by Tess Diamond
“Night shift will take over in twenty minutes,” Frank said. “He’s not calling tonight, kid. Go home,” Frank said. “Get some sleep. Read through your notes and the case files. Maybe it’ll jar something loose. I’ll call if anything changes. Meet me at the press conference at ten.”
“You sure you can hold the fort down?” Maggie asked.
Frank looked at Thebes, his eyes narrowing. “I won’t let him out of my sight.”
So Maggie had retreated to her house and searched for a clue, for anything that would tell her what the senator was hiding—and therefore what the unsub really wanted.
Thwonk, her clumsy-as-hell cat, meowed from the couch as Maggie turned up the volume on the TV. She scratched his gray ears, and his yellow eyes slitted in pleasure as he began to purr.
“In other news, Senator Thebes will be holding a press conference at two o’clock tomorrow. As of now, the exact subject of the press conference is unknown, but the senator, a prominent political figure and businessman, is expected to speak on a personal matter.”
Maggie jabbed the off button on her remote, settling back on her plain gray linen couch. The senator was worse than an idiot, he was evil—squandering his daughter’s chance of survival in favor of his ego and poll numbers. He may not have believed her when she told him, but she knew for certain that any press would only raise tension in any negotiation to come. The attention could squash any hope the kidnapper had of getting out of this unscathed. And while suicide by cop could be common in some of these situations, with Uncle Sam’s ego and machinations so far, she had a feeling that wasn’t in the cards. Not without bringing Kayla down with him. She shook her head, wondering what on earth Thebes had done that made him so complacent about tossing his daughter’s life away.
Maggie sighed, running a hand through her hair, looking around her bare-bones living room. She’d bought the couch and a white chair back in the pre-Thwonk era. Now she kept a throw over them to protect the linen from his shedding. The long, rectangular glass-and-wood coffee table and the TV stand were the only other furniture in the room.
She used to keep a few family photos on the wall, but after the engagement party, she’d moved them to her bedroom upstairs. One of Paul’s friends from college had innocently asked where her sister was, and she’d spent the rest of the night with a pit in her stomach, faking happiness and trying not to rub her wrists.
Utilitarian to the core, she never had needed much, so she’d never bothered to do much decorating. It had always bugged Paul—he probably took it as another sign of her inability to commit to anything. How could she commit to him when she couldn’t even decide on a color scheme in her own house? The brownstone had character of its own, though, from the graceful wainscoting and ceiling medallions to the 1920s slip-shade chandeliers that were such a pain to dust. She would never replace them because Erica had loved them when they were little girls. There was Kincaid history in these halls. She’d inherited the house from her father, and was all too aware that it should have gone to both her and Erica.
Maggie took a gulp of tea, the faint rose scent helping to mute her bad memories. She needed to focus on the present, not the past. She didn’t care what the senator had planned—she was going to keep working and break this case wide open. This one would not turn out like Sherwood Hills: She was going to bring Kayla home safe, whether her father cared or not.
She spread the files out on the coffee table: phone records and a transcript of the interview with Randy Macomb, the pool guy. She flipped open her laptop, pulling up the video Uncle Sam had sent the senator.
She queued up video, watching it on regular speed first. It was hard not to focus on Kayla’s terrified face and her squinting eyes as she struggled with the sudden light.
Maggie knew that feeling all too well. All these years later, she could still feel the chafe of burlap against her chin, the constant scream of panic in her core, masked only by a body full of aches and injuries. Bruised kneecaps. Back sore from crouching on concrete all day. The parched pain of thirst in her throat. Maggie looked down, away from the screen, and realized she was rubbing her wrists again.
“Dammit!” Her voice rang through the high ceilings of the brownstone. Thwonk yowled, skittering off the couch at the sudden sound.
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” she called after the fleeing cat, but Thwonk had already gone to his favorite hiding spot under her bed.
Maggie let out a deep breath, closing her eyes as she tried to hold it together. “Concentrate,” she told herself. “This isn’t about you—it’s about Kayla.”
After another big breath, she played the video again, frame by frame this time. But it was a tight close-up on Kayla, so she could barely see anything about the room the girl was held in; only that the walls seemed to be gray. Kayla’s terror made it hard to notice any other details.
She turned on the volume and Kayla’s shaky voice stumbling over Dostoevsky’s words filled the room. Maggie steeled her heart against it, concentrating on the surroundings. Uncle Sam hadn’t been as careful filming the video—she could see more of the room than the original proof of life photo. The walls were gray—but they also looked like they were hastily painted drywall. Maggie noted the seams where the drywall connected in places, where the mud and paint job weren’t so great. The video came to an end and she restarted it, going frame by frame, searching again.
Wait—what was that? Maggie squinted to Kayla’s left at the dark blur in the corner. She zoomed into the spot, taking a few minutes to clean up the now-pixelated image.
It was just a pile of trash.
Dammit! This time, she managed not to yell it out loud, but boy, did she feel like it. She slammed the laptop shut, leaning back angrily.
What was she missing?
Randy Macomb’s phone. She sat straight up. It was gone. The kidnapper had obviously stolen it so they’d be chasing dead ends instead of him.
