The Edge of Dawn (3 page)

“Wait here,” he told her, then added firmly, “and I do mean, wait.”

Narice's chin rose. As of now, she'd been up a straight twenty-four hours and after all she'd been through since leaving her daddy's memorial, the fatigue had taken its toll. Her body felt like limp spaghetti. She wasn't giving up on escaping, but at this particular moment, she didn't have the strength to do anything but wait.

Inside, Saint drew his gun and searched the place from stem to stern, looking for intruders. The suite had two floors. The first level held a well-stocked kitchen, complete with stove, refrigerator, dishwasher, and microwave. To the right, lay the living room area with couch and chairs, and an intimate fireplace. The bed stood near the wall.

He stepped back outside. “Come on in. I'm going to put you upstairs.”

The upper level held a big bed, a television, and a bathroom. He set her suitcase by the bed.

“Get some sleep.”

Narice had one question to ask. “Did you have anything to do with my father's death?”

He looked her in the eyes and answered without hesitation. “No.”

And he left.

Narice awakened around noon to the smells of coffee and bacon. Turning over in the bed, she snuggled deeper, intending to sleep longer but the brief brush with consciousness made her remember where she was, and then it all came back—the encounter with Ridley, her kidnapping, her father's burial. She wondered if things could get any worse? Probably, said the cynic inside. Probably.

She got up and walked the short distance to the bathroom. On the way she saw that she'd slept in her suit and shrugged it off. She'd been so drained this morning the moment her head hit the pillow, she'd immediately fallen asleep. The six-hundred-dollar ensemble was a wrinkled mess, but she didn't care; she just wanted a shower.

Before stripping off her clothes, though, Narice made sure the lock on the bathroom door worked. Satisfied, she took care of her morning needs, then stepped into the glass stall. The spray was hot and powerful, a perfect combination for a woman trying to pull herself back together.

Dressed in a pair of jeans, a white silk Tee, and carrying the blue silk jacket she'd picked up in Barcelona last year, Narice came downstairs. Saint was at the stove tending bacon frying in a skillet.

“Hello,” he called out. “Hope you don't mind having breakfast. I'm cooking enough for two if you want some.”

A kidnapper who cooked breakfast at noon, and in sunglasses, no less. She noted that at least he'd taken off the High Noon coat. The navy turtleneck and the worn pair of jeans showed off the lean fitness of his six-foot-plus frame. The army boots were as dirty as they'd been earlier and he still hadn't shaved.

“Do you eat bread?” he asked, now standing by the toaster.

She found the question odd. “Yes, why?”

“Fashion types like you don't always eat bread. Didn't want to waste it.”

“Fashion types?” she asked skeptically, coolly.

“Yeah.” He dropped the bread into the slots, then went back to the skillet where the bacon was frying nicely.

Narice took a seat on one of the counter's stools and
drawled, “And here I thought I was just a kidnap victim.”

He grinned a bit. “Just going by the way you dress.”

“And if I judged you by the way you dress, what would you be, besides a kidnapper?”

“Ouch,” he yelped. “You're hard on a brother.” Using a long-handled fork he lifted the now-done bacon from the pan and laid it on a paper towel–covered plate. “My sister says I look like an outlaw.”

“Does she know you kidnap women?”

He made an elaborate show of thinking that over, then said, “Nope.” He added, “Did I mention that I'm with the good guys?”

“You did.”

“You're not acting like you believe me.”

“Maybe, because I don't.”

“You think a bad guy would cook you this kind of breakfast, at this time of day?” he asked, stirring what appeared to be a small pot of grits. “Bad guys would feed you mouse burgers.”

She couldn't help it. She smiled.

He paused for a moment to watch her. “I wondered if you knew how to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Smile.”

Narice tried to shrug it off. “Okay, so you're charming. Proves nothing.”

“You think I'm charming?”

“I think you're fishing for compliments.”

“Am I?”

He set a plate before her that had on it scrambled eggs, bacon, and a small steaming helping of grits. She looked into the dark glasses and did her best to ignore the pure male essence he exuded. “Yes, you are, but thanks for breakfast anyway.”

“You're welcome,” he replied, then went to fix his own plate.

The meal was surprisingly good.

He asked, “How's my cooking?”

“Not bad. They teach you this in kidnapper school?”

