Chapter Thirteen: Freedom?
New Year's Eve marked Emily Vaughn's first day of freedom in more than a week. She didn't know when she woke up that morning how short-lived her freedom would be.
Despite the careless way she'd dismissed Jack's warnings not to speak to their grandmother again, the truth was, she really had no desire to do so. She'd been without a grandmother most of her life. She'd been curious to meet her, yes, but it wasn't like she had felt there was something missing from her life before. Jack was the one who had always been discontent with their life on the island, Jack who wanted to know so badly what had happened before. Such things didn't matter to Emily.
So, a week passed without so much as another note from Irina, and on New Year's Eve, Emily found herself standing at the entrance to the ballroom at the White Sands Hotel, tugging at the hem of the white skirt she wore with a matching halter top. Keith's parents were throwing a party there, so of course she'd been invited. She only wished that Keith had come over to pick her up, so she wouldn't have had to show up alone.
"Your daddy let you leave the house dressed like that?"
Emily barely spared a glance in the direction the question had come from. The truth was, her daddy hadn't seen her on her way out the door, though her brother had been none too pleased.
"Not that you don't look pretty," the man continued. "In fact, you look astonishingly like your mother."
Emily looked sharply at the man. He must have only been about ten years younger than her father, and quite frankly, he was creeping her out. "Who the hell are you?" she demanded.
The man rewarded her with a smirk. "Ah, I see you've inherited your mother's attitude, as well. So superior." She hated the way he was looking at her. Disgusted, and like…like he knew her. Like he could read her thoughts. "Please don't repeat this, but your grandmother has that attitude, as well."
Emily regarded him disdainfully, trying not to let on how uneasy he was making her. "I don't know who you think I'd repeat it to," she said coolly. "I don't even speak to my grandmother."
"You spoke to her on Christmas day," the man said, moving close to her. "And soon you'll be speaking to her on a regular basis. Trust me."
He was behind her now; he wasn't touching, but he was so close, it felt as if he were. "I'd like you to come with me, Emily," he whispered. "I'm carrying a gun, but I'd much prefer not to have to use it. I'm going to ask you to follow me."
She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again. "Who are you?" She'd never been so afraid, she knew she shouldn't ask, but yet…she had to.
"I probably shouldn't tell you that," he said, his voice soft. "But I will, anyway. You can call me Mr. Sark."