Don’t pass out, don’t pass out, don’t—
Everything went black.
Chapter 22
Trevor knew something was wrong the moment Tomas Meiro strolled up to him looking like the cat who’d swallowed not one but twenty canaries.
“Tomas,” he said warmly. “I see your wife has spirited mine away.”
“She has indeed.” Meiro’s smile got impossibly wider. “In fact, I’m afraid the lovely Paloma won’t be rejoining you this evening.”
Trevor’s back went ramrod straight. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
Anger rose inside him, growing stronger when he glimpsed the glimmer of satisfaction in Meiro’s eyes.
That son of a bitch had done something to Isabel.
The anger turned to rage. Hot, boiling rage that coiled around his insides like a boa constrictor and had him taking a menacing step toward Meiro.
“Uh-uh,” the man warned softly. “You don’t want to cause a scene, Mr. Martin.”
Trevor clenched his teeth. “Where is my wife?”
“Don’t worry. You’ll join her soon enough.” Meiro smiled at a couple that wandered past, gave a careless little wave, and glanced back at Trevor. “Let’s go.”
He didn’t move an inch. Every muscle, every square inch of skin, burned with fury.
Goddamn it. Why had he let Isabel go off with Meiro’s wife? He shouldn’t have let her out of his sight, for fuck’s sake.
Trevor clenched his jaw. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Of course you are. You want to reunite with your beautiful wife, do you not?”
Frustration jammed in his throat, making it hard to breathe. Jesus. He couldn’t allow himself to lose his cool right now. Isabel’s life was at stake.
Damn it. She’d been right. Meiro must have recognized her as Valerie.
Meiro took a step. “Are you coming, Mr. Martin?”
After a second of indecision, Trevor offered a curt nod.
They left the gallery with Meiro’s two bodyguards in tow. The casino owner stopped to chat with several people along the way, behaving as if he had not a care in the world.
Trevor, meanwhile, was consumed with worry. Worry and fear and fury, a volatile cocktail that moved like poison in his blood.
“If you harm so much as a hair on her head,” Trevor murmured, “I will rip your throat out.”
Meiro chuckled. “So melodramatic, Julian. Please, try and relax.”
They stepped outside, pausing at the top of the limestone steps. Meiro nodded at one of his guards. “Bring the car.”
The evening breeze was chilly, but not as cold as the ice moving through Trevor’s body. If he could have done it without causing a scene—or endangering Isabel further—he would have wrapped his hands around Tomas Meiro’s throat and squeezed the life out of the bastard.
As it was, he forced himself to remain calm. To smile politely at the guards manning the museum doors. To casually follow Meiro down the steps to the black limo that appeared at the curb.
Meiro’s second bodyguard opened the door for Trevor. “Get in,” the beefy man said in a monotone voice.
Although his cheeks hollowed in anger, Trevor did as he was told. He slid into the backseat, breathing in the scent of leather and expensive cologne.
Meiro and his bodyguard followed Trevor into the limo. The second the door slammed shut, Meiro’s guard had a .45 Beretta aimed at Trevor’s head.
“Empty your pockets,” Meiro said pleasantly.
Without a word, Trevor emptied the contents of his pockets. Everything was immediately confiscated, including his cell phone, which Meiro handed to the guard.
Less than a minute later, Trevor’s phone was sans SIM card, crushed beneath the bodyguard’s shoes, and tossed out the window as the limo drove away.
“Pat him down,” Meiro ordered.
Trevor gritted his teeth as the bodyguard searched him for weapons. He had none—trying to sneak a gun into the gala would have been suicide, especially with Princess fucking Stephanie in attendance.
“Give me the watch,” the guard said woodenly.
Trevor swallowed his frustration. Shit. With his phone gone, his watch was the only chance for the team to find him. It contained a transmitter, along with an SOS button that would raise an alarm to alert the others. As he loosened the heavy silver band and slid the watch off his wrist, he brushed the side of his thumb over that tiny button.
Ten seconds later, his watch met the same fate as his phone, and the limo continued to speed through the city streets. Destination: unknown. But Trevor knew without a shred of doubt this wasn’t going to end well.
