Three is a War(2)

Gray leafless trees bristle like spines on hillsides that ripple toward the horizon. The woodland surrounds a calm inlet of water and a well-kept private dock. I’ve vacationed in southern Missouri often enough to recognize the vista of forest, high bluffs, waterways.

Given the position of the sun behind the lake in the distance, I must’ve been unconscious for four or five hours. Long enough to make a drive from St. Louis to the lower part of the state.

Someone carried and transported my limp body. Anything could’ve happened to me while I was dead to the world. My skin crawls, and I jump at the sound of an air vent clicking on.

The windows appear to slide open like doors along a track. When I pull on the handles, they don’t budge. A keypad on the wall requires a code to open them. Shit.

I test the weight of the poker in my hand. If I swing it at the glass, it’ll only jar my arm and alert whomever is here. I need to find another way out.

The 180-degree view gives me a decent layout of the back of the house—a massive one-story manor veneered in stone that wraps around several outdoor living spaces with walkways that lead into the woods. From the largest terrace, a bridge arches over a ravine, providing access to the covered dock on the lake.

I bet there’s an enclosed slip at the dock. Maybe several. With boats. I’ve never operated any kind of watercraft, but I’ll figure it out if it’s a means to escape.

First, I need to leave this room, and the hallway is my only exit.

I feel like I’m going to throw up with every step toward the door. My heart is a booming drum, my insides frozen and trembling. At the threshold to the hall, I tighten my grip on the poker and strain my hearing.

The faint vibration of rock music thumps from somewhere at the other end of the house. It doesn’t sound far away. More like the volume is set on low.

A knot of nerves strangles my throat as I creep along the hallway, following the random-sized pieces of slate that tile the floor. Some of the doors I pass are locked with keypads. Others are open, revealing more large bedrooms, each vacant and tidy, with the same natural hues and picturesque windows.

Whoever owns this place is wealthy and wouldn’t need to capture a woman for ransom. Unless the payment for my release isn’t related to money.

Trace could afford this property, but the modern design isn’t his style. I can’t picture him hanging out in a huge contemporary mansion in rustic-nowhere Missouri away from his work. Besides, if he wanted me here, he wouldn’t drug me to make it happen.

Holding the poker out in front of me, I sneak around a corner and stop.

The corridor descends down a gradual slope of stairs that spill into a brightly-lit living room. Brown leather furniture occupies the center, and it isn’t empty.

Someone’s sitting on the couch.

I press my back against the wall and hold my breath. I can only make out a man’s denim-clad legs, bent at the knees where he reclines. Did he see me? My heart hammers so loudly he can probably hear me freaking the fuck out.

The low rumble of a rock song drifts along the blond maple flooring and echoes through the soaring ceilings. The sound is coming from the TV on the wall beyond the sitting area. I know the melody—the dynamic vocals over electronic and heavy metal instrumentation. I squint at the song title on the bottom of the screen.

Go To War by Nothing More.

A chill trickles down my spine. I’ve heard Cole play that song while working out. Maybe it’s just a coincidence.

I tighten my grip on the poker and fix my attention on the man’s legs. Frayed jeans, tanned bare feet, spread knees. I can’t see the rest of him, but it looks like Cole.

That can’t be right. Why would he be sitting here while I’m passed out and left alone in a strange house? Is he in trouble? Was he kidnapped, too?

With my back pressed to the wall, I gulp down my terror and edge forward on shaky legs. Every step down the long stairs requires stealth, vigilance, and a plan—none of which I possess. All I want to do is run back to the bedroom and hide under the bed.

When I reach the bottom stair, I see him.

Cole.

Stubble darkens his handsome profile, his brown hair tousled and physique seemingly stronger, bulkier, than the last time I saw him.

It’s been five weeks.

My pulse slams into overdrive, and a sharp pain stabs my chest.

I kicked him out. Changed my number. Sold my house. I never thought I’d see him again.

And here he is.

He doesn’t look at me, his attention transfixed on something I can’t see. But I’m in his periphery. Experience tells me he’s far more observant than he’s letting on. He knows I’m here.

My stomach hardens as I watch him, waiting for a sign, a verbal cue, anything to clue me in on how to proceed.