Endless as the Rain: The Taken Series, #1

By MS Kaye

For Adriane Graham, the real question comes down to this: “Am I Alec Kaden’s guest…Or his prisoner?”

If she’s a guest in the Kaden mansion, then it means Alec has freed himself from his family ties to organized crime. It means he’s telling the truth when he says he’s protecting Adriane from dangerous men and they can shake off the shackles of haunted pasts.

…But…

If Adriane Graham is Alec Kaden’s prisoner, it means his tenderness is simply a ruse to keep her under control; his kindness is just poisoned hypocrisy. It means Alec is a cruel liar, and that somehow, by some desperate way, she’s got to get out of this charming man’s well-guarded house before it’s too late.

Is she Alec’s treasured guest? Or merely a pretty bird, trapped in his gilded cage? The troubling questions pour like fountains…flowing…

Endless as the Rain.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inkspell Publishing
• Release date: Jun 13, 2016
• ISBN: 9781939590916

Book preview

Chapter 1: Taken

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I was good at quiet. If I walked quietly, if I moved without anyone noticing, if I was just background, silent as the clouds, I could catch a glimpse of beauty. Some places were touched with tiny flashes of the sublime. You just had to pay attention. That wasn’t always so easy.

My favorite lane was the strongest of these touched places. On my way home from a late day at the end of tax season, the gravel crunched under my feet and a breeze bounced among the trunks to lift my hair from my back and play with it.

The crunch was louder, from more than just my feet.

I looked around to see a black sedan creeping up behind me. I moved to get out of the way, barely on the gravel. The car continued at the same careful pace.

Just as the passenger door was at my arm’s length, the car stopped. I guessed the driver must be seeking directions, and waited for a window to roll down. They had to be lost. I’d never seen an unfamiliar car on this road. It was only used or even known about by old residents of the neighborhood.

The back door opened, and a man stepped out.

I caught a glimpse of his tailored suit and overly straight posture as I glanced around, deciding if I should keep walking, walk quickly...or bolt into the trees toward one of the houses.

It’s getting late, he said. Would you care for a ride home before it gets too dark?

His voice—it sounded vaguely familiar.

I stepped back and started to turn and run.

He lurched forward and grabbed my arm just above my elbow. His grip was oddly gentle.

I tried to pull away, and opened my mouth to scream.

Please, he said.

I paused to look at him.

Don’t make a sound. He said it like a request.

I didn’t understand.

He pulled me toward the open car door.

With all my strength, I yanked at my arm with zero success. His grip didn’t hurt. He allowed a slight amount of movement—just enough to make sure my arm wasn’t bruised by my own struggling.

I pulled at my arm again and demanded, Let me go.

Nothing.

I balled my hand into a fist and shifted to swing it at his face. Before I could make contact, he scooped me up in one swift movement and set me in the car. Stop! Let me go!

The man sat, and I slid away from him and pulled at the other door handle. Locked.

What’re you doing? I yelled.

Jammed? he asked the driver.

The man in the front looked down at something on the seat next to him. Yes, sir.

The man next to me slammed the door shut. Drive.

The car backed down the lane, away from my street, and then spit gravel as it turned onto the main road.

You have the wrong person. I don’t have any money.

The man next to me said nothing.

What do you want? I demanded.

Jaw still tight, the man next to me said, To protect you.

What?

I came at him, ready to attack.

He grabbed my wrists, still somehow gentle. Please, Adriane.

I stopped and stared at him. He knew my name. He hadn’t mistaken me for someone else.

His eyes were different. In the sun, they’d glowed like uncut emeralds, each angle and defect shining the light back at me. Now, behind the deeply tinted windows of the car, his eyes were shadowed, deep like an unexplored cavern.

I ripped my hands away, and he let go. I turned toward the side window. You have to get out of this, Adriane. Think.