For anyone.
• • •
Across the street from the museum, D sat in the driver’s seat of the rented town car and monitored the front entrance. Although the car’s windows were heavily tinted, Ethan remained in the backseat so D would be alone up front, giving the illusion that he was a driver waiting for one of the gala guests.
“We’ve got movement at the service doors.” The report came from Sullivan, who was watching the rear of the building with Macgregor. “Three bodies coming out—two male, one female.”
“Shit,” Liam said. “Blondie’s down.”
D touched his earpiece. “What the fuck do you mean, she’s down?”
“We’re looking at Blackjack’s wife”—Liam used the code name they’d assigned Meiro—“and two guards. One’s got a package in his arms. Blondie. Unconscious.”
“They’re getting into a black Bentley.” Sullivan rattled off the license plate number.
A flash of movement caught D’s eye. “Blackjack just walked out. Julian’s with him.”
To anyone else, Callaghan’s demeanor might appear relaxed, unruffled, but D had worked with the man long enough to pick up on his signals. And right now Trevor was transmitting some serious turbulence.
“Bentley’s knocking on your front door,” Sullivan said briskly.
Sure enough, the luxury car emerged from the long driveway at the side of the historic building. The driver stopped to let traffic pass, right-turn signal blinking as the car waited.
“Alpha, you copy?” D asked.
Morgan’s gruff voice came on the line. “Copy.”
“Rookie and I’ll take the Bentley.”
A limo pulled up at the curb, and the two men at the museum’s entrance descended the steps.
“I’ve got the limo,” Morgan replied.
“Orders?” Sullivan’s voice.
“Maintain your position. Boston, replace D.”
The break in traffic allowed the Bentley to take its turn, and a moment later, D’s foot pressed down on the gas pedal and the town car merged smoothly into traffic. He stayed two cars behind, his gaze glued to the Bentley’s bumper.
Ethan leaned forward. “What do you think went down?”
“No fucking idea. Maybe Meiro recognized Blondie?”
“Maybe.” A pause. “I don’t like this.”
“Ditto,” D muttered.
He grew to hate the situation even more when his cell phone buzzed. So did Ethan’s, and the kid let out an expletive as he investigated the cause of commotion.
“Trev triggered his SOS,” Ethan reported.
Up ahead, the Bentley took a left turn.
D followed.
His eyes narrowed as he realized where the car was heading. He quickly switched on his earpiece. “They’re taking her to the West Egg mansion.”
“Limo seems to be going in that direction too.” The boss’s chuckle echoed over the feed. “Good thing you boys are already familiar with the place.”
“Not as familiar as some people,” Ethan said darkly.
Now Morgan released a heavy breath. “Right. Someone get Juliet on the line.”
• • •
Tomas Meiro proved that he wasn’t a liar—Trevor was reunited with Isabel less than thirty minutes after they’d been separated at the MONA gala
. Only the reunion was not the one he’d envisioned.
“What did you do to her?” Trevor spun around with murder in his eyes.
Meiro lingered in the doorway of the musty cellar, his dark eyes flicking to Isabel, who lay unconscious on the concrete floor. “Don’t worry. The drug will wear off soon.”
Trevor shifted his gaze from Meiro to the bodyguards flanking their boss. Nobody had bothered to tie him up, and the only reason he hadn’t disarmed the bastards and snapped their necks was because he’d needed them to bring him to Isabel.
But now . . . now there was nothing stopping him from killing the bastards.
Meiro must have read his mind, because the man made a tsking sound and wagged his finger. “One move and my men will put a bullet in your head. They’ve been ordered to shoot to kill.”
“Just like that? You’ll kill me before you get whatever it is you want?”
“But that is precisely what I want. You, dead.” Meiro waved a hand at the floor. “Her too. Make no mistake, you and your wife will die, Mr. Martin. I’d prefer those deaths be of the slow, agonizing variety, but if you force my hand, I’ll shoot you down like a dog.”
