Sweet Hostage

by Leslie Jones

  “Believe me, I understand.” He exhaled a soft laugh. “One of the hardest parts of training for me was learning to be still.”

  She curled her legs under her. “Tell me.”

  He joined her on the sofa. “Part of the training for Selection takes place in Borneo. Jungle training, as I’m sure you can imagine. We did survival exercises, a good deal of patrolling, that sort of thing. We also learned observation techniques. I remember one exercise that lasted three days. The objective was to monitor and report on movements inside an ‘enemy’ camp. We worked our way in close enough to get a good field of vision, each of us in a different area around the camp. Once we were in position, we literally did not move a muscle, for fear of being detected. We were that close.”

  Shelby raised her eyebrows. “You didn’t move a muscle for three days? How is that even possible?”

  “A matter of determination and discipline. A lesson I needed to learn.”

  Curiosity piqued, she leaned back against the armrest, resting her head on a fist. “Camp, as in a campfire with ­people sitting around roasting marshmallows? I mean, I know that’s not what it was, but I don’t really know the specifics of military training.”

  “This particular camp housed roughly a hundred and twenty men.” Trevor stretched his legs out in front of him, lacing his hands behind his head. “It simulated a Soviet mechanized infantry unit. Armored personnel carriers, infantry fighting vehicles, anti-­tank missiles. Our task was to identify their capabilities and their chain of command. Record the comings and goings, not only in and out of the camp, but also internally. Measure morale, identify dissenters who might be exploited. That sort of thing.”

  Shelby chuckled. “That sounds like exactly what I do in political circles. Minus the anti-­tank missiles, of course.”

  Trevor laughed, as she’d hoped he would. “I think you walk a minefield every day you go to work. Politicians can be more lethal than any commando.”

  “Public image is so very important to the folks I work with,” she agreed. “Sometimes I feel as though some of them would kill, just to maintain their reputations. But the truth is politics is mostly about bluster and bluffing and deal making. That’s nothing like what you’re trained to do. Jungle survival training, eating bugs, and sleeping in the mud. Doing that thing where you have to endure capture and torture?”

  The contrast between gentleman and tough military man fascinated her. He appeared open and relaxed as he shared his stories with her.

  “SERE. Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape. A lot of candidates fail during that portion of training.”

  She shuddered. “I couldn’t do it.”

  “Selection is all about self-­discovery, learned at the very brink of human endurance,” he said. “You’re tested in training so you won’t fail in the real world. Every man on a team is an expert. Anyone not up to scratch is a liability to the team and could get someone killed.”

  He spoke so matter-­of-­factly that it dimmed the finality of his words. She reminded herself that this man had been trained to do far more than eat bugs. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  “Of course.” He gave her a warm smile. Was there something more flickering in his eyes? Hope? But it wasn’t that kind of personal question.

  “You’ve killed.” She made it a statement, not a question. “Does it ever bother you? Some veterans never get over their war experiences.”

  He sat up abruptly. “No. Never.”

  “I’m sorry. I—­” Shouldn’t have asked. Had she crossed some sort of line?

  Resting his elbows on his knees, he clasped his hands loosely between them. “It’s tough for an outsider to understand the SpecOps mindset. I do what’s necessary for the operation. If I have to take out a target, it’s not a person. It’s a terrorist or a criminal or an anarchist. It’s not an enjoyment of killing; it’s accomplishing the mission. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “You didn’t. It’s just not easy to explain to a civilian.” He gave a tired smile. “Who Dares Wins.”

  “The SAS motto.”

  He nodded. “When you said you wanted to ask me a personal question, I was expecting something else.”

  There it was again. The bright question, the hope in his eyes. She didn’t know what it meant. But she could finally tell him what she’d wanted to since their argument in the hotel room. Her shoulders tensed as she steeled herself to say it.

