Ryan's Rescue

by Karen Leabo

  She’d been way too sheltered, too saturated with her father’s views and opinions, to realize she’d never learned to think for herself or make her own decisions. This was quite a revelation. She’d always believed herself to be a fairly intelligent person. But her ignorance was staggering.

  “Ryan, party of two,” a voice called out over a loudspeaker.

  Ryan acknowledged the page and guided Christine toward the hostess with a hand at the small of her back. The hostess grabbed two menus and led them toward a table by a window, where they could see all the shoppers patronizing the little stores across the street. Christine couldn’t get enough of watching. She might have been a visitor from another planet, for all she knew about what real people did in Washington, D.C.

  “Your server will be here shortly,” the hostess said. She poured them both coffee and disappeared.

  Christine eyed the tip left by the previous diners. With a silent apology to the server, she flattened her menu out on the table, slid her hand underneath and raked a quarter into her lap. She needed to call her father, but not under Ryan’s watchful eye.

  When the waitress came, Christine promptly closed the menu. “I’d like a cinnamon roll, please.” She could already smell the cinnamon in the air, and her mouth was watering. “And a bowl of oatmeal with bananas?” She looked at Ryan.

  He rolled his eyes and nodded. “I’ll just have coffee. Man, for a little thing, you sure can pack it away.”

  “I’m not so little. Five-foot-eight. And I told you, I haven’t eaten much the past couple of days.”

  “Why not?”

  She squirmed. “Worry, I guess.”

  “About your boyfriend?”

  She seized on the explanation. “Yes, that’s it. I’ve been wanting to leave him, but I was scared.” Keep your explanations simple, she warned herself. Even practiced liars could trip themselves up, and she was anything but practiced. She was already nervous about the skeptical looks Ryan kept giving her. She needed his help in getting to her half sister’s house in Raleigh. With Michelle’s moral support, she was sure, she could pull herself together enough to break free from her father’s domination.

  But Ryan didn’t seem intent on quizzing her. His eyes constantly scanned the crowd.

  “Looking for someone?” she asked innocently.

  “Oh, sorry. I thought I saw someone I know, but I was wrong.”

  Christine didn’t doubt him aloud, but she knew he wasn’t telling her the whole truth. What if he really was somehow involved with the radicals who’d kidnapped her? Maybe he’d contacted one of the leaders and told him to come take her off his hands?

  No, that was ridiculous. Anyway, no one could take her against her will, so long as they were in a public place. She resolved to stay out in the open, in full view of people, until she could figure out what Ryan Mulvaney was up to.

  In fact, maybe she’d shake him loose. With one phone call, she could have her father’s limousine here to pick her up. She could go home, collect a few things—including her checkbook—and simply move out of her father’s house. Go to Michelle’s, stay in a hotel, whatever she wanted, and her father couldn’t stop her.

  Except she was afraid he could. He had a way of manipulating her that was nothing short of a true art form. It had begun when her mother died. Stan had taken it so hard, Christine had feared that he would simply expire from grief, and she’d turned cartwheels to make him smile. He’d soon learned that if he could make her feel sorry for him, she’d be putty in his hands.

  Only now was she beginning to see how unfairly she’d been treated, how naive about her father she’d been. But she was afraid that open revolt against him was still beyond her abilities. She had to exercise her “independence muscles,” work out a sensible plan, before facing him head-on.

  Her food arrived, and for a few minutes, at least, Christine turned off her brain and indulged herself with the gooey-sweet cinnamon roll. Ryan watched her, seemingly fascinated. She was too hungry to be self-conscious about his interest. She savored every bite, then moved on to the oatmeal. When the bowl was clean, she finally felt full.

  “Thank you so much for breakfast,” she said after daintily wiping her mouth with her napkin. “I haven’t felt this good in a long time.” Oddly, despite her circumstances, she meant that. She would feel even better after she got the phone call to her father over with. She’d seen both rest rooms and phones at the front of the restaurant. She stood, surreptitiously transferring the quarter from her lap to her shorts pocket. “Excuse me, I need to make a trip to the ladies’ room.”

