Dear Readers --
Once again, thank you for your extraordinary kindness and support. I apologize for the delay in posting -- I never expected how time- (and thought-) consuming this process can be!
I acknowledge there's a lot of build-up, certainly more than I would have anticipated. But I think it's important to lay a framework for our two lead characters; hopefully it makes their development a bit more interesting. As always, I love your feedback -- keep those suggestions coming!
Happy reading. -- Ms.Archer
CHAPTER THREE
Samantha looked up from the page. She had read and attempted to re-read the same paragraph over the last thirty minutes. It was impossible to concentrate; apparently having all the time in the world was not enough to sort her thoughts. She scowled, examining the overlay of the fibers on her sofa.
She felt changed, irrevocably. He'd violated her. She knew this happened to hostages -- and inwardly, she snapped at the voice that told her she'd barely been touched. He'd
stripped
her, fondled her, and all against her will. Her mind was a dizzying reel of moments, playing in shadow with peeving alacrity. She thought of his gaze in the candlelight -- the way his dark eyes burned with pleasure at every touch and each reluctant moan that escaped her. And she wasn't moaning; he'd elicited a response. He knew that. He was playing with her -- she knew that.
If he'd wanted to rape her, he could have, certainly. Gripped the fabric of her underwear, suddenly, and yanked it to her knees. He might have watched her fear as he freed the bulge in his pants and let the tip of his heavy cock drag across her stomach, a string of precum visible in the flickering light. He was a large man, and Samantha wondered at the breadth and feeling of his size until she caught herself.
She was agitated; a flurry of heat and swirling thoughts. He was a gorgeous man -- by any standard. He looked like a fucking celebrity; chiseled brow and soft lips. A man like Gabriele Franco could've had any future he wanted; instead he'd chosen a life of pervasive crime and backroom dealings -- seeding himself in an illicit network of extortion, lies, loyalty, and killing.
She
ASKED HIM TO FUCK HER
. Her cheeks flared in embarrassment. He'd provoked a physiological response; it would have happened to any woman. It did not change her consent. She did not consent to him violating her -- touching her as he did.
She stretched her neck to her right, kneading her fingertips deep into the muscle. The stubborn knot strung a blunt pain down to the top of her back. She'd spent the rest of the night tethered to the bedpost and finally fallen asleep. Franco's lackeys came to cut her down at what must have been morning; she'd felt humiliated in her underwear and ripped clothing. After her shower, Samantha found her breakfast waiting. She tried turning to her latest book,
Siddhartha
, to calm her mind. But the pain in her neck made it impossible to concentrate.
What was she doing here??
Franco had no reason to keep her. It was so pointless -- the books and the bedroom and the abject monotony. Was she a prisoner? This was a most unorthodox prison.
For how long?
What could he hope to gain by keeping her in custody? Samantha resented the nagging memory of him, the predatory hunger in his eyes as he took in her bare flesh.
He wanted her, on whatever twisted plane his mind operated. The understanding both allayed and aggravated her fears. It bestowed a weapon she felt powerless to wield. How did he want her? Was it his plan to seduce her? Hurt her, use her? Was he manipulating her?
Samantha was no stranger to desire; she was beautiful, she knew, and innately conscious of precisely when and how to employ her charm. Early on in training, she was insistent -- determined -- to submerge any hint of feminine allure. What good was an agent if she couldn't run as fast or shoot with best of them? She deplored the stories of female agents "sleeping their way to the top" or opting not to wear a gun to the office. She would be an agent -- first and foremost. The resolution spurred countless late-night sprints at the track and harsh self-admonishment whenever she failed to nab a top score on the exams.
She was relieved to feel a sort of self-emergence after arriving at the field office. Here, ability was no longer measured by bench weight or grappling ability. She was sharp and doggedly thorough in her casework, not to mention highly effective in field interviews and liaison work. In a male-dominated field brimming with alpha males and knuckle-draggers, Samantha learned her strengths as a woman frequently gave her the upper hand, set her apart from her colleagues.
Still, the shooting -- obliterating as it had been-- was an affirmation of sorts. So many had teased, scoffed that she didn't have it in her, and deep down, she'd feared they were right. If she ever had to pull her gun -- could she? When it came down to it, would the hits count?
In the blur of phone calls, statements, psychological assessments that followed, she felt a repressible swelling of pride to hear her story had swept across the agency. Her precision was remarkable -- one round grazing the lower right rib and three in a 2-½ inch diameter in the center of the chest. Considering that LEOs under stress shoot anywhere between 10 to 50% of their usual accuracy, her performance was admirable. Perez had even called her reaction "surgical" and Samantha felt guilty for reading her co-workers' congratulatory emails.
The vindication was a blessing; the media blitz that followed was not. While she successfully managed to elude the photographers perched in front of her home and outside the courthouse, the picture(s) of her with NYPD the night of the shooting were recycled for
weeks
in subsequent articles covering the civil suit. It was
because
she was a female agent -- not just a fed -- that it got any coverage at all.
Management had been supportive. Her supervisor, Paul, even stopped by her house the next day. At their insistence, she met with an agency-designated counselor, not that it cured the insomnia and recurrent nightmares. She hated her therapist, a saccharine pinhead of a woman with all the personality of a curtain tassel. The mandatory admin leave -- too many days spent trying to fill time - left her feeling vapid, aimless.
Samantha suddenly realized her solitude in the room felt all too familiar.
She wondered how Franco had managed to delude her office for this long. How could he excuse her absence without even a trace of suspicion? Samantha knew they would come for her; it was an impossibility for them not to realize something was seriously wrong.
* * *
Afternoon came, as did a knock at the door. Samantha started to get up off the floor before realizing she had no reason to. The door opened, and a 50-year-old man with a bristled goatee and grey eyes walked in. Her pulse quickened. Where was Franco?
"Ms. Brier, you and I have business to attend to," he said, resigned. He looked tired.
"What do you mean?" Samantha eyed him cautiously.
"You'll find out momentarily." The words made her stomach plunge. Maybe they were going to kill her after all... She felt panic overtake her.
"I'm afraid you've earned a reputation for being difficult," he continued. "So let me level with you. We can go about this like normal people and you
follow
me, or we do the handcuffs, the whole shebang. What say you?"
Samantha wasn't expecting that. She watched the man's face, searching for motive. He bore the presence of an old retired cop, equal parts loyal and world-weary. His eyebrows rose, awaiting a response. Somehow, his grey eyes seemed kind.
"Yeah. I mean, yes," she answered. "I'll be civilized."
"Good. Don't make me make this
unpleasant
for you. Let's go," he said, and walked out the door. Samantha hurried up from the floor and followed him into the hallway. Being there took her back to last night. She couldn't see any trace of Tony's blood. All of the doors down the hall were closed.
The compound -- mansion, whatever it was -- proved to be larger than she'd estimated. Samantha tried to commit each turn and passageway to memory. The halls, opulent near her quarters, began to appear more Spartan. She looked up at her escort.
She half-cleared her throat. "What do you do for him, exactly?"
"I oversee Mr. Franco's security apparatus," he answered.
"Oh." His candor caught her off-guard. "How big is it?" she asked.
The man gave her a sideways glance, and Sam felt herself blush. "I mean, how many men does he keep onsite?"
"Enough," he answered simply.
