Hidden Hearts

by Susan Kearney

  Oh, God. Not her father. Not the man who’d adopted her and taken her into his home, caring for her as if she were his own. He couldn’t be dead.

  And yet their captor had spoken as if it were a done deal. She couldn’t imagine her easygoing father with his potbelly and twinkling blue eyes no longer part of this world. Her throat tightened and tears slipped down her cheeks.

  And her poor mother. Her parents had been childhood sweethearts, married in their teens. Her mother had lost her husband and now she would lose the only daughter she’d ever known.

  Shocked and full of sorrow, Alexandra didn’t notice that Roarke had gathered her into his arms. She only knew she welcomed the comfort of his shoulder and needed the touch of his strong fingers brushing back her hair.

  Even the man who always knew the right thing to say had no words to offer her now. The black emptiness of her soul threatened to overwhelm her. Roarke’s arms grounded her and made her feel still connected to this world.

  Anger swelled in her heart, battling for space with her sorrow. How dare these men kill the father she loved? What gave them the right to play God? To take away the most precious gift of all?

  She didn’t hear the rest of the phone call. Lost in her thoughts and roiling feelings, she barely noticed the discomfort of the heat. Didn’t register the temperature dropping as the car pulled back onto the road.

  She lost track of time, her thoughts swirling with thoughts of horror and grief and anger and revenge. Yes. Revenge. She wanted the SOB who’d murdered her father dead—or at least behind bars for the rest of his miserable life.

  “I’m sorry,” Roarke whispered. “So sorry. I lost a woman I loved in Africa. Her name was Sydney.”

  She could hear the pain still in his voice and, despite her own grief, her heart went out to him. “What happened?”

  “She died during a terrorist bombing of the embassy.” He drew a deep breath. “We were engaged one day, and then the next day, she was just gone. I couldn’t work. I couldn’t go on doing the same thing day in and day out as if she were still alive. It was as if my dreams died with her.”

  “That’s when you quit the agency?”

  “Yes.”

  She had no words of comfort to give him, just held on tightly, the grief over her father so fresh, she thought it would tear her apart.

  Roarke smoothed hair off her forehead. “I didn’t realize your father would be in danger.”

  “It’s not your fault. How could you have—” She stiffened at another awful thought. “My mother?”

  “She must be fine. He didn’t mention your mother.”

  Roarke sounded so confident, but was he putting on an act to comfort her? “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Alexandra wondered if her fear and sorrow were making her suspicious. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing both of the people that meant the most to her. “But why didn’t Mom call me?”

  “You weren’t home, remember?”

  She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Roarke, I have to go to her. She needs me, now that…” She couldn’t say the words. Couldn’t stand to think of saying a final goodbye at the funeral, of the days ahead without her father.

  She had to think of something else. Anything else or she would go quite mad. She needed to act, but they remained stuck in the car trunk. So the first order of business had to be escape. Her voice might not have been steady, but she forced the words past the sorrow clogging her throat. “What’s the plan?”

  Gentle, he brushed away her tears. “When they open the trunk, listen for me to grunt. I’ll wait until after you climb out, then can you keel over?”

  “Sure.” Keel over? The way her cramped legs felt right now, she might not even have to fake it. “But suppose they don’t open the trunk?”

  The car started to move again and he shoved the bra through the hole. His voice turned grim. “We shoot the lock.”

  She didn’t understand his reluctance to use the gun. “Why can’t we shoot it open now?”

  He sighed and shifted his arm to pillow her head. “It’s not like in the movies. A bullet could ricochet in here. And it’s just as likely to fuse the lock tight as bust it loose.”

  “So that’s a last resort?”

  “Yes.”

  Finally Roarke was treating her as a partner, explaining what she needed to hear. But concentrating was so hard. Memories of her father kept interfering with her thoughts. His proud face when she’d announced she wanted to be an architect. His support through the difficult college years. His offer of financial help when she’d gone out to start her own firm. Every step of the way, he’d been behind her, emotionally, financially and, most importantly, giving her unconditional love. Her eyes welled with tears but she kept talking, hoping to ease her pain. “And plan B?” she prodded, hoping he had one, suspecting he had plans from A to Z.

