eked out a smile. Nicky didn’t seem to notice the strange bumps in the nights and the comings and goings of an assortment of odd characters to his father’s palatial home in the middle of the jungle.
But Randi had grown more and more aware—and leery—of them.
Her grandmother had warned her about taking a job in this luxurious but strange household. “Drogas,” Abuelita used to say. Drugs.
But the locals had assured her Nico Zendaris was no drug lord, and Randi had needed the job to help her ailing grandmother. Now with Abuelita dead, nothing was keeping Randi in Colombia.
Nicky’s younger sister, Angelina, tapped her knee. “More story, please, mademoiselle.”
Nothing except these motherless children.
Tugging on one of Angelina’s dark curls, Randi met the girl’s big, dark eyes and said, “But this is the scary part, Angelina. You always cover your ears during this part.”
Angelina dropped her lashes, and her gaze slid to the door. “More story, please.”
Tears choked Randi’s throat. The activities and people in her father’s house did scare Angelina. The girl preferred the make-believe fears of witches and giants to the very real fears of shadowy men, her father’s outbursts and being uprooted and shipped off to other countries at a moment’s notice.
Randi peeled the book from her chest and cleared her throat. “The witch fed the children more and more food—roasted duck and mashed potatoes and thick slabs of bread and cheese and ice cream sundaes.”
Nicky howled. “You’re making that part up. They didn’t have ice cream sundaes in those days.”
“Shh, Nicky. Don’t yell.” Angelina stuck her fingers in her ears.
Patting his sister on the head, Nicky rose to his knees. “I want to see the picture, mademoiselle. I want to see the picture of ice cream sundaes.”
Randi turned the book around to face the kids. Something crashed right beneath them, and she dropped the book.
Angelina scooted closer to Randi and wrapped her arms around her legs.
Randi dropped her hand to Angelina’s shoulder and squeezed. “Don’t worry. I’m here.”
The crash even caught Nicky’s attention, and he looked up from the fallen book with a pair of round eyes. “What was that?”
“I’m not sure.” Her gaze darted to the intercom on the wall. Mr. Zendaris often used it to communicate with her when she had the children in this room—what he called the nursery—even though Nicky was seven and Angelina had just turned five.
Her tongue swept across her dry lips. She rose from the chair and almost crept across the room to the intercom. On the way, she locked the door of the nursery.
She pressed the intercom button. “Hello? Is everything okay downstairs?”
Mr. Zendaris’s security had set up the intercom so that the people on the other end could hear her, but she couldn’t hear them unless they pressed the button on their intercom. Not that she needed an intercom to hear the noises, shouts and upheaval from downstairs.
Both children whimpered and crowded against her. She pressed them close with one hand and spoke into the intercom again. “Hello? This is Mademoiselle Lewis. I’m with the children. Is there a problem?”
A male voice growled back at her. “Stay where you are.”
On shaky legs, Randi led Nicky and Angelina back to the carpet where they’d been reading. With her fingertips, she pushed them down. “Stay on the floor.”
She sidled against the wall until she reached the large window that overlooked the rolling back lawn of the property. The spotlights that usually glared brightly enough to pick out every blade of grass had been snuffed out. The crescent moon playing peekaboo with the clouds didn’t offer any illumination.
The stillness of the scene outside contrasted with the frantic activity below them. This sounded like more than one of Mr. Zendaris’s rampages.
Someone pounded on the nursery door. “Open up.”
Randi’s heart galloped in her chest, but she recognized the voice of one of Zendaris’s security guards, Costa. She didn’t like Costa, or his overpowering cologne, but at least he treated the children with care.
She crossed the room with Nicky and Angelina hanging on her arms. She unlocked the door and threw it open. “Costa, what is going on down there? It’s frightening the children.”
Sweat gleamed on Costa’s bald pate as he swooped down and swept up the kids, one in each massive arm. “You don’t worry about the kids anymore.”
“What do you mean?” Randi’s blood ran hot and pounded against her temples. “Nicky and Angelina are my responsibility.”
Nicky let loose with a long wail and Angelina looked like a wax figure clamped against Costa’s side, her gauzy pink scarf trailing on the floor.
Randi reached out to smooth Angelina’s soft curls from her face and drape the scarf over her head, but Costa jerked back toward the door. “Not anymore, mademoiselle.”
Nicky began to squirm and shriek. Adjusting his grip on the kids, Costa backed out of the room and kicked the door shut.
Randi lunged for the door and grabbed the handle. It turned, but the door wouldn’t budge. She banged on it with her fists. “Open this door. Let me out of here.”
Someone grunted on the other side of the door, and Randi knew she was a captive. But why? If Mr. Zendaris were just uprooting the kids again and taking them to one of his other homes, why imprison her in the nursery?
On other occasions he’d calmly informed her of his plans for the children and she’d taken the opportunity of their absence to stay with Abuelita for a while. She even accompanied Mr. Zendaris once or twice to Paris, Athens and Budapest.
What changed? Why the commotion downstairs? Why had she been sequestered in the nursery?
She pummeled the door, but only managed to hurt her hands. She scooped up Angelina’s scarf from the floor and wound it around her neck. Taking a turn around the room, she folded her arms across her chest, her fingers digging into her biceps.
A thwacking noise penetrated the room, and she ran to the window. A large, black helicopter descended from the darkened sky. Its lights illuminated the lawn and beyond the manicured grass to the dense foliage that ran to the high walls surrounding the property.
Randi’s breath hitched in her chest, and a chill snaked up her spine. Here and there, members of Zendaris’s security force were scattered along the wall, weapons clutched in their hands.
Was the compound under some kind of siege? And did Zendaris plan to leave her behind to face his enemies on her own?
The air in the room stifled her. She opened the French doors to the balcony that jutted over a flagstone path below. She needed fresh air and freedom, but this route offered no escape, two stories high and with no visible means of reaching the ground.
