His abrupt rise from the rail startled the people praying beside him. John ignored them and went to genuflect before the life-size crucifix and then strode down the center aisle and out of the sanctuary. Only when he was outside could he breathe and concentrate and try to clear the sickening smells from his head. They retreated, but a dark face replaced them. Again he heard the sly, insinuating voice that had called to him one night from a shadowy doorway in the slums.

Hei, padre.

"Father? You sick or something?"

Christopher Calloway's bubble-gum-scented breath jerked John out of his memories. The girl in Rio had been chewing spearmint gum, but not for pleasure. She did it to hide the smell of her blackened, rotting teeth. That was the reason for the nickname of her trade, menina do doce.

Candy girl.

He was standing in front of the Blessed Mother's statue, sweat pouring down his face, both hands curled into fists at his side.

"I'm fine, Chris." He turned slightly away from the altar boy. "Go back inside and get changed."

"Okay, Father. Oh, jeez, I forgot. Father Carlo sent me to get you. You're needed over at the rectory."

John thought of the bishop. No, Hightower wouldn't make a personal visit. "Does Father Carlo need me?"

"Yeah." The boy gave him an uneasy look. "So do the two cops talking to him."

Alex hadn't woken up in a strange bedroom since she was five. Terror made her claw at the air until she remembered she wasn't a homeless little kid living on the street anymore.

She was still in a strange bedroom, though.

She spent the first minute running a quick body check to find out why. Head pounding, throat sore, sinuses throbbing. No broken bones, no pain or tenderness between her legs. She'd been snatched and, judging by the grogginess, drugged with some sort of inhalant—ether?—but she was pretty sure she hadn't been beaten or raped.

Yet.

Alex stayed very still and made a visual sweep of the room. She was alone, and still in the yet stage of things. The brass bed, the sea-colored sheet draped over her torso and legs, and the room were completely unfamiliar. No one she knew would have dared decorated with such vivid colors: all splashes of red, yellow, and orange against the cooler turquoise and blue upholstery and linens. She'd done her place with basic Rooms To Go; Charlie's place was wall-to-wall corduroy beige and bachelor dust. Wherever John was living, it was sure to be as dismal as he was.

No, the owner of this house had taste and bucks. The paintings on the wall looked real, and the carpet plush and expensive. The only thing she could smell was sun-dried linen, her own sweat, and a faint chemical odor.

Alex lifted the edge of the sheet. Under it, she was completely naked. She grabbed the nearest solid object, a silver trinket box, from the side table. Maybe she'd been mugged, and someone had brought her to his house. But that would be supremely stupid. Why bring her here when the hospital had been twenty yards away? Why strip her?

Time to find out whose skull I have to crack. "Hello?"

No one answered.

Alex eased off the bed, holding the trinket box in a tight grip. Her clothes, clean and neatly folded, sat on the top of a fussy little table nearby. She put down the box long enough to dress, and then went to the door, which had a knob and dead bolt. Both were locked from the outside.

"Hello? Anyone out there?"

She yelled a few more times and pounded on the door, first with her fist, then with the box. No response. There were no windows in the room, and the only other door led into a private bath that also had no windows or alternative exit.

If the date and time on her watch—also left carefully on the table—were correct, then she'd been unconscious for eleven hours. She now clearly remembered the two men in the parking garage, being hit from behind, the cloth in her face.

Alex started banging on the door again, and this time she screamed for help. No one answered; no one came. She kept it up until her throat became raw and her voice rasped before she stopped and sat down on the bed. Had the room been soundproofed? Was she here for the duration?

Why kidnap me?

She had no idea where she was, or who the men were who had abducted her. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to snatch her, but why? She was financially secure but by no means wealthy. John, being a priest, had no money. She hadn't dated anyone except Charlie Haggerty for the last two years. She'd never even been sued.

Who dumps someone they want to hurt in a bedroom with Queen Anne furniture and linen bedsheets?

Alex got tired of wondering. If they weren't going to open the door, she would. She went through the contents of the room, looking for anything to use on the lock. That was when she realized there was nothing in the room made of glass or any breakable material. There were also no mirrors, lights, or lamps, and all the electric outlets had been removed. The only light, she saw, came from a single fluorescent tube in the center of the vaulted bedroom ceiling, too high for her to get at unless she stacked furniture. She then discovered that the furniture was too heavy for her to move.

Feeling a little desperate, she went into the bathroom. No mirrors here, either, and all the cabinets were empty. She yanked the lid from the toilet tank to find it empty and dry; a flush revealed that a separate pipe that disappeared into the wall provided the water pressure. The shower had a clear but thin plastic curtain that hung from flimsy plastic hooks.

