Dead By Nightfall Read Online Free PDF Page A

emotions—anger, hatred, revulsion—Rafe managed to nod and smile when their host urged them to take their seats. In his role as a gentleman, Rafe assisted his date and then pulled out the chair beside her. Once seated, he ran his gaze quickly around the table, concentrating only on the men, the two older men in particular. He had not seen Yves Bouchard in person for more than sixteen years, not since Bouchard’s last visit to Amara. And there were no recent photos of the man. None.
    Would Rafe actually recognize Bouchard?
    One of the two older men, he dismissed immediately when he heard him speak to the woman next to him. His accent was decidedly Scottish. And his eyes were blue, not brown.
    “I believe that Ms. Wilder needs no introduction,” Sir Harlan said as he focused his gaze on Cassie. “But, my dear, perhaps you would like to introduce your young man to the other guests.”
    As all eyes turned to Rafe, his heart stopped beating for one gut-wrenching moment when the white-haired man with the neatly groomed gray mustache and Vandyke looked directly at him. Yves Bouchard, in the flesh.
    Got you, you son of a bitch. After all these years, I’ve finally found you.
    Cassie reached over and laid her hand atop Rafe’s. “Sir Harlan, please let me introduce my date for tonight, my dear friend, Leonardo Kasan.”

Chapter 3
    Derek paced the hallway as he and Yvette waited outside Griffin Powell’s study. Whenever he heard a shout or a crash, he paused to exchange concerned glances with Yvette, who stood serenely at the end of the corridor, her head bowed and her hands folded in a prayerlike gesture. For what seemed like the hundredth time, Derek checked his wristwatch. Although it had been barely twenty minutes since Sanders had gone into the study with Griffin, it felt more like twenty hours. The horrifically painful roar Griffin initially released had sent chills through Derek’s body. Then several minutes later, silence had replaced the sound of unbearable pain. But only momentarily. One loud crash had followed another and then another, interrupted by periods of ominous quiet. And then Griffin had begun bellowing at the top of his lungs. His loud, gruff voice resonated with anguish, his words of remorse and self-condemnation clearly audible through the closed door. And all the while, they heard the soft, steady drone of Sanders’s calm voice interspersed throughout Griff’s ongoing savage tirade.
    Derek could only imagine what was happening behind that closed door. If he were in Griffin’s position, if Maleah was missing, presumed kidnapped by a deadly assassin, how would he have reacted?
    A strange silence interrupted Derek’s thoughts, a lingering quiet that signaled a conclusion. The door eased open and Sanders stood there looking as if he had survived a vicious battle, his facial features drawn and haggard, his gaze a blank stare. After he stepped out into the hall, leaving the door open behind him, Derek glanced into Griffin’s study, a room he now barely recognized. In his tortured rage, Griff had destroyed the beautifully elegant and classically masculine room he had personally designed for his private use. Every stick of furniture—tables, chairs, ottomans—had been overturned. Only the large, sturdy Jacobean table remained upright, but the surface had been swept clean, the items scattered about on the wooden floor. Shattered lamps littered the Persian rug, as did the porcelain figurines that had once lined the mantel over the massive rock fireplace.
    Yvette walked toward Sanders, her steps increasing in speed as she neared the study entrance. She paused in front of Sanders and waited for him to speak.
    Derek suddenly sensed that his presence was superfluous. At this moment, there was nothing he could do for Griff. Sanders had done his part. Now, it was Yvette’s turn. Without a word being spoken, Yvette and Sanders passed each other as he left Griff’s study and she entered. When Sanders