Ryan's Rescue

by Karen Leabo

  “And are you sure now?”

  Looking at him, at his wicked brown eyes and his thick, rich black hair, and that day’s growth of beard that shadowed his prominent jaw, no, she wasn’t sure at all. “Should I be frightened?”

  He smiled, revealing beautiful white teeth. Instead of calming her, the smile caused her heartbeat to kick in to overdrive. “I’m not in the habit of ravishing young women off the street, but there’s always a first time. As for my clothes...” He gave her body a leisurely perusal from shoulders to knees. “They never looked better.”

  She cleared her throat. “Yes, well, do you have a phone?”

  “There’s one in the kitchen. This way.”

  She followed, confused as to why she didn’t simply blurt out the whole sordid story to her rescuer. Something was holding her back. Before she volunteered anything, she’d better find out exactly who he was, she decided. He could be one of the kidnappers, toying with her. They weren’t all poor scum. Some of them had money, connections. Once they found her missing, they would have called in all the reinforcements to locate her.

  The smell of coffee sidetracked her from her intention to call the police, making her realize how hungry she was. Dizzy, in fact. She paused as they entered the kitchen, grabbing her host for support.

  He steadied her. “You okay?”

  “I haven’t eaten in a while. If it’s not putting you out too much, I really would like that toast,” she said as he sat her down in an ice cream parlor chair pulled up to a tiny round marble table.

  “Coming right up.”

  She saw the phone on the wall, several feet from her reach. The police... But her resolve vanished when Ryan set a mug of fragrant coffee in front of her, along with a gallon jug of two-percent milk and an empty glass.

  “Get some of that milk in your stomach,” he ordered.

  She was happy to comply. She poured half a glass and drained it, thinking that plain milk had never tasted so good. The coffee, too, was heavenly. “Thank you so much. It’s delicious.”

  “You’re welcome. Sorry I’m all out of caviar for the toast.”

  He was making fun of her, she realized belatedly. All right, so perhaps this wasn’t a situation that called for finishing-school manners. She couldn’t help it. Politeness came naturally to her. She’d been very polite with her captors, even thanking them when they opened doors and shoved her through them. Whenever she was upset or un-settled—which seemed to be happening a lot lately—she fell back on the comfortable rituals pounded into her head by her parents, various nannies and a very expensive Swiss boarding school.

  “I could help you butter the toast,” she offered after a long sip of coffee.

  “You stay where you are. I don’t want you fainting on my kitchen floor.”

  A short while later, a stack of whole-wheat toast appeared in front of her. She dived into it with relish. Ryan returned to the refrigerator and began rummaging around.

  The Sunday Guardian sat next to her, freed from its rubber band but still curled up, apparently unread. Christine glanced surreptitiously at the front page. She started when she saw her own picture staring back at her.

  Munching toast, she spread the paper out and scanned the story of her disappearance. Her father was quoted extensively, and boy, did he come off like a tragic hero. There was even a picture of him, alongside hers, dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief.

  Then a particular paragraph caught Christine’s attention:

  No one has yet claimed responsibility for Ms. Greenlow’s abduction. No demands for ransom have been made. The police have no evidence of foul play.

  What? Excuse me? She’d heard every word of the phone call made to her father’s house. She’d heard the radicals’ leader explain to her father exactly who the kidnappers were—they had some complicated name that spelled out NATURE as an acronym—and she’d heard the demand for ransom. One million dollars.

  Why, then, was the press denying the phone call existed?

  There could be a couple of reasons, she realized before she could fly off the handle. Maybe the police hadn’t divulged that information to the newspaper. If this group of crazies was seeking publicity, which they clearly were, perhaps the cops didn’t want to give it to them.

  The other possibility was that her father hadn’t told the police about the phone call. Maybe he feared that revealing too much to the police would endanger her. Or... maybe he didn’t want anyone to know about the ransom demand because he had no intention of paying it or mounting any type of rescue attempt. She had to admit, having her out of the picture would be very convenient for him right now, and the sympathy he was milking from this story would buy him millions of votes come November.

