbrella. “Mrs. Rouzier-Eriksen?” the blond man asked, slaughtering my last name’s pronunciation.
“Yes.”
“Right this way.”
He led me to the first in the line of black SUVs awaiting their clients outside the building. Having a car service was the best luxury ever in this traffic-clogged city, especially on a messy day. But the man behind the wheel wasn’t the tough, tattooed driver I was used to.
“Where’s Cliff?” I asked.
“Took the rest of the day off.”
“Oh, for Valentine’s, I guess.” I wondered if he’d made romantic plans with someone. I couldn’t picture it. “Mr. Eriksen will be down in just a minute.”
I turned as the valet climbed into the backseat beside me, folding his umbrella. The dark-haired driver put the car in gear.
“Oh. We’re waiting for one more. Mr. Eriksen is—”
The car accelerated. The locks clicked shut. It took a second for me to realize what was happening, that this was fucked up and that I should try to get out of the car, but by then, it was too late. The blond valet, who definitely wasn’t a valet, shoved me onto the floor, his long bangs obscuring his eyes. I managed one shrill scream before a piece of duct tape was pressed over my mouth.
This wasn’t our car. This wasn’t the right driver. I kicked and flailed against the arms holding me down. My mind raced as my body went into survival mode. I surged past his grabbing hands, trying to snatch the door handle, but I couldn’t reach it. I heard the engine growl as the car picked up speed.
“No,” I tried to say behind the tape. “No, no, no.” I needed to bargain, to yell, to complain, but I couldn’t talk. I fought my way back up to the seat when the car stopped at an intersection. There were people right there, wrapped in raincoats or holding umbrellas, but no one could see me through the black-tinted privacy windows. I managed to pound once before I was wrestled back to the floorboards. I felt breathless with terror, and the tape made things worse.
The driver barked something in a foreign language to the man on top of me.
He yelled back at him, then glared down at me, trying to catch my flailing arms. “Stop it. Be still,” he said in English. He had intense hazel eyes and some kind of Slavic-sounding accent.
His face wasn’t hidden. He was letting me see him, memorize every twisted feature of his face. Fortyish, suntanned, rough around the eyes. The driver had tight brown curls and a shaggy goatee. If they let me see them like this, that meant they were going to kill me eventually, right? I’d watched too many crime shows. I knew how this ended.
I stopped struggling for a moment to gather my thoughts, and my faltering breath. The umbrella man scowled down at me, and I scowled back. I wasn’t going to make this easy, not any of it. He wasn’t going to kidnap me, rape me, or kill me without a fucking fight…
But damn it, I couldn’t breathe, and I couldn’t stop shaking. Kidnapping, in this day and age? I’d said that to Price, pure smart ass, and now I’d been fucking kidnapped off the fucking street in front of the grand granite skyscraper where I ran my multi-million-dollar international jewelry business.
The driver spoke to the man on top of me again. Russian? Greek? Portuguese? I didn’t have a clue. I wished I’d studied languages the way Price had. The man answered back in a gruff voice as he pressed my face into the floor. I fought, but he was too heavy. I felt metal cuffs ratcheted onto my wrists, cold and uncomfortably tight. I squirmed and shook my head as some kind of rough cloth was bound tightly over my eyes.
This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be happening. I felt the car pick up speed again—heading out of the city on a freeway? I wondered if Price had come down from his office yet, and realized I wasn’t there, waiting for him in the car… He would have texted up to me, maybe chatted with Cliff while they waited for me to reply. Cliff! Had he seen me get in the wrong car? Or had I been hidden too well behind the big umbrella? Had he noticed me, or was his face buried in his phone?
Even if someone in front of the building had heard my one desperate scream and called for help, the police would need time to come, get organized, set off after me. How many black SUVs with tinted windows were driving around the greater NYC area at any given moment?
Oh God, no one was in pursuit, no one was coming to rescue me, and who knew where these assholes were taking me?
The driver said a few more sharp words to the man on top of me. I was pulled up and pushed back against the seat. I turned and tried to feel for the door handle, but he stopped me and buckled me in as I yanked at the cuffs behind my back.
