Surrender (Careless Whispers #3)(73)

I turn to find Blake motioning us forward, and we head downstairs to our private garage. It’s not long before we’ve ignored the two Porsche 911s and are loaded in the back of a black, nondescript sedan, with Jacob in the driver’s seat. “Hi, Jacob,” I say. “We got you in a tuxedo too, I see.”

“You did,” he says, glancing over his shoulder, his brown hair trimmed to his scalp. “It appears,” he says dryly, “that Paris isn’t romantic after all.”

“I take it you enjoy a monkey suit as much as I do.” Chris laughs.

“It’s obligation, never choice,” he says. “But you two are good obligations.”

“Well,” I say, “I assure you that plenty of women are going to think you are their perfect romance tonight.”

“Let’s roll,” Blake says, climbing in the front seat and looking at us. “Kayden has three of his men inside the event and three on the exterior, backing us up. Our tech guy’s already hacked the security feed and is watching from a not-so-remote location. There’s not a reason you two can’t enjoy your night.”

“We appreciate all you and your team are doing,” Chris assures him, his hand sliding to my bare knee.

“You just go make some money for some sick kids,” Blake says. “Always a cause we want to help with.”

“Amen to that,” Jacob says, and we are officially moving. But as everyone focuses on our travels, the mood shifts, almost as if we have some odd sense of wrong tunneling into the center of everything being right. Not even Chris’s hand on my bare knee warms me where I’ve suddenly become chilled.



This event is being attended by politicians, actors and actresses, and high-profile businesspeople, but Chris is a rock star in the art world, and the minute we step out of the car cameras are flashing. This part of the event is Chris’s least favorite, but once we’re inside, with the towering glass ceilings and art-lined rooms everywhere, we’re in our element. We both love this place. And I love seeing how people respond to Chris. And more so, how he responds to them. He’s a billionaire by inheritance and a millionaire from his art, all of which he donates, but you’d never know it. He’s the most down-to-earth person, never hurrying anyone away. Never acting like he’s above anyone.

We make our way to the main event room, with scattered tables of desserts featuring different types of chocolate delights, Jacob shadowing us and Blake overseeing the bigger picture, somewhere out of our sight. I forget about the earlier tension and I can sense Chris relaxing as well, our hands, and our gazes, touch often. And finally I can understand, if not speak, enough French that I understand what people are saying to us, even managing to make contacts for a few purchases I want for the gallery in San Francisco, which Chris and I are helping a friend reopen.

Finally it’s time for Chris to head to a table in the corner, where he signs paintbrushes, and there will be an auction for several pieces he created for the event. As usual, I stand by his table and chat with people, which they seem to really like, and so does he. The line is exceptionally long tonight, but I know Chris. We won’t leave until everyone who wants to talk to him has had the chance.

About an hour into the signing, I catch Chris’s gaze and whisper “bathroom,” then find Jacob to escort me. Feeling happy we didn’t cancel the event, considering the turnout, I weave through the crowd and we reach the restroom a guard pointed us to so we can avoid a long line. Sure enough, there is an empty stall and I enter. Once I’m done, I’m about to open the door when a piece of paper slides under it. I laugh, because this has to be one of Chris’s crazy fans.

Bending down, I pick up the paper and unfold it:

Do as you’re instructed or your famous husband will be your dead famous husband.

My stomach rolls and my fist balls over my now racing heart. Inhaling sharply, I force air into my lungs and keep reading:

There are several people in his line, and in the crowd, carrying syringes. One quick jab and he will never paint, let alone breathe, again. Go to the parking garage and make sure you are not followed. Tell someone, and your husband dies. Take your phone with you, or use it, and your husband dies. If you try to warn him and we can’t get to him, we’ll start injecting random, innocent people. If you arrive in the garage and do not have this note in your hand, the results will be the same. At any moment, if we think you have warned someone, the results will be the same. We’re watching.

You have five minutes. Ready, set, go.

This can’t be happening. It can’t be. But it is. There must be a way out of this.

Think, Sara. Think!

People will die. Chris will die. If I leave and they take me, Chris will lose his mind. But what can I do? I close my hand around the piece of paper and open my purse. They say they’ll know if I use my phone, but an unsent text message isn’t using it. It shouldn’t register in any electronic monitoring being done.

Chris. They were going to kill you and innocent people if I don’t go with them. They say they have syringes of poison. They told me to go to the garage. I have to go. I wouldn’t be the person you love if I didn’t go and I let innocent people die. I can’t let you die. I love you too much, and no matter what happens, you were my safe place. My only place.

I’m shaking when I exit the stall and set my phone on the sink. A woman walks in and I want to hand it to her and tell her to take it to Chris, but she could be one of them. I exit the bathroom and Jacob is waiting. We start weaving through the crowd, and even from ten feet away, I can see Blake huddled with Chris at the table. And my gut tells me that Blake just got some kind of heads-up about what’s happening. That gives me hope of a rescue that I cling to, but nothing more.