was smart enough to know these were not tender reassurances. The purposeful stroke of his hands wasn’t intended to soothe.
Yet she did feel comforted by his touch, reassured by his gentleness. It might be a naive, horrible trap to fall into, but Sinjun’s touch gave her strength.
Enough strength to realize that, no matter his motive for keeping her identity a secret, she needed to play along in order to survive the next few minutes of her life.
She made no protest when he guided her down to the sleeping bag.
“Act like you’re asleep.” He brushed her hair down so it hid her face, then covered her with the blanket. “Keep your face to the wall and don’t move. In this light, I don’t think anyone will question your identity.”
“Why are you doing this?”
For the first time she could hear voices at the top of the stairs. Lenny’s deep one. Jerome’s nasty laugh. And a third man—someone soft-spoken and deliberate with his words. Ellie huddled in the shadows, staring at the rusted-out furnace. At first she didn’t think Sinjun would answer her.
But then she heard his velvety voice, blending in with the darkness around them. “We all have our own agendas.”
The door opened and Ellie closed her eyes.
What was Sinjun’s agenda?
And had she just been transferred from one untenable situation to another now that she was completely at his mercy?
Chapter Three
That had gone better than he’d planned.
Jerome’s contact had arrived at 9:00 p.m. on the dot. He’d been content to observe the fake princess’s sleeping form from the distance of the basement stairs, despite Jerome’s offer to wake the little lady. Their guest, in fact, seemed eager to leave the damp, musty basement, though Cade suspected it had more to do with an abhorrence for his surroundings than pity for the girl’s trauma-induced exhaustion.
Cade hung back in the archway that connected the living room to the kitchen, while Lenny sat on the floral-print sofa. Jerome paced the width of the room, lighting up one of his foul cigarettes. He darted back and forth with the speed and repetition of a revolving arcade target, giving Cade the urge to pull out his sidearm and shoot him. That would put Jerome out of his manic misery and ease the tension building in the room.
But Cade had a much more pressing issue to deal with than his team leader’s agitation. He focused his powers of observation on the man in the brown Armani suit who had joined them for this late-night meeting. Winston Rademacher pulled a pristine white handkerchief from the pocket of his jacket and dusted the arm of the gold plaid sofa before perching there.
Interesting. The man didn’t like to dirty his hands either literally or figuratively.
Jerome blew out a cloud of smoke, then turned and walked right through it. “All I’m saying is, we ought to pawn the jewels we took off the girl and make this deal as profitable as we can.”
“The necklace is a handmade work of art that bears the royal coat-of-arms of Korosol. Pawning it would lead the authorities directly to us.” Rademacher’s thin lips barely moved when he spoke. “It will be returned with the princess.”
Jerome turned again. “You’re the one who lengthened the time frame on this job. You need to compensate us.”
What happened to the loyalty the hundred-grand retainer fee had purchased? Cade thought.
Since the conversation was mostly Jerome’s efforts to finagle more money for the contracted job, Cade tuned him out.
Rademacher was an old acquaintance of sorts. Cade had met him on more than one occasion, though they’d never had a conversation beyond introductory pleasantries. The man was a professional power broker. A favored guest among royals and high society the world over. His dark hair and high cheekbones hinted at his Middle-Eastern ancestry, but Cade couldn’t remember where the man actually hailed from.
He wished he had his computer with him or at least access to some of his information contacts. He hated not knowing more about a man he had to work with than what he’d read in the papers. While Jerome complained and Winston looked bored, Cade ran through what he did know about their employer.
In recent years Rademacher had served as a personal advisor to Prince Markus of Korosol. Markus was the only child of King Easton’s eldest son, Byrum. Since Byrum and his wife had died in a tragic accident while on African safari over a year ago, Markus was next in line to become king. But King Easton, declaring the right of royal privilege, had decided to travel to America and meet his extended family there before officially naming his heir. Cade wondered if Rademacher was working for Markus, if this kidnapping could somehow be used as leverage to ensure Easton named Markus as his successor.
“Hell. We don’t even have decent plumbing here.” Jerome’s whine interrupted Cade’s thoughts. “What kind of house puts a pump in the kitchen and makes you shower outside?”
“Mr. Smython, is there a point to all this?”
Rademacher also had ties with a political group in Korosol that wanted to end the monarchy system altogether and establish an independent republic. His one-time business partner, Remy Sandoval, was the self-proclaimed leader of the Korosolan Democratic Front. For the right price, as Jerome claimed every man had, would Rademacher sell out king and country?
Or was Winston Rademacher’s motive something more personal? Perhaps kidnapping Princess Lucia and demanding a ransom was simply a new type of profit-making business deal the man had put together.
“I don’t care how you dispose of the body, so long as it isn’t found. I thought I’d made it clear that my client didn’t want any casualties.”
Client? Cade tuned back in to the conversation.
“The kid put up a fight.” That was the extent of Jerome’s defense for murdering the chauffeur. “I should have given him a bigger dose of the serum.”
“Yes, indeed.” Rademacher stood, rebuttoned his jacket and smoothed his lapels.
One thing was certain. The man revealed no hint of motive or emotion in the perpetual squint of his dark-brown eyes. He was cold. Clever. Unreadable.
The faintly accented tone of his voice revealed nothing more than irritation with Jerome’s incessant banter. “I have a backup plan in place should you choose to deviate from my instructions again.”
Cade’s self-preservation radar kicked in at the matter-of-fact warning. “Whoa. What do you mean, backup? What else aren’t you telling us?”
Winston looked at Cade and blinked, as if he’d forgotten his presence in the room. Fat chance. Cade didn’t buy the eyebrow arched in aristocratic surprise for one instant.
“I’ve told you everything you need to know…Your Grace.”
Cade had borne the brunt of enough condescending gossip from snobs like Rademacher to let the smirk in his voice bounce off his toughened hide. He’d suffered far worse than mock pity and survived. He walked right up to Winston and used his slight height advantage to look down on the man. “You’ve told us everything except this new backup plan. And who we’re doing this baby-sitting job for.”
Rademacher folded his handkerchief and tucked it into his jacket before responding. He laughed. It was a controlled, low-pitched sound that held no trace of humor. “You’re as persistent a dog as your father was, aren’t you.”
Other than the fist he buried inside his pocket, Cade held himself perfectly still. He let the angry resentment slam through him, then trapped it in the spot where his soul used to be. “I don’t make the same mistakes my father did.”
Winston acknowledged the assertion with a slight nod. “I hope not. Bretford died owing me money. I consider your cooperation on this job as payment in trade. Your services in