“Yep. First day.”

She met his shaded eyes. “You get an A.”

“Thanks.”

“Why do you wear sunglasses indoors?”

“I'm nocturnal.”

Her voice was skeptical. “Nocturnal.”

“Yeah, sorta like a cheetah.”

She shook her head. A
nocturnal
kidnapper.

He raised his cup of coffee to his lips. “Besides, Parliamentfunkadelic says you can't be cool without your shades.”

Skepticism colored her tone once more. “Parliamentfunkadelic.”

“You know, Sir Nose. George Clinton. The P-funk?”

She wondered how many women melted on the spot under his golden, unshaven good looks. He was insane, but gorgeous. “I know who they are.”

“Good.” He had the nerve to grin.

Her heart had the nerve to skip a beat. Angry at her
self for softening to a man who'd snatched her off the street and was holding her against her will, she asked, “Is there any juice?”

He observed her for a long moment. “In the fridge. Stuff gives me hives, but help yourself.”

Glad to put some distance between herself and him, even if for just a few seconds, Narice slid from the stool. Opening the fridge she took out the slim, still sealed carton and poured herself a small glass. She took a deep swallow. The orange juice was cold and refreshing; just what she needed to put herself back in control.

Saint ate his breakfast and silently watched her. Earlier, dressed in her expensive suit and shoes, she'd been the CEO headmistress. Now she looked a lot more regular dressed in the jeans and the blouse; if you ignored the little silk jacket draped over her chair. The short-heeled mules on her feet were probably as pricey as the jacket, but she seemed more approachable; less formal in spite of the flawless makeup, the perfectly arched eyebrows, and the laid, short-cut perm.

When she bent to put the juice back into the fridge, he found himself viewing her from another angle. She was well put together. The dossier on her said she was thirty-seven, but her body was still fit. It was a woman's body and had a curvy thing going on that definitely pleased a brother's eye. And the sister could run. He was going to have to keep a close eye on this one.

Narice returned to the counter with her glass of juice. “You know, when I don't show up in Baltimore
in a few days, my friends are going to start to worry and then call the police.” It was spring break for her school.

“And?”

“And people are going to start looking for me.”

“Good for them.”

“I'm serious.”

“So am I. Good friends are hard to find.”

Narice's lips tightened. She didn't like being patronized. “Well, since you think I'm such a fashion plate, I'll make sure I wear my best suit to your trial.”

“You do that,” he said, giving her another male grin. Getting to his feet, he picked up their plates and walked the short distance to the sink. “You should get your suitcase. Soon as I put this stuff in the dishwasher, we're outta here.”

He then looked her way and said, “I know this has been hard—you just buried your father and now all this drama.”

She didn't respond.

“I'm on your side. Believe that.”

Narice wasn't convinced. “Put yourself in my place. Would you trust you?”

Saint didn't lie. “Probably not, so how can I prove it? Have I hurt you in any way?”

“No.”

“Threatened you with a weapon?”

“No. Ridley did, though.”

“Then, how about I show you my ID?”

“ID can be forged. I had two students who got in big
trouble last year for making fake five-dollar bills on their computers, but let me see it.”

He went over to his coat and fished his wallet out of one of his many pockets. He handed it to her.

Narice compared the face in the photo to the man standing next to her. They were the same. When Narice first opened her school, the daughter of the then vice-president had been one of her students, so Narice had become very familiar with Secret Service ID and Saint's certainly looked real. She handed it back.

Saint waited for her to say something, and when she didn't, he asked, “So?”

“So, what?”

“Do you believe me now?” Saint found her to be an exasperating challenge of a woman.

She shrugged. “At this point, I don't know what to believe, but let's go and see this queen of yours.”

Saint watched her head up the stairs to retrieve her suitcase and all he could think was
God, she is fine.
A woman with a body and face like that could make a man sell out his country. Under the circumstances, she appeared to be holding up well and he found that impressive. Even more impressive—no tears, no hysterics. He wished he could tell her more, though. She'd earned it.

A few minutes later, they left the room and he put her suitcase in the car's small trunk.

Narice said, “How much money would it take for you to let me walk away? You can just say I escaped.”

He closed the trunk. “Nope.”

“Why not?”

He chuckled, “And ruin my reputation. No thanks.”

