Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 88179 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88179 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
The businessman’s children were beyond grateful when one of my shell companies purchased the house last year, sparing them from the burden of paying taxes on a place they neither wanted nor had the means to visit regularly.
“So why Japan?”
Sara’s tone is flat and disinterested as she gazes out the chopper window, but I know she must be dying of curiosity to break the hour-long silence and actually speak to me.
It’s either that, or she’s fishing for information that could help her escape.
“Because this is the last place anyone would think to look for us,” I answer, figuring there’s no harm in telling her the truth. “Nothing connects me to the country. Russia, Europe, the Middle East, Africa, the Americas, Thailand, Hong Kong, the Philippines—at one point or another, I’ve blipped on the authorities’ radar in all those places, but never here.”
“Also, it makes for a pleasant hideout,” Ilya says in English, speaking to Sara for the first time. “Much better than holing up in some cave in Dagestan or sweating our balls off in India.”
Sara gives him an indecipherable look, then turns her attention back to the view outside. I don’t blame her. The sky is lightening with the first hints of dawn, and it’s possible to make out the mountain slopes and forests below. By the time we reach our mountaintop retreat, she’ll get the full impact of the view—and realize she can give up all hope of escape. Because that’s another reason for my choice of Japan: the remote location of this specific house.
My little bird’s new cage will be both pretty and impossible to flee from.
We land forty minutes later on a small helipad next to the house, and I watch Sara’s face as she takes in the sight of our new home—a starkly modern wood-and-glass construction that blends seamlessly with the untouched nature surrounding it.
“Do you like it?” I ask, catching her gaze as I help her out of the chopper, and she looks away, pulling her hand out of my grasp as soon as her sock-clad feet are planted on the ground.
“Does it matter? If I said no, would you take me back?” She turns and starts walking toward the edge of the helipad, where the mountainside forms a cliff drop to the lake below.
“No, but if you hate it here, we can consider some of our other safe houses.” Following her, I catch her wrist before she gets to the edge of the pad. I don’t think she’s upset enough to jump off a cliff, but I’m not about to risk it.
“Where? In Dagestan or India?” She finally looks up at me, eyes narrowed. Though it’s late spring, it’s winter cold at this altitude, the chilly morning wind whipping her chestnut waves around her face and molding the loose black T-shirt against her slender torso. I can feel her shivering, her wrist thin and fragile in my grasp, but her delicate jaw is set in a stubborn line as she holds my gaze.
She’s so vulnerable, my Sara, but so strong too. A survivor, like me, though she probably wouldn’t appreciate the comparison.
“Dagestan and India are two of the possibilities, yes,” I say, letting her hear the amusement in my voice. She’s trying to antagonize me, make me regret taking her with me, but no amount of sarcasm or silent treatment will do that.
I need Sara like I need air and water, and I’ll never regret keeping her.
Her soft mouth compresses and she twists her arm, trying to break my grip on her wrist. “Let me go,” she hisses when I don’t immediately release her. “Take your fucking hand off me.”
Despite my resolve to remain unaffected, a twinge of anger bites at me. Sara chose me, if not precisely this, and I’m not about to put up with her treating me like a leper.
Instead of releasing her wrist, I tighten my grip and pull her toward me, away from the edge of the helipad. When she’s sufficiently far from the drop, I bend down and pick her up, ignoring her startled squeak of protest.
“No,” I say grimly, pressing her against my chest. “I’m not letting you go.”
And ignoring her attempts to twist out of my hold, I carry the woman I love to our new home.
5
Sara
Peter doesn’t release me until we’re inside the house, and even then, when he sets me on my feet, he keeps his steely fingers wrapped around my wrist, chaining me to his side as I take in my gorgeous new prison.
And it is gorgeous. Even with the anger and frustration choking me up inside, I can appreciate the clean, modern lines of the open floor plan and the postcard-pretty views of the mountains and the lake visible through the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows. In the middle of the space, next to an ultra-modern kitchen, a set of plank-style hardwood stairs spirals to the second floor—and that’s where Peter leads me, his hand still possessively holding my wrist.