by J. Kenner
“That is surprising,” Ryan said.
“That’s not the strangest part.” Baxter leaned forward, like a kid sharing a juicy secret about the teacher. “She has a burner app on the phone. That’s how she was texting both you and Jamie. One of those apps that lets you have several virtual numbers. And, in the kicker to end all kickers, she didn’t pull her SIM card.”
“Really?” Ryan leaned back, considering that. He’d told Baxter to find out what he could learn from the phone’s card, but he hadn’t actually expected they’d get their hands on it. After all, this was a woman who’d been clever enough to fool him as to her role in a coup, then fake her own death and disappear. Why the hell would she leave behind her SIM card?
“What do you think it means?” Baxter asked.
“I wish I knew. Why the hell would a woman who was a spook leave a traceable device for us to find?”
“That’s the question of the hour,” Baxter agreed. “She had to have known.”
“Was there anything unusual embedded in the card?”
Baxter shook his head. “I thought of that—that she was leaving the SIM card on purpose, I mean. But I didn’t find anything that could be a message or, well, anything.” He swallowed. “There is one other possibility…” He trailed off, leaving Ryan to finish the sentence.
“That she wasn’t a spook.”
Baxter shrugged. “Could be.”
“It could,” Ryan agreed. “But I doubt it. To survive that fall? She’d have needed a full-on med-evac team. And the Felicia Cartwright I knew wouldn’t have the first clue how to get a fake identity. Not unless they sold it at Harrods.”
Baxter considered that, then nodded. “This whole situation’s bizarre.”
“That it is. Since you mentioned the burner app, I assume you unlocked her phone.”
“Hacked her password,” Baxter acknowledged. “The phone was mostly stripped. She saw this coming—you said it was her idea to ditch the phone, so she must have been planning it. All photos and files deleted. Her cloud service account deleted. Emails deleted. Just the burner app, the native apps, and a few game apps.”
“Gaming? Can we find a handle? We might be able to communicate through one of the apps.”
He shook his head. “No, I mean the single-player kind. And not gaming. Games. Well, puzzles, really. Crosswords. Sudoku.”
“Crosswords?”
“Yeah. Is that important?”
Ryan thought of William. But how the hell could there be a connection? He shook his head. “Probably not.” He sighed. “Well, at least we know one thing for certain.”
“What’s that?”
“That I have no way to contact her now.”
“What’s the next step?”
“I’d like you to track down the attorney who handled the probate of Randall’s will,” Ryan said. “William mentioned that Felicia should have inherited the house, and of course that’s true. We should confirm that she would have been the primary beneficiary if she’d survived, and then see if any other Felicias have popped up out of the blue. For that matter, we should see if there’s DNA. Randall was wealthy and a little eccentric. Did he freeze sperm? Blood? Brain tissue? Let’s find out. This girl says she’s Felicia? I want a way to prove it one way or the other.”
“Already on the probate question,” Baxter said. “I figured you’d ask. Of course, it’s Saturday, but I’m making some calls. Hopefully we can get an answer through unofficial channels, because the official ones are locked up tight for the weekend.”
“Perfect.”
“As for the other, I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Good man.” He swallowed the last of his Scotch, then pushed back his chair.
Baxter cleared his throat, and Ryan hesitated in the act of rising. “Something on your mind?”
“Just, ah, parameters.”
“Parameters?” Ryan repeated, hiding his amusement.
“Right. Are we entirely aboveboard on this, sir? Or are you kicking this matter over to Stark Security?”
He knew what Bax was asking. Stark International’s security team was very transparent. Very corporate. And very, very aboveboard. Not a lot of Tom Clancyesque maneuvers going down in the hallowed halls of Stark International.
The Stark Security Agency, on the other hand, had been created for a different type of problem. The kind that needed to dig a bit deeper, to cut corners and slice through red tape. The SSA did what was needed to get the job done, and that was okay because the SSA also had a very limited clientele and had the luxury of being extremely selective with its clients.