He opened the car door for her. She stared up. He lifted an eyebrow. Sighing aloud, the thwarted Narice got in.

The highway signs led them into downtown Grand Rapids, the state's second largest city. When he eased the car into the valet parking lane of a large stately hotel, she didn't know what to think. The red-coated doormen politely held open the door and the man she knew as Saint escorted her inside. The lobby had frescos painted on the high ceilings, ornate cherrywood furniture and a sedate air that exuded old money. He led her past the highly polished desk where smiling scrubbed faces greeted arriving and departing guests, and over to the bank of elevators. Narice had a thousand questions but kept them to herself because evidently hell would freeze over before he gave her any real answers.

They emerged onto the twelfth floor and stepped out into a carpeted hallway that was as hushed as it was elegant. Lush green plants in foot-high planters lined the hallway walls. The carpet was so thick she couldn't hear her own footsteps. At the far end of the hall were two burly men dressed in blue business suits, standing on either side of the last door. Both were brown-skinned men with foreign features that reminded Narice of the Ethiopian uncles of one of her students.

As Narice and Saint approached, one of the men smiled, showing beautiful white teeth, “Welcome back, Mr. St. Martin. Is this the lady?”

Her escort nodded. “The bad guys almost beat me to her, though.”

“They are like cockroaches,” the man answered with disdain, “but I'm sure The Majesty will be pleased that you played the role of champion.”

The man then turned his attention to Narice. “Welcome.”

“Thank you,” she replied warily. She now had more questions than ever. It was obvious that English was not his native language, but he smiled at her as easily as if she were kin. What did this all mean? And who in the world was The Majesty? She thought the proper title for a ruler would be Her or His Majesty.

Once again she was ushered forward with her questions unanswered. The expansive suite had the rich exotic smell of incenses and perfumes. Amidst the hotel's conservative cherrywood furniture, pillows brocaded in striking ethnic patterns were spread about the carpeted floor like vivid desert flowers.

Areas of the room were shrouded behind gossamer-thin veils hemmed in silk. Bearded old men with brown skin and wearing sandals moved about silently. A few of them met her eyes but dropped them immediately and withdrew. Narice shot Saint a puzzled look, but the sound of a gong drew her attention away.

The deep note resonated in the air for a long moment before fading away. As the silence returned, a small group of men, also dressed in white, processed in.

Narice couldn't say if these were the same men she'd seen in the room earlier, but they certainly
looked old enough. She'd be willing to bet a few of them had to be over a hundred.

When the procession halted, two younger men entered carrying a large gilded chair. It was opulently upholstered in bold purple velvet and embroidered with a large black griffin on the chair's back. The old men parted like the Red Sea so the chair could be placed between them. Then a man and a veiled woman entered. The woman had her hand resting gracefully upon her escort's arm. He was robed in white. Her robes were purple and underskirted with black. The purple and black scarf covering her hair flowed to her waist and had the sheen of polished silk. She looked old, but determining her true age was impossible. The veil revealed only that her skin was brown and her eyes, the color of gold.

The woman took a seat in the gilded chair, and the escort moved back to stand with the other men. Narice realized she'd been holding her breath and that her heart was pumping. Taking in a deep breath she calmed herself and prayed nobody could see her shaking.

At first, the woman didn't say anything at all, spending the moment studying Narice as if measuring her for something. Seemingly satisfied she turned away and focused her golden eyes on Saint. “It is good to see you again, Mr. St. Martin.” Her voice radiated quiet power.

He responded by bowing solemnly. “It's good to see you again too, Majesty.”

He'd removed the shades and Narice was mildly impressed by his show of respect.

He then settled his green eyes on Narice. “May I present, Narice Jordan. She is the daughter of the Keeper.”

The queen inclined her head. “Ms. Jordan. I was saddened to learn of your father's death. My condolences.”

Narice had no idea how this woman knew her father or why he was being referred to as the Keeper, but she responded genuinely, “Thank you.”

“Let me also apologize for bringing you here under such mysterious circumstances. I'm sure you must be wondering what this is all about?”

Narice didn't lie. “Yes.”

“Well, soon you will know all. For now, you are my guest. With your permission, my ladies will make you comfortable. I have some things I must discuss with Mr. St. Martin first and then you will join us. It will not be long.”