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I couldn’t stop my feet from moving in the direction she was taking us.
I couldn’t scream for help when we exited the bathroom.
People rushed by. Staring. Frowning.
No one stopped.
My vision was foggy and blurring faster by the second.
Why couldn’t I scream?
I needed to scream.
“Good girl, Sylvie.”
A man’s voice. It was familiar.
Is he going to help?
Someone jostled me. A strong arm went around my shoulders, a hand came up and pinched my chin, forcing my head back.
“I’ve been waiting for you, Atlee.”
Louis.
No!
Two tall brunettes.
Sheer panic coursed through me.
Help! I screamed in my head.
“Time for a little trip, gorgeous.”
TWENTY-SIX
The vibe in the mansion was super-charged. Women in sexy, long, black silk dresses were walking around balancing trays of champagne. Martin’s security were positioned strategically around the room, staying out of the way of the men socializing but managing to make their presence known. I had yet to see Martin or Catarina. Eden had made a brief appearance but had disappeared down a staircase and I hadn’t seen her since.
I twisted my wrist, exposing the Fifty Fathoms Act 1—it would be a travesty to call the anniversary limited edition timepiece a watch—but that was exactly what Joan had called it when she’d given it to me earlier. It wouldn’t do for me to walk into the auction with my Rolex and my normal Armani suit. Joan had delivered the Brioni, the timepiece, and Fast Track Scritto leather sneakers from Berluti. She’d declared I looked very James Bond. I didn’t care who I looked like as long as by the end of the night Martin, Eden, Dale, and the rest of their team were in custody and the women were freed. If that meant I had to wear a twenty-five-thousand-dollar suit and a twenty-thousand-dollar timepiece, I’d wear the overpriced get-up.
Though I might negotiate the Blancpain into my fee. It was a nice piece I’d like to add to my collection.
Almost time.
“Phillip Buchannan,” a man in his sixties greeted with his hand extended.
Self-importance radiated from the man.
I took his hand, noting it was clammy. He was nervous.
“Wilson Barker,” I introduced myself.
“So, Wilson, what do you do?”
Ah. Small talk. Yes, the man was nervous.
“Shipping and textiles. You?”
