her emptiness.
"His bodyguard, Jasmine Lee, has asked for help to free him. She needs a million dollars wired in seven days and use of the Dunhill jet."
Christian reached into his windbreaker to pull out an envelope containing the wire instructions. He held the unfolded paper against the barrier for her to see, then slid it back into the envelope. A guard would have to approve the exchange before he gave it to her.
"Don't wire the funds until you hear from . . ." Christian hesitated, catching himself. ". . . until you hear from Jasmine Lee. She'll have your contact information."
"You trust this woman?"
"Yes, I do," he lied.
Of course, he'd be the one to make the call on the payout, but he didn't have the heart to tell her he'd be in Brazil to do it. And if the funds got paid early, Charboneau's life would have no more value to the kidnappers. Timing would be everything.
"You still love him, don't you?" Christian knew the answer even before she looked up.
"I would sooner command my heart to stop beating than to deny my love for him."
"Is he my father, Fie?" The question had been unnecessary, but he wanted to hear her say it. Needed to hear it. "He's the one you built that shrine to, the one in the attic at the estate. All those memories locked away."
She chewed her lower lip, no doubt contemplating her options. Time stopped as he waited for her answer. Then resignation stooped her shoulders and she finally replied, "Yes. Nicky is your father."
Finally, the last piece of the puzzle fell into place.
Christian lowered his head and shut his eyes for an instant, letting everything sink in. When he looked up, he spoke softly. "If it means anything, Jasmine is convinced he still loves you."
Haunted laughter echoed in the small room, Fiona's amusement tainted by the agony of her expression. "Yes, I know . . . but he has a most peculiar way of expressing his feelings, my love. I suppose he always did."
With a renewed urgency, she placed her hand on the glass, leaving her print smudges, mingling her desperation with the many coming before. Her voice cracked under the weight of emotion.
"Please, Christian, I beg of you. I'll arrange for the money and the aircraft for his bodyguard's use, but please don't get involved with him. He's a dangerous man."
"So I hear."
Slowly, he raised his hand to meet hers, pressing it to the barrier. There was nothing more to say. Christian stood, giving the metal chair a shove across the floor. He should have told her the truth. His lie by omission shamed him. But if Fiona knew he planned to accompany Jasmine to Brazil, she might pull her support in order to protect him. He couldn't allow that.
"Thank you, Fie. I'll let you know how things turn out."
He headed for the door, avoiding her scrutiny. Just walk out . . . only four steps. Before he made his escape, she stopped him with her words.
"You're going with her... to free him. Aren't you?" Her voice choked with insight. She knew him well.
Christian couldn't turn around. If he looked in her eyes, he might never do what must be done. Clinching his fists, he stood still for a moment, the muscles in his back rigid with regret. He wanted to comfort her, to hold her in his arms. But that was not possible. And he knew no words would console her. So he chose silence as his only reply. He walked out the door, leaving his mother in a prison far worse than the law would ever impose. He had no choice.
"Strength . . . and quiet endurance, Mother," he whispered, his prayer for her as he walked down the hallway. "One day at a time . . ."
Now, time to face Raven.
Their meal was over ... maybe even before it had begun. In denial, Raven's eyes focused on a stain smack dab in the middle of her good lace tablecloth, a faded spot of red wine. She'd been so preoccupied, she hadn't noticed it when she set the table earlier. Staring at it now, she couldn't remember when or how it had happened. Her thoughts turned to spot removal, anything but the trouble
"His bodyguard, Jasmine Lee, has asked for help to free him. She needs a million dollars wired in seven days and use of the Dunhill jet."
Christian reached into his windbreaker to pull out an envelope containing the wire instructions. He held the unfolded paper against the barrier for her to see, then slid it back into the envelope. A guard would have to approve the exchange before he gave it to her.
"Don't wire the funds until you hear from . . ." Christian hesitated, catching himself. ". . . until you hear from Jasmine Lee. She'll have your contact information."
"You trust this woman?"
"Yes, I do," he lied.
Of course, he'd be the one to make the call on the payout, but he didn't have the heart to tell her he'd be in Brazil to do it. And if the funds got paid early, Charboneau's life would have no more value to the kidnappers. Timing would be everything.
"You still love him, don't you?" Christian knew the answer even before she looked up.
"I would sooner command my heart to stop beating than to deny my love for him."
"Is he my father, Fie?" The question had been unnecessary, but he wanted to hear her say it. Needed to hear it. "He's the one you built that shrine to, the one in the attic at the estate. All those memories locked away."
She chewed her lower lip, no doubt contemplating her options. Time stopped as he waited for her answer. Then resignation stooped her shoulders and she finally replied, "Yes. Nicky is your father."
Finally, the last piece of the puzzle fell into place.
Christian lowered his head and shut his eyes for an instant, letting everything sink in. When he looked up, he spoke softly. "If it means anything, Jasmine is convinced he still loves you."
Haunted laughter echoed in the small room, Fiona's amusement tainted by the agony of her expression. "Yes, I know . . . but he has a most peculiar way of expressing his feelings, my love. I suppose he always did."
With a renewed urgency, she placed her hand on the glass, leaving her print smudges, mingling her desperation with the many coming before. Her voice cracked under the weight of emotion.
"Please, Christian, I beg of you. I'll arrange for the money and the aircraft for his bodyguard's use, but please don't get involved with him. He's a dangerous man."
"So I hear."
Slowly, he raised his hand to meet hers, pressing it to the barrier. There was nothing more to say. Christian stood, giving the metal chair a shove across the floor. He should have told her the truth. His lie by omission shamed him. But if Fiona knew he planned to accompany Jasmine to Brazil, she might pull her support in order to protect him. He couldn't allow that.
"Thank you, Fie. I'll let you know how things turn out."
He headed for the door, avoiding her scrutiny. Just walk out . . . only four steps. Before he made his escape, she stopped him with her words.
"You're going with her... to free him. Aren't you?" Her voice choked with insight. She knew him well.
Christian couldn't turn around. If he looked in her eyes, he might never do what must be done. Clinching his fists, he stood still for a moment, the muscles in his back rigid with regret. He wanted to comfort her, to hold her in his arms. But that was not possible. And he knew no words would console her. So he chose silence as his only reply. He walked out the door, leaving his mother in a prison far worse than the law would ever impose. He had no choice.
"Strength . . . and quiet endurance, Mother," he whispered, his prayer for her as he walked down the hallway. "One day at a time . . ."
Now, time to face Raven.
Their meal was over ... maybe even before it had begun. In denial, Raven's eyes focused on a stain smack dab in the middle of her good lace tablecloth, a faded spot of red wine. She'd been so preoccupied, she hadn't noticed it when she set the table earlier. Staring at it now, she couldn't remember when or how it had happened. Her thoughts turned to spot removal, anything but the trouble
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