  She was horrified at the turn her thoughts had taken. Did she really believe her own father would sacrifice her for the sake of his campaign?

  Not the Stan Greenlow she’d grown up with. But the man he’d become during the past two years, as his drug addiction took over his life? She wasn’t sure. Honestly. When it came to his pills, he would lie, steal, fake illness—whatever it took. And she had put him in a very uncomfortable position several days ago, when she threatened to go public with his problem if he didn’t get professional help.

  Yes, having her out of the way was very convenient.

  “I have some jam and marmalade here,” Ryan said as he placed a couple of jars on the table. “And some honey—what happened to the toast?”

  She looked down at the empty plate. “I guess I ate it.” And she was still hungry. “Did I eat yours, too? I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention. I’ll make you some more.”

  She started to rise, intending to take the newspaper with her and shove it out of the way someplace, but Ryan stopped her with a hand to her shoulder. The warm feel of his touch sent a jolt through her, boosting her awareness and her apprehension. With those muscles, he could overpower her in a heartbeat.

  But he quickly withdrew his hand. The touch had been a gentle nudge, not a gesture of force. She tried to relax. If he was going to harm her, wouldn’t he have done it by now?

  “That was the last of the bread,” he said. “Don’t worry, I’ll find something.” Seemingly unconcerned, he picked up the jellies and returned to the fridge. While his back was turned, Christine opened the front section to a random page and folded it back, hiding her picture. If she was lucky, Ryan was the type who only read the sports section.

  When he finally sat down in the chair opposite hers with his own cup of coffee, he was munching on a banana. She didn’t realize she was staring until he broke off half and offered it to her.

  “Oh, no, um, I—”

  “C’mon, take it. You were almost drooling.”

  She did, and devoured it in three bites. “Thank you,” she said after wiping her mouth with the paper napkin he’d thoughtfully provided. “I don’t mean to be such a hog. I haven’t eaten in...well, a long time.”

  He eyed her speculatively, and she realized she was going to have to offer him some kind of explanation for her dire circumstances. But she resisted the idea of telling him about the kidnapping, about the fact that her father had refused to pay the ransom. Even if his refusal had been motivated by the best intentions-like maybe he refused, on principle, to give in to terrorist demands—she couldn’t bear to admit that her own father hadn’t moved heaven and earth to get her back, maybe save her life.

  “So,” Ryan said, “what’s your story, Chrissy Green?”

  Where had he come up with that name? She must have given it to him last night during her delirium. She shrugged uneasily. “No story. I just had too much to drink last night. I don’t normally drink except an occasional glass of champagne, but I was at this party, and the host was serving a liqueur of some sort. I had no idea how strong it was....” She could see he didn’t believe her. She would have to come up with something a bit more dramatic.

  “How did you get the bruise on your face?” Ryan asked, softly touching her cheek with his fingertip
s. “I didn’t notice it last night, but it sure came up pretty and purple this morning.”

  She gingerly felt where his hand touched her.

  “Yeah, that’s it.”

  “My...my boyfriend hit me.” It was almost comical, referring to that greasy, disgusting man who’d knocked her in the face as her boyfriend. “He gets ugly sometimes, when he drinks too much. I ran away from him. That’s how I ended up where you found me. I jumped out of the car just to get away from him—didn’t realize what a bad neighborhood we were driving through.”

  This story appeared to sit better with Ryan. Although his outrage over her battery was apparent, he seemed to believe her this time.

  “I’m going to leave him for good,” she said, to put his mind at ease. She didn’t want Ryan thinking she was some mealy-mouthed perennial victim who put up with her boyfriend beating her up. “I told him if he ever hit me, that was it.”

  “Will he let you?” Ryan asked. “Leave, that is? My. experience with this type of guy is they don’t just meekly stand by and accept rejection. You won’t be safe.”

  “Oh, he wouldn’t dare touch me again,” Christine said, draining the last of her coffee. “He knows I’d file charges.”

