‘I wouldn’t say that.’
The one on the right’s nostrils flared. He looked a little green. Some of that might be the slight rolling of the vessel, which, anchored far out in the bay, was as private and soundproof as a vault. But most of the man’s distress appeared to be fear. ‘You wouldn’t say what?’
He let his mouth quirk up. The one on the right wasn’t quite as stupid as the one on the left. ‘Either. Both.’ He began removing his clothing, hanging each piece carefully in the antique wardrobe adorning the far wall. Suit coat, trousers, silk shirt, tie. His shoes and socks went on the wardrobe shelf. He shucked off his boxers, folded them neatly and placed them on top of his shoes.
Hesitating, he gripped the small vial, then lifted it over his head and carefully tucked it into the pocket of his trousers.
He closed the wardrobe and turned to face the two bound men, who stared at him in horror. Good. They should be afraid. They could have spoiled everything before it had even begun.
The one on the left’s eyes dropped to his groin, widening comically. ‘What the fuck are you going to do?’ he whispered hoarsely.
He rolled his eyes again. ‘For heaven’s sake, get your mind out of the gutter. I’m not going to sexually molest you. I’m just going to kill you.’ He indicated the wardrobe with a nod of his head. ‘That’s a two-thousand-dollar suit, and blood is a bitch to explain to the dry-cleaner.’
‘But Thorne’s not going to die!’ the one on the right sputtered. ‘You can’t do this.’
‘Oh, but I can. And I will.’
The one on the right tried rocking his chair back, but it was bolted to the floor. Not my first rodeo. He’d learned a thing or two over the years. How to properly restrain his prey was one of them.
He stood studying them for a long moment.
‘What?’ demanded the one on the left, appropriately scared out of his mind.
‘I’m just trying to decide which of my skills I want to hone. See, I told you the exact amount of the drug you were supposed to use on Mr Thorne. For whatever reason, you disregarded my instructions. I can’t let that stand.’
The one on the left gulped. ‘But . . . But he was huge, man! One heavy motherfucker. We just . . . we wanted to be sure he didn’t wake up while we were dragging him into his house.’
‘Well, he very nearly didn’t wake up at all. Had you given him the amount I specified, he would simply have slept several more hours. As it was, you nearly killed him. If I let your incompetence go unpunished, what kind of a message would I be sending to the rest of my employees?’
He didn’t wait for an answer, instead opening his weapons case and drawing out a simple bludgeon. He’d decided on a physical approach. He needed to work off some excess stress.
Baltimore, Maryland,
Sunday 12 June, 3.35 P.M.
Thorne swallowed hard, confused when his throat felt raw. His head hurt too. Dammit. And there was beeping. Something was beeping.
Close to him, someone was murmuring. He drew a breath and relaxed. Lavender. Gwyn is here. She always smelled like lavender because she soaked in scented Epsom salts every night. It kept her muscles from hurting after performing at the club.
He turned his head toward the scent and breathed once again. ‘You’re here,’ he whispered, then jerked awake, because she wasn’t supposed to be here. He was asleep and she was . . . here. In his bedroom.
His eyes flew open at the same time he tried to sit up. Pain sliced at his wrist and he yanked his arm to get away from it, only to have it hurt even more. Two sets of hands pressed against his chest, both female. Both familiar.
All he could hear was his own roar and the clang of metal until Gwyn’s voice broke through his confusion. ‘Thorne. Stop. Please. Stop before you hurt yourself.’
Wide-eyed, he stared into Gwyn’s dark blue eyes, then at Lucy’s pale face. Both were urging him back down. Suddenly exhausted, he dropped his head to the pillow. Then turned to stare at the handcuff that cut into his wrist.
He was handcuffed. To a bed. He scanned the room. White walls. Monitors that beeped incessantly. He was handcuffed to a hospital bed.
Swallowing again, he drew a breath that he hoped would calm his racing heart. But it didn’t. ‘What happened?’ The words came out as a hoarse croak.
Lucy abruptly turned her back to him, shifting her body so that she blocked Thorne’s view of the door.
Gwyn’s gaze flicked over Lucy’s shoulder to the doorway, then back to his face. ‘You were drugged,’ she whispered fiercely. ‘You’re in the hospital. The police will ask you questions. Don’t answer them. Wait for Jamie to get here.’
‘Gwyn. Lucy.’ The voice and the sigh were familiar. JD Fitzpatrick was here. This couldn’t be good at all. ‘Step away from the bed, both of you.’
Gwyn’s chin lifted. ‘He’s not talking to you without Jamie in the room.’
‘I figured as much,’ JD said, sounding a little bit . . . hurt? ‘But I need to be here in case he does say something. You two can stop acting like I’m the enemy, you know.’
Lucy stepped aside and Thorne realized she hadn’t been blocking his view of the door, but JD’s view of him. ‘I didn’t expect it to be you coming through the door,’ she told her husband, sounding relieved. ‘I thought Lieutenant Hyatt had taken over.’
Hyatt? Thorne wanted to groan, but his throat hurt too much. If the arrogant, abrasive, grandstanding homicide lieutenant was on point, things really had gone to shit. Wait. Homicide detective? What the hell happened to me?
‘He has,’ JD said. ‘He had to take a phone call. He’ll be in here as soon as he’s done. Now, can the two of you step away from the bed, please?’
Neither Gwyn nor Lucy did what they were told. Both took a step backward so that they stood on either side of Thorne’s head. His sentries.
Thorne might have smiled had his head not been splitting in two. ‘Can I get some water? Maybe some aspirin or something too? My head feels like I got kicked.’
As did the rest of his body. Now that he was awake, he hurt all over. He had been in enough fights to know that whatever had happened, he’d soon be covered in bruises, if he wasn’t already.
What time is it? He was in a single room cubicle. With no windows. In the hospital. What the fuck happened?
JD studied his face, the cop’s expression one of genuine concern. ‘That’s the doctor’s call. She’s on her way.’
Gwyn’s small hand stroked the hair off Thorne’s forehead. ‘Where else does it hurt?’
‘Everywhere.’ He closed his eyes, tried not to panic. ‘What happened to me?’
JD came to stand at the foot of his bed. ‘You don’t remember?’ he asked carefully.
No. I don’t. And it was terrifying, because he was handcuffed to a hospital bed and a homicide detective was in his room in case he said anything. What happened? What the fuck did I do?
His lips started to move, but Gwyn’s hand over his mouth kept him from saying another word. ‘Wait for Jamie,’ she said.
She was right. It was what he should have told himself, but he cut himself a little slack because the other words she’d spoken had finally kicked in. You were drugged. He opened his eyes to meet hers, a deep dark blue that he’d dreamed of waking up to so many times. Just not like this.
Drugged. It explained a lot, actually. Except . . . How? And by whom?
‘Can you unlock the cuff?’ Lucy asked JD. ‘He’s not going to flee.’
JD frowned, his gaze dropping to the handcuff fixed to the bed rail. ‘Who cuffed him?’
Lucy’s mouth tightened. ‘The detective who brought him in. Brickman.’
‘And against his doctor’s orders,’ a woman said as she strode into the room wearing a frown. And scrubs.
She glanced at the monitors, then flicked a light in Thorne’s eyes, nodding at whatever she saw. ‘If you have to restrain him, we can use softer restraints.’