  The crowd in the lobby was easing up, but a man was using the phone. Christine tapped her foot nervously as she waited for the phone to become available. She couldn’t stay gone all day, or Ryan would come looking for her.

  At last the caller in front of her hung up. Christine seized the receiver and dialed her father’s private line. His personal secretary, Jerome Jenkins, answered, sounding nervous.

  “This is Christine,” she said without preamble. “I need to speak to my father immediately.”

  “Christine? Gosh, is it really—”

  “Now, Jerome,” she said in her most commanding voice. “It’s urgent.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Moments later she heard her father’s voice. “Chrisssstine? Honey?”

  “Yes, it’s me.” She winced. Her father’s voice was slurred, which meant he’d taken too many tranquilizers again. Damn him! How did he expect to run a nation, if he didn’t even have control over his own behavior, his own addictions?

  “Where are you?” Stan demanded.

  “I’m safe,” she assured him, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “I got away from the kidnappers. Daddy, why didn’t you pay the ransom?” She closed her eyes and prayed that he would have some logical explanation. The FBI was running things. I had no choice but to follow their directions....

  “A million dollars—tha’s a lot of money,” he said, the words slow and laborious. “I was trying to pull it together. I told those slimeball terrorists that I was working on it.”

  His words were like knives in her heart. He was lying. She knew more about his finances than he did, and Stanley Greenlow could have snapped his fingers and had a million in cash within thirty minutes.

  “Christine, where are you?”

  “I’m safe,” she repeated. “And I’m not coming home for a while.”

  “Not coming—What are you talking about? Where would you go, for God’s sake? Don’t tell me you’re hiding out at Robert’s house. He would have told me—”

  “No, not Robert’s.”

  “What am I supposed to tell the media?”

  Was that all he was worried about? “Tell them whatever story you think will keep you in the public’s good graces,” she said harshly. She’d never spoken like that to her father, but maybe it was time to shake him up a bit. It seemed as if his priorities had gotten skewed.

  “Christine, I demand that you come home this minute. Where are you? I’ll send the limo.”

  “I’m not listening to your demands anymore, Daddy.” Since he hadn’t listened to hers in a very long time. She hung up before he could argue further.

  The moment Chrissy turned her back, Ryan had motioned to Fran, whom he’d spotted a few minutes earlier at a table across the room. He’d stood and followed Chrissy at a discreet distance, indicating that Fran should come, too. Then, as they leaned on the bar, shielded from Chrissy’s view by a huge ficus tree, he’d told Fran what was going on.

  “Are you sure that’s Christine Greenlow?” Fran asked as she and Ryan watched the tall, slim woman talking on the pay phone. “Doesn’t look like her.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Who’s she calling?”

  “I don’t know,” Ryan said anxiously. “She said she was going to the ladies’ room. But take my word for it, it’s her. Are you in?”

  “Hell, yes,” Fran said. “I’ve been waiting for a story like this for a l
ong time. Got to hand it to you, Mulvaney, if this is for real, you came through.”

  He bussed her on the cheek. “I knew I could count on you.”

  “Oh, cut it out,” she groused, rubbing peevishly at her face. “We gave up all that mushy stuff months ago.”

  “Hey, what’s a peck on the cheek between friends?”

  Fran rolled her eyes. “I never know with you, Mulvaney.”

  “If I were putting the moves on you, you’d know,” he said, teasing. “Now why don’t you mosey on over there to the telephones and see if you can hear what she’s saying?”

  “I’m a photographer, not a reporter.”

  “I’m not asking you to quote her. I just want to know what she’s up to, so I’ll be prepared. She could be calling the cops, her fiance, her pusher. Who knows?”

  “You really think she could be using?” Fran said. “She looks awfully healthy from this angle.”