But where?
Maggie grabbed her phone, calling the contact number Randy had left with the FBI. It rang and rang, and just when she was about to give up hope, a sleepy voice answered.
“Hello?”
“Randy?”
“Yeah?”
“This is Agent—this is Maggie Kincaid,” Maggie corrected herself, gritting her teeth. God, this case—it was bringing everything back. “I talked to you yesterday at FBI headquarters.”
“The blonde chick,” Randy said. “I remember.”
“I just need to ask a few follow-up questions,” Maggie said. “You said you lost your phone, right?”
“Right.”
“Where was the last place you saw it?”
“Dude, lady, I don’t know,” Randy replied, bewildered. “It’s probably stuck under my couch or something, out of juice.”
Maggie barely resisted rolling her eyes. “Okay, just do me a favor,” she said. “Walk me through that day. You wake up and . . .”
“Check the stats on the net,” Randy said. “Do my business, you know.”
Maggie did roll her eyes this time. Men.
“I made a protein smoothie,” Randy went on, “Got dressed. Called my girl.”
“No shower?” Maggie asked, scribbling his answers down on a yellow legal pad, just in case.
“I shower at the gym,” Randy said. “Hey, the gym!”
“Is that where you last remember having your phone?” Maggie leapt on it.
“I remember texting a buddy of mine, Tank, right when I was walking in. I bet I left it in my locker!”
“And this was Monday?” Maggie asked, writing gym and circling it.
“Tuesday.”
“And you’re sure you didn’t have your phone when you left the gym?”
There was a pause, as if he was trying to think hard and it took a lot of work. “I remember calling my buddy before the gym. Next time I remember needing it, I was home and I didn’t have it.”
“You went directly from the gym to your house?” Maggie asked. “No stops for coffe
e or gas?”
“Nope. I went straight home,” he said.
“Okay,” Maggie said, relieved. At least she had a lead, even if it was coming from a meathead pool guy. “What gym is this?”
“Adonis Lodge, on Fifth,” Randy answered.
What a name. Why wasn’t she surprised? “Thanks, Randy. You’ve been very helpful.”
“Hey, you’re gonna find Kayla, right?” he asked. “’Cause she’s a really nice kid. She invited my little sister to her birthday party last year when she found out she was visiting me. They’d never even met, and she made sure my sis had a great time.”
“I’m going to try my hardest,” Maggie said, her throat tightening at this glimpse of Kayla’s good nature. She couldn’t make any promises. Not to anyone, not even to herself. “Thanks again, Randy. Bye.”
She hung up, staring down at the haphazard notes she’d assembled. She needed to get herself to the Adonis Lodge—and quick. But she’d need help. She didn’t speak musclehead.
“Dammit,” she swore softly, aware that Thwonk had crept back into the living room during the phone call.
Hating the fact that she would have to ask for help, she keyed in a number, raising the phone to her ear.
“O’Connor,” said a rough voice that made her stomach clench.
Dammit.
“It’s Kincaid,” she said. “I need your help.”
Chapter 21
Jake sat up in his bed, the sheets pooling at his hips. “What’s wrong?” he asked, already swinging his legs off the bed, feet touching down on the floor. Ever the soldier, ready to spring into action.
“There’s no emergency,” she said quickly. “I was just going through some of my notes. Randy, the pool guy, he said he’d lost his phone.”
“Okay,” Jake said slowly, still not following why she needed him.
“I walked him through his day, to figure out where he might’ve lost his phone. I’m thinking he didn’t lose it.”
“Our unsub took it,” Jake said.
“Exactly,” Maggie said. “Last place he remembered having it was his gym. But I don’t have a badge to sway management into letting me look at the security footage.”
“I’ll meet you there in the morning,” Jake said. “Text me the address.”
“Thank you,” Maggie said, and she sounded a little surprised he had agreed so readily.
There was a slight pause. “Anyway,” she said. “I should get going.”
He tried to picture her, then. She must be at home—what kind of place did she have, he wondered. Something cozy and warm? Or did her style slant more modern?
He couldn’t quite imagine Maggie living in a house full of softness and pink. She was prickly—in the best way. She wasn’t one to have chairs that no one was allowed to sit on or an overabundance of knickknacks.
“Good night,” he told her.
“Night,” she said.
He stared at the call ended on his screen for a long moment, trying to puzzle out the feeling in his chest at her quiet goodbye. There was something about Maggie Kincaid that tugged at him—and it wasn’t just that she was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen.
Her spirit—that stubborn streak—it made him want to know her. All of her.
He shook his head, trying to drive thoughts of her from his head. It was late. He hadn’t slept much since being called in. This was the first time he’d managed to get home to his bed. He should sleep. He had to get up in a few hours. He tossed his phone onto his end table, slouching down in his bed, closing his eyes.
He drifted, and then fell into sleep.
Fell into a dream.
At first, it was just overwhelming sensation. Impossibly soft skin brushing against his, the perfect lushness of firm breasts pressed to his chest, that unmistakable husky laugh as he gathered her in his arms and flipped her over. The sheets tangled around them, her face, flushed and sated and beautiful, coming into focus.
