Firestorm (Sons of Templar MC #2)(15)
“You’re not going to be so mouthy once I’m allowed to play with you. I promise you that, bitch. I’ll enjoy making you scream.” His attractive face morphed into a sneer and I refused to let the fear I felt show.
I stared at him silently and ignored the throbbing in my arm. He gazed at me a moment longer then yanked me along.
After a silent journey through the expansive and impressive house I was roughly pushed into a dining room. It was huge and sliding doors opened onto an outdoor terrace and a pool. It looked like paradise, apart from the men strolling around with guns. Oh, and the fact I was being held against my will.
My gaze moved to a man sitting at the far end of a long table. His greying head was bent reading a paper, a plate of food sitting in front of him. The entire table was full of platters of delicious looking food. My stomach rumbled on cue; I couldn’t remember the last time I ate. My hangover, coupled with my abduction, made me hangry.
“Sit,” Blue Eyes commanded, shoving me toward the chair at the opposite end of the table. The man still hadn’t lifted his head. Deciding to do as I was told I sat gingerly, ignoring the plate of food in front of me.
“Miss Abrams, good morning. I see the clothes are a perfect fit. You look stunning. Please eat. I had some pain au chocolate flown in from Paris—I understand they are your favorite. And of course coffee.” The man waved his hand and a woman bustled into the room. She was Mexican, older and looked like someone’s grandmother. She smiled at me as she poured fragrant coffee into my cup. I struggled not to salivate; I needed ten gallons of coffee right about now. I resisted the urge to cling to this woman’s skirt, knowing there was not much she could do to help me. I wondered if she knew she was serving a kidnapping victim. I sat stiffly as she walked out, fighting the urge not to clutch the coffee.
“Who are you? What do want with me?” I demanded, glaring at the man at the other end of the table.
“Eat, Miss Abrams. I imagine you are starved, considering it’s been almost twenty-eight hours since your last meal. I’m sure you need your coffee. We will talk after.” The man didn’t look up as he sipped his own cup.
My hand twitched, my need for caffeine messing with my brain. I felt like an addict going through withdrawal, my fix within arms’ reach. I resisted. I had bigger fish to fry.
“I will not sit and eat while I’m getting held against my will. This isn’t a f*cking brunch date. You kidnapped me. What the f*ck do you want?” I hissed, clutching the arms of my chair. Fury had momentarily replaced my fear.
The man glanced at me over his paper, his gaze almost disinterested. He sighed and put it to the side, clasping his hands together. “My reports are not wrong—you are spirited.” He seemed almost amused.
“Well, excuse me for not praising you on what a lovely kidnapping you’ve thrown—it’s the best I’ve been to. I’ll be sure to let my friends know the caliber of pastries present. What do you want with me?” I continued to manage to keep the tremor out of my voice. I was proud.
The fact this wasn’t your traditional kidnapping didn’t take away the reality of what was going on here. If anything it made it scarier; I didn’t know what was going on. The man in front of me seemed familiar. Not in the fact I knew him personally but I knew his type. I grew up surrounded by men like him. He could have been one of my father’s golf buddies or business associates. His greying hair was cut close to his head and styled expertly. His suit was Tom Ford if I wasn’t mistaken; a gold Rolex adorned his wrist and he was wearing a pocket square. He just didn’t fit the bill of kidnapper. Not that I really knew what your run of the mill criminal looked like, but I expected tattoos or at least a greasy haired man wearing thick gold chains. Not someone this sophisticated and not someone who looked a lot more like George Clooney than Dr. Evil.
“I apologize for the unpleasantness, Miss Abrams, but unfortunately this was necessary,” George Clooney replied, as if he was talking about a mistake in a dinner reservation.
“Unpleasantness?” I repeated. “You call your two goons dragging me out of a bar at gunpoint, then tasering me and waking up handcuffed to a bed unpleasant? I think the word you are looking for is illegal—seriously f*cking illegal. You need to let me leave right now,” I commanded, wishing it would be that easy.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Miss Abrams. I admit this was a last resort, which was unfortunately necessary. I assure you no harm will come to you if you comply, and you will be able to return back to the bar from in which we found you once I get what I want.”
I eyed the man across the table with a raised brow. “Sure. I bet you say that to all the girls. What is it that you want?”
George maintained eye contact; he seemed vaguely disinterested as if this was a meeting he wanted to get through. My conclusion that I was being sold into sex slavery was becoming less likely. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. One thing was for sure…I wasn’t going to do as this wacko said and hope for the best. I’d be getting out of here if I had to tunnel my way out with a spoon.
“Your father is a business associate of mine. We had a mutually beneficial arrangement—that was, until recently. I won’t bore you with the details, but I will say all other civil attempts to persuade your father against certain courses of action have been unsuccessful. So here we are.” He held out his hands. “I imagine your wellbeing is of great importance to your father, and the continued health of his only daughter might prove as a motivation to change his mind.” George took a sip of his coffee, pausing to let this all sink in.