But the door was locked, and these two men were obviously extremely capable. They weren’t like the other men I knew, the accountants and clerks. They were clean-cut and well dressed, but something more... They knew things, things they probably shouldn’t know, things that made them dangerous. It was in their quiet calm, their straight postures, their confidence.

My only chance was to be calm and watch for an opportunity, for them to make a mistake, anything. My body tightened as I fought to keep myself still.

The men didn’t speak. Their silence was perfect. I turned slightly toward the front so I could see the driver and watch the other man from the corner of my eye.

The driver only drove, nothing else. He looked left before making a turn, showed me his face for the first time, and I saw nothing in his expression—no worry or concern, or even excitement at having caught their target. He turned his ash blond head back toward the windshield.

I did not look at the dark-haired man next to me, and yet I saw everything peripherally—his two-day-growth beard, the way he sat rigidly still, how he focused on the windshield, and how the fist that rested on his leg clenched so tightly it shook. His presence seeped into my skin like fog on an overcast day. Quiet and slow, it overwhelms your vision, seems to cloud your ears as you try to muddle your way through—but you can’t. Headlights can’t pierce it, and wind can’t clear it. It clings to you.

Then he opened his fist and pressed his hand flat on his thigh. His chest expanded as he took a breath.

I know you’re frightened, he said.

I didn’t respond, only stared straight ahead.

But please believe me, he continued, you are not in any danger. I won’t hurt you.

Again with the please.

You said I was in danger, I retorted. Whatever he’d meant by that.

His voice was gentle. Not from me.

I turned toward the side window, away from him, trying to frustrate or annoy him and cause him to make a mistake, leave me an opening, something.

He was silent.

I kept waiting for them to talk, maybe talk to each other about what they were going to do next, or maybe to explain what in the world they were doing. We exited onto a secluded road. The misty, wild forest reached out to the car as if trying to pull me out, rip me away. The sun was beginning to fall and peeked out from among the trees, piercing the car with flashes of pink light.

I looked around me to find something to break the window.

They’re bullet-proof, the dark-haired man beside me said.

Who has bullet-proof windows? I snapped. What are you, a crime lord?

His jaw clenched even tighter.

We turned onto a hidden drive.

Crap. I pulled at the door handle again. Let me out, I demanded. I don’t have money, and I don’t know anyone important.

But you have information that puts you in danger.

I’m just a bookkeeper. As we passed a manned gate, my voice rose. I don’t know anything!

Please give me a chance to explain.

The driver took the bends up the hill too quickly, and I held on to the handle of the door to keep from sliding on the leather seats. As we made the final curve, a house appeared from beyond the branches, a huge, brick house, surrounded by gardens and more of those wild trees. Wait, a house in the hills? That wasn’t a normal hideout for a kidnapper, was it? I would’ve imagined some dank alley, not a beautiful estate overlooking the ocean.

Both men exited the car. The driver opened my door and offered his hand.

I positioned my feet just right. And then I burst out of the car, shoving my hands at the driver’s lower stomach to try to knock him off balance. He stumbled back.

I turned to run, no idea where I was going or how to get off this property.

But the dark-haired man was there in front of me like a brick wall.

As I tried to get around him, he took my hand and said, Please. His hand was cool and still oddly gentle, and something in his eyes seemed sincere.

Kidnapping someone isn’t generally the best was to get them to listen, I said. If you really just want to explain something, you wouldn’t have done all this.

I waited until the last moment. There was no more time.

What’re you talking about?

There are men in your house. If you would’ve turned the corner onto your street, it would have been too late.

What?

Please, he said. Just let me talk to you for a few minutes. I’ll explain.

I continued to glare at him.

You’re already here, he said. Just sit with me for a few minutes. After I explain, you’ll have a better understanding so you can make more informed decisions.

Such a logical argument annoyed me.

I took my hand away from him. For some reason, I felt like contact with him made it harder for me to think. He let go easily.

We met each other’s gaze for a few seconds. The sun brightened the color of his eyes, like imperfections in uncut emeralds.

