She felt the sharp needle stick on the side of her neck, started to swat at it as she might a bug.

Then her eyes rolled back, and she felt nothing at all.

He had the gag on, zip ties on her wrists and ankles in seconds. Just a precaution, as the dose should keep her out for a couple hours.

She didn’t weigh much and, as a man in excellent shape, he could have carried her the few feet to the waiting cart had she been a full-grown woman.

After shoving her into the cabinet of the service cart, he rolled it toward the caterer’s van—outfitted for just this purpose. He pushed it up the ramp, shut the cargo doors.

In under two minutes, he drove down the long drive, wound to the edge of the private peninsula. At the security gates, he entered the code with a gloved finger. When the gates opened, he drove through, made his turn, then hit Highway 1.

He resisted pulling off the wig, and the fake beard.

Not yet, and he could handle the annoyance of them. He didn’t have far to go, and expected he’d have the ten-million-dollar brat locked inside the high-class cabin (owners currently in Maui) before anyone even thought to look for her.

When he turned off the highway again, started up the steep drive to where some rich asshole decided to build a vacation paradise stuck in with a bunch of trees, rocks, chaparral, he was whistling a tune.

Everything had gone smooth as silk.

He caught sight of his partner pacing on the second-story deck of the cabin and rolled his eyes. Talk about an asshole.

They had this knocked, for Christ’s sake. They’d keep the kid sedated, but wear masks just in case. In a couple of days—maybe less—they’d be rich, the kid could go back to the fucking Sullivans, and he, with a new name, new passport, would be on his way to Mozambique to soak up some sun in style.

He pulled the van around the side of the cabin. You couldn’t see the cabin from the road, not really, so he knew no one would see the van blocked by trees around the side.

By the time he hopped out, his partner had run down to meet him.

“Have you got her?”

“Shit yeah. Nothing to it.”

“Are you sure nobody saw you? Are you sure—”

“Jesus, Denby, chill.”

“No names,” Denby hissed, pushing up his sunglasses as he looked around as if somebody waited in the woods to attack. “We can’t risk her hearing our names.”

“She’s out. Let’s get her upstairs, locked in so I can get this crap off my face. I want a beer.”

“Masks first. Look, you’re not a fucking doctor. We can’t be a hundred percent she’s still out.”

“Fine, fine, go get yours. I’ll stick with this.” He patted the beard.

As Denby went back inside, he opened the cargo doors, hopped in to open the cabinet doors. Out, he thought, as in o-u-t. He rolled her out onto the floor, dragged her back toward the door—not a peep from her—then hopped out again.

He glanced back when Denby appeared in his Pennywise the Dancing Clown mask and wig, and he laughed like a loon. “If she wakes up before we get her inside, she’ll probably faint from fright.”

“We want her scared, don’t we, so she’ll cooperate. The little spoiled rich bitch.”

“That’d do the trick. You’re no Tim Curry, but that’d do the trick.”

He slung Cate over his shoulder. “Everything ready up there?”

“Yeah. The windows are locked down. Still got a hell of a view of the mountains,” Denby added as he followed his partner inside the rustic plush of the entryway, the open living area. “Not that she’ll enjoy that, since we’re keeping her out or the next thing to it.”

Denby jumped as “The Mexican Hat Dance” played from the phone clipped to his partner’s belt.

“Goddamn it, Grant!”

Grant Sparks only laughed. “Used my name, nimrod.” He carted Cate up the stairs to the second floor, open to the first with its cathedral ceiling. “That’s a text from my sugar. You gotta chill, man.”

He carried Cate into the bedroom they’d selected because it faced the back and had its own bathroom. He dumped her on the four-poster Denby had stripped down to sheets—cheap sheets they’d bought, and would take away with them.

The en suite was to avoid dragging her out of the room, avoiding a potential mess neither of them wanted to clean up. If she made one, they’d wash the sheets. Once they’d finished they’d remake the bed, nice and tidy and with the original bedding, and remove the nails hammered into the window locks.

He looked around, satisfied that Denby had taken out anything the kid could use as a weapon—as if—or bust out a window with. She’d be too drugged up for that, but why take chances?

When they left, the house would be exactly as they’d found it. No one would know they’d ever been inside.

“You took out all the lightbulbs?”

“Every one.”

“Good job. Keep her in the dark. Go ahead and clip those ties, take off the gag. If she wakes up, has to piss, I don’t want her doing it in the bed. She can beat on the door, scream her head off. Won’t make a diff.”

“How long do you figure she’ll be under?”

“A couple hours. We bring her some doctored soup when she does, and that’ll keep her out for the night.”

“When are you going out to call?”

“After dark. Hell, they’re not even looking for her yet. She was playing fucking hide-and-seek, as advertised, and headed straight for the grab spot.”

He gave Denby a slap on the back. “Smooth as silk. Finish up, make damn sure you lock the door. I’m getting this crap off my face.” He pulled off the wig, the wig net under it, revealing a short, stylish mop of sun-streaked brown hair. “I’m going for a beer.”

CHAPTER TWO

As the guests dwindled down to family, Charlotte did her duty, sat with Rosemary, made conversation with Lily, with Hugh. She reminded herself the reward made the effort worthwhile.

And it did take effort. Lily might see herself as a big-deal actress because she’d gotten a couple of Oscar nominations (didn’t win, did she!), but however nice she played it, Charlotte could feel her dislike.

Hell, she could taste it whenever she got within five feet of the old hag with her stupid southern belle accent.

But she could play nice, too, and did, forcing a smile when Lily let out that brassy laugh of hers. A laugh Charlotte figured was as fake as Lily Morrow’s trademark red hair.

She sipped a cosmo Hugh had mixed her at the bar on the far side of the gathering room. At least the Sullivans knew how to make a decent drink.

So she’d drink, smile, act like she gave a shit when someone told another Saint Liam story.

And wait it out.

As the sun dipped down toward the ocean, a ball of fire sinking toward the blue, the kids came inside. Dirty, noisy, and, of course, ravenous.

There were hands and faces to be washed, and in some cases, clothes to change before the children had their dinner, had their baths. The older ones could vote on a movie to watch in the theater, while the adults had their meal and the younger children their bedtime.

In the kitchen, nannies put approved meals together—taking into account this one’s peanut allergy, that one’s lactose intolerance, another being raised vegan.