  “I only went out with Hugo—­Gunnery Sergeant Bisantz—­three times. The last night, at dinner, he told me he was happy to play second fiddle if I just wanted to talk, uh, talk about . . . you, but that we should just plan on being friends, because I . . . I was obviously still hung up on you.” She couldn’t look at him. His silence made it so much worse. She drew a ragged breath and forced herself to continue.

  “I never slept with him. I couldn’t, not after what you and I shared. I lied to you. In the hospital. When I told you it meant nothing. You were lucky to be alive after being shot, and I—­” She stopped, unable to push any more words through her clogged throat.

  Trevor reached for her, tugging her toward him across the cushions so she ended up sprawled across his chest. For a moment, they simply stared at one another, hers fearful and his full of yearning. He slid a hand into her hair and guided her mouth to his, kissing her so softly she barely felt it. Without volition, her lips parted, inviting him in. He angled her head and fused their mouths together, but still so slowly, so tenderly she wanted to cry.

  When he broke the kiss, he rested his forehead on hers. “I get that you were scared. Can you tell me why?”

  She pulled away and sat up, every cell in her body screaming for her to remain exactly where she was. In his arms. He deserved an answer, though.

  “I’d just broken things off with Bruce two months before I met you. We were together for two years.” She risked a quick glance at him. “Having feelings for another man so soon, and so strongly . . . and having that man abandon me at the drop of a hat . . . I’m sorry. I do understand. But you did, and it hurt. You never came back. Anyway, having a man in my life would put all sorts of chains on me. So I’d sworn off relationships.”

  “Chains? That’s an odd word.”

  “Expectations, then.”

  He settled his shoulders against the back of the sofa. “Can you give me an example? I’m not quite following you.”

  She thought about it for a minute. “Oh, say for instance I’ve been invited to a friend’s baby shower, and my boyfriend has a fundraising dinner at the same time. I’m expected to drop my plans to accommodate his. Like that.”

  He didn’t say a word. When she finally lifted her head, she found him examining her, eyes narrowed and frowning.

  “Tell me about Bruce.”

  And reveal her stupidity in trusting a man like him? No.

  “Shelby. Please.”

  The soft entreaty dissolved her resistance. “Oh, fine, then. I interned with the Public Affairs Office within the Bureau of Political-­Military Affairs at the State Department. He met with the director a ­couple of times, and finally told me he kept making up excuses to come into our office so he could see me. At first, he was charming. Charismatic. Knew how to treat a lady. His words, actually.

  “After we’d been dating a while, he started to change. Instead of letting me order in a restaurant, he’d order for both of us. When I told him I preferred to make my own choice, he told me to stop being difficult. That he couldn’t treat me like a lady if I didn’t act like one.” Now that she’d started, she couldn’t seem to stop the flow of words. “He’d be sweet one minute and sarcastic the next. Made fun of me in public. One time he disappeared for five weeks with no explanation, and when he came back, he just expected us to start up where we’d left off. I guess I’m a really slow le
arner.”

  “Or he’s a horse’s ass.”

  “Or that.” She forced a chuckle. “He was furious when I accepted the posting to Ma’ar ye zhad. Azakistan is on the other side of the world. How come I can’t be like a normal woman? Didn’t I love him?”

  “Yes, definitely a horse’s ass.”

  This time, her laugh was more genuine.

  “One hundred percent, grade-­A asshole.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  A KNOCK ON the door heralded Lark’s arrival. Trevor jerked awake. When had he dozed off? He’d convinced Shelby to put her head in his lap and close her eyes. Apparently, he’d also closed his.

  Shelby sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes. “What time is it?”

  He glanced at the DVD player. The time flashed twelve o’clock. Naturally, Lark would be one of those ­people who never set the clock. “Not sure.”

  Lark came in loaded down with multiple bags, including a garment bag over her shoulder. Trevor took the bulk of it, setting them down on the kitchen counter.

  “What is all this?” Shelby asked. She pointed to the garment bag.

  “Disguises. I was thinking while I was food shopping that you’re going to need to go out at some point. You can’t prove your innocence hiding in my flat.”