As if he’d read my decision, he started toward the house.

I followed.

As he passed the driver, he held his hand up, telling the driver to go, not follow into the house. Thank you, Anthony.

Anthony got back in the car and left, and I followed the other man, hoping I hadn’t made the wrong decision.

Chapter 2: Explanation

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I wasn’t sure if I followed him because I didn’t have many other options or because I was curious. My gut told me he wasn’t interested in hurting me, and ransom definitely wasn’t his goal—this house was the size of my house times five.

Up the front steps, he held one of the double doors for me. My attention focused past the shadowed entry across the house, to the main source of light, a wall of windows and glass doors that looked to the forest, and I thought maybe, to cliffs. He led me to the right, toward a kitchen. The large window over the sink stopped most of the shadows at the archway.

He motioned for me to have a seat at the kitchen table. I sat and considered how to handle this. I wasn’t sure how to go about getting answers out of him. I used to be able to get my father to tell me things, but that was forever ago. I barely interacted with people anymore.

He walked around the marble-topped island to one of the many cabinets. His shoes made little sound on the stone floors. Why did his dress shoes have rubber soles? That didn’t seem to match how well-tailored his suit was, his extravagant car, the sparkling light fixtures in his house. And I knew this must be his house—how else would he know exactly where the plates were?

The room smelled of the remnants of a meal, chicken maybe, and marinara sauce. A pot, perhaps from the sauce, sat on the counter by the sink, drying on a towel.

I sat there quietly, trying to be calm.

He set a plate in front of me with two rolls and a small jar of apple butter. You must be hungry.

I said nothing, trying to contain my annoyance.

He moved toward the sink. Clink of glasses in a cabinet. Water running.

His phone rang. Water still running, he answered his phone with, It’s done. His tone was low, angry. I know... Do your job... Most likely. Stay alert... His voice became too quiet to hear over the rush from the faucet. He slipped his phone back into his breast pocket and returned to set a glass of water in front of me.

His tall frame in its dark suit loomed over me, threw a shadow across the room. He pulled the next chair out and faced me as he sat.

His voice was soft, kind. Please don’t be afraid.

What was it with him and that word?

What do you think you’re protecting me from? I asked. If his honest intentions were to protect me, he had to have something wrong. My life was simple, dull, easy. I did my job then went home. That was it. What kind of trouble could a bookkeeper get into? My tone calmed. I don’t understand.

I know.

His gaze turned down and toward the glass of water on the table. The tilt of his head showed the precise angles of his jaw, his nose, his brow. His fair skin had a pureness to it. Finally, he looked back up and spoke in a calm, deep voice. I promise you’re safe. I won’t let anyone hurt you.

I tried to keep the frustration out of my voice. I don’t understand.

I know, Adriane.

Something was warm in my chest. He affected me strongly for some reason, which just added to my frustration. I wasn’t used to people having much impact on me.

My name is Alec Kaden, he said. Our fathers were...associates.

My face twisted in more confusion. Wait, I’d heard his name, or rather, read it—something about his taking over a factory outside Seattle. I only read the front page of the paper, not the financial section, but I’d gotten the feeling his name appeared there often. And there was something else, something with the name Kaden, something from a long time ago and not pleasant...

Your father was an accountant, he said, at the same firm at which you now work. You’re smart like he was, perhaps too smart.

He leaned as if trying to catch my gaze. His hand moved toward mine as it rested on my little bag in my lap, but stopped. The back of his hand wasn’t smooth like his palm. His first two knuckles looked like they’d been battered, cracked open on multiple occasions. They were thick. The skin was tough on the rest, but not as gnarled as on those two. He’d hit things, a lot of things.

With as much focus as I could, I looked him in the eye. Everything about him was hard, unyielding, and yet the kindness in his eyes mixed with that hardness, like flowers blooming out of rock.

Head tilted forward, he bored his gaze into me. A few days ago, he said, you discovered more than you were supposed to. His jaw clenched. Samuel Dean.

