Vigil Page 8

  God, he was annoyingly flawless. His face was perfectly formed, his chin chiseled. He had stunning good looks. I hated that about him. I hated that he was so clean cut and gorgeous, like a male model. It rubbed me the wrong way. I didn’t think rich people should get to be gorgeous on top of everything else.

  “I am leaving,” I said. “I only stayed as a courtesy. So, say what you have to say before I lose my patience.”

  He looked at the floor. “You’re angry with me.”

  “I’m not.” I drew in a sharp breath. “I’m disgusted. Everything about you disgusts me. I don’t like your type. I don’t like spoiled little rich boys.”

  “Well, you’re entitled to your opinion, of course.” There was a twinge of bitterness to his tone. Was it supposed to make me feel sorry for him? It didn’t.

  I dragged my gaze over him again. He was Vigil. He really was. The man that I’d been falling for, that had fucked me over the chair in my bedroom was actually this man. “You make me sick. I can’t believe I had sex with you.”

  He looked up at me.

  He looked hurt.

  That surprised me. It was my turn to look away.

  “Be that as it may,” he said in a level voice, “we have a little bit of an issue. You know my secret, and you have access to The Sun-Times. And I can’t let you publish my secret identity.”

  Publish… Why hadn’t I thought of that? I’d been so caught up in my own distress that I hadn’t even thought about what an absolutely dynamite story I’d just stumbled onto.

  The man under the mask of Vigil.

  Callum Rutherford.

  It was juicy and intriguing, and it would cement me as a force to be reckoned with in journalism. I had to publish that story. Nothing could stop me from doing it.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. You think I could sit on a story like this? No way in hell,” I said.

  He ran a hand through his hair. “If you publish it, then you ruin everything. I can’t be Vigil if you reveal that I’m him.”

  “So?”

  “So, what about the girls? You know how many of them I’ve saved?”

  “Do you even care about the girls?” I said. “Why do you do it? If you wanted to stop Barclay, with all of the money you have, you’re telling me you couldn’t?”

  “Barclay has money too,” said Callum. “He’s not exactly without connections either.”

  “There has to be some way that you could do a more effective job without dressing up in black spandex.”

  He chuckled low in his throat. “That black spandex seems to really get you going, Cecily. Maybe you shouldn’t throw stones.”

  I hated the way he’d thrown my attraction to him in my face like that. “You bastard.”

  “You’re always the reporter. Always trying to dig in there and find the fucking story. You want to know why I do it.” He turned back to the mantle and picked up his drink. “I don’t know why.” He sipped the champagne. “But I have to do it. And I won’t let you stop me.”

  “It’s not about stopping you,” I said. “It’s about the news. It’s about the people’s right to know—”

  “I don’t think anyone has the right to know about that. It’s personal. It’s private.” He stalked away from the fireplace to stand in front of me. “Even rich people have some kind of right to a personal life, don’t they? The press doesn’t own every aspect of my life. I’m allowed something of my own.”

  I hadn’t thought about it that way. I’d never given much thought to the idea that there was any hardship in the life of someone like Callum Rutherford.

  “At any rate,” he said, “you and I have some negotiating to do. You won’t be leaving the mansion until we’ve come to terms that are agreeable to both of us.”

  “What?” I said. “You can’t keep me here.”

  “You’ll find that I can do pretty much anything I like,” he said. “That’s what comes of being a ‘spoiled little rich boy.’ Everyone has a price. We’ll discuss what yours is later. Right now, I’m throwing a party.” He drained his glass of champagne and handed it to me. “You can give that to Nolan when he shows you to your room.”

  “I’m not staying here,” I protested.

  But he was already out the door.

  I ran after him.

  He slammed the door in my face, and I heard knob rattle.