Trevor eyed the pistol in Meiro’s hand. He could disarm the bastard in a heartbeat. Spin around, knock the Beretta out of that first guard’s hand, then—
“Go ahead and attack,” Meiro said pleasantly. “Just know that in those brief moments it takes for you to come after me, my men will have ample time to shoot your wife. Now, I will return shortly. I’m afraid I need to see to my wife.”
Trailed by his guards, Meiro stalked out of the room. The heavy wooden door slammed shut and a lock scraped into place, shutting Trevor and Isabel inside.
He was at her side in a heartbeat, pulling her unmoving body into his arms and pushing strands of black hair out of her face. His heart pounded as he ran his hands over her body to check for injuries, but she was unharmed. No bruising, no blood, no sign of foul play—except for the red mark on the side of her neck.
They’d injected her with something. Something strong, judging from her pale face and unresponsive pupils.
He drew Isabel into his lap and slid backward until he was sitting against the cinder-block wall. The air in the cellar was damp, the scent of mold and sour grapes permeating it. The wine racks built into the walls were empty, a sign that the Meiros no longer used this room to store their collection of fine vintages. It was completely barren save for a few broken crates leaning on the wall adjacent to the door.
Trevor threaded his fingers through Isabel’s hair, his heart in his throat as he gazed at her closed eyelids. Christ, why had he let her go with Renee? They’d both experienced the same sense of unease. They’d known something was up with Meiro. Why the hell hadn’t he tried harder to keep her by his side?
Guilt clawed at him, making him want to punch the wall. Or himself. Yeah, he ought to be hitting himself. What kind of man allowed the woman he loved to be drugged and abducted from a goddamn museum gala?
What kind of man isn’t home to save his fiancée from being murdered by a goddamn burglar?
A wave of agony crashed over him, but he breathed through it. This was different. Isabel wasn’t Gina.
Gina was dead, and he hadn’t been able to save her.
Isabel was alive. He could feel her heartbeat vibrating against his chest, hear her soft, even breathing. She was alive, and there was no goddamn way he was letting her die.
The woman in his arms stirred and let out a soft moan. “Trev?”
Her eyes were out of focus, her movements unsteady as she tried to sit up.
“Easy,” he murmured, holding her tighter. “Don’t move too fast. You might feel dizzy.”
“Dizzy?” She sounded groggy, and her eyelashes fluttered as she blinked repeatedly. “What happened? Why would I—Renee!” Clarity sharpened her eyes. “One of Renee’s guards injected me with something.”
“I know.” He cupped her cheeks and searched her face. “Are you all right? Do you feel nauseous? Light-headed?”
She slowly shook her head. “I just feel tired.”
“Follow my finger. Let me see your pupils.”
She humored him, and when he was satisfied that she was okay, Trevor pulled her to her feet and the two of them exchanged a grim look.
“He must have recognized me,” Isabel said unhappily.
“I don’t know. I think it might be something else.”
“Like what?”
“I have no fucking idea, but this is about more than you playing Meiro for a fool. This has to do with both of us. You and me, Iz. It seems personal.”
She glanced around the room. “I assume we’re at the mansion?”
“Yeah. Meiro didn’t blindfold me. The limo drove right through the gate and we went in through the front door like I was a welcomed houseguest.” Trevor held up both his palms. “And they didn’t bother tying us up. He’s not planning on letting us go. He said so himself—he brought us here to kill us.”
A wrinkle dug into her forehead. “He said that?”
Trevor nodded.
“Why? And does he want us dead? As in, the real us?”
“I don’t know. He keeps calling me Mr. Martin.”
“So it’s Julian and Paloma he wants to eliminate. But why?” she asked again.
Neither of them had an answer for that. Nor did they have time to continue the discussion, because the door swung open and Meiro reentered the room.
His dark eyes gleamed in approval when he saw Isabel awake and on her feet. “Good, you’ve returned to us. I was eager to get started.”
One of Meiro’s guards entered, with a sturdy wooden chair in his hands. He set it down, walked out, and came back with a second chair.
“Sit,” Meiro ordered.