  With his eyes taking in the lush curves of her derriere, Ryan had to agree; in fact, he’d been thinking that very thing last night when he toweled off her nude body. Now she stood with one long leg propped on the edge of a potted plant and was idly rubbing her thigh. He could almost feel his hands doing the same thing. “I don’t know. But there’s something really fishy going on, or else why would she be hiding her identity? People don’t take up aliases if they’re not into something illegal.”

  “I agree. Let’s stick to her like Velcro,” Fran said. “I’m willing to bet she’ll lead us somewhere interesting.”

  And, Ryan admitted silently, he was looking forward to the trip.

  “You’ve got the hots for her,” Fran declared.

  “What? Who, me?”

  “I’ve seen that look on your face before. At one time, you were looking at me with that gleam in your eye.”

  Ryan frowned. “I’m sure you’re mistaken,” he said, in a tone of voice that invited no further discussion on the subject. “Just follow us, okay? Don’t let her spot you.”

  “I’ll do my best. But don’t drive too fast. My Isuzu can’t keep up with your Vette if you drive like you normally do.”

  “I’ll keep it under ninety. Oh, can I borrow some money?”

  “What?”

  “I need cash. My credit cards are tapped out.” A huge payment for an editing job he’d done was overdue, and until the check arrived, he was fiscally handicapped.

  “Fine.” Fran huffed, handing Ryan a couple of twenties. “You’re lucky I went to the bank yesterday. And I want it back with interest.”

  Ryan nodded as he stuffed the bills in his pocket. “Uh-oh, here she comes.” Ryan slunk guiltily back to his table, leaving Fran to her own devices. He slid back into his chair, slouching a bit, as if he’d been there all along. The waitress came by, and he paid the check just as Chrissy returned.

  “I was beginning to think you’d ditched me,” he said, only half kidding. He’d actually been worried that she was calling a cab and was planning to disappear, and the notion had caused him considerable anxiety. Was Fran right? Had he been looking at Chrissy with something other than professional interest? Surely he wasn’t lusting after so unreachable a woman. Of course, he did vividly remember what she’d looked like when he pulled her out of the bathtub last night, her skin flushed and slick from the warm water. And, yes, he remembered how that body had felt against his when he carried her into the bedroom and tucked her under the covers, aching to do something more.

  But that was last night. Now that he knew who she was, he’d ceased thinking of her in those terms. Lust was one of those things that could be controlled, turned on and off like a faucet. He would never let desire interfere with his work. Never.

  Fran was just yanking his chain, he decided. She was like that. He couldn’t imagine why he’d been so enamored of her a while back.

  “Long line in the bathroom,” Chrissy explained, not meeting his gaze.

  Another lie. He’d watched her from the time she left the table until she returned, and she hadn’t even entered the bathroom.

  “This place is getting on my nerves,” Ryan said irritably, pocketing his receipt. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Fine by me.”

  It wasn’t until they were out in the clear April sunshine that he regained his former, more relaxed mood. Everything was going according to plan. In companionable silence, they walked at a leisurely pace toward his car.

  When they were almost a block away, Ryan heard something—screeching brakes, the roar of powerful engines. Normally such noises wouldn’t have alerted him. They were in an urban area, after all, and traffic noises were the norm. But perhaps his senses were more keenly alert today, because he turned around to look back in the direction they’d come from.

  Four cop cars—unmarked, but obviously cop cars—had pulled to a stop in front of Costello’s, parked about as illegally as they could get. Men in suits were jumping out, leaving doors open, shouting orders to each other, about as subtle as the G-men in an old gangster movie. The only thing they didn’t do was flash guns, but Ryan imagined the guns were there.

  Chrissy turned and stared. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my word,” she murmured through her fingers.

  Other phrases came to Ryan’s mind. Unless he missed his guess, a slew of FBI agents and/or plainclothes detectives weren’t descending on Costello’s because someone had walked out on his bill.

