Boston Cream Killer: Book 8 in The INNcredibly Sweet Series (13 page)

Before she could doze off completely, the door opened again and a tall man in a white coat entered, presumably the doctor that lavender lady had mentioned.

“Good afternoon, Miss Gillmore. How are you feeling?” he asked, his smile warm, but his eyes assessing her.

“Thirsty,” she replied, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Get me out of this thing,” she stared down at the heavy white cloth that was preventing her from moving with eyes that seemed desperate.

The doctor nodded at the woman in lavender, who then came over and raised the head of the bed, then started undoing a series of buckles and straps.

“We’ll get you a drink in just a moment,” he assured her. “When we take the jacket off, I want you to promise me that you will remain calm and won’t do anything to hurt yourself. Can you do that for me?” he asked, sounding to Izzy like someone who was talking to a five-year-old.

She stared at him, thoroughly confused, and more than a bit angry at being treated like a child.

“Of course,” she murmured with a deep frown. “Where am I? What happened?” the befuddled author demanded, upset that her voice sounded so frail and weak.

“Let’s just save that conversation for later, shall we?” the doctor said with that same irritating smile.

When she was finally freed from the strange contraption that had been holding her, Izzy raised her left arm to see why it was hurting so badly, and found that it was heavily bandaged. Assessing her situation, she saw that she had an IV line attached to the top of her foot, and her legs were held down by more nylon straps, which the badly permed lavender woman was presently undoing. Izzy’s head was sore as she moved it on the pillow, and she was growing more frightened by the moment.

“What’s going on? What happened to me?” she demanded, her throat burning with the need for water.

When the woman was done with the straps on Izzy’s legs, she disappeared from the room, leaving Izzy alone with the doctor.

“Why don’t you tell me how you’re feeling right now, Miss Gillmore,” he suggested, the patronizing smile never leaving his face.

“How do I feel?” her eyes narrowed. She was about to say more, when the woman, whom she was now assuming was a nurse, returned with a large plastic cup of water that had a pink lid on it and a bendable straw sticking out of the top. Izzy reached for it with her good hand and the nurse blocked her from grabbing the cup.

“It’s okay, I’ll hold it for you,” she directed, without the hint of a smile.

Her thirst overriding her indignation, a bewildered Izzy did as she was told and drank deeply of the ice-cold water. The icy liquid was a soothing balm to her parched throat, and when she’d had her fill and thanked the nurse, she turned her attention back to the doctor, who gazed at her expectantly.

“How do I feel?” she asked, sounding much stronger. “How do you think I feel? I don’t know where I am, or why I’m here, and this whole situation is freaking me out. You need to tell me what’s going on here,” she demanded.

“Your mind may be playing some tricks with your memory at the moment, and that’s completely normal under the circumstances,” the doctor replied in a voice that was meant to soothe, but was grating on Izzy’s last nerve. “What is it that’s going on in your life that brought you to this point, Miss Gillmore?”

“This point in my life? I have no idea what you’re talking about. You know what, it doesn’t even matter. I don’t care why I’m here, because I’m not going to stay. I’m leaving,” she said, throwing the covers back to reveal that she was dressed only in a thin mint green hospital gown with the letters WMHC displayed boldly across the front.

The nurse stepped forward, ready to restrain her again if necessary and the doctor held up a hand.

“Miss Gillmore, you are not going to be leaving this facility until we are quite certain that you will not be making another attempt at ending your life,” he decreed, the smile finally being replaced with a stern look.

“An attempt— what???” Izzy was aghast. “I would never— what on earth are you talking about?” she asked, panic fluttering in her chest.

“You were found in your hotel, with you left wrist cut. You’d lost so much blood that it’s a miracle that you survived, but you were able to be saved, and we’re not letting you out of our sight until we’re certain that you’re not going to engage in that sort of behavior again. You have value, Miss Gillmore, your life counts…” the doctor tried to reassure her.

“The hotel…” she murmured, her eyes growing wide. “He tried to kill me,” she whispered.

The doctor and nurse exchanged a very skeptical look.

“Look, Miss Gillmore, it’s very typical for someone in your frame of mind to try to assign blame in a delusional scenario…”

“Oh, stuff your delusional scenario,” Izzy interrupted, furious. “I’m not crazy and I didn’t try to kill myself. It was the bellman from the elevator. He came into my room and attacked me. Don’t you get it? I didn’t do this to myself, he did this!” she exclaimed, memories flooding through her mind.

The doctor nodded to the nurse nearly imperceptibly, and continued to focus on Izzy, who was becoming more agitated by the moment.

“Now, Miss Gillmore, I’m sure that the scenario seems very real to you at the moment, but we need to get to the feelings that are causing—” he began again, in a soft, sing-song voice.

“They don’t
seem
real, they
are
real,” she protested, reaching for the IV needle in her foot. She felt a piercing pain in her neck and suddenly lost the strength and will to resist. The room swayed a bit, and the bright light seemed to close in on her. “It’s real,” she slurred, fading away. “It’s real…”

The nurse capped the syringe and placed it in the hazardous waste container.

“Let me know when it wears off,” the doctor ordered, heading for the door.

“Yes sir,” the woman in lavender replied, snapping off her gloves.

When Spencer awoke on the dungeon floor, feeling like he had one heck of a hangover, he could hear someone breathing nearby. The speed and depth of the breaths indicated that the person was awake, rather than asleep, which most likely meant that someone was guarding him. He tried to pinpoint just how close his captor was, and came to the conclusion that the guard was too far away for him to ambush. It was time to confront the earl and get himself out of this predicament. Every day that he lay here, helpless, on the stone, was a day that Chas was potentially in danger, and it was the Marine’s job to protect the Beckett heir at all costs.

