The Professional. Addison Fox

The guests. Where were—?

      The fear at missing the rest of the wedding quickly morphed into something far worse as she realized she hadn’t moved. She was still flat on her back, the room around her full of shadows. She tried again, willing herself into a sitting position, but her body never moved.

      Panic filled her chest in a hard press, and she struggled to catch her breath as her gaze rabbited around the room.

      Where was she?

      As the question rolled over and over, desperately seeking some purchase inside the terror, another question, this one louder than the first, took root.

      How had Reed’s stepfather found her?

      With the legendary focus she was known for—and teased about by Cassidy and Lilah—Violet slowed her gaze along with her breathing and took stock of the room. The thought of her two best friends went a long way toward calming her, and she kept them both close to her heart. They were okay.

      They had to be okay.

      Neither had been out of Reed’s or Tucker’s sight the entire wedding. Which had to be why she was the one who was taken. Her friends were safe.

       Safe.

      She’d focus on that and believe it. Because anything else was unacceptable.

      Violet kept that image in her mind—her two best friends unharmed—and continued to take stock of the room. She was in what looked like a guest room. Although she couldn’t move her head, she knew she was on a bed, the expansive king visible in her peripheral vision. A small light was plugged into the far wall, the soft glow illuminating the room. The cord was visible where it went into the plug, and she considered how she might use it.

      Assuming, of course, she could find a way to move her arms and legs.

      Stilling her breath and the horrifying thought that her captors might have done something permanent to her, she tried once more to move. When a seated position proved impossible, she took another deep breath and focused on smaller motions. Envisioning her hand, she willed movement into her fingers.

      And was rewarded with the light sound of her fingertips scratching over the soft cotton of the bedspread.

       It’s temporary. Just temporary.

      A breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding released in a rush before she added her condition to her arsenal of tools. How long could she play the paralyzed card? Whatever drug she’d been given obviously just needed time to wear off. Her captors likely knew approximately how long, but if she could find a way to use uncertainty to her advantage, she might have surprise on her side.

      With the same quiet focus she’d used on her fingers, Violet settled herself with a few deep breaths and took stock of the rest of her body. She tried wiggling her toes, satisfied when she heard some movement against the mattress, even if she couldn’t move her head to see the progress. And her fingers seemed to gain increasing momentum as she worked on her right hand, then her left.

      A hard jiggle against the door lock drew her attention, and she briefly toyed with playing possum before settling on a new approach. She didn’t run and she didn’t cower. She’d hit this head-on.

      The same man who’d taken her came to stand in front of the bed. “You’re awake.”

      Despite her bravado and the inability to feel much physically, a disturbing sense of menace raced through her body in cold chills.

      “No thanks to you and your boss.”

      The man cocked his head. “So we can dispense with the formalities, then?”

      “What does Lange want?”

      “The rubies.”

      “He’s already got one.”

      “But there are three.” The man’s gaze roamed over her with calculated speculation. “Unless there were more in the cache beneath your floor.”

      “There are three. There have only ever been three. They’re the Renaissance stones of legend.”

      Violet knew she had precious little to trade, but there was no use giving false information over their fantastical find. The Queen of England—wife to King Edward—had wanted the rubies secreted out of England after the Second World War, and their landlady’s father had been the one to do it.

      The fact Mrs. Beauregard thought burying the legendary stones beneath a layer of concrete in an old Dallas warehouse was a good idea was an entirely different matter.

      “How’d you know the stones were even in the warehouse? My partners and I have been there for three years and never even looked beneath the carpet.”

      Although she had a pretty good idea of how Tripp Lange knew—his connections with Cassidy’s late brother-in-law were the start of a terrible chain of contacts—she was curious to see what his rent-a-thug knew.

      “The stones aren’t a secret for those precious few who make it their business to know about these things. Mr. Lange is one of those individuals. He has patience and the will to see every acquisition through.” The man moved in, as quiet and lethal as a snake, and Violet wished like hell she could move to the corner of the bed.

      “He will have the Renaissance Stones. All of them.”

      * * *

      Max fought the need to slam his fists against the front door of the modest north Dallas home and instead waited while Reed rang the bell. He glanced out over the thick, well-manicured lawn, visible in the small pathway lights that led from the driveway to the front door, and took several deep, calming breaths. As he settled, his gaze roamed over the large pots of flowers that flanked the porch. The bright blooms nestled in a weed-free bed of dirt offered a sizable suggestion about the family who lived there.

      They took pride in their home and in what was theirs. The effect was welcoming and homey, and Max knew he’d have been more fascinated with it if his thoughts didn’t drip with oily fear for Violet.

       Home.

      Did he even know what that was?

      He’d thought Dallas could be his home, but now, more than two years after moving back and starting his business, he still wasn’t sure. The innate sense of being a nomad had pushed him into the Army Corps of Engineers, and it was humbling to realize a decade and a half later he’d still not lost the itch to roam.

      The door swung open and Reed stepped up, his hand outstretched. “Thanks for seeing us, Ryan.”

      Reed made quick introductions before Ryan Masterson waved them forward, surprisingly unruffled by the late-night visit. “Come on in.”

      Max stepped into the neat foyer and took in the warm vibe. He’d never had anything like this at home. Even his time with Pops had been caring, but not exactly something straight out of Donna Reed.

      Kicking away the strange, abstract thought, he focused on the matter at hand and hoped like hell Reed’s friend could supply some answers.

      “I’m sorry to bother you so late, but I need help,” Reed said.

      Max had seen the laser focus the moment Ryan opened the door, but at Reed’s plea, the man’s tall, lean stance turned hard, his eyes all-cop. “What’s going on?”

      “What do you know about the Lange case?”

      Max didn’t miss the immediate awareness in Ryan’s demeanor as his gaze remained steady on Reed. Clearly the department knew one of their own had been duped by a man he trusted. “I’m aware of it.”

      “Then you know he was released this afternoon.”

      The subtle veneer of pity fell along with Ryan’s jaw. “What? No.”

      “Late afternoon, somewhere between four and five, best I can tell. He then took the opportunity to kidnap my fiancée’s best friend and business