  Chapter 4

  Christine could have kicked herself. That phone call to her father had been traced, no doubt about it.

  That meant the police were directly involved. The knowledge gave her small comfort. Connie could have notified the police. The wizened little maid always got bent out of shape if she didn’t know exactly where Christine was.

  “Wonder what that’s about?” Christine asked casually, continuing to walk toward Ryan’s car.

  Ryan shrugged. “Who knows? It probably boils down to drugs. Almost everything does these days.”

  She felt him watching her, as if gauging her for a reaction. How was she supposed to react? Did he think she was some sort of junkie? After her performance last night, she wouldn’t blame him.

  A few moments later, he seemed to have dismissed the excitement at Costello’s. “So, we have the rest of the day to kill. What would you like to do?”

  “You don’t have to entertain me,” Christine said. “If you have things to do, I can tag along, or you can leave me at your apartment. I saw you have a wallful of books.” Reading. She hadn’t done much of that lately. She loved to read, especially historical novels that took her away to another world.

  “I don’t have an agenda,” he said. “Anyway, the weather’s too nice to spend it with my head under the hood of a car. C’mon, it’s your call. I’m game for anything.”

  “Well...” She hesitated, glancing up at a billboard to collect her thoughts. The billboard depicted a zebra wearing hiking boots, and the image inspired her. She blurted out, “The zoo?”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I haven’t been to the National Zoo for probably fifteen or twenty years,” she explained, warming to the idea. “I read somewhere that they have this new penguin exhibit—”

  He laughed, the sound sending waves of pleasure down Christine’s spine. “All right, all right, the zoo it is. Haven’t been there myself in a while. They don’t put the animals in cages anymore, you know. They’re mostly in natural habitats.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard all about that. In fact, I helped out with this fund-raiser for the lions—” She stopped herself. Darn. How smart did Ryan have to be to figure out who she was? She cleared her throat, then continued. “Do they have one of those rain-forest places where the birds fly all around you?”

  “I think so.”

  “Great. Let’s do it.” Christine felt like a little kid again. How long had it been since she felt such a surge of anticipation flowing through her? The giddy feeling made her all the more certain that her emotional life was crippled, in sad need of rehabilitation
. How had she let things get so bad?

  A little at a time, she supposed.

  They’d reached Ryan’s car. He unlocked the passenger door, opened it, then froze, peering off down the street.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, trying to see what he saw. She felt a sudden chill. Were the terrorists back? Was she really safe with Ryan? Maybe she should abandon this crazy charade and just call the police, the way any normal, sensible woman would.

  The only thing at the end of the street was a big Metro bus.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” Ryan answered her. “I was just thinking that we won’t be able to find a parking place at the zoo, not on a Sunday when the weather’s so perfect. Why don’t we take the Metro?”

  “You mean, public transportation?”

  “Uh, yeah, Chrissy. Buses and subways. That’s how people in D.C. get around. I get the feeling you’re not exactly from my side of the tracks, but surely you’ve ridden on the Metro.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure. Lots of times,” she lied. How deliciously forbidden riding the subway seemed to her, exotic, maybe the way a limousine would seem to someone else. “How much does it cost?”

  “I’ll take care of it,” he said, misinterpreting her question. She wasn’t concerned about who would pay for their little jaunt to the zoo. Since she had no money, Ryan would have to pay. But she was genuinely curious as to how much it cost—for future reference. If she was going to change her life and live like a normal person, get a job, maybe commute every day, she would have to learn these things.

  They walked downhill to the end of the block, toward the bus they’d seen. Christine paused every so often to duck into a shop that intrigued her. She lovingly caressed a wooden music box inlaid with mother-of-pearl, which she found tucked in a corner of an antiques shop. When she opened it, it played the French song “Alouette.” The price tag was only a hundred and twenty-five dollars. If she’d had her charge cards with her, she would have bought it on the spot.