Harlow’s mouth was dry, and she was sitting in an uncomfortable chair in front of a shiny, black, lacquered desk.

There was a man at the door in an ill-fitting suit, with an obvious gun holstered at his side.

She swallowed, her chest so tight it hurt. She had vague memories of the couple in the ladies’ room at ONE65, a scratchy-feeling wig on her head, and then just haziness. She’d come to slumped in this fancy office.

“Why am I here?” She’d already asked once, but Mr. Scowly was not a talker.

Again, he didn’t respond.

The office had no windows, which was weird. It was a little over-decorated for her taste, with lots of black, and splashes of red, and a lot of weapons displayed on the wall. There were swords, knives, and even a crossbow. It all looked expensive. In a corner was an ornate pedestal that held an old, detailed vase. Maybe Chinese.

Harlow clutched her hands together. Easton would be losing his mind. Her heart bumped in her chest. He’d be looking for her. At least, she hoped he was looking for her.

The office door opened, and she heard a man in the hall murmuring to her scowly guard.

If this was Antoine’s doing, she’d be pissed. He promised them forty-eight hours.

Yeah, well, criminals probably don’t keep their promises, Harlow.

Through the open door, she heard more distant voices—murmurs, laughter. Like there was a party going on.

The door closed again.

As she sat there in silence, the dread inside her grew.

“Can I get some water please? Whatever drug you guys used to kidnap me made me thirsty.”

Mr. Scowly’s glower deepened. He moved to a side table, where a carafe of water and several tall glasses sat. He poured her one, stomped over, and handed it to her.

“Thanks.” She shot him a glare, then drained the glass.

She’d just set it down, when the door opened.

A thin, stylish woman with salt-and-pepper hair strode in. She wore a sleek black pantsuit with dashes of red details, and a pair of sky-high stilettos. Her hair was cut elfin short, showcasing a long, swan-like neck.

She circled the table and sat. She had whiskey-colored eyes, surrounded by dark eyeliner, and they were like a laser on Harlow.

“So, you’re Harlow Carlson.” The woman’s voice was husky, a smoker’s voice.

Well, this wasn’t a mistake.

“Yes. And I’m guessing you’re Rhoda Pierce.”

The woman sat back in her high-backed chair. “Yes, I am.”

“Why did you abduct me? If you wanted to talk, there are normal ways to do that. Phone calls, appointments.”

“I don’t have time for comedy, Ms. Carlson. Your father stole something from me, and I want it back.”

A sick feeling washed over Harlow. Rhoda Pierce’s gaze was direct, flat, and pretty darn scary.