No. He said I made a mistake. Mr. Mason had made it clear that I’d gotten it wrong—very clear. He’d let me do nothing but tedious filing for the last several days.

John Mason knew damn well it wasn’t a mistake. He told Dean what you found. It was more than embezzlement, Adriane. He should have never let you work on that account.

I’m just a bookkeeper.

His eyebrow cocked. And yet you found what he had so carefully hidden.

No, I... But I’d known I was right—Councilman Samuel Dean was embezzling from the city. I’d tried to trust that Mr. Mason was more accurate in his assessment, but what Alec was saying was starting to make sense.

They’ve been watching you, deciding if you were a threat, if you were expendable. Today the decision was made.

My mouth opened, but nothing came out.

I had to act quickly. The hard edge of his voice softened. I’m so sorry I scared you.

How do you know about this? I asked.

He hesitated. I know much about the people in this city. I keep tabs on those of influence.

Could he possibly be any more vague? I opened my mouth to ask for more explanation, but then another man in a dark suit walked into the kitchen.

Have you checked? he asked Alec.

I’ve got this under control. Alec’s voice was cold. And you?

There must have been an order hidden in the phrase. The other man said, Yes, sir, and left.

Alec turned back to me. You must be tired—you’ve had a trying day. I have a room prepared for you. He paused then, with a reluctant sigh, added, But first I must ask one more favor. He nodded toward my bag. May I?

I just looked at him.

I’m sorry, he said, but I must check your bag.

Why?

They have been watching you very closely.

I opened my mouth to speak as he interrupted with another quiet, Please.

I handed him my bag.

He quickly searched the contents and put each item on the table—wallet, phone, keys, and a little notebook and pencil. As he checked each pocket of my wallet, it shocked me that it really didn’t bother me, didn’t feel like an invasion of privacy, even though I never let anyone look through my things. Then he put his hand in the bag as if searching for more. I watched curiously. There was nothing more to find.

A quiet ripping sound. He removed his hand and held it out so I could see a small device in his palm. Then he put it on the floor and ground it into the travertine with his heel.

My stomach lurched as I stared at the little pile of debris. They were listening?

There was sympathy in his voice. Yes.

I tried to calm myself by remembering that they—whoever exactly they were—had heard very little. Other than work, just silence as I read or sketched.

He returned my wallet, notebook, and pencil to the bag and handed it back to me.

He picked up my phone and keys. I’ll need to hold on to these, if you’ll allow. It isn’t wise to use your phone, and I would like to borrow your keys. Once we find the opportunity, we will need to search your house—

I interrupted. What do you mean ‘search my house’? And who was we?

Do you happen to have any papers from work there?

I shook my head. A bookkeeper taking financial records home—that was a sure way to get fired.

He continued to sound sympathetic. I’ll try to have some of your things brought back for you, he said. Do you have anything in particular you would like to have retrieved?

You want me to stay here?

For your safety.

How long?

I will do everything possible to make it safe for you, but I’m not sure how long that will take.

Are you crazy?

He held my eye contact and continued to speak in that low, calm voice of his. I know how bright you are, intuitive, even. He motioned toward the little pile of debris on the floor. You’ve seen the bug for yourself. He rested his hand on his thigh, and his voice quieted even more. And I can see that you know I’m being truthful.

I said nothing.

Surely, you see, he said, it’s wiser not to risk the danger simply because you’re uncomfortable staying here, with your routine being broken.

I stared at him for a few seconds. How’d he know that?

Then I looked away, toward the window above the sink and out to the wild trees that reached into the neat and tidy flowerbeds. The thought of breaking my careful routine almost seemed worse than any of the danger he was talking about. My routine was how I got through my days, my life.

He stood.

I was still.

Is there anything I can get for you? he asked. I want to make this as comfortable as possible.

I shook my head.

If you think of anything, please let me know.

A pause.

A room has been prepared for you, he said. You must be tired.

