Page 58 of The Billionaires' Gamble
A shadow swipes across the window, and I duck.
What are the chances that’s the cavalry?
The door behind us slides open. “Let’s go.”
Okay, not the cavalry. Fudgecakes.
I’ll give Tyler credit. He’s pissed at my mother and wants nothing to do with her—who can blame him? But he exits the room first, pauses to let me out, then keeps himself between me and the kidnapper. Only, another one meets us at the end of the hall.
He’s bigger, with dark hair, a deep frown, and a spiraling wire trailing out of one ear. These guys are seriously kitted up and the spitting image of ‘stereotypical kidnapper.’
“Through here,” he says, nodding his head.
We follow along like docile little cows. My eyes scan our surroundings for a phone, a heavy paperweight, anything that could help.
In the spacious salon, the man stops, turns, and pegs us with a hard stare. “Stay here.”
He moves across the room with the grace of someone very comfortable with their body, like Alex. Only, this guy is on the wrong team.
Which makes me wonder what it’d take to get him on our team. I glance back at Tyler, then at the guy who was stationed outside the stateroom. He’s moved back to the door we just came through, blocking the exit.
What are we waiting for?
Or rather, who?
The suspense just might kill me.
With kidnapper number two flanking the accordion-style doors at the back of the boat, there’s no escape unless we go through them, and I don’t think Tyler has it in him. I’m not sure he’s ever fought for anything in his whole pampered life. His hands are too soft.
Unlike my guys.
Which is funny, considering Gabe is a geek. But he’s spent so long coding, his fingers have built up slight calluses. Alex’s are rough too, but so gentle. And King’s have their own calluses built up from long hours climbing things and using them to stay in weird positions.
I glance back at Tyler, who’s stoic as a statue. He looks like the textbook definition ofpraying for the floor to open up and swallow him.
Turning my attention forward again, I notice the man at the door tap his earpiece. My heart threatens to beat right out of my chest.
After what seems like an eternal wait—because why wouldn’t my kidnapper make me wait—shadows play across the back deck as someone comes down the exterior staircase. I hold my breath, mind paging through the possibilities: a business rival, an enemy of my grandfather, maybe a long-lost cousin who was cut out of the will? Lack of oxygen makes me woozy, and I start imagining a grim-faced mafia don.
But then, all the air leaves my lungs as a familiar figure steps into view.
21
KATHERINE
I feel like I could more easily understand astrophysics than what my eyes are telling me right now.
My kidnapper opens the sliding door, letting in the ocean breeze and a hint of perfume. The strong floral scent is laced with baby powder, offering a confirmation of what my brain and heart already know.
Betrayal ricochets through me, my muscles and tendons tightening, and I dig my nails into my palms.
“Mother?” The word comes out as a question, laced with surprise. But that feels performative because I’m not that surprised.
Enraged, yes.
Schooling my features takes every ounce of willpower I possess, and I fall back on decades of practice.
“Called it,” Tyler murmurs.