  This time he sounded even more reluctant to speak, actually hesitating before speaking. “When they open the trunk, I take them by surprise and start shooting.”

  She fished inside her purse and handed him the gun. “Why isn’t that plan A?”

  “Because they’ll shoot back.”

  “And?”

  “And you’d be in the line of fire.”

  “And if I keel over, I’ll be safe on the ground?”

  “Safer than on your feet. I want you to roll or crawl for cover first chance you get.”

  Now she knew why he’d spoken to her like a partner. He wanted her cooperation. “But then I won’t be able to help you.”

  He hugged her tighter for a moment. “Don’t think I don’t appreciate the thought, but if you’re out of the line of fire, it’ll leave me free to do my stuff.”

  “Your stuff?” He said the words with a lightness that shot a ripple of unease through her. Never before in her life would she have felt so at ease with a man who considered death a part of his job. Yet Roarke had gently held her while she’d cried. Those hands that had smoothed away her tears had surely taken lives. And she was becoming comfortable with the idea. If in self-defense Roarke happened to bring down her father’s murderer, she wouldn’t regret it.

  He admitted as casually as if he were talking about the state’s drought, “I’m skilled at hand-to-hand combat.”

  She heard the confidence in his tone, his faith in his abilities and yet she couldn’t keep back her concern. “Won’t the bad guys know that stuff, too? And won’t they outnumber you?”

  “I’ll be better. Now quit worrying over me and conserve your strength.”

  “Roarke?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m glad it was you that Jake picked to protect me.” Her brother couldn’t have chosen anyone smarter or more dedicated or more capable. She didn’t blame Roarke in the least for their current predicament. He’d warned her not to go to work and she hadn’t listened. She only wished that he wouldn’t have to pay for her mistake with his life.

  As if reading her thoughts, he held her a bit tighter. “I could have done a better job of protecting you.”

  “There’s nothing you could have done,” she insisted, knowing she spoke the truth.

  “I should have stopped you from going to work.”

  “I made that choice.” She shook her head, wishing she could see his expression to know if she’d eased the guilt she heard in his voice.

  “My point, exactly. I shouldn’t have allowed you to make the decision.”

  “Really?” He had an odd way of looking at things. Taking responsibility for her actions.

  “I knew better. You didn’t.”

  She sensed this wasn’t the first time he’d accepted blame that wasn’t his. But no matter how broad his shoulders, he couldn’t hold so much guilt inside without it casting shadows that would darken his future. Oh, he did a good job of hiding the guilt beneath his pretty face and charming manners. She recalled the information her reporter friend had given her, and she’d bet the penthouse of her new building that Roarke blamed h
imself for the disaster in the embassy where so many people had died. Where his fiancée had died. Especially since he’d quit shortly thereafter.

  Although the darkness wove a web of intimacy around them, she didn’t have the right to dig into his past. And then the car ground to a halt. Roarke yanked her bra back into the vehicle and handed it to her. She stuffed her underwear into her purse, her thoughts focused on the immediate future.

  “Pretend your hands are still tied behind your back,” Roarke instructed.

  As two doors clicked open and footsteps approached the trunk from both sides of the car, Alexandra slipped her purse strap over her shoulder. While she squirmed into position, her hand knocked against the screwdriver. She clasped it tight and wedged her hands behind her back.

  “Remember, wait for my signal. Wait for me to grunt,” Roarke reminded her.

  A key scraped against the lock. Alexandra tensed and squinted, expecting bright sunlight.

  The trunk opened.

  Chapter Eight

  Roarke kept his gun in his hand but hidden behind his hip. While he couldn’t shoot from that angle, he could move into position quickly if he had to. As the trunk opened, he breathed a sigh of relief that their two abductors had been joined by only one other person.