  Trevor unzipped the garment bag and whistled as he pulled out a dark blue suit. “Burberry. Expensive.”

  Lark grinned, clearly pleased with herself. “I guessed your size, but I’m usually pretty good about these things. I also bought stuff for you, Shel.”

  Shelby opened one of the bags, pulling out a red silk dress. It had a low neckline with beading around it, tiny sleeves, and would end about mid-­thigh. “Holy cow.”

  “Right. Wearing that and changing your hair, no one will be looking at your face, I guarantee it.”

  “Changing my hair?”

  Lark opened another bag, pulling out several boxes of hair-­coloring treatments. “Blonde,” she said decisively.

  Shelby twisted her fingers together. “I can’t use my ATM card. I won’t be able to pay you back until—­”

  “Pfft. Have you forgotten my über-­wealthy family? Trust me. I can afford it.”

  Trevor nodded his thanks. “Nevertheless, I won’t abuse your generosity. I will repay you.”

  “You can,” she shot back. “News says you’re Trevor Willoughby. As my reward for the disguises and for finding the not-­dead momma, you can tell me your real name.”

  “That is my proper name,” he said. Technically, it wasn’t a lie. His middle name was Willoughby.

  Shelby shot him a startled look. She didn’t say anything, but Lark’s shrewd gaze flicked to her and away again. He had to remember the younger woman was brilliant.

  “Fine. Be that way.” Lark grabbed Shelby’s arm. “Come on.”

  Shelby followed her into the bathroom. Trevor took the opportunity to check in again with MI-­5, but the situation hadn’t changed. There were no clues as to where the Bedlamites were hiding. The Camden Lock headquarters had been abandoned.

  “I’ve sussed out the identity of the man behind the mask. It’s Max Whitcomb. I didn’t recognize him; I spend too much time out of the country, and not enough watching the news, obviously. Plus his face was in shadow. Can you authorize surveillance on him?” he asked.

  “Naturally,” Danby answered, a bit stiffly. “But if you’re right, simple surveillance isn’t going to get us enough to prosecute.”

  “I’m right,” Trevor said. “I’m going to talk to his mother, who, contrary to popular opinion, didn’t die in an apartheid uprising. She’s in a nursing home in Maidstone, Kent. I’ll be discreet.”

  “Stay under the radar, Trev.”

  “The only way I can do that is if there’s an egress strategy. Is there?” he asked bluntly.

  “Nothing’s changed,” Danby admitted. “We still have the same three options.”

  “Then what you’re really saying is don’t get caught and embarrass MI-­5 as I walk a swaying tightrope without a net.” He disconnected.

  When the ladies finally emerged from the loo, he glanced up, then did a double take. He barely recognized Shelby. Her dark brown hair was now so blonde it looked almost white, and had been clipped into a pixie cut similar to Lark’s. Her makeup was dramatic. Her eyes had been large before, but now glowed amber and huge with the addition of shadow and mascara. Her lipstick was a deep pink. And the dress . . . It hugged her slender curves, and the neckline plunged to reveal enough cleavage to make his mouth water.

  “Amazing,” he murmured. “You hardly look like the same person.”

  “That was the whole point, right?” said Lark. “Your turn, Hunky Guy. Come into my lair.”

  Trevor obediently went to sit on the toilet seat while Lark fussed over his shaggy hair, running her fingers through it and pulling it this way and that. “Hmm. This all has to go. You need short, neat hair to go with that expensive suit.”

  “Do you actually know what you’re doing?”

  “Look at Shel again and tell me I don’t. Do you think I get this look by accident?” She gestured to her own style and makeup.

  “I place myself in your hands, then.”

  Twenty minutes later, Lark allowed him to look into the mirror. The cut wasn’t as military-­short as he was used to, but it was neat and would complement the suit nicely.

  “Here, use my razor,” she said. “Shave off that scruff. As much as I like it, it’s too biker-­bad for your new look.”

