Deep Secrets. Beverly Long

terrified.

      “Why, we have friends in common,” said Old Guy. Then he laughed and wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his hand. “That makes us friends.”

      She was confident that she’d never seen either of these two men before. But she decided to let his comment play out. “You’ve got an odd way of showing it,” she said.

      He shrugged and turned his head to look at Anthony. “Tie her up.”

      Anthony set down his bowl and pulled out a small ball of heavy twine from his pants pocket. He squatted in front of her. He smelled of sweat and garlic and she fought back the urge to gag. When he roughly pulled her ankles together and wrapped the twine around four times and then tied it tight, she fought back the instinct to scream.

      “To the chair,” Old Guy said, frowning.

      Anthony stood up. Instead of tying her wrists together, he tied each wrist to the back of the chair, at the spot where the seat curved down to the leg.

      If she went anywhere, the chair was going with her.

      “Now what?” she asked.

      “Now we wait,” said Old Guy, smiling at her.

      “For?” Trish asked. She needed to figure out the plan if she hoped to outthink them.

      His smile faded. “Stop asking questions or I’ll gag you. You’ll know soon enough.”

      He pulled a cell phone out of his shirt pocket. Held it up so that he could take a picture of her. Evidently not happy with the shot, he moved to the side. “Anthony,” he said, motioning for the man. “Put your gun up to her temple.”

      Anthony seemed only too happy to do that. She could feel it, warm from either the sun or the man’s body, pressing against the soft part of her skull.

      Old Guy took several shots. Then he lowered the phone and typed something, using his thumb. “That should do it,” he said.

      Were they sending the picture to Summer? Trish’s stomach twisted at the idea of her sister opening up a message and seeing this. It had been only six months since Adie had been kidnapped. Could Summer survive this again?

      She could. She was strong. And now she had Bray and his brothers, too. They would find her. Save her. She had to hold on to that thought.

      “He won’t be able to resist that,” Old Guy said.

      He? He who?

      But Old Guy was done talking. He walked out onto the porch and she lost her view of him. But she could hear him cross the length of the porch, heard a creak as he sat down. Probably on the couch. Maybe even on the same cushion that her gun was stuffed under. She guessed it was too much to hope for that it would accidentally go off and shoot him.

      But Old Guy didn’t worry her as much as Anthony, who was staring at her. With her arms behind her back, her breasts were more prominent, pushing against the thin material of her tank top.

      If he touched her, that would be more than she could endure.

      * * *

      AFTER LEAVING THE MALADUCCIS’, Rafe drove to his apartment and picked up the things he would need. On the way to the Milan airport, he made phone calls. One to Henri, to let him know that his services were going to be needed.

      Nobody knew about Henri. Rafe had encountered the man years before he’d ever met Trish. It had set him back some to look across a crowded restaurant and see someone who very closely resembled him. It was widely believed that everybody had a double. Well, Rafe had met his.

      He’d cultivated a relationship with Henri that had been profitable to both of them. Financially profitable for Henri because Rafe paid him very well. Rafe had benefited from the resemblance because whenever Rafe was supposedly off the clock on holiday, Henri filled in, coming and going from Rafe’s apartment, making it appear as if Rafe was indeed home.

      Truth be told, Rafe had actually been in the United States, spying on his wife. Nobody that he worked with knew about Trish. Not even his boss. And he intended to keep it that way. It was safer for her.

      Once Rafe had been confident that Henri understood the plan, he’d made a second call to arrange transport back to St. Louis. He didn’t intend to fly commercial. First of all, there were no direct flights from Milan to St. Louis. He would have to connect in New York or Atlanta and there would likely be delay after delay.

      And he didn’t intend for his name to show on any manifest. At least, not yet. That was essential.

      For years, he’d prepared to have to make a last-minute flight back to the States. Just in case. That was going to pay off today.

      His call was answered. He spoke in the common language of dollars and, within five minutes, had secured a spot on a charter flight that, according to the manifest, was delivering medical equipment. Perhaps there would be an antiseptic wipe on board.

      He was leaving at 10:00 a.m. his time, which was 3:00 a.m. Missouri time. It was a ten-hour flight. Therefore, he would be there by 1:00 p.m. Missouri time. He sent a text to Daniel to let him know where to pick him up.

      He parked his car, walked up the steps of the plane, spoke to the pilot briefly and settled into his seat. He listened to the engines rev up as the plane taxied down the runway and tried to tell himself that there could be a thousand reasons why Trish wasn’t at her house. It did not mean she was in trouble.

      After all, she’d taken Duke with her. That was a good sign. Right?

      But somebody had killed Milo. It was possible that it had been random. Even so, it was plenty enough to get his attention and to get him back to the States. The timing was bad but he’d stay just long enough to ensure that Trish was okay.