  When I tried to open the door, I realized I was locked in.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  By the time Nolan came for me, I had fallen asleep on one of the couches in the parlor from sheer exhaustion. The first thing I’d done was to go for my phone. But then I remembered that Nolan had taken it from me, and he hadn’t given it back, even though I’d accompanied him to the parlor like he asked. Jerk. For what seemed like hours, I had pounded on the door and screamed myself hoarse, hoping someone would hear me and let me out.

  But the house was too big, and the party too loud. No one heard me. I was on the other side of the house from the ballroom.

  Eventually, I gave up. I collapsed on a couch.

  I awoke to Nolan gently shaking my shoulder. “Ms. Kane, if you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to your room.”

  I shoved at him and pushed myself to my feet.

  I tried to make a break for it, but my heels let me down. They buckled under my feet, keeping me from making any headway.

  I lost my balance, and Nolan caught me.

  “Please, don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be, Ms. Kane.”

  I punched him in the face.

  He dropped me.

  I hit the floor hard, bruising my tail bone. I let out a little cry.

  “Very well,” said Nolan. “If you insist on being difficult, that is what we will do.” He swept out of the room, shutting the door.

  I managed to get to my feet and go to the door.

  Locked, of course.

  I was tired and frustrated and frightened. I thought I might start crying. It was the third time that evening that I’d felt close to tears. But it was warranted, wasn’t it? I’d been kidnapped. I was being held against my will. I didn’t seem to be able to do anything about it.

  I took several deep breaths, fighting tears. I was afraid that if I let myself go to pieces, I’d never get myself back together. I needed to stay as calm as I could. It was the only way I was going to be able to think clearly.

  The door to the parlor opened, and Callum burst in. He was still wearing his suit pants, but above the waist he’d stripped down to a white t-shirt.

  The muscles in his arms were on display. I thought he looked formidable in black spandex, but bare like that, he was something to behold.

  He didn’t speak to me. Instead he just picked me up at the waist and tossed me over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

  I cried out at the indignity, beating my fists against his back. It was like pounding stone.

  He didn’t acknowledge me at all. He just carried me out of the parlor and down a hallway.

  We ascended a set of stairs, emerged in another hallway, turned some corners—too many and too fast for me to keep track upside down—and then we were inside a bedroom.

  He tossed me on the bed, a four poster with a red satin coverlet.

  I sat up. “You can’t do this to me.”

  He laughed.

  I scrambled off the bed, kicked off my heels, and dashed for the door.

  He blocked my path, taking me by the shoulders and holding me in place. “You aren’t leaving yet, Cecily.”

  “I have a job,” I said. “I have to get there.”

  “Not tomorrow,” he said. “Tomorrow is Saturday, and you have the weekend off.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “When you’re me, you can find out pretty much anything you want to find out,” he said. “Sleep well. You should find that the clothes in wardrobe fit you.” He let go of me and left the room, shutting and locking the door after him.

  I bit down hard on my lip.

  And then I
couldn’t help it. I sank down into a heap on the floor and began to sob.

  * * *

  I wish I could say that I didn’t sleep, because it seems a little bit of a travesty to be as comfortable as I was in the bedroom he’d locked me in.

  Because I was comfortable. The bed was soft in all the right ways and firm in all the other ways. The sheets were luxurious against my skin. And he wasn’t lying about the wardrobe either.

  It was full of clothes in my size. Expensive, designer clothes. Slacks and blouses and dresses and even underwear and bras. I was stunned to see that he’d somehow gotten my bra size right. How could possibly have known that? Half of the times that I’d seen him I hadn’t even been wearing a bra.

  I slipped into a pair of decadent silk pajamas, lay down in the glorious bed, and I fell fast asleep.

  I slept for hours, and it was probably the best I’d slept since I was a little girl, before my mother’s drinking got so bad, and I still felt carefree and happy.

  I woke up in to the midmorning sun streaming in through the window.

  Someone was knocking on my door.

  “Ms. Kane?” called a voice. “It’s Nolan. Are you decent?”

