Destination Wedding (4 page)
Turning to her he said in a tight voice. “Sorry, but I wanted everything to be perfect for you.”
“It was just an accident,” she murmured.
“That shouldn’t have happened.”
The man was hastily scraping up the mulch, and they waited until the path was clear before continuing back to the house.
Victor began to speak to her again as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. But the incident was a chilling demonstration of how this man’s anger could flare out of control.
As they reached the patio, he said, “I was thinking that we could have the wedding ceremony and the reception out here. Does that suit you?”
She was tempted to ask what would happen if it didn’t, but she managed a more civil reply. “That would be fine.”
Still being deferential, he said, “I didn’t ask you what kind of ceremony you want. Of course I’m not religious. It was frowned upon in the Soviet Union, but if you want a priest or a minister, I can have one brought over from Cuba.”
From Cuba. That was an interesting piece of information. He’d just given her some idea where this island paradise was located.
“I thought the Communists wiped out religion in Cuba, too,” she said.
“To some extent, but the people still have their traditions.”
“I don’t need a minister. A justice of the peace will be fine,” she answered, thinking that God couldn’t possibly sanction this marriage.
He tipped his head to the side, studying her. “Good. That’s what I was thinking.”
He’d led her around his little kingdom, showing her the nine-hole golf course, the tennis courts, the gym—which was in a separate building from the house, and the trails that led into the untamed jungle.
And he’d warned her against going into the natural areas of the island, where alligators and snakes lurked. Was he trying to scare her, or would he really have left dangerous animals roaming the island? She could think of a reason. For punishment, he could send men out there and see if they survived. She tried to banish that wayward thought from her mind and focus on what he was saying.
“I want you to help select the food for the wedding reception,” he said. “Let’s go back to the kitchen. The staff has worked up some tentative menus, but feel free to make any changes you like.”
Right, she thought. What if she suggested he serve her mom’s Buffalo Wings? Would he have the staff run out and kill a bunch of chickens?
oOo
“Got some more data,” Stinger Henderson said to the men planning Camille’s rescue. “He’s flying in a planeload of food and beverages from Florida. Champagne. Vodka. European wines. Russian caviar. And pounds of top-of-the-line beef, lamb and pork. Plus goodies from a gourmet bakery in Miami.”
“For the wedding,” Norland muttered. “I guess he’s planning to do it up right. Do you have any idea of the target date?”
“I’ve checked boat charter services,” Teddy answered. “It looks like the guests are coming in tomorrow—and leaving that same day.”
Norland sucked in a sharp breath. “Jesus, that’s fast. Can we get her out of there before the ceremony?”
“Not a good idea,” Nick answered.
“Why the hell not?”
“Because going off half cocked has little chance of success—even for me. It’s better if we plan carefully. Plus, after the ceremony, his guard will be down.”
“You’re saying you’re going to just let him . . .” The distraught father fumbled for a word and came up with, “rape her?”
The vivid image of Zanov on top of Camille made Nick’s temples pound, but he kept his voice even as he said, “No. I’m thinking the best time to strike is after the ceremony and before he gets her into bed.”
He could see Norland was struggling for calm. “If that bastard touches her. . .”
“He won’t,” Nick snapped, wondering if he could make good on the promise. Zanov had a history of getting what he wanted, and the more Nick learned about the man, the more he felt his guts curdle. The Russian had been working at a government-owned oil refinery when the Soviet Union had broken apart. He and several of the other managers had seized control of the facility and started sucking up the profits. The other men who’d come along with him hadn’t lasted long. All of them had died in various unfortunate accidents, leaving Zanov the sole beneficiary of the takeover.
He’d used the money he’d made to buy other refineries and also to strike deals that gave him access to oil production. And after his position as one of Russia’s new capitalists was solidified, he’d branched out into European partnerships—which was when Norland had met him.
His personal life was as disturbing as his business style. He’d been married when he’d taken over the plant, but he’d divorced that wife and had two more since. One had agreed to a divorce and the other had died in an auto accident when the brakes of her car had failed. From the three marriages he had four children, none of whom lived with him.