But still, corners would be cut. And Ryan knew that Baxter had already turned down one offer to join the SSA for exactly that reason. He’d been burned once before, and he was leery of digging himself into another hole so soon after climbing out of one. Ryan respected that. He honored Baxter’s request to limit his work to the corporate side of Stark International.
One day, though…
Well, one day, Ryan hoped to convince Baxter to join the SSA. With his particular skills, he’d be a hell of an asset.
As for right now, Ryan just shook his head. “No,” he assured his friend. “We’re keeping this close and aboveboard. Randall Cartwright’s dead. The will’s been probated, and that’s public record. Harder to get on a weekend, but not impossible or illegal. If it turns out that we have to dig deeper and cross lines, I’ll see if Quince can fly over or make a few calls.” A former MI6 operative, Quince had been one of the first agents recruited to the SSA. If strings needed to be tugged, he’d know how to do it.
“Sounds good.”
“Buzz me when you know something,” Ryan added, then headed out while Baxter picked up his own phone to start making more calls.
The mention of Quince, however, stuck in Ryan’s brain. As it stood, if Felicia no-showed again, they’d only be able to get in touch if she initiated it.
Unless…
He wondered if Quince could get MI6 to utilize facial recognition software in real time via the traffic cams. It was doubtful they’d be given permission—that would be a hell of a drain on the system—but they could possibly hack in.
He shook his head. He was frustrated and leaping to places he had no business leaping. Not yet. Not until he had a better understanding of what was going on. And why.
Right now, he had to deal with the fact that they were at an impasse. And as he rode up to the penthouse, he consoled himself with the knowledge that he was going to see Jamie, get some lunch, and then head back down at one to, hopefully, meet Felicia.
The Do Not Disturb light was still engaged, and he pressed his keycard to the lock and entered. The place was dead silent, which wasn’t surprising considering he’d told Jamie not to move. And Jamie was very good at following directions.
He smiled to himself as he corrected that thought—when she wanted to be.
He tossed his jacket on the back of the sofa, ripped off his tie, and started to unbutton his shirt. “Have you been a good girl, Kitten?”
Christ, he was already hard and he wasn’t even to the bedroom door yet. Just the anticipation of seeing her like that. Facedown, spread-eagled and wet for him. Knowing that she’d waited. Knowing that she wanted.
He cupped his hand over his cock, now stiff beneath his trousers, then stroked slowly as he crossed to the door. He wanted to open it, then lean against the doorway and tease her with his voice while he took them both almost to the precipice. Then he’d take her from behind, holding her by the waist as he buried himself deep inside her.
“Christ, Kitten,” he murmured. “What you do to me.”
He paused outside the closed door. “Tell me you want me, Kitten. If you want me to fuck you, I want to hear you say it.” He increased the pressure of his hand over his cock, anticipating her words.
Except there were no words.
“Kitten?” He frowned, then called out more loudly, “Jamie. I’m back.”
Still nothing. He pushed
open the door and saw that she’d turned over onto her back.
But it was the tiny trickle of drool on her stagnant face that had him bursting forward with a terror-filled cry of, “Jamie!”
Chapter Thirteen
“Jamie!”
The sharp edge of Ryan’s voice pulls me from the thick molasses of sleep in which I’m currently wrapped.
“Jamie, dammit, wake up!”
I shiver, suddenly cold despite the weight of a blanket on me. I’m aware that my back is pressed against the mattress and that is totally against the rules. I try to sit up, jolted into action by the shock of that realization.
Try, yes. But I don’t succeed. Instead, it seems as if the blanket is made of lead. I can’t seem to make my body do anything. I can’t even open my eyes. All I’m aware of is the yellow-gold glow of a light shining down on my still-closed lids.
“Ryan.” My mouth is like cotton, and I’m not sure if I’ve even spoken his name. I try to peel my eyes open, but it’s as if they are glued shut. I want to lift my hand so that I can use my fingers to aid my waking, but I can’t even manage that.