I looked up at him. The sun touched just the side of his face and cast the rest in shadow. He held his hand out.

I glanced at his hand. Then I stood.

He led me across the stone floor of the entry to the staircase that stood between the dining and great rooms. The polished, dark wood curved gracefully to the second story from which I could see out the tall windows that crowned the French doors in the shadowed living room below. The lack of sun was now turning the forest black, but glowing pink clouds still streaked the sky.

At the top of the stairs, he led me to the right, to the last door, and then stopped to open it. He allowed me to step through, walked in behind, and paused just inside.

I hope you’ll be comfortable. I’ll have a man in the hall, and you need only ask, he said. He’ll get you anything you want.

I nodded.

He touched the bolt on the door. There was a brass plate on the outside, where the keyhole would be. It locks only from the inside.

He paused as if waiting for me to say something. I was quiet.

He turned to go.

Alec.

He paused. When he turned back to me, something in his eyes was different, like he was farther away. Yes?

None of this makes sense. I understood the words, but it was like reading a story in a book, not what happened in my life.

You’re safe, he said.

I don’t know if I can stay here.

You’re safe. I promise. With an attempt at a smile, he walked out and closed the door behind himself.

Anxiety began to tingle up my spine.

I turned, barely seeing the room, and found someplace to sit—a sofa next to a crackling fireplace. I looked into the hot flames and tried to sort the chaos in my head.

A bug in my purse. Mr. Mason had to have been the one to plant it there—he was the only one who could’ve had access. I found myself doubting everyone I interacted with on a regular basis, even Bobby, the boy from the mailroom who tended to follow me around.

I didn’t really know anyone—couldn’t trust anyone.

And what about Alec? Who was he? How was he involved?

Then there was Councilman Dean. This didn’t seem like the way a politician would go about things. Wouldn’t he try a bribe or something? It didn’t fit. I was missing something, a lot of somethings. Although my gut told me everything he’d said was the truth, Alec hadn’t told me much, maybe so as not to scare me. Not knowing was worse. I didn’t know if Councilman Dean wanted to hurt me, or simply scare me. Alec had said I was too great a risk and expendable, but I wasn’t sure if I knew exactly what that meant—what it meant to me.

All I knew was sitting here like this, with people I didn't know, whether or not they were trustworthy, was not going to happen.

Chapter 3: Goldilocks

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***Alec***

Alec closed the door behind himself and paused to look at it for a few seconds. He hoped he was doing this right. He couldn’t fuck this up. He knew he should have talked to her more, told her more of what was going on, more of the truth—just not all of the truth. But he wasn’t sure how to word it all yet, how to tell her enough to keep her calm, keep her from leaving, while not letting her figure too much. She was too damn smart. He had to handle her carefully.

He headed for the stairs. Vincent was surely not far, but Alec wasn’t in the mood to deal with him. Alec only spoke when necessary, when he could handle a conversation, and tonight was not one of those nights. He also knew that night would not be a night for sleep. The gardens and the clearing would likely be his company, not his dreams—he couldn’t handle those tonight.

Then he paused on his way through the great room to the back yard. Perhaps he would take a trip to Providence Street instead. He could park in that little lane she liked so much and slip through the dark yards of the neighboring houses. The area should be checked out, anyway. They didn’t know exactly how many men Dean had loyal to him, how many were watching her house—more intel was necessary before they made any further moves. Besides, she would need fresh clothes in the morning. He needed to be occupied tonight, and this would do the trick.

***Adriane***

Curled into the corner of the sofa, I eventually fell asleep, still with thoughts and worries circling my head, like vultures feeding off my sense of calm.

Even in my dreams, I couldn’t gain that comfortable feeling of numbness, not completely. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d dreamed, but I woke with the sense I’d been dreaming something pleasant, beautiful, something far-off and unattainable. It felt like when I used to dream about my parents. I was glad I didn’t remember the dream.

I opened my eyes and touched my cheek. It was