Firestorm (Sons of Templar MC #2)(16)

My father. He was the reason I was being kidnapped? The man who summered in the Hamptons and screwed his nose up at newspaper vendors was business associates with a criminal? Granted, he may not know about said criminal activities, but my father was far from stupid and I doubted this guy went from law abiding to Class A felony in one fell swoop.

I let out a small giggle at the absurdity of this entire situation. Given the company I had been keeping over the last year or so, I had thought if I was going to be kidnapped by anyone it would be by someone wearing a cut and jeans, not a ten thousand dollar suit.

“Something amusing, Miss Abrams?” George asked me, eyes more alert.

I waved my hand. “Not amusing. In fact, this is not funny at all. Just ironic. In all the scenarios I would imagine a kidnapping going down, this is the least likely.” I sobered at the memory of my best friend almost dying after being kidnapped, then coming home battered after it happened again nine months ago. We had some bad freaking luck when it came to this shit.

George narrowed his eyes. “Yes, well, I imagine with the company you keep you have been exposed to some more unsavory criminal activities. As long as you are well behaved and your father is obliging, there is no reason for this to get uncivilized,” he said with an air of superiority.

I sucked in a breath. “Are you serious? The man who just had me kidnapped is doling out judgment on the ‘company I keep’? You’ve got to be f*cking kidding me. Let me tell you something you Soprano wannabe, those men are each worth a hundred of you and your tacky watch, which I can assure you screams new money,” I hissed at him, momentarily forgetting the power balance in this conversation.

George’s eyes flared slightly but his face betrayed no emotion. “I imagine this has been an unsettling few hours for you, Miss Abrams, so I’ll let that little outburst slide.” He leaned forward slightly. “But if you ever speak to me like that again you’ll be very, very sorry.” His tone was soft and I shivered at the promise underneath it.

“Now,” he carried on, “please eat something. I would hate for my guest to go hungry.” He moved his attention to his own plate, reopening his newspaper. Apparently I was dismissed.

Deciding my hangover coupled with severe caffeine deficiency made me slightly loopy, I pushed my plate away defiantly. It was a struggle with my mouth watering at the sight of the pastry of the gods but I managed. The coffee cup was another story; I had to actually clutch my hands to my lap to stop from reaching for it. But I was determined. I was not going to accept this situation and eat a (albeit magnificent) croissant and sip (medically necessary) coffee with my captor like this was a weekend retreat. I could handle skipping a couple of meals and forgoing coffee for that. I did the master cleanse, for Christ’s sake. I did however slip a butter knife into my lap while pushing the plate away. I wasn’t too sure what I would do with it; I’m sure it wouldn’t be effective in deflecting bullets but I needed to start somewhere.

“Not hungry?” He didn’t look up from his paper.

“I’m afraid captivity messes with my appetite,” I replied sweetly.

There was a long pause until he spoke again. “Well, I can only hope your appetite returns sooner rather than later. I’d hate to see you starve.” His thinly veiled threat had its effect and he moved on. “If you do not want your food then I will consent to you leaving the table.”

“How gracious of you,” I muttered sarcastically.

He ignored this. “Rafe will show you to your wing. There is a library, a TV room, and a home gym. You have the freedom to move about them as you please.”

I restrained a snort. If they wanted to hurt me they could have just forced me to use the home gym. I’d be much more compliant under the threat of imminent exercise.

“I will inform you that all exits will be locked, and I’m sure you’ve seen my employees.” He gestured outside. “Just in case you have any ideas about wandering off.”

I held a hand to my chest in mock shock. “Me? Never! Why should I want to leave such a pretty cage?” I swear I didn’t even think about my sarcastic remark, it just came out.

George ignored me again as if I was a troublesome teenager. “I also expect you to join me for breakfast every morning and dinner every evening. Whether you consume them is up to you, but I must insist on your presence, as well as you wearing the garments I supply you with.” His eyes moved over my dress, interest obvious in his gaze. I felt as if spiders were crawling over me.

George was a silver fox, no doubt about that, but he was also a crazy psychopath who may or may not try and kill me. My taste in men had gotten me into some shitty situations lately but I wasn’t insane.

I decided to ignore him, getting up to remove myself from his presence and to plot an escape using only a butter knife. I turned to leave.

“Oh, Miss Abrams? I would appreciate it if you left the knife here. I wouldn’t want my mother’s silverware getting lost,” he remarked casually.

Fuck.

I turned slowly and placed the knife on the table quietly. I spun to leave the room to plot my escape sans butter knife. My stomach swirled at how precarious my situation was. My spirits did lift slightly when Rafe limped toward me scowling. If I could do damage to a career criminal’s goon with only a Louboutin I had to have faith.

I paced the long stretch of room in “my wing’s” library for the hundredth time. It had been hours since my little breakfast meeting with George and I was going stir crazy. I was also pissed. Anger was a much better coping mechanism than fear. Fear was not productive. If I gave into the fear curled at the bottom of my stomach I might be crouched on the floor rocking back and forth right now. Walking back and forward for two hours was arguably just as bad, apart from maybe wearing down an expensive looking Persian rug. I sank down on a leather armchair in exasperation.