“Fuck, shit, goddammit.” There’s panic in his voice—more than I’ve ever heard—and fear rushes through me, the adrenaline forcing my eyes open.
“Ryan?”
He’s standing at the foot of the bed, his eyes on his phone as he sends a text, his expression tense and tight with worry. He doesn’t react at all to his name, and that’s when I realize I haven’t said a single word aloud.
I concentrate, then try again.
“Ryan.”
My throat feels like sandpaper and his name comes out low and cracked and broken.
Immediately, he tosses the phone onto the foot of the bed and hurries to my side. “Jamie.” He cups my face with his palm, his voice and his expression reflecting both love and terror.
I try to prop myself up, my heart beating faster with a rising panic, but my muscles still aren’t working properly. “What’s—?”
“You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”
His words sound like an order rather than a statement, and they do nothing to quell my fear.
He must realize that he’s not soothing me, because he draws in a breath. “I’m sorry. I just—when I came in and saw you. And then you didn’t wake up even though I kept calling your name and shaking you. Christ, Jamie, can you tell me what happened?”
Now I’m totally confused. “What happened?” My voice is still rough, and he slides off the bed, then hurries to get a bottle of water from the small fridge, ignoring the glass on the table beside the bed. He brings it to me, then helps me sit up enough to swallow.
“I’m okay,” I say as he starts to lay me back down. “Just help me scoot back. I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with me.”
His brow furrows as if he’s confused, then he sits at the edge of the bed and strokes my hair with one hand as he clutches my fingers with his other. “Kitten, baby, tell me what you remember.”
“I did what you said. Facedown on the bed, waiting. I didn’t move,” I assure him.
A muscle twitches in his cheek. “So you didn’t turn over?”
“You made me promise, so I didn’t. And then when you spanked me, I thought—” I trail off, managing a pathetic shrug. “I’m sorry I fell asleep. I promise it wasn’t you.” I offer a small smile. He knows damn well there’s nothing about him or his touch that I find sleep inducing.
I expect him to smile in return. Instead, I see a fire in his eyes. And it’s not of a passionate nature.
I shift some more, managing to sit up even straighter. “Ryan, what’s—?”
But my question is cut off by a loud rap at the door that makes me jump.
“Come in!” Ryan calls.
I hear the snick of the lock and immediately wonder who the hell else has access to our suite. That thought leads to another, but not one I can quite wrap my head around. Just a rising sense of dread. As if there’s something bad happening—something horrible and close—and yet I can’t quite see it, much less run from it.
“Dustin, thank God. This is my wife, Jamie Hunter. Jamie, this is Dr. Dustin Fields. He’s one of the doctors on call for the hotel.”
The blanket is already over my breasts—for warmth, not modesty—and I lift it higher. “Um, hi?”
Dr. Fields smiles kindly. I’m guessing that he’s a few years older than Ryan, and he has the same confident, competent air about him. He’s a man who knows his field—and who’s good at his job.
The realization calms me somewhat, pushing away that uncomfortable, enigmatic dread that had been rising inside me.
“Do you mind if I take a look at your eyes, Mrs. Hunter?”
“Jamie,” I correct. “And, um, sure.”
He gently holds my lid open as he shines a light straight into each eye in turn. It’s not unpleasant, but I see spots and blink rapidly when he takes the light away. He asks to see my tongue, and I comply, still uncertain what’s going on. He makes a soft noise in his throat that I can’t interpret, then pulls out a small leather case.
“I’m going to take a blood sample,” he says. “Just in case.”
I look at Ryan, my mind racing. “Was I exposed to Ebola or something? Ryan, what’s going on?”
Dr. Fields meets Ryan’s eyes. “She doesn’t know?”
“She’s just barely woken up.”
The doctor nods, then starts to stand. Ryan stops him. “No. Please. Take your sample. And tell me what you think.”
“I think it was simply a sleeping agent. A strong one, but she’s showing no signs of poison and seems to be recovering quickly.”