  “Exactly!” Ryan said triumphantly. “You shouldn’t let some jerk get away with hitting a woman. I’ll go with you to the police, if you want, and—”

  “No,” she said quickly. “No, I really don’t want to involve the police.”

  He looked disappointed at that.

  “I was thinking of just...going away for a while,” she said. “I have a...friend down in Raleigh who’s been wanting me to visit.” Actually, a half sister—another of the senator’s little secrets. He’d fathered a child out of wedlock when he was in college. His own father had paid off the pregnant woman, but Stan had secretly kept track of her. Michelle Potter, Christine’s half sister, had even come to visit a few times, posing as a cousin. No one had ever questioned it.

  Christine had been drawn to Michelle, the “big sister” she’d always wanted. The invitation from Michelle to visit her in Raleigh was genuine, even if the rest of Christine’s story to Ryan was pure invention.

  “I think that’s an excellent idea,” Ryan was saying. “Get away from the jerk, give things a chance to cool down.” He glanced at his watch. “If you’re done with breakfast, I’ll take you home.”

  “Oh, I can’t go home,” she said with genuine alarm. No way could she face her father, knowing what he’d done, or hadn’t done. “I mean, I live with him.”

  “The jerk?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Won’t he be at work or something? Oh, it’s Sunday. Guess not.”

  “Especially not the way he was drinking last night. He’d be too hungover. And mean,” she added. Maybe she was laying it on pretty thick, but she wanted Ryan to believe she had nowhere to go. Otherwise, how could she expect him to help her reach her half sister?

  “All right, but what do you intend to do?”

  She shrugged. “Couldn’t I just—”

  “Nuh-uh, no way. You’re not hanging out here. I’ve got work to do. I mean, you seem like a nice lady, but how do I know?”

  “What kind of work do you do?” she asked, seeking to deflect the conversation away from her.

  “I’m a, um, mechanic. Unemployed at the moment.”

  Oh, yeah, she thought, looking around at the expensive furnishings. The one-bedroom apartment wasn’t large, but the lush decor screamed, “Designer!” Everything was first-rate.

  “I inherited these digs from my aunt, all right?” he said, obviously reading her skepticism. “Besides, you think mechanics can’t make some decent dough?”

  She looked at his fingernails. Clean and pristine, neatly trimmed. No sign of grease. “I didn’t say a thing.” But she knew he was lying. Maybe he’d been preyed upon by gold diggers in the past, and hid behind a poor-mechanic facade. That explanation made as much sense as her lies to him. “Well, if I can’t stay here, think you could get me a plane ticket to Raleigh? I could pay you back as soon as I get there—wire you the money or something.”

  “You don’t have access to money?”

  “Not on a Sunday morning. No ATM card. I guess I left my purse in my boyfriend’s car.” Boy, this lying stuff was difficult. All these little details cropping up. “Tomorrow I could go to the bank and make a withdrawal, I suppose. But since you’d like to get rid of me today...”

  He stood decisively. “I can lend you the money. Let me go make a phone call to my travel agent and see what a ticket to Raleigh costs.”

  “Thanks, that’s awfully nice of you.”

  He shrugged. “That’s me, nice-guy Ryan.”

  She doubted anyone called him that. He wasn’t some kind of sucker. The only reason he was making a very risky loan to buy her a plane ticket was that he wanted to be rid of her that badly. She didn’t know why that thought made her feel so glum.

  Ryan retreated to his bedroom office, feeling ambivalent about his houseguest. She was trouble, that much was certain. Abusive boyfriend, drinking and/or drugs...and beautiful enough to take his breath away, even wearing his clothes. He never should have gotten mixed up with her in the first place, never mind his story idea about life in the fast lane.

  He was glad he’d rescued her. The state she’d been in last night, she could easily have gotten herself killed. But now that he’d brought her home, where did his responsibility end? I mean, lending her money for a plane ticket? If anyone else was contemplating such a foolish gesture, he would be calling him a sucker. But somehow he didn’t have the heart to just dump Chrissy out in the street. With nowhere else to go, she might go straight back to the jerk who’d abused her.