  “Um…” I looked down at my pajamas. “I guess so.”

  The door unlocked. Nolan pushed a cart into the room. On it were two dishes with silver dome covers, and a delicious smell permeated the room. He smiled. “Master Callum will join you on your balcony for breakfast in about twenty minutes. Perhaps you’d like to avail yourself of the adjoining facilities in preparation?”

  I considered simply staying in my pajamas with my ratty hair out of spite.

  But a shower did sound good.

  And I had noted the night before that the adjoining bathroom was amazing.

  So I scampered out of bed, selected something to wear from the wardrobe, and locked myself in the bathroom.

  I’d been provided with all kinds of beauty products, from shampoo to body lotion to a razor and shaving gel. There were several fluffy white towels to wrap myself in when I got out of the shower.

  I felt like I should have hated everything. I was being held prisoner against my will after all, and it wasn’t as if being comfortable made any kind of difference whatsoever on that front, because it didn’t. Still, it would have been easier to muster righteous anger if I’d been totally miserable.

  I wasn’t happy, of course. I would have much rather been in my own apartment, even if it meant I never got to try the raspberry face cream in the bathroom and never got to slide the super soft shirt from the wardrobe over my skin.

  I took a long time in the bathroom, even going so far as to blow dry my hair, something I generally never bothered with. (Too much of a hassle. Besides, it damaged your hair if you did it all the time.)

  When I emerged, dressed in a scoop neck knit baggy shirt over a pair of designer capris, I felt fresh and pretty.

  Which was maybe a kind of weird way to feel when being kidnapped. At least, I thought it was.

  Still, it wasn’t going to soften me towards Callum Rutherford. Not one single bit.

  He was already sitting outside on the balcony.

  My room had two double glass doors that opened onto a small balcony. It was surrounded by a decorative metal railing, and it looked down over the extensive gardens of the Rutherford mansion. It was a balmy June morning, and the atmosphere outside was beautiful.

  However, as I joined Callum outside, I was kicking myself for not discovering the balcony last night.

  Sure, I was three stories up, but there were other balconies below my room. I thought it was very possible that I could climb over the balcony and drop down onto the balcony below. I might be able to escape.

  I tried not be conspicuous about examining my escape route as I sat down with Callum.

  He was dressed casually, and he looked perfect and handsome. As usual.

  There was a massive breakfast spread in front of us. Fresh squeezed orange juice, toast, melon balls, scrambled eggs.

  My stomach growled, and I realized that I was definitely going to eat, despite any ideas I might have had about protesting my being kept here by refusing food.

  Callum poured me some orange juice. “Good morning, Cecily. I hope you slept well.”

  I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that I had indeed slept exceptionally well, so I didn’t say anything. I picked up my fork and stabbed a melon ball instead. I shoved it in my mouth and began to chew.

  “I know you’re not pleased about staying here,” he said. “But I hope that you’re as comfortable as possible.”

  I swallowed the melon. “What would make me comfortable is if you let me go. If you did, maybe when I wrote my article, I’d leave the part about how you held me prisoner in your mansion.”

  He stirred his eggs. “You’re not going to write an article.”

  “You think you can stop me, but you can’t. You have no idea how stubborn I am. And you’ve used up any good will I might have had towards you by kidnapping me.”

  He snorted. “Good will? You mean the tendency you have to cream your panties over a grown man in a costume?”

  I clenched my jaw. That had been ugly, not only because he’d mocked my sexual attraction to him, but because he seemed aloof from it, like being with me was some kind of joke he’d played on me. “Well, at least I don’t have to hire my girlfriends.”

  He set down his fork. “What?”

  “The girls you bring to events. The blondes that hang on your arms. They’re all strippers. And apparently, sometimes you pay them for other services as well.”

  His face flushed scarlet, but I couldn’t tell if it was from embarrassment or anger. He didn’t speak for several seconds. Instead, a muscle twitched in his jaw.