Nick winced. What were the odds of the unwanted wife dying in a one-car accident? And what kind of husband had Zanov been to those wives? There was no way of knowing unless they could find some of the people who’d worked in his household.
Did Camille’s father know what a bastard he’d been dealing with? Or hadn’t he cared? Nick wasn’t going to ask because if he got the wrong answer, he would wring the guy’s neck. He’d put his daughters in danger by allowing them to socialize with Zanov.
oOo
Camille was wrung out by the time they’d finished talking to the kitchen staff. She’d dutifully selected hors d’ oeuvres and dishes for the buffet dinner, including a blue-cheese ball and shrimp dip with Zanov adding caviar and Chicken Kiev.
It was mind-blowing to be planning this reception—for a wedding that made her want to throw up. But all she could do was act like she was happy.
In the kitchen, she met another one of his staffers, a stunning young woman with café-au-lait skin whom Victor introduced as “Mary Ann,” and added, “She’s my personal assistant, an invaluable member of my team, and she’ll be helping us with the wedding preparations.”
As the two women eyed each other, Camille picked up some interesting vibes. She’d bet that Mary Ann and Victor were intimates, and that his personal assistant wished she were also being promoted to the role of wife. Maybe he’d continue to sleep with her after he married. She hoped so, because that would take some of the pressure off Camille.
She hated the way that assessment had leaped into her head. Did it mean that she was becoming reconciled to the situation here? She’d been on the island for less than a day. Was she already thinking that escape was impossible?
She wondered what emotions showed on her face as Zanov gave her a concerned inspection. “You’ve had a long day.”
She couldn’t stop herself from saying, “Probably that knockout drug didn’t do me any good.”
He made a tsking sound. “I am sorry about that, but I decided it was the most efficient way to get you here. If you’d tussled with my men, you could have gotten hurt.”
How considerate of him.
She glanced out the window, seeing that the sun was a huge red ball hanging over the ocean.
“Maybe I should go to bed early. And hopefully I’ll be better in the morning.”
He pondered the idea, then nodded. “That might be best. But I’ll have a tray sent to your room.”
“Thank you,” she answered, meaning it. He was letting her get away from him for the time being, and she was relieved to be out of his dominating presence. And if he needed a woman tonight, there was always Mary Ann.
Camille breathed out a sigh as she closed the bedroom door behind her. She was alone at last, and she wanted to scream out her relief, even when the lock clicked. But she didn’t want to give away her state of mind. Better to let him think that she’d totally fallen into line with his plans. Like the old male chauvinist joke about rape. In this case it was, “if marriage is inevitable, relax and enjoy it.”
Plus, another thought had occurred to her. Was this bedroom bugged? Was someone listening to her? Or worse, was a hidden camera recording everything she did? Zanov had certainly come right in as soon as she woke from her drugged sleep.
The idea of being watched made her insides clench as she walked around, inspecting her gilded prison, trying to figure out where a camera or microphone might be. But there were simply too many hiding places. It could be in any of the ornaments in the shelves along one wall, or a spy hole could be lurking in the wallpaper pattern. Probably her best bet was to assume she was being observed in the bedroom and to hope that didn’t go for the bathroom as well.
A knock at the door made her whirl. Before Camille could call out, “come in,” Mary Ann entered carrying a covered tray. Apparently she had turnkey access to the room, even if Camille didn’t.
“We’ve fixed you a nice selection of goodies,” she said, as though she’d personally been slaving away on the meal. “Chicken salad, the way you like it.”
“How do you know how I like it?” Camille asked, hearing the brittle edge in her own voice.
“Oh, Victor never does anything halfway. He was able to talk to some of the servants at your father’s estate.”
“Oh did he? Was that how he knew Eden and I were going shopping?”
Mary Ann shrugged, then set the tray down on the bedside table. “He doesn’t share those kind of details with me.”