  The third man stood about six foot two, wore a coat and tie and an Agency-regulation haircut. From the way his two cohorts deferred to him, he was clearly in charge of the operation, but Roarke saw him watching nervously over his shoulder and guessed he wasn’t the top dog. Possibly more foes were coming. Maybe the top dog himself from the way the new man acted.

  They’d been taken to an empty warehouse with a rusted roof, cobwebs and old oil spills on the floor. The place not only appeared deserted, but as if no one had worked here productively in years. Empty gasoline drums and trash were too far away to provide cover. The open doors at either end of the building were too far to make a run for freedom.

  Roarke assessed their position and worried over the lack of nearby cover. He saw no adequate place for Alexandra to hide, and his adrenaline pumped.

  With two weapons pointed at Alexandra and himself, opening fire on the enemy would probably get them killed. So Roarke slipped the weapon into the waistband of his slacks. As the men yanked him up and out of the trunk, he waited for a better opportunity to attack.

  “They have the papers on them?” the man in the suit asked, tapping his foot with impatience.

  The two underlings exchanged glances as they roughly lifted Alexandra from the trunk. “What papers?”

  “No one told us about any papers,” the other agreed. “We had orders to bring them here. Mission completed.”

  The guy in the suit uttered several blistering curses. “Check her purse.”

  Roarke tensed. Time was running out. He had to take out two men before the third could pull the trigger and before more showed up. Not the easiest of assignments, but he had no choices left. Once the men discovered Alexandra no longer had the papers they wanted, they would have no reason to keep anyone alive, which was standard operating procedure for illegal groups like this one. These men couldn’t afford to have accusations thrown their way, so they didn’t leave behind witnesses who could talk.

  Roarke decided to take out the guy in the suit on the first blow. He needed to strike silently to gain the precious seconds needed to keep Alexandra safe.

  Apparently, the suited man wasn’t a field agent or he would have kept his weapon aimed at them instead of loosely pointed at the cement floor. He might be built like an ox, but Roarke suspected the man pushed paper and read intel for a living.

  As one underling reached for Alexandra’s purse and placed himself between her and the other underling, Roarke made his move, knowing it might be the best chance they’d get.

  Roarke grunted, sending his signal to Alexandra. Simultaneously, he fielded a roundhouse kick to the boss’s chin. On target, the ball of his foot connected, and the big man’s head snapped back, his neck broken. He let out a soft, “Oof,” then collapsed.

  Spinning, Roarke took down the second opponent with a deadly knifehand to the throat before his first foe hit the ground. But as Alexandra dropped to the ground, the man after her purse reacted. Like a cat, he spun, aiming his gun at Roarke, his eyes sharp, his expression deadly.

  Roarke looked into the other man’s eyes, and time slowed. He actually saw the man’s finger tensing on the trigger, ready to pull. Roarke’s weapon was still inches away from position to shoot.

  He braced for a bullet, his exquisite sense of timing telling him he’d lost this round. He’d failed big-time. And he’d pay with his and Alexandra’s lives.

  As his opponent’s gun fired, the man’s eyes widened in surprise, then he stumbled and let out a yowl of pain, throwing off his aim. The bullet meant for Roarke’s brain whizzed by his ear.

  From the ground, Alexandra had stabbed the man in the ankle with a screwdriver! Roarke didn’t give their foe another chance. He aimed and shot before the man could get off another round. A tiny hole appeared between his sightless eyes and the stench of blood and death permeated the warehouse.

  Slowly Alexandra climbed to her feet, her whiskey-colored eyes wide with fear, her olive-toned skin pale as she took in the three dead men. Wobbling unsteadily on her feet, she went paler as she stared at the screwdriver still sticking out of the man’s ankle.

  “Are you okay?” she asked Roarke.

  “Thanks to you.”

  At the opposite end of the warehouse, a car drove inside, its headlight surrounding them with a stark brightness that left them as vulnerable as deer in a hunter’s scope.