  She left him alone, so he soaped up his jaw and shaved. He felt much more like himself after. He put on the suit and the shoes Lark had purchased. They pinched his toes, but the suit fit as though it had been tailored for him.

  Both women stared when he walked into the living room.

  “Holy shit!” Lark said. “You could’a just stepped out of GQ magazine!”

  Shelby looked him over from head to foot, and he had to physically stop himself from asking if she liked the look. Then she smiled, and he knew.

  “You look so handsome,” she said.

  “And you could knock me over with a feather right now.” He touched her earring, a red cascade of sparkly stuff that drew the eye from her face to her breasts. “But you’ve always been beautiful to me, no matter what you wear. Your beauty comes from the inside.”

  “You always say the right thing.” She tilted her head up and kissed him. Softly at first, then with more confidence.

  “Ugh. Get a room.” Lark didn’t even glance up from her laptop.

  Shelby exhaled a shaky laugh and stepped back. “Shall we go?”

  “Hang on,” Lark said. “Let me start this program running first.”

  Trevor and Shelby both looked at her.

  “You can’t go,” Shelby blurted.

  “No,” Trevor said at the same time.

  Lark looked up, stubbornness flashing in her eyes. “Give me one good reason why not.”

  “I don’t want you drawn into this, if we’re discovered,” Trevor said.

  “Look at yourselves. You won’t be. And how are you going to get there without my car?”

  Obviously, he could simply take the keys from her. Still, he’d agreed they were a team. He couldn’t exclude her.

  Lark read his expression correctly. “Great! I’ll grab my purse.”

  She came back with the largest handbag he’d ever seen. She stuffed her laptop into it. “Okay. I’m set.”

  “What on earth can you be carrying inside that carpetbag?” he asked.

  “Everything plus the kitchen sink,” she replied promptly. She’d obviously been asked the question before. “I could live for a week on what’s in here.”

  LARK DROVE THE way she looked—­fast and free. The rules of the road seemed to be only suggestions to her as she wove through traffic, heading to Ma
idstone in Kent. By the time they arrived, Trevor was in a cold sweat. Facing down a squad of al-­Qaeda terrorists armed with only a knife didn’t compete with driving with the girl maniac.

  Maidstone was a picturesque town. They crossed St. Peter’s Bridge and turned left to follow the meandering route of the river. At Waterside, they turned right. Most of the buildings were old brick or stone, giving the town a medieval feel. They passed several churches. The GPS took them almost to the other end of town. Eventually, Lark pulled up in front of a yellow brick house with several bay windows.

  Resisting the urge to jump out and kiss the ground, he instead looked over the property. It seemed newer than the buildings around it. Subtle brick curlicues gave it a quaint and homey feel. The sign announcing this was the Queen Mary Home for the Elderly had a crack running up one side.

  It was chillier here than in London. Shelby crossed her arms over her middle. Trevor wrapped an arm over her shoulder and tucked her into his side.

  The tiny lobby area had two plastic chairs and a waist-­high pottery urn with fake flowers. As they entered, a small, wrinkled old man greeted them from a desk to the right.

  “Afternoon. How can I help you?”

  “We’re here to visit Max Whitcomb’s mother,” Trevor said.

  “Who?”

  The three looked at one another.

  “Nandi?” Lark tried.

  “Oh, yeah, Nandi,” the man said. “Nandi Mkhize, though, not whatever you said. She’ll be outside in the garden this time of day. Fact is, she spends most of her time there. Sign in, please.”

  A sturdy woman in nurse’s scrubs came around the corner from the hallway perpendicular to the lobby.

  “Daniel, for heaven’s sakes. How many times do I have to tell you not to take over my chair?”

  The old man jumped down. “You weren’t here. And see? I greeted these fine ­people. They’re here to visit Nandi.”

  The nurse turned suspicious eyes their way. “Nandi? Why?”

  “We’re friends of her son’s,” Shelby said. “He asked us to check in on her while we were in the area.”