When neither of them moved, the guard cocked his Beretta.
They sat.
Meiro smoothed out the front of his tuxedo jacket, then rubbed his chin in a thoughtful pose. “So. Julian and Paloma. I can’t decide if I’m insulted or pleased that you don’t recognize me.”
Trevor shot Isabel a sidelong look, but her baffled expression matched his own.
“Still confused, are we?” Meiro’s dark brown eyes flashed with irritation. “Let me spell it out for you then.” He took a step closer. “The two of you took something very important from me.”
The accusation just mystified Trevor further. He and Isabel had gone undercover as Julian and Paloma only once before, and that was over a year ago. They’d infiltrated Luis Blanco’s compound and freed a dozen captive girls before Blanco could sell them to the highest bidders.
But Blanco had been killed during the ambush. And thanks to Kane and Abby, Blanco’s second-in-command, Devlin, was dead too.
So how the hell was Meiro connected to that mission? Was he one of the bidders who’d gotten away?
Trevor pondered the thought. No, Meiro wouldn’t have had the money or the power to procure an invitation to Blanco’s sex auction. He’d only appeared on the scene recently, so—
Trevor’s breath hitched.
“Ah, perhaps you do know who I am.” Meiro met Trevor’s gaze. “I’m Lorenzo Blanco, you motherfucker. You and this cunt killed my father.”
Chapter 23
Isabel stared at the enraged man standing before them. Lorenzo Blanco? How was that even possible? She remembered hearing that Luis Blanco had a son studying abroad, but Lorenzo hadn’t stepped up to run his father’s empire after Blanco was killed during the auction raid. Blanco’s dossier hadn’t contained a single photograph of his son, so for all Isabel knew, this was Lorenzo.
But if so, why the hell was he pretending to be a casino owner named Tomas Meiro?
“You do remember my father, do you not?” Meiro—Lorenzo?—asked coldly. “And please don’t insult my intelligence by claiming otherwise. I would recognize your face anywhere, Mr. Martin. I’ve watched the security tape hundreds, no, thousands of times.”
“Security tape?” Tre
vor echoed.
“My father’s cameras captured everything. You and your cunt wife posed as interested buyers. You abused my father’s hospitality. You stole his merchandise. And you”—he jabbed a finger at Trevor—“murdered him in cold blood. It’s all on tape, every last second of it, motherfucker.”
“I see,” Trevor said evasively.
He didn’t sound surprised, and neither was Isabel. They’d known about the security cameras in Blanco’s compound, but it hadn’t been an issue. It didn’t matter if Julian and Paloma got caught on tape—because Julian and Paloma didn’t exist.
“Do you?” Lorenzo mocked. “Do you see?” His breathing grew heavy. “You feel no remorse for what you have done? For the life you took?”
“Your father took lives, too. He sold young girls like they were sex toys.” Trevor’s tone was pointed. “Did he show any remorse?”
“My father was a businessman,” Lorenzo snapped. “He ran an empire, and then you two came along and destroyed it. I’ve yet to figure out what your motive was, but believe me, I intend to. And I intend to punish you fittingly. You destroyed my legacy.”
Isabel scanned her brain, trying to remember the events that followed Luis Blanco’s death. “His rivals came out of the woodwork,” she said slowly. “They broke up his holdings.”
Lorenzo’s eyes flashed. “They stole my empire.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw Trevor roll his eyes. “You expect us to believe that your father didn’t make arrangements for his only son to be taken care of? How many millions did he stash away for you, Lorenzo?”
“Money means nothing if you don’t have power,” Lorenzo said bitterly. “The vultures robbed me of that power, but they didn’t stop there. They knew I would return one day to reclaim my father’s legacy, so they came after me. They tried to eliminate me.” Triumph rang in his voice. “But they failed. They failed, and I lived to see another day.”
Isabel wrinkled her forehead. “So you changed your name and moved to Lisbon?”
The second the question left her mouth, she realized there was no point in asking it. Lisbon. Damn it, that’s what had bothered her the night on Meiro’s yacht.