by Rebecca York
“Then what are you going to do?” Patrick asked.
“I’ll get back to you on that.”
“If you come home, we can work together on this.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Wyatt said. “You just told me that they strolled into the house. It’s not safe for Carrie there.”
Patrick made a frustrated sound. “I guess you’re right.” Then he asked again, “Where are you?”
“It’s safer if you don’t know. What if they came back and tortured you for information?”
“I wouldn’t talk.”
Wyatt answered with a mirthless laugh. “Everybody talks when they’re in enough pain.”
“I have to know Carrie’s going to be okay.”
“I am,” she answered, the response automatic. She wasn’t okay, but she was still alive, thanks to Wyatt Hawk.
Patrick’s voice was an unwelcome counterpoint to her thoughts.
“You need more protection,” he said.
Before she could answer, Wyatt jumped back into the conversation. “Like I said, that didn’t work out so well last time.”
“We need to discuss this,” Patrick countered.
“There’s nothing to discuss. You’re not in charge of keeping Carrie safe.”
“I could fire you.”
Wyatt laughed. “I work for Douglas Mitchell, not you, and we’re getting off now.”
“Wait. When will I hear from you again?”
“I don’t know.”
“What if the kidnappers call?”
“Tell them to email me.” Wyatt gave an email address.
“I may need to get in touch with you.”
“You can use the same method.”
“I may need to have quicker access.”
“I’ll keep checking my mail.”
He clicked off before Patrick could ask another question.
Carrie closed her eyes and leaned back in her seat. “If you’re guessing wrong, they could kill my dad.”
“I don’t think they will.”
“But you’re not sure.”
“I’m sorry. We can’t be absolutely sure of anything—except that they want you dead, and they’ll try any method to get to you.”
“My dad’s health isn’t that great. I was already worried that the stress of my being in danger would give him a heart attack or a stroke.”
“Sorry,” he said again. “My job is protecting you, and taking you home isn’t the way to do it.”
She gave him a direct look—and the only answer that made any sense. “I understand.” After a moment, she added, “You said Patrick could email you, but you left your laptop back at the safe house, and you can’t get mail on a cheap disposable phone, can you?”
“No, but I’m going to get another computer now. Then we’ll pick up some clothes.”
She could see he was thinking several steps ahead, while she was just trying to keep her nose above water.
Their next stop was one of the big computer and appliances chains, where Wyatt bought a midpriced laptop, using the credit card with the fake identity. Nearby was a discount department store where they each bought underwear and a couple of changes of clothing. He also bought Carrie a pair of sunglasses.
“This is costing you a lot,” Carrie observed.
“Your dad can add it to the bill when we get him back.”
She didn’t bother saying she wasn’t positive of that outcome.
By the time they were finished with the shopping expedition, Carrie was feeling worn-out. And she couldn’t imagine how Wyatt was holding up. His wound might not be life-threatening, but it should have been more than enough to slow him down.
“We should eat something,” he said.
She wasn’t hungry, and she’d been feeling tense the whole time they were in the department store.
“We should call Patrick again,” she said.
“I’d rather communicate by email.”
“You said these phones can’t be traced.”
“Someone could have tapped into the phone system at your father’s house. I’d rather not give them any information.”
She sighed. “You have to set up that computer before you can get mail.”
He nodded. “We can pick up dinner and eat in the room. That will save time. What do you want?”
She shrugged. “It’s hard to think about food.”
“But we both need to fuel up, with something simple and basic.”
He drove to a fast-food burger chain and ordered loaded burgers, French fries and milk shakes for both of them. After getting the food at the drive-through window, they headed back to the motel, where he made a survey of the parking lot before pulling into the space in front of their unit.
She was still feeling wired, but she knew she needed to eat. After unpacking the food, she sat at the table, nibbling on the burger.
“Drink the milk shake,” Wyatt advised. “You can use the calories.”
She took a dutiful sip and found that she wanted more. Wyatt sat down across from her, interspersing eating and sipping with setting up his computer.
The room had a flat-screen television, and she picked up the remote and turned on CNN. The content of the broadcast gave her a shock. It was all about Carrie Mitchell.
She watched in fascination as they showed the Federal Building where the ambush had taken place, then old pictures of her and even some of her friends talking about her.
One was Pam Simmons, who had ridden in horse shows with her. Another was an editor who’d bought some of her nature photos.
She studied the pictures of herself. Most of them were old. And in all of them her hair was different from the way it looked now, which was good. A shot of her standing with her father made her heart squeeze. She must have made some kind of sound, because she looked up to find Wyatt watching her.
“I’m a celebrity.”
“Unfortunately.”
“I had no idea I would attract so much attention.”