Maggie smiled up at him, and it wasn’t that sharp, uneasy smile she’d flashed at the bar—it was the smile of a woman who was safe and happy in the arms of her lover.
“You trying to be on top this time?” she asked, that sweet smile turning wicked.
“Always,” he said. And when he bent down to kiss her, she wound her arms around his neck, arching up into him, moaning.
His hands were everywhere—he couldn’t get enough. The velvety feel of her skin was like heaven and hell combined. Her head tilted back as his fingers grazed across her pink nipples, and her mouth opened in a gasp as he leaned forward and brought one to his lips.
“You’re driving me crazy,” she said breathlessly as he dragged his mouth up the slope of her breast, scraping his teeth lightly against the sensitive skin of her collarbone, making her twist in his arms, pressing herself more firmly against him. The friction was maddening—she was maddening.
He wanted all of her. Now. Tomorrow. Forever.
“You’re driving me crazy,” he countered, sucking a light mark against her neck.
She pulled away, just enough to scowl adorably at him. “No hickeys!” she ordered. “We are not sixteen!”
He chuckled against her neck, against the slightly reddened spot that said mine to anyone who could see. “You make me feel like I am,” he whispered.
She grinned, wiggling out from under him, pushing him onto his back on his bed. He let her, intrigued where this was going. She was so bossy—even in bed.
He loved it.
She swung her leg over his waist, her breasts swaying with the movement. His palms itched to cup them, to lightly trace around her nipples in that way that was guaranteed to make her squirm. But as she dragged her nails lightly down his chest, then his stomach, his needs went completely out the window.
This was all about what she wanted.
“I have you at my mercy,” she said, with a glowing smile.
“Anything but that,” he deadpanned, just to get another laugh out of her. And he was rewarded, that beautiful sound filling his heart and soul.
She bent down, and her lips began to follow the path her hands had forged. His stomach tightened as her fingers hovered over the elastic band of his boxer briefs before dipping inside, pulling them down.
One more teasing look, her blue eyes gleaming, her expression telling him she knew exactly what she was doing to him. And then her mouth, that clever, wicked mouth, closed over him.
Jake groaned, the heat of her lips filling his senses.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
His eyes snapped open. Beams of early morning light fell across his empty bed. He was breathing hard, like he was six miles into a run. He leaned over, swiping his alarm off before falling back onto the mattress, trying to sort his thoughts. His entire body ached from the dream-memory of Maggie’s touch. It had felt so real.
He wanted to make it real.
The realization hit him all at once. He’d known she was attractive, that he wanted her, that if they ended up in bed together, it’d be nothing short of amazing, but this feeling in his chest . . .
This was something more. Something different.
Something special.
And he was determined to pursue it—just as soon as this mess with the senator was resolved.
Chapter 22
The next morning, Maggie showed up at the gym bright and early. The Adonis Lodge was aptly named. On her way inside the old brick building, Maggie passed three tall, dark, muscle-bound model types. And waiting for her in the barn-wood–paneled lobby was the tall, dark, muscle-bound security expert who’d been on her mind far too often.
Somehow, O’Connor stood out in the sea of masculine musculature. Maybe it was the depth in his green eyes, or the slight crookedness of his nose—broken in the military or maybe just a bar fight, she figured.
This wasn’t a man who’d spend his time calculating grams of protein and counting reps. He had more serious work to do. His body came from his job, from living on his feet and jumping into action.
He understood instinct. He listened to it. And he trusted his—maybe more than Maggie trusted her own, after Sherwood Hills.
She hated to admit it, but she needed that confidence right now. Everything about this case was upside down, and it disturbed her more than she liked. More than anything, the senator’s choice to have the press conference threw her off. What kind of father would ever choose politics over his daughter? She couldn’t help but remember how her parents looked when they’d gotten her back. The relief taking over the agony in their faces . . . the grief when they realized Erica wasn’t with her. While clutching Maggie so tightly she nearly lost her breath, her mother had made an inhuman sound, a broken moan that turned into a scream, and her father had crumpled to the ground, his face buried in his hands. It was the first time Maggie had ever seen him cry—but it wasn’t the last. That is how the senator should have been acting—and the fact that he wasn’t set off all sorts of alarms in her.
“Did you decide to start lifting and get ripped?” Jake asked, raising an eyebrow.
Maggie quelled the lame joke with a look. “Very funny.” She nodded toward the man sitting behind the rustic wood counter. “I need you to get him to let me look at the security tapes. You speak their language.” Maggie gestured to him. “You do all this macho stuff.”
“I stay fit.” Jake shrugged. “When I was in the desert, staying fit meant staying alive.”
Maggie could feel her cheeks turning red. She hadn’t meant to insult him. Or maybe she had, a little—he could be so irritating!
“If I talk to them on my own, they’re not going to let me see the tapes,” she told him. “But they might for you. Do that thing guys do, the buddy ‘hey, man’ thing.”
“You have no idea how guys work, do you?” Jake asked, bemused.
“Do you have any idea how women work?” Maggie shot back.
Jake pulled a shocked face. “You mean you don’t live only for designer shoes and pillow fights with your girlfriends?”