Chapter 4

      Violet wiggled her fingers, the novelty of being able to do so not having yet worn off. She’d lost all sense of time—and the heavy curtains at the window further prevented any sense of the hour—but the slow, steady progression of life into her limbs had remained her sole focus.

      Her legs were still weak. She’d tried swinging them off the bed and barely made it to the edge, so a peek out the curtains would have to wait. In the meantime, she’d stared at the walls, reflecting on what she knew—or thought she knew—about the men holding her captive.

      Reed had been shocked to discover his stepfather, Tripp Lange, was the man behind the heinous crimes that had been committed thus far in the name of greed and avarice. Since their showdown two—no, three?—days ago, the detective had spent every free hour attempting to track down the depth of his stepfather’s secret empire.

      He’d been woefully underprepared for the small pieces he had uncovered, including Lange’s reputation as The Duke, whispered in Dallas’s underworld. The man was purported to be a brutal adversary, and the few who had dealings with him were focused only on satisfying whatever bargain they’d struck with the devil.

      What had concerned Reed most was Lange’s possible connections within the Dallas PD. During their tussle, Tripp had admitted he’d had Reed assigned to the break-in at Elegance and Lace. And he’d obviously managed to spring himself free of jail in no time.

      What other maneuvers had he orchestrated?

      The heavy tread of feet outside the door pulled her from her thoughts as the thick wood door swung open. As if she’d conjured him, Tripp Lange walked through, followed by what she could only assume was his bodyguard and man-of-all-business.

      The man who’d stared her down earlier.

      “Hello, Miss Richardson.”

      “Mr. Lange.” She nodded before struggling to a sitting position. The struggle chafed, but not nearly as much as lying prone beneath their twin stares.

      She took in the two men, quickly cataloging the odd pair. Tripp’s man was all muscle. He was roughly the same size as Max’s six-foot-one but not quite as broad. And where Max had a sense of solidness to his form that was in his genes, Lange’s man clearly worked at his. The corded muscles in his neck suggested a fair amount of gym time, as did his almost ridiculously stiff posture.

      Lange, on the other hand... Violet fought the shudder and again forced herself to look objectively, much as she did when attempting to reason with an angry bridesmaid over a chosen dress. There were things that could be learned if you looked and listened.

      The man was small and trim, his harsh demeanor more evident in his features and the stoic set of his body. A hard jawline that held about as much sympathy as a python for its victim and a pair of pale green eyes to finish off the reptilian look.

      What had Reed’s mother seen in the man?

      By all accounts, they had a happy marriage. One in which Diana Graystone Lange been loved and doted on, happy in the illusion he’d woven around her.

      Yet another illusion of love, shattered to bits.

      “Ah, excellent. The paralytic is wearing off.” Lange turned to the man next to him. “Just as you suggested, Alex. About six to eight hours of potency.”

      Violet noted the name while mentally adding the time and guessed it was nearing seven or eight o’clock in the morning. The wedding had been winding down when she went out for a breath at nearly midnight.

      Which meant she’d been missing all night.

      Unwilling to show any weakness, she tamped down on the fear that she’d been gone too long for anyone to find a trail and focused on whatever she could possibly learn now.

      “Way to stack the deck in your favor.” She pushed every bit of Dallas socialite into her tone and prayed she didn’t get a smack for her efforts.

      What she received instead was far more alarming than she ever could have imagined. Tripp leaned forward, those snake eyes telegraphing menace and a cocky sort of assurance. “I always stack the deck in my favor, Miss Richardson. Gambling is for the weak-minded. Those who understand that remain in control.”

      A horrible sickness curled in her belly—a physical reminder that she wasn’t in control—yet she pressed on. “Clearly the strategy is working for you. You’re in hiding, kidnapping innocent women, while your wife refuses to see you. Good plan.”

      Tripp moved even closer, so close she could see the pores of his face and the black lines that rimmed his eerie irises. “The bravado is amusing, but taunting me won’t help. Nor will jabs about my wife. I will have the rubies. I will have my wife. And then I’ll be rid of you and your friends. Is that understood?”

      She said nothing, even as she refused to break eye contact. As Tripp lifted his head from hers, he tossed his final salvo. “You can at least take heart that I don’t play with my prey.”

      Alex dropped a wrapped bagel and a bottle of water on the end table before turning to follow his boss. It was only at the last minute, as the man turned from the door, that something dark and violent struck through the roiling fear already swimming in her stomach.

      Lange might not want to play with his prey, but Alex looked like he lived for it.

      *