Camille struggled not to give the other woman a contemptuous look. If she was trapped here, Mary Ann could either be an enemy or an ally.
“Sorry,” she apologized. “After the . . . unusual way I was brought here, I’m on edge.”
“I know,” Mary Ann agreed, her tone sympathetic. “Your life was suddenly turned upside down, with no planning on your part.”
Camille nodded.
“But you’ll like it here.”
“I hope so,” she lied.
“Victor is doing everything he can to make your life with him enjoyable.”
She could only answer with a noncommittal sound. Should she ask some questions, or was it better to let the other woman go? Maybe Victor had sent Mary Ann in here to get information about Camille’s state of mind.
“Do you want some company while you eat?” Mary Ann asked.
“No. I guess I’d like to be alone.”
The other woman nodded, then knocked on the door. When it opened, she exited quickly.
After standing in the middle of the room for several moments, Camille crossed to the bedside table, took the top off the tray and forked up a little chicken salad. It
was
the way she liked it, giving credence to Mary Ann’s claim about Victor’s snooping. Who at the estate had given him details of Camille’s life. When she found out, she’d have the traitor fired.
Leaving the rest of the food, she went into the bathroom, turned on the water, and adjusted the temperature so that it was hot but not unbearable. As the tub filled, she went in search of a nightgown, finding one slightly more modest than the one she’d been wearing when she woke up.
Settling into the hot water, she leaned back, trying to relax. Plans spun in her mind, but she wasn’t sure she could execute any of them. Turning her head, she saw the wedding gown hanging on its stand. As she stared at it, she imagined blood staining the front.
Hers? Or Zanov’s?
But that probably wasn’t the solution. If she killed him, she ran the risk of retaliation from his staff. They might not love him, but he was their meal ticket.
Which left killing herself. A Cold War saying she’d heard from her father leaped into her mind. Better dead than red. Or conversely, better red than dead.
The latter might be translated—where there’s life there’s hope. And even if she had to let Victor Zanov make love to her, that might be the price she paid for her ultimate freedom.
She forced Victor out of her mind. This was the night before her wedding—but she wanted to think about another man. Nick Cassidy, to be specific.
Please, Nick,
she silently begged.
Please, if you care about me at all, get me out of here.
“If you don’t sleep, you won’t be any good to Camille or anyone else,” Frank Decorah said. He was speaking privately to Nick on a small monitor he’d taken to his cabin on the luxury yacht, Minerva, that was speeding toward Zanov’s private island. The craft looked much like any one of the luxury vessels that might ply these waters, but inside it was now bristling with special equipment, including the communications setup that Nick and Frank were using.
It was after midnight, but instead of sleeping, Nick had been going over plans for his assault on Zanov’s stronghold. He’d told the distraught father that they couldn’t go in immediately, but this was pretty damn close, and Nick was absolutely, positively terrified over how many things could go wrong. Six months ago, signing on as a Norland bodyguard had been a routine assignment. Now it weighed on him like an anchor dragging him down below the surface of a rough sea, choking the breath out of him.
He took a deliberate breath and asked the question that had been gnawing at him. “You’re sure this scheme isn’t too half-asked?”
“I think your talent for concealment is our best chance,” Frank answered.
“My talent, yeah,” he acknowledged.
He’d never known quite what to call it, but he’d been born with the ability to—what? Flicker out of sight? He hadn’t really been good at it—until he’d met Frank. But the Decorah Security chief liked using agents with special talents. And he had recognized that Nick could be one of his best assets. More than that, he’d helped Nick acquire the discipline to employ the skill effectively. After working with Frank, he could usually call on that gift when he needed it. The rub was that the skill tended to crap out on him when his emotions got too involved, which was obviously the case when he was so damn worried about Camille.
If this was going to work, he had to stay calm and focused, or the two of them would end up dead.
“You’ve done all the prep you can,” Frank said. “Get some sleep.”
“Is that possible?”
“I’d sing you a lullaby if I thought it would do any good,” Frank replied.