He’s right. I’m feeling more alert by the second. Even so, his words don’t make sense, and as he takes my arm to draw a blood sample, I tell him so. “I didn’t eat or drink anything that would make me sleep.”
Ryan and the doctor exchange another look.
“Dammit, Ryan. What is going on?”
“I wasn’t in the room with you, Jamie.”
Fear spikes through me, and I start to shake. “What are you talking about?” I pull the blanket up, hugging it to me, but it’s not enough, and Ryan moves closer to sit with his back against the headboard as well. He pulls me close, and I snuggle against him, and it’s only then—in my husband’s arms—that I finally manage to get my trembling under control.
He still hasn’t answered me, and when I feel strong enough to handle whatever he says, I lift my head. “You still haven’t told me. What happened?”
He sighs, as if this is the last thing he wants to talk about, but then he nods. More to himself than to me. As if he’s mentally ordering himself to do something he doesn’t want to do at all. Then he turns a bit so that he can press my hand to his chest. “It’s my fault.”
“What? How?”
“That bitch—Gabby. Felicia. Whoever the fuck she is. I talked to her.”
I shake my head, confused. But whether from the drug or his words, I’m not sure.
“Earlier, right after I left, I tried one more time to text her. That time, she answered. She said she wanted to meet right then. I told her I wasn’t there, and we agreed to meet at one. Downstairs in the bar.”
I look over at the clock. It’s ten past twelve.
I must look blank because Ryan explains. “She knew I was out. Most likely she was watching the hotel and already knew that, but I confirmed it in our text conversation.” There’s pure steel in his voice. “She got in here and she drugged you. Jamie, you were out cold. I knew something was wrong when you didn’t answer when I called. And then I saw your face…”
He shivers. “I swear to God, I’m going to find that bitch and I’m going to make her pay.”
“Hunter, no. Nothing you’ve said proves it was Gabby.”
“Kitten, baby, you’re not thinking straight.” The steel is gone, replaced by such sweet tenderness it makes me want to weep.
I draw an unsteady breath, then shake my head. “I sh
ouldn’t be thinking straight, you’re right. I’ve been violated and exposed, touched and manipulated.” I hug myself, the voicing of these words making them all too real.
“I could have been raped, Ryan. Hell, I could have been killed.” I pause, then take long, choking gulps of air. Everything I’ve just said is true, and that knowledge burns through me, making me want to both kick and scream and bash down walls even while I want to curl up into a ball, hide, and never come out again. But I can’t—I just can’t—believe what he’s suggesting. “Do you think I’d be arguing with you if I thought for a second it could be her?”
I drank beer by the pool with Gabby. I house-sat her cat. She had our spare key for an entire semester. She lent me money when I was short and showed me how to change my wiper blades. That is not a woman who could violate a friend like that. It’s just not Gabby.
“You’re wrong,” I tell him again. “It can’t be Gabby. She wouldn’t do this. Not to me. Not to anyone.”
“It’s been a long time since you knew her,” he says, his voice pitched as the voice of reason. “And all things considered, she’s a hell of an actress.”
“No,” I say, determined not to believe it. Not out of stubbornness, but because it just can’t be. “And how would she have gotten in, anyway?”
“Who knows how long she was planning this? That door was accessed with a cloned maid’s key—and damned if I’m not going to figure out how that could happen. Plus the door wasn’t bolted from the inside.” He actually smiles a little bit at that. “Unless you broke the rules and got up.”
My cheeks flame as I glance up at Dr. Fields, certain that he totally understands the subtext of this particular conversation. “I didn’t cheat,” I say primly.
“I know.” Ryan draws a breath, and I can see the anger flowing through him. A wild, restrained anger at himself for what he holds as his fault. The kind of fury he can hold in for a while, but eventually, it’s going to erupt. “It was her,” he continues, “and I pretty much announced that you were alone, then gave her an open invitation to walk in here, inject you with something, and walk right back out again.”