ter. Someone with a strong family resemblance.
He switched off the light, plunging them back into darkness once more. “Can’t risk having Bishop see the light. Not that I’m worried. If he even realizes you’re gone, he’s never going to find you. There’s no need to hurry, but I don’t want to take foolish chances.”
“And how are you going to enjoy killing me if you can’t see me?”
“Oh, sweetie, I can slowly rip you apart with my eyes closed. Don’t worry about me. And I wouldn’t bother fighting against my restraints. That’s a garroting wire you’ve got twisted around your wrists. You’ll cut your hands off before you break free.”
Garroting wire? Why did that sound familiar? She tried to keep calm. She refused to believe Merlin was dead. It would take more than a slimy pissant, like the man who had her strung up, to kill Merlin. He’d find her. Even if they were so well hidden James wouldn’t get here in time, Merlin would find her. “Does your vow of silence include not telling me where we are?”
She was growing used to the murky light, and she could see his face. Which meant he could see hers, and she managed an emotionless expression. “Tut tut. You’re being very sarcastic, aren’t you? We’re in the remnants of a chicken coop, if my sense of smell serves me. At some point a tree fell across it, and it looks like a splintered pile of wood, but there was just enough room for the two of us, all nice and cozy, and you look so pretty, all strung up like that.”
For some reason she felt no sexual threat in his words. Merlin would find her. It was a mantra in her mind, and she wanted to throw it in his face, but it might make him speed things up. She tried to clear her throat, to sound normal despite the fact that he had her captive. “I wouldn’t call this cozy.”
“Ah, you’re used to more elegant surroundings, aren’t you? I’m afraid this was the best I could do on short notice—I wasn’t going to wait until you reached New Orleans, though if there was ever a city where murder is easy, that’s the one.” The man moved closer, pushing his face up next to hers, and she saw he held a stiletto in one thin hand. Evangeline glanced at the weapon dispassionately and then back at his face. If she was going to die, then she wasn’t going to give him any satisfaction.
She had a good memory for faces—so much for the fuckhead saying she was unobservant—and she finally recognized who he resembled. Someone she hadn’t seen in more than five years, and then only briefly. He looked eerily like the woman who’d been with James at the hotel in Tuscany. He must be her brother . . .
Realization hit, startling a little sound from her before she managed to shut down her reaction. The man spoke. “What’s up, buttercup? You think you hear Bishop coming to rescue you? I have better hearing than you do, and I’ve got the doors wired. I’ll know the moment he leaves the house.”
Evangeline leaned back against the flimsy structure, forcing her body to relax, and she could see the man’s beautiful eyes narrow. “Maybe,” she said evenly. “Do you mind telling me how you’re going to kill me? Since it’s supposed to take a long time, I can’t quite imagine how you’re going to do it. I did read somewhere about the Chinese Death of a Thousand Cuts, but I don’t think you have time for that. Are you going to hack off body parts while I scream? But that might draw Bishop’s attention.”
“You are a cool one, aren’t you?” There was clear admiration in the man’s voice. “No wonder James is in love with you.”
The words hit her like a blow, far worse than anything else he could have done. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I told you you were unobservant. The man is obsessed with you, though even he refuses to face it. The two of you are like some idiot pair of Shakespearean lovers, bumbling around.”
“Ah, a scholarly bent, I see,” Evangeline said acidly. “And I agree completely—I’m completely unobservant and idiotic. Look at how long it took me to realize who you are.”
He didn’t even blink, his thin lips curving in a smile. “I sincerely hope that you do. I tell you what—we can play Rumpelstiltskin. I’ll give you three chances to tell me who I am. If you get it right I won’t kill you.”
“Rumpelstiltskin,” she said promptly.
He toyed with his knife, letting her observe its perfect blade. “One down. Try another.”
“Jimmy Hoffa.”
“Now you’re not even trying,” he chided, sounding disappointed. “Last chance, Evangeline, and then I’ll cut your throat first so you can’t do anything but gurgle while I play with the rest of you.”
“Fair enough,” she said sweetly. “Did you get that knife in Italy, Claudia?”
His expression was almost comical, like that of a child whose balloon had been popped. He seemed almost affronted, but it only took him a moment to pull himself together. “Actually I go by Claude when I’m dressed like this. And I have a surprise for you.”
“And that is?”
“I lied.” He came at her then, but Evangeline could read body language; she hadn’t trusted him for a moment, and she tried to dodge him, kicking out at him. To her amazement she connected, and he went flying, crashing against the wall. The rotting wood splintered around him, around them, and she heard the creak and groan of the ancient structure as it began to collapse, and then she was down in the mud, covered with wood and debris.
She screamed for James, knowing it was useless. The rain was pounding down, drowning out any sound she could make, and the wind was whipping the cottonwood trees overhead, adding to the noise. He wouldn’t hear her, he was safe in the confines of the house, his face glued to the goddamned computers, and Merlin was dead. She screamed again as Claude began to rise from the debris. He reached for her ankle, trying to drag her back, and she kicked at him with her bound ankles.
“Bitch!” Claude screamed, his husky voice higher-pitched in his fury, and he slashed at her with his knife.
She kicked again, kicked as hard as she could, ignoring the slashing blade, and she felt her foot connect with his face, hard enough to hear bone crack. She did it again, twice, so fast he couldn’t move out of the way; then she managed to roll out from under the collapsed chicken shed, where she was faced with the fallen trunk of a massive tree. She dove over it, rolling in the mud, just managing to get to her feet with her hands still bound in front of her, and began to hobble forward in the inky darkness.
She slammed into him, so hard she almost knocked herself unconscious, and she opened her mouth to scream again, when he caught her, turned her, and slapped his hand over her mouth, silencing her. How the hell had he managed to get ahead of her? She kicked and fought desperately, digging her teeth into his hand, when his arms tightened, and she knew . . .
It was James. James had found her; James was holding her. She let her body sag against him, exhaustion pouring through her. She didn’t even care if she died now—not so long as he was there, holding her shaking body.
A bolt of lightning illuminated the landscape, sizzling in the air, and she could see Claude only a few feet away, the knife in his hand, his face covered with blood. She had no idea whether she’d done it with her kicks or if it had been the result of the collapsing structure, but she hoped she could take the credit.