The Freedom Broker (Thea Paris #1)(62)

“Sent from another burner phone, disabled immediately after it was used.”

“You think the kidnapper hired the men on the Damocles to distract us?” she asked.

“When someone as wealthy as Christos is kidnapped, everyone comes looking for their fifteen minutes of fame, or ten million euros. It could be totally unrelated.”

“FARC knew about Papa’s watch.”

“Things have a way of leaking out. They didn’t have the actual watch; they just knew about it. I have the lab analyzing it for fingerprints or other evidence.”

A knock on the door jolted her. “I need to go. The cocktail party hosted by the prime minister starts shortly. I plan on spending time with General Jemwa—I definitely don’t trust him. And what about the plane crash?”

“I’m meeting with experts this afternoon.”

“Please keep me posted.”

“I’m on it.”

“I feel lucky to have you in my corner, boss.”

“Always.”

Another knock. She pressed the end button and stared through the peephole.

Peter Kennedy. Just what she didn’t need.

She tightened the sash on her robe and opened the door.

“I thought we should have a drink before the party starts, talk strategy about tomorrow’s negotiations.” He stood on the threshold, dressed in a cream-colored suit with a pale orange tie and matching pocket puff. With all their luggage lost in the crash, how the hell had he found such an outfit so quickly?

“How about we meet after the party, say, around ten o’clock? I’m not quite ready. I asked the hotel gift shop to send up a dress.”

His gaze drifted to the neckline of her robe. It took an effort not to cringe.

He blinked a few times, his eyelids fluttering in a weird pattern. “Why don’t we sit in the gardens? I don’t want anyone overhearing us. When Christos returns—and he will return—I want him to be proud of what we’ve accomplished in his absence. This deal—it could change everything.”

“Absolutely. See you at the party.”

She closed the door and collapsed in the nearest chair, weary of presenting a brave front. Kidnappings were often prolonged, demanding infinite patience and a poker face, but none of her experiences had prepared her for this intensely personal and confounding case. Grief and worry were shaped differently when the stakes were so close to home.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Clarity tamed the chaos. Control was obviously important to the kidnapper, and she was about to rip it away.

The room phone rang. “Hello.”

“Ms. Paris, your dress is ready. Shall I send it up?”

“Right away, please.”

Time to take the reins.





Chapter Forty-Three



The plunging neckline on the gift shop’s sapphire sheath revealed more cleavage than Thea was comfortable showing, but her options were few. The dress reminded her of Helena, who’d loved the color blue, redoing her father’s home in the south of France in shades of azure, cerulean, and indigo. Thea’s eyes stung. She wondered if Papa knew about his wife’s death.

She brought herself back to the moment. The kidnapper was in her sights, and she would pursue him relentlessly. She brushed out her long hair, applied lip gloss, and headed through the arched hallways to the grandeur of the Livingstone Room, bracing herself for the night ahead.

Antique furniture and portraits of British royalty gave the large ballroom an old-world, colonial feel. A pianist danced his fingers along a baby grand, and white-gloved waiters served champagne and hors d’oeuvres. First class all the way. And so it should be—billions of dollars were at stake, and the Kanzi officials were about to enjoy a significant improvement in their lifestyle, regardless of who won those oil rights.

Peter was perched beside the bar on the far side of the room. Surprise, surprise. He waved at her, but she pretended not to see him. She’d deal with him later. Right now, she wanted to assess the players, see if anyone stood out as a potential kidnapper, specifically the Quan family, Paris Industries’ direct competition for the oil rights.

She maneuvered deeper into the room, accepting a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. The colorful splashes of traditional African garb brightened the space. Many of the women wore elaborate headdresses befitting royalty. Standing in the receiving line for the prime minister, she scanned the room. Like the United Nations, it was filled with people of varied backgrounds, a thousand agendas being pushed forward.

When she finally made it to the front of the line, she was surprised by the compassion in the prime minister’s eyes. “Ms. Paris, I’ve been trying to reach you. I wanted to see if I could assist somehow with your father’s kidnapping. Many years ago, Christos helped my family during difficult times. I will never forget his kindness.”

Her heart softened, thinking of Papa’s charitable spirit. Sure, he was a hard-nosed businessman, but he always gave back to the community. But was the prime minister being sincere about his offer, or was it a cover? “Thank you. I’ll definitely come to you if I need something. He’d be sorry to miss your lovely party.”

The prime minister laughed. “Yes, I could always count on your father to be part of any celebration. Please remember my offer.”

“Will do, and I promise that Paris Industries will stay on top of everything until he returns.”