  He couldn’t have that on his conscience, could he?

  He sat down at his desk, flipped open his Rolodex until he found his twenty-four-hour travel agent’s number, and dialed. He was immediately put on hold. While he waited, he flipped on the portable TV that sat on his desk, hoping to catch some news. He’d been working on a piece about a possible serial killer, and each morning when he turned on the TV he waited with a mixture of anticipation and dread for the news that another homeless person had become a victim.

  Not this morning, thank God. The top story, though, caught his attention in a hurry. Instead of giving the usual rundown on budget deficits and the latest foreign civil war, the earnest anchorwoman told of a Pennsylvania senator’s daughter being kidnapped from her father’s home in Capitol Heights.

  Ryan’s head snapped toward the tiny television screen when they flashed a picture of the stunning blond victim. He squinted, drew closer, pulled back.

  Had to be. Good God almighty, the kidnap victim was sitting in his kitchen! What in the hell was she doing here, using a phony name? A kidnapping would explain the state of her clothing when he’d found her, and the bruise on her cheek. But if she’d escaped or been released, why wasn’t she at home? Why hadn’t she gone to the police?

  One possible answer came to him. She’d never been kidnapped at all. She’d disappeared, gone on a bender, and her father had invented the abduction story to explain her absence and get himself some publicity. Senator Greenlow had narrowly defeated his opponent in the recent Pennsylvania primary, Ryan recalled, and he faced a tough battle in the fall against his flashy Democratic opponent. Greenlow’s sudden lack of popularity stemmed from some unfavorable press he’d garnered—something having to do with antienvironmental legislation. He would have to shake that off if he wanted to win in November—or if he wanted to make another run for the presidency in a couple of years, which everyone expected him to do. He was a perennial presidential hopeful, had been for the past three elections.

  If the kidnapping was a fake, Ryan was sitting on one of the best stories of his career.

  A woman’s voice came on the telephone line. “Thank you for holding. How may I help you with your travel plans?”

  Ryan didn’t answer. His mind was churning with possibilities
, plans drawn up and rejected, approaches that would yield the most interesting copy.

  “Hello? Anyone there?”

  “Oh, um, sorry, wrong number.” He hung up on the travel agent, flipped to a different card in his Rolodex and dialed again. Fran Renner was the best freelance photographer he knew—or at least the only decent one who would work on spec at a moment’s notice. She’d been a little cool toward him since their brief, ill-fated affair last year, but she was a sensible woman. She wouldn’t let personal feelings get in the way of a blockbuster story like this.

  “Hello?”

  “Franny, glad I caught you at home,” he said in almost a whisper. “I’ve got something going, and I need your help. It’s big, Fran, real big.”

  “Ryan? For heaven’s sake, Ryan Mulvaney, it’s nine o’clock on a Sunday morning. You’ve got your nerve. I don’t suppose you have a client for your story?”

  “How does Primus magazine sound?”

  “You don’t have a deal with Primus,” she said flatly.

  “But I will. You’ll have to trust me on this one. Meet me at Costello’s Café at—”

  “I’m not meeting you anywhere until you tell me what this is about. You and your cloak-and-dagger sneaking around. And I want money up front, whether you sell the story or not.”

  Naturally. Fran was the skeptical type. “I can’t go into explanations right now. And, yes, I’ll guarantee you the money, if you want, although you’d be smarter to take a percentage on spec.”

  “I’ll take the up-front money, thanks just the same. How much?”

  He sighed. “Five hundred dollars.”

  “Make it seven, and I want to see green money before I shoot a single frame.”

  “Six. And I’ll pay you next week. You know damn well I’m good for it.”

  There was a long pregnant pause. “True,” she finally said. “You’re a driven son of a bitch, Ryan, but you’ve never been a chiseler. Deal. Meet you where?”