*   *   *

Allie paced the Aubusson rug in front of the hearth in Julian’s study. Her eyes were glued to the clock resting atop the intricately carved mantel. The ticking of the hands seemed to grow louder the longer she watched it, and her heart raced to keep time. Ten more strokes and it would chime, just as it had the past four hours, in yet another shrill reminder that she’d stood up the man she loved.

Her chest tightened at the thought of him waiting for her at the Paris train station. At first he might have assumed she was merely running late. It wouldn’t have come as much of a surprise. But Hudson knew she would have called or texted if that had been the case. Eventually he would have realized something was wrong.

When she closed her eyes she could picture him standing on the platform, running a hand through his hair when he wasn’t checking his watch, his brow furrowed and his jaw tight. How long had he waited? Had he called the police? They probably wouldn’t consider her officially missing after only a few hours. Either way she was sure he’d interrogated the hotel about the limo they’d provided. Knowing firsthand what it was like to face a determined Hudson Chase, Allie had no doubt they’d given him whatever information they had. Which meant he knew the driver didn’t take her to tea with an old family friend but rather to de Gaulle airport. Oh God. Did he assume she’d left him? Was he already on his way back to Chicago?

The clock chimed, and Allie’s eyes flew open. She had to get out of there. She needed to find Hudson, to tell him she loved him and that she would never leave him. Ever.

Where the hell was Julian? He’d had her on a race against time since the moment he’d called, demanding she personally deliver his ring before an unreasonably short deadline. But she’d no sooner walked through the door when a rather imposing gentleman approached him with a message. Allie had seen enough over the past few weeks to recognize a bodyguard when she saw one. Ex-military, if she had to guess. After reading the note, Julian had excused himself, asking the man to escort Allie to his study. She didn’t think much of it until he confiscated her cell phone and locked the door behind him.

She’d been pacing the rug ever since.

Her impatience was its own cruel irony since she’d hoped to never lay eyes on Julian Laurent again. She would have hung up on him when he called—scratch that, she would have told him to go to hell, then hung up on him—but he’d played the one card that guaranteed her cooperation. Hudson. Allie had no idea what had happened to the man whose lifeless body lay at Nick’s feet in the surveillance video Julian sent her, or what Hudson’s involvement had been. But it didn’t matter. She trusted Hudson completely and would do anything to protect him. Which is why she’d had no choice but to follow Julian’s instructions to the letter. She’d done everything he’d asked, and in return he’d trapped her in his study for hours. Enough was enough. Julian couldn’t hold her hostage.

Allie crossed the cavernous room and tried the handles of the double doors, only to find them still locked. And when she pounded on the wood she once again heard nothing but an echoing silence in return. Why the hell was he doing this? A shiver of awareness trickled down Allie’s spine. He was playing mind games with her, breaking down her defenses. But why? She had no intention of sticking around long enough to find out. She needed to get out of there, to find Hudson and tell him everything. Together they could figure out a way to deal with Julian.

Her eyes darted around the room, coming to rest on the arched casement window on the opposite wall. She hurried around Julian’s desk and frantically cranked the handle on the stone sill. The drop wasn’t too bad, if she lowered herself carefully . . .

A hinge squeaked behind her and then a door slammed shut. “Have a seat, Alessandra,” Julian said, his accent thick and his voice low. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Chapter Two

Hudson hit the stairs two at a time, eating up the distance in a matter of seconds. As he stepped inside his private jet he heard the captain radio the tower. The flight attendant greeted him almost immediately.

“Good evening, Mr. Chase.” The woman looked over Hudson’s shoulder. “Will Miss Sinclair be joining us?”

“There’s been a change to the manifest.” Hudson unbuttoned his wool coat and dropped it onto the cream couch opposite twin leather seats. “Only one passenger.” He didn’t need to elaborate and he wasn’t going to.

Without missing a beat the flight attendant simply responded, “Yes, sir.”

Hudson parked his ass in the chair that faced the door and ran a hand through his hair. Call it wishful thinking, but with his eyes focused on the door, he hoped—hell, he fucking prayed—that Allie would suddenly appear in the archway. But instead, a guy on the ground crew bounded up the stairs to close the hatch.

Hudson dipped his head and pinched the bridge of his nose as if that would stave off the pounder threatening to take over his frontal lobe.

“Sir.” A soft voice pushed through the sound of the jet’s engines warming up. “Might I offer you ibuprofen or aspirin, perhaps?”

“I’m fine, thank you. Just a glass of wat—”

His phone rang in his hand.

“Mr. Chase, we’re preparing for takeoff, you will need to turn your phone off or set it to airplane mode.”

Hudson held up a single finger as he glanced at the screen. His stomach took a nosedive when he realized it wasn’t Allie, but rather an unknown number. “Chase,” he clipped into the phone.

“Bonsoir, Monsieur Chase. C’est Claudette de la George V.”

Hudson took the chilled glass of water from his flight attendant. “Procéder,” he responded in near-perfect French. Outside the window, landscape began to pass by.

“Bien sûr, monsieur. Mlle Sinclair a rencontré un passager de Chicago, une jeune femme rousse selon le pilote. Il l’a emmenée à l’hôtel Ritz Carlton.”

Sweet hell, she was rapid-firing at him. “Ralentissez, Anglais, s’il vous plaît.”

“Désolé . . . uh, my apologies, Mr. Chase. You are a valued client of the George V, and as a courtesy we wanted to follow up on your inquiry regarding Miss Sinclair.” The casual tone of her voice grated against his nerve endings. And for fuck’s sake, the pause just about pitched him into thermonuclear status. “Miss Sinclair was taken to the arrivals terminal.”

“Arrivals? You’re certain?”

“Oui. She met a flight arriving from the United States.”

“The US has fifty states, narrow it down.” The aircraft eased over a bump on its way to the runway, and the water in the glass in front of him rippled.

“Chicago, sir. The driver said he picked up a redhead with . . . uh . . . colorful luggage, then proceeded to take her to the Ritz Carlton.”

“Did Miss Sinclair go with her to the hotel?” And why the hell wasn’t she taking her to a different one?

“No, sir.”

Christ, this was like pulling teeth. “Did the driver take Miss Sinclair to another location?”

“No, Mr. Chase, he returned alone.”

“Merci.” Hudson ended the call. Why would Allie fly back to the states while her self-proclaimed B-fucking-F was in Paris? The pieces of the puzzle were beginning to shake out of different boxes with none of them matching. He shifted back into his seat, and at the same time the pilot throttled the engine. The engines roared and the plane began to pick up speed.

Fuck.

Hudson yanked back on his seat belt, the metal clanking against the armrests, and ordered the plane to stop.