Page 115 of Enthrall Climax
“He’s on a plane heading for Paris.”
“How do you know?”
He gave me a wry smile. “Trust me.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me, Mia.” He rose to his feet and ripped off the other glove. “As soon as Cole gets here I’ll make his life hell.”
“Why?”
“He stole Danton from me.” He came closer and gripped my throat. “And now I have you.”
MY BACK JOLTED WHEN THEplane touched down on the runway, braking hard on the wet tarmac. There was too much rain hitting the window to see out.
Shay and I dragged our suitcases down the metal staircase as the downpour hit us. We’d packed enough clothing to suggest we had planned a decent stay—tuxedos, casual clothes, and the kind of items that wouldn’t arouse suspicion when searched. The kind of items you could leave behind.
Getting out of Europe without a stamp in our passports was going to be interesting.
We rolled our cases behind us through the rain toward the blue Alpha Romeo—the only car here.
Scarlet had come through and found us Hillenbrand’s address. They’d even sent a car. We weren’t told the name of her contact.
As we climbed in the back I ran through the plan. Get in. Rescue Mia. Get the hell out.
I’d memorized the passphrase, “Belle journée pour un mariage blanc.”
The driver threw back a customary greeting as we left the airport.
“Welcome to Paris.” Those would be the only words he spoke for the entire journey.
Shay and I remained silent sharing nothing but the occasional glance.
For all our driver knew, the most sinful activity that went on at Hillenbrand was the drinking of exorbitant wines and the lighting of illegal cigars, along with the occasional prostitute to entertain and make it a pleasant stay.
Hillenbrand had been described as a chateau on a hill, not a small manor surrounded by farmland.
So wherever the driver was taking us wasn’t right…
The car cruised up the lengthy driveway and pulled up to a country estate. Our driver opened the trunk and removed our luggage. He dragged them toward the front door. I took a few seconds to steel myself before entering, bringing my suitcase with me.
Inside, the place looked like a hunting lodge—with that private club feel. Trophies in the way of beheaded animals hung from the walls and one of them, a deer, stared down at us with an accusatory glare.
“Don’t look at me,” I said to amuse myself. “Not guilty.”
A door opened and a voluptuous thirty-something strolled toward us dressed in a severe high-necked silk blouse and short black skirt; her spiked heels would double as a weapon. Her brown hair was pulled up in a chignon. She was carrying a bottle of Krug Clos du Mesnil in one hand and two glasses in another. She placed it all on a nearby table and proceeded to uncork the bottle, pouring two glasses of champagne.
Two forms also lay on the table. They looked a lot like contracts. There was a fountain pen beside them.
“Welcome, gentleman,” said the woman. “I’m Mistress Delma.” Her accent was pure German.
“It’s an honor,” said Shay, accepting the glass.
“The phrase you gave the driver?” She raised her chin. “It is outdated.”
My jaw tensed with that inconvenient revelation. Scarlet had done her best, but no doubt they changed it frequently.
“We’ve come a long way,” I said, sitting my suitcase down.
