Men Of Honour. Lori Foster
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Molly had been missing. Interesting. “I found Molly, and I thought you might be interested in the … details.”
That did it. After waving off the approaching valet, Bishop moved to confront Dare. Voice lowered and infused with suspicion, he said, “I don’t know what this is about, but if you think to blackmail me, I can tell you that it won’t work. You won’t get a single cent from me.”
It took all of Dare’s resolve not to plant his fist in Bishop’s face. Feigning a boredom he didn’t feel, Dare said, “Does that mean you’re not curious about where she was, or how she got there?”
On uncertain ground, Bishop flexed his fingers while trying to gauge his opponent. Finally, after smoothing his already smooth hair, he tweaked the collar of his golf shirt and played blasé. “I assumed she was off on another research trip.”
“Yeah?” Arms relaxed, stance negligent, Dare smiled. “And you thought I’d blackmail you over that?”
“What else?” All decorum fled as he said, “Thanks to her absurd vocation, Molly gets herself into preposterous situations.”
“Like what? Being kidnapped?”
“Kidnapped?” For only a moment, Bishop rocked back in shock before realizing how loudly he’d spoken. Appalled at himself, he again looked around to ensure no one had overheard him.
“That’s right. Taken against her will.” Enunciating slowly, Dare said, “Abducted.”
“But …” He blustered in disbelief. “That’s absurd.”
Dare shook his head. “It’s a fact.”
Not missing a beat, Bishop asked, “But she’s safe now?”
Did the man care? Or was he pondering his own position in things? “She’s safe.”
After letting out a breath, trying to shush Dare with his own example, Bishop said, “Look, this has nothing to do with me.”
“You’re her father.”
“An irrefutable fact.” Bishop sounded pained by the relationship. “But you’d have to understand my daughter. She is not conventional. She is not circumspect. It’s a fault I have lamented for years.”
Dare said nothing—which prompted Bishop to say a lot.
“Just what the hell do you want from me? You certainly can’t expect me to take charge of Molly’s every misfortune.”
Being kidnapped was a misfortune? “You’re a real asshole, aren’t you, Bishop?” Dare didn’t bother being circumspect, which prompted Bishop to another quick survey of their surroundings. “Do you have any idea where your daughter was?”
“Since I didn’t know of any of this, how could I?”
“Do you even care?”
Bishop flattened his mouth—and refused to reply.
Deep down, rage simmered in Dare, but he didn’t show it. “You know, I have to ask myself—why would a father be so indifferent to his daughter’s well-being—unless he was the one who had arranged her misfortune.”
Jaw going slack and face coloring, Bishop blinked in an effort to reconcile himself with the accusation. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” And then with new heat: “What the hell are you talking about? Do you know who I am? Do you know my standing in society?”
Hmm. He had looked genuinely surprised by it all.
Dare decided to press him. Coming out from around the SUV door, he closed the distance to Molly’s father. At around five feet, nine inches, Bishop stood damn near a half foot shorter than Dare. He was lean, toned, but he lacked any real strength.
Physically, he was half the man Dare was. In character, he was a worm.
“So, Bishop,” Dare said, “it would surprise you to learn that your daughter was snatched out front of her apartment building?”
“That’s ridiculous. Who would want Molly?”
God almighty, Dare wanted to hit him. One good pop to the nose, that’s all. Bishop wouldn’t be so smug or condescending with his own blood splattered over his face. “And I guess you didn’t know that she was taken to Tijuana, held captive, starved, tormented and threatened?”
“I don’t believe you,” Bishop blustered. The earlier hot color leached from his face. He said again, “I don’t believe you.”
“She was taken, all right.”
Even while shaking his head in denial, Bishop muttered, “But … why?”
“That’s what I want to know.”
Perplexed, Bishop looked down in thought, then glared at Dare. “This is hard to accept. And what do you have to do with it, anyway?”
“Not a damn thing, except that I’m the one who found her.”
With even more suspicion, Bishop asked, “In Tijuana?”
“Yes.” Keeping it vague, Dare gave a bare-bones assessment. “I was there for unrelated reasons, and I saw her. Her condition was not good.”
“What do you mean?” And in accusation: “You said she was okay.”
“She’s alive, and she’s healing.” Physically. Emotionally … Dare just didn’t know. “But she was poorly treated.”
The seconds ticked by; Bishop swallowed. “Raped?”
“She says not.” The rapid-fire questions felt more devious than frantic.
“Who had her?”
“People who deal in white slavery.”
Bishop blanched in horror. “Dear God. White slavery? But surely … Where is she now?” He looked around aghast as if expecting her to suddenly appear. “She’s not with you, is she?”
“I told you, she’s safe. I have her well away from here.” Away from you.
“I see.” Though he tried to hide it, Bishop’s evident relief couldn’t be missed.
It wasn’t relief for his daughter’s safety—the bastard.
“Well.” Bishop tugged at his tailored shirt. “I’m pleased to hear that she’s all right.”
“I didn’t say that.”
Disregarding Dare’s statement, Bishop forged on. “She obviously can’t come back home.”
“Home?” Dare inquired.
“To Ohio.”
His eyes narrowed. “To where you live, you mean?”
As if justified, Bishop said, “There would be a ghastly scandal. The media would have a field day if they got wind of this, and knowing Molly, she won’t even attempt to keep it quiet.”
“You would expect her to?”
His chin shot up. “For the sake of her family, and to protect our good name, of course that’s what I expect.”
“She didn’t ask to be taken, you know.”
“Maybe not in so many words.” Bishop curled his lip in disdain and distaste. “But still …”
Wishing he could demolish the smaller man, Dare asked, “What do you mean by that?”
“She’s my daughter. Of course I care about her well-being. But odds are she brought this on herself.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Dare had seen some hideous people in his time, but Molly’s father beat them all.
“With that filth she writes and the way she—”
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