“The shooting’s big news. Bigger than the original terrorist plot.”
“Why?”
“You foiled the plot, making it a nonevent. The shooting’s the real deal.”
She sighed.
“You really want to keep watching that?” he asked when a shot they’d seen before flashed on the screen again.
“I guess not.” She flicked off the television, then switched her attention to Wyatt, studying his face for signs that he was in pain and seeing what he probably wanted to hide. “How’s your arm?”
“It’s been better.” He went back to work, and she watched him from under lowered lashes. He was competent and efficient. She’d seen that from the beginning. She hadn’t understood his level of commitment to her. Or was that just part of the job? She hoped it was more than that.
“I can get my mail now,” he finally said.
She waited, feeling her heart rate accelerate, while he accessed the mail system.
“There’s a message from Patrick. Marked urgent.”
“What does it say?”
“‘The terrorists contacted me. They said—’”
Before he could finish, she grabbed the laptop and turned it toward her. “‘—ask Carrie Mitchell if she wants to be responsible for her father’s death.’”
* * *
THE WORDS BURNED into Carrie’s mind and soul. She leaped up and charged around the table, heading for the bag with the phones.
Wyatt was on his feet seconds behind her, stopping her as she grabbed for one of them. He took it out of her hand before she could switch it on. “Don’t.”
“I have to call him.”
“That’s what they want. That’s why they set this up. It sounds lik
e the phone at your father’s place is almost certainly tapped.”
“I can’t stand by and let them kill him.”
“They won’t.”
She gave him a fierce look. “You keep saying that, but he’s not your father. He’s mine, and I’m not going to be responsible for killing him.”
“You won’t be.”
The stress of the day was suddenly too much for her. She’d held herself together until this moment. Now she felt hot tears well in her eyes.
Wyatt saw them. Lifting her into his arms, he carried her to one of the beds, leaning over to lay her gently down. When she saw him looking at her, she rolled away from him, curling into a ball, embarrassed that he was seeing her go to pieces.
He muttered something she couldn’t hear. She felt him ease onto the bed and reach for her. Turning her toward him, he took her in his arms.
She hated crying in front of him, hated this whole situation, but she was too stressed out to contain the sobs that wracked her body.
Carrie had learned not to show her emotions. When she’d cried in front of her father, he’d gotten angry or annoyed and told her to “grow up.” His attitude had pushed her away. She’d tried to act like she didn’t need him, which was perhaps why she felt so devastated by his getting kidnapped. Maybe she was feeling guilty because their relationship had never been filled with the warm, fuzzy father-daughter moments that she saw in sitcoms. Or maybe nobody had that, and it was simply a Hollywood illusion.
And speaking of illusions, what about the way she felt in Wyatt’s arms now? Warm and safe. Perhaps even cherished. Or was she making that part up because of the way he held her and stroked her?
She didn’t move away when her sobs subsided. Neither did he. He kept her close, stroking his hands over her back, brushing his lips against her hairline.
The light kiss stunned her. This man who had held himself aloof was trailing his lips against her face.
For most of their short acquaintance, she had told herself that she didn’t like Wyatt Hawk, that she didn’t need him. But everything had changed with the first blast from the man pretending to be a security guard at the Federal office building.
Wyatt had shot him dead. He’d gotten her out of the car and into the building, under fire. And that had only been the first time he’d saved her.
Now she felt emotions rushing through her.
They flip-flopped as he eased away from her, then stood, running a hand through his hair.
“I’m sorry. That was inappropriate,” he said.
She didn’t know what to say. Was it? Or had she invited intimacy without realizing it?
She took her lower lip between her teeth. Maybe he was right. Maybe he was doing her a favor by getting off the bed, although it certainly didn’t feel like it at the moment.
“We should try to figure out who blew the whistle on your meeting,” he said.
“Who do you think it is?”
“I’ve got an idea where to start.”
* * *
DOUGLAS MITCHELL’S EYES blinked open. He couldn’t see much because he was in a darkened room. But he knew he was lying on a narrow bed, like something in a child’s room, only not as comfortable.
He felt disoriented, but that was nothing new. He’d been feeling this way for the past six months, hiding his fuzzy thinking because he didn’t want to admit anything was wrong with him.
He moved his left hand, tugging at the cold metal around his wrist. When he tried to move his arm off the bed, something stopped him. A rope, he thought, but he couldn’t be sure in the dark.
He closed his eyes again, trying to breathe evenly, trying to calm himself. If he got too upset, his blood pressure would go up, and he might have a stroke. That wouldn’t do him any good—or Carrie, either.
He took blood-pressure medication and a whole bunch of other pills. He didn’t think the men who were holding him captive had brought his pills.
But why would they? They were going to kill him anyway.