He feigned a groan to let his captor know that he was awake, and opened his eyes, not surprised in the least that when he did so, he saw Wendell Shropshire’s manservant, Kosta, sitting in a folding chair across the room, arms crossed over his massive chest.

“Have a nice nap?” he smirked.

Spencer stared at him, the gag preventing him from speaking.

“Don’t even think of trying anything,” the servant warned. “It will not go well for you.”

Kosta was clearly relishing having the upper hand.

“I’m feeling generous today, you filthy American. I’ll let you have some water, if you promise to behave yourself.”

Spencer raised an eyebrow, and the large man lumbered over and untied the gag. There was an opportunity just then for him to attack his captor by swinging his feet up and over his head and wrapping them around Kosta’s neck to subdue him, but he wanted the servant to relax and become careless, so he continued to bide his time.

The Marine knew better than to even attempt to speak until he’d had some water. The gag had sapped him of every ounce of moisture in his mouth, and his throat felt as though it had glass in it. Kosta ambled over to a cooler which sat beside his folding chair, and extracted a bottle of water from the ice-filled interior. Opening it slowly, and taking his time walking back to where Spencer lay immobile, he stood over the Marine, glaring.

“I could just let you die…” he pursed his lips as though seriously considering the matter. “But that would make things more complicated. So, for now, you get to live,” and with that, he poured the water directly into Spencer’s face.

Using some of the tips that he’d learned for underwater survival, the quick thinking Marine held his breath. He could feel the water entering his nose, trickling into his sinuses, and concentrated on not coughing, though the impulse was strong. He held his mouth open wide, his tongue blocking his throat temporarily, forming a reservoir, and captured a good deal of the flow. When the small bottle was emptied, Spencer calmly swallowed the water that was in his mouth, taking it slowly, so as not to choke. The relief was unimaginable.

“Think you’re clever, huh, American?” Kosta growled. “Next time you’ll drown.”

“What makes you think there’ll be a next time?” Spencer asked dryly.

His captor snickered.

“You’re awfully confident for a man who doesn’t have a whole lot of options,” he glanced pointedly at the Marine’s bound hands and feet.

“There are always options,” was the mild reply.

“And you are one of mine,” the servant’s tone was ominous.

***

The parts of Chas’s boyhood home that were open to the public looked almost exactly the same as they had when he lived there. Chalmers had turned the estate into a museum, but there were still private quarters that were closed to the public, and while the furnishings and artwork were the same in the private spaces, there had been major changes in the home in regard to security. Mahogany panels covered impenetrable steel doors which were opened by a thumbprint reader to the left of each door. There were hidden entrances and access elevators to an underground complex that Chas hadn’t even known existed until someone had made an attempt on Chalmers’ life a few weeks ago. The whole setup made him realize that there was far more to Beckett Holdings Corp. than he had imagined, and made him even more glad that he’d been entirely ignorant of that fact for quite some time.

Throughout the palatial home were clean-cut, athletic looking men and women in expensive suits, wearing earpieces and computer watches. Each one of them nodded deferentially to Chas as he passed by. Though he’d never seen any of them, they all seemed to know exactly who he was, and he found that a bit unnerving. There must be a reason for all of this over-the-top security, and he fully intended to find out what it was.

“Master Charles,” Chalmers greeted him affectionately in the hallway outside his quarters, taking Chas’s hand in both of his.

“Chalmers, it’s so good to see you,” he smiled, then sobered. “I only wish that it could’ve been under better circumstances.”

“Indeed, sir,” the elderly man agreed, turning and leading him to his study.

“Spencer is here somewhere, isn’t he?” the detective asked, taking a seat in the parlor, where a snack tray and a pitcher of lemonade waited.

The old man’s demeanor changed in an instant. His smile disappeared and his shoulders seemed to slump.

“I wish he were, sir,” Chalmers sighed. “He went on assignment and hasn’t checked in for a few days. It’s most unusual behavior for him. He’s always precisely on schedule, no matter what happens.”

Chas sat forward in his chair and looked at the servant intently.

“Chalmers, is Spencer in trouble?”

“I really don’t know, sir. But I’m taking measures to find out, of that you can be sure.”

“Where is he?”

“Sir— I really…” Chalmers began to protest.

“Chalmers, that young man has saved my life and the lives of people I love more than once. If he’s in trouble, I’m going to go find him,” Chas interrupted.

“Master Charles, I really must protest. I assure you, I will be bringing the full force of Beckett Holdings’ might to bear on the situation…”

“Where is he?” the detective asked quietly.

Chalmers stared at the man who reminded him so much of his father, weighing his options. He didn’t want to put the Beckett heir in danger of any kind, but he knew that the detective would be relentless in his quest to find his missing protector.

“I honestly don’t know. When he last checked in, he had just arrived at a safe house in England,” he confided at last.

Chas frowned. “England? What’s he doing there?”

“He was planning to have a conversation with the Earl of Halsbury, regarding some suspicious transactions that have been run through Beckett Holdings.”

“What kind of suspicious transactions?” the detective’s eyes narrowed.

“I suspect that it’s drug-related, sir. You know that we do a significant amount of importing goods from places which are notorious for drug trafficking… I believe that one of our newer accounts, based in the UK, has been using the importation of our legitimate goods as a cover for bringing in drugs. There are missing invoices and other documentation, shipments that have been delayed, or haven’t shown up at all… it’s quite a nasty mess, but I have a full detail of specialized personnel doing everything that they can to resolve the matter.”

“Specialized personnel… is that code for assassins, Chalmers?” Chas asked boldly, his voice grave.

“Decidedly not, sir!” the elderly gent exclaimed, straightening his lapels, seemingly quite offended that the detective would even entertain such thoughts.