  Then he took a deep breath, seeming to dismiss it. He picked up his fork, took a bite of eggs, chewed, and swallowed. “Who told you that? I’ll be sure that she’s fired.”

  “I didn’t need to be told,” I said.

  He picked up a piece of toast and began to butter it briskly. “There’s no reason to protect the girl. I’ll figure out who she was. Besides, it’s not as if they think I’m going to ‘date’ them forever.”

  “I happened to recognize Jewel,” I said. “That’s all. She didn’t give you up.”

  He cocked his head at me. “Why would you recognize her?”

  Damn it. What was I saying? I fumbled for my orange juice, sipping at it and scrambling to think of a way to steer the conversation away from me. I decided it was best to accuse him. “So, you don’t deny it? You, Callum Rutherford, richest man in Aurora, feels the need to pay for sex?”

  He gave me a nasty grin. “What? Are you angry that you didn’t get a nice check too? Don’t worry, Cecily, I thought you were great. I’m sorry if I insulted you by not squaring away the perimeters of our transaction before we got down and dirty. How much should I have paid for your cunt?”

  I choked on my orange juice.

  He got up from the table, throwing down his napkin. He went to the edge of the balcony. “This conversation isn’t going exactly the way I had hoped.”

  “Gee,” I said sarcastically. “I wonder why.”

  He shook his head, not looking at me. “Maybe it’s because you’ve been an incredible bitch ever since the second you realized I was Vigil.”

  Oh, he had not just called me a bitch. I scooted my chair out, folding my arms over my chest. “While you’ve been a perfect gentleman, locking me up and taking away my phone.”

  “You didn’t give me a choice. You refused to cooperate. You’re threatening me with all kinds of reputation-damaging stories. If I let you go, you’ll destroy my life.”

  “So, you’re destroying mine?”

  He turned around. “That’s not what I’m proposing at all. I’m proposing that you decide to keep your mouth shut. If you do that, I’m prepared to be grateful to the tune of 500,000 dollars.”

  I snorted. “Are you serious?”

>   “You want more money?”

  “Is that for my ‘cunt’ or for my silence?”

  “A million,” he said.

  “No,” I said, getting up from the table.

  “Two million,” he said.

  “You’re not buying me off. I don’t care about money.”

  “Everyone cares about money, Cecily. Think of what you could do with two million dollars.”

  “Lots of money isn’t going to get me what I want,” I said. “I want to be a successful journalist. I can only get there on merit. And let me tell you, taking bribes is not part of my code of ethics.”

  “But it would be ethical for you to uncover the identity of Vigil and allow Hayden Barclay to go back to preying on women?”

  “It doesn’t take Vigil to stop Barclay,” I said.

  “I thought we had this discussion before,” he said. “I told you about how the police were corrupt and how Barclay would use his influence to get back on the streets. Remember?”

  “It’s not—”

  “Oh, that’s right,” he said. “That was back when I was promising to let you write front-page stories about me.” He cocked his head. “So that’s what makes you tick, huh, Cecily? You need to be on the front page?”

  “No,” I said. “It’s not about that.” He made it sound sordid, like I was only gunning for fame or something. He didn’t understand that this was my passion.

  “Is that what you meant when you said it was personal?” he asked. “You were talking about your fucking career?”

  “No.” I bit the words out. “You don’t get to talk about that.”

  He was quiet.

  I pulled in a shaky breath. He’d really gotten under my skin. I hated him even more than I had before. He was nothing like this when he was wearing his costume.

  He went back to the table. He picked up a piece of toast and began eating it.

  I stayed where I was. Like hell was I going to sit back down with him.

  “I didn’t think you’d be like this,” he said, and he sounded confused and vulnerable, like a lost little boy.

  And that made me hate him even more. “Like what, exactly?”

  He caught my gaze with his own. “I don’t understand why you seem to hate me so much. You didn’t hate me before.”