That thought sent a frisson of fear rippling through his mind.
He fought to calm himself.
Think!
Could he get away? Trick them somehow?
He didn’t know, but he had to try. For Carrie.
His heart constricted when he thought about his daughter. She was so brave. So together. He’d never told her how much he loved her or how much he admired the way she’d taken charge of her life. Now he might never have the chance.
He pushed that thought away and tried to focus on what he needed to do.
But thoughts swam in and out of his head the way they often did these days.
He could almost remember when the fuzzy feeling had started. Almost, but not quite.
But he wouldn’t give in to the brain fog. He had to keep going, projecting the iron will that had always stood him so well.
Thank the Lord he’d had Patrick to help him keep his finances straight—and make decisions about Carrie.
Patrick had combed through a list of security experts and picked Wyatt Hawk to keep Carrie safe. No, wait. Patrick hadn’t picked Hawk. He’d recommended someone else. But Douglas had thought Hawk was better. Had that been a mistake?
He cursed under his breath. Had he made a foolish decision that had jeopardized his daughter’s life?
He went from cursing to praying. He hadn’t prayed in years, not for himself. But he could pray for Carrie, couldn’t he?
She must still be safe. Or why would these men be holding him captive?
He wasn’t sure about that. He wasn’t sure about anything beyond his hostage status.
When the doorknob turned, he closed his eyes and pretended to sleep.
A shaft of light fell across his face, and he heard men talking.
“How long do we have to keep the old guy?”
“Until we know the daughter’s taken care of. Then we can wash our hands of him.”
“She won’t know the difference if we off him now.”
“That’s against the boss’s orders.”
The door closed again, but the men must have been standing right on the other side because Douglas could still hear their voices. He strained to hear the rest of the conversation.
“The boss is a pain in the ass.”
“Yeah. But we’re getting paid enough to put up with it. We already got a payment.”
“Not enough. I want more of it now. As a gesture of good faith, you know.”
The voices faded away, and Douglas sat up in the bed. Had he really heard that conversation, or had he made it up to fit the situation? In his current state, he honestly didn’t know.
* * *
CARRIE LAY WHERE Wyatt had left her on the bed. She’d thought about curling her body away from him. Instead, she’d kept her gaze on him as he walked into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face, then walked to the table and pulled his computer toward him.
She’d almost gotten in over her head with him a few moments ago. But he’d done her a favor by pulling away.
Or was it a favor?
She felt too confused to make up her mind about that. Maybe because she’d had so few intimate relationships with men.
Wyatt had asked her about Patrick. She’d never thought of him that way. He’d always been too much like a brother to her.
In college, she’d had some relationships, but they’d been with guys who’d turned out to be looking for more of a bed partner than a life partner.
Or maybe that was her fault. Maybe she’d given off vibrations that had kept them from getting too close to her.
If you didn’t feel good about your relationship with your father, could you feel good about your relationships with other men?
She’d never gotten that analytical abou
t it. She’d just always known that it was hard for her to trust anyone with the intimate emotions she’d always kept to herself.
That didn’t seem to be true with Wyatt Hawk. She wanted to feel close to him. But was she deliberately picking a guy she knew wouldn’t let it happen?
She hated second-guessing herself. And him.
Was the danger swirling around them making her reach out toward him? Or was there something real developing between them—if both of them were willing to take the chance and let their guard down?
Chapter Six
Wyatt kept his gaze away from Carrie and forced his mind back to what he was supposed to be doing—figuring out who could be responsible for both the ambush and the kidnapping.
He walked to the table and picked up his computer, opening a web browser.
“You mentioned a Quincy Sumner?” he said.
“Yes.”
“He lives in Fairfax?”
“Yes.”
He put in the name and the Virginia city and came up with several hits right away. After scanning them quickly, he raised his head.
“It’s not him.”
“How do you know?”
“He’s dead.”
“He is?” she asked, surprise in her voice.
“Yeah. He had retired—then had a heart attack on the golf course a few months ago.”
“Dad didn’t mention it.”
“Maybe he doesn’t even know.” Wyatt studied the obituary, looking for names of next of kin. “I suppose it’s possible that someone in his family could still hold a grudge against your father, but it seems unlikely that they’d be executing such an elaborate plan.”
From the bed, Carrie murmured in agreement.
Wyatt bent his head to the computer screen again. “I’ve got some other ideas,” he said as he scrolled through some of the files he’d stored in his mail system.
“Like what?”
“Let me check an address.” He found the house he was searching for, then looked up. “I think the next step is to have a talk with Aaron Madison.”
“Who is he?” Carrie asked.
“Another Federal prosecutor. He was working with Skip Gunderson.”
“And you think he might know something?”