Alex went back out and stood in the center of the room, seeing it with new eyes. This isn't a guest room. It's an aquarium, and I'm the new fish.

Without warning, the door opened and a pretty blond woman in a Chanel suit walked in. "Bonjour, Dr. Keller." She set down the tray she was carrying. "Welcome to La Fontaine."

Chapter Three

Alex recognized the blond woman's voice from the phone call. Éliane Selvais, M. Cyprien's snooty secretary.

She'd been kidnapped by the rich guy with the fancy stationery? She flashed on the crest with the drifting clouds and the bird's claw. It had been a warning.

Daydream and you'll get yourself snatched.

Alex jumped to her feet, ran for the door, and promptly smacked face-first into a concrete-block wall of a chest. She drew back the trinket box to smack the man in the head, and then yelped as he plucked it from her hand and tossed it over his shoulder.

Alex took a step back. Someone had broken his nose a couple of times, and a hellacious scar ran down from his lip to disappear into his collar. He wore his straight dark hair in an abbreviated ponytail, which did nothing to soften the sharp angles of his face. The brown of his eyes was so light it resembled overcreamed coffee.

Alex had lived in Chicago all her life. It was a violent city with a multitude of drug addicts, rapists, and thieves, where a woman alone was a walking target. Because she wasn't a total twit, Alex had taken some intensive self-defense courses and learned how to protect herself. She also knew a great deal about the human body, and exactly how to hurt it.

Silently, grimly, she went to work on Scarface. Nothing moved him or even made him flinch; he merely caught her arms and ignored her kicks.

"Phillipe will not hurt you, Doctor, nor will he permit you to pass." Ms. Selvais sounded almost apologetic as the goon gently turned Alex around to face her. "I've brought you a salad and sandwiches for lunch. Blue cheese dressing is your favorite, no?"

"Your boss, M. Cyprien, had me kidnapped." She wanted it straight, for the statement she'd make to the police. The Frenchwoman nodded, and dull heat rose into Alex's throbbing face. "Is he out of his fucking mind?"

"That, you must discuss with Mr. Cyprien tonight. For now, you should eat something." The dark cameo ring she wore flashed as she gestured toward the tray.

Since Blondie was obviously a resident of la-la land, Alex turned to Phillipe. "Kidnapping is a federal offense. Let me out of here, right now, and I won't press charges." Oh yes, she would. La entire Fontaine was going to jail for this little stunt.

"Phillipe does not speak English." Éliane smiled. "Nor do any of the other staff." She went to the door. "I will return for your tray in an hour. Bon appétit."

"For God's sake, you can't do this. I'm a doctor. I have patients." Alex tried to follow, but Phillipe blocked her again. "Get Cyprien and tell him I want to talk to him," she called over his shoulder. "Now!"

Éliane came back for the tray as promised, but only repeated that her boss would see Alex later that evening. Alex tried a different tack and told her about Luisa and the other people who were depending on her back home.

"These people, they will go to someone else to treat them," Cyprien's assistant said, dismissing everything with a wave of her hand. "Mr. Cyprien cannot."

"Of course he can see another surgeon. There are thousands of them in the South—"

She shook her head. "Regrettably, none of them are quick enough."

Everything became clear in that instant.

Six months ago, Time magazine had sent a reporter to interview Alex. She'd brushed him off, but someone at the hospital had gotten chatty about how quick she was with a scalpel. The reporter decided on a different spin, and had surreptitiously timed Alex against twelve top surgeons performing the same procedure.

The article had had a particularly cheesy title: ALEXANDRA KELLER, FASTEST SCALPEL IN THE WORLD.

"Just because I'm quick doesn't mean he'll heal faster." Alex grabbed Éliane's arm as she went to the door. "Tell him that."

"You can tell him yourself." With a surprisingly strong grip, she removed Alex's hand. "Tonight, at dinner." She waved at the armoire across from the bed. "You'll find suit' able garments in there. Please be ready by seven p.m." Out she went, and Phillipe shut the door in Alex's face.

Sheer curiosity made Alex open the armoire. Dozens of fancy-looking gowns hung inside, a row of low-heeled pumps lined up beneath them. Silk lingerie filled the drawers at the base.

The expensive assortment—and there were a few labels that made her mutter "Holy shit" when she read them—didn't bug her as much as discovering everything, right down to the high-cut panties, was exactly her size.