  They had company. Top Dog had showed up, but all Roarke could see of him through the lights was his shiny white head. Top Dog was bald. And likely furious that his prey were escaping, his unit members dead.

  Having so many operatives in one place and the expense of the operation briefly crossed Roarke’s mind, but he couldn’t stop and ponder. The reinforcements weren’t the friendly kind.

  While Roarke wanted to console Alexandra, they didn’t have time for the niceties. Roarke scooped up the car keys and a gun that had fallen to the pavement. He pressed the gun into Alexandra’s hand as he rushed her toward the car. “Get in. We need to get out of here.”

  “Duh!”

  That she still had a sense of humor amazed him. Roarke had directed teams in the field, but as an agent, he’d usually worked alone. He now realized the value of having a partner, even an untrained one, especially one like Alexandra.

  He skidded out of the warehouse, took the only dirt road and hoped it didn’t lead to a dead end. While he suspected they were in the industrial area, he’d never been in this part of town.

  As he drove, grateful for the dust kicking up behind him, Alexandra reached across him and yanked and secured his seat belt before fastening her own.

  “Thanks.” He risked a glance her way, glad to see her color returning to normal. “You have any idea where we are?”

  “A man who asks directions? How unusual!”

  “Very funny. There’s a street sign up ahead. See if you can read it.”

  “It’s too dirty to read.” She opened the glove compartment in search of a map and let out a curse of disappointment.

  He checked the mirror and behind them the other car held its distance, neither gaining nor retreating, but at least staying out of shooting range. He squinted to make out the driver’s features, but all he could see was the man’s bald head.

  Roarke couldn’t afford to make a mistake and drive into a dead end, or the other car would be on him like a Love Bug on wet paint. “We’re coming up to a paved road,” he told Alexandra. “Which way you want to go?”

  “There’s no street sign.”

  “Left or right?”

  “Now you let me make a decision—when I have absolutely no idea where we are.”

  “Choose.”

  “Right.”

  He sped around the corner, knowing that whil
e he had to focus on keeping the car on the road, she’d pick up visual cues he wouldn’t. They accelerated past several warehouses, a junkyard of rusting cars and a dilapidated gas station that looked as if it hadn’t been open in the last decade.

  “Can you pull over and hide behind that pile of steel?” Alexandra pointed.

  “Can’t.” Roarke shook his head and veered around a giant pothole. “They’ll notice an immediate lack of dust and figure out we stopped.”

  Alexandra looked back over her shoulder. “We’re slowly pulling away. But we can’t race through the city streets without endangering innocent lives.”

  Roarke made a series of turns and finally struck pavement and a two-lane road. Taking advantage of better traction, he pressed the pedal to the floor, and the car’s powerful engine responded with a surging leap in speed. A glance at the speedometer showed they were fifty miles an hour over the speed limit.

  Where was a cop to give him a ticket when he needed one?

  Roarke passed several cars and, as the traffic increased, he was forced to slow. Knowing that the car chasing them faced the same problem did not decrease his concern. As long as Alexandra remained in danger, he couldn’t afford to make another mistake.

  The death of her father had brought sad memories of his own. He knew what it was like to lose someone he loved. And just as he’d blamed himself for Sydney’s death, Alexandra would feel guilty for not warning her father, for not making sure he knew he was in danger, for accepting the package from her brother. A million “what ifs” would go through her mind. He knew all too well what was going through her head because he’d been there. He also knew that what anyone else said didn’t make a damn bit of difference.

  So he’d said little, just held Alexandra while she’d sobbed in his arms, giving what little comfort he could. At least in his case he’d had the consolation of tracking down the terrorists, seeing to it that they would never kill again.

  To escape his morbid thoughts, he focused on his driving. His need for speed made him take calculated chances, weaving in and out of traffic, passing other cars and trucks at every opportunity. If Top Dog called in a satellite to track him, Roarke needed to drive the car under cover—but nothing was available, not a shed or garage or bridge.