Jo opened her eyes, awake and aware before she heard her name. Light sleeping was an ingrained habit now; what survival instinct had given her, motherhood had kept.
She sat up, tossing aside the blanket, and wished she hadn't. Swallowing carefully, she took inventory. Sore wrists, bruised knuckles, aching back—that last one might have been her choice of sleeping arrangements—and just a little touch of . . . She swallowed and kept very still.
Sterling, shaved and resplendent in charcoal slacks and burgundy shirt, smirked at her from the doorway. "Our flight leaves in two hours," he said. He sipped from a coffee cup. "Wouldn't the bed have been more comfortable?"
She stared at him, swallowed again as the scent of coffee tickled her nose, and bolted for the bathroom.
Some time later, she splashed cold water on her face. At least the nausea never lasted long, once she gave in and threw up. She felt fine now—hungry even—aside from the embarrassment. And the company.
Sterling handed her a sample-sized bottle of mouthwash. "Moo shu?"
She took a swig, swished until she couldn't stand it, and spat blue into the sink. "Morning sickness," she said, making a decision she hoped she wouldn't regret. But he'd mentioned an airplane, and she was sure he wouldn't take fear of flying as an excuse.
He blinked. "How far along?"
"Twelve weeks." She capped the bottle, handed it back, and picked up her toothbrush.
"Inconvenient."
"Miracles are like that," she said, unscrewing the toothpaste top. "Please go away."
To her mild surprise, he did, leaving behind a shopping bag. After locking the door, she stuck the brush in her mouth and investigated. A t-shirt, a three pack of socks, and a four pack of underwear. All in her size.
She shook her head. What was it about her that made men want to dress her? The first time she'd met Spencer, he'd done her laundry and bought her underwear. The first time she'd met Ron, he'd given her a set of sweats and she thought Nate had loaned her some sweatpants, too. Hardison had given her an earbud, if that counted. And now this.
It was enough to give a girl a complex.
But not enough for her to refuse clean clothes, considering the circumstances. And at least everything was in utilitarian white, which was a relief— a peacock like Sterling probably had far more exotic taste in private, something she really, really didn't want to think about.
She turned on the shower. The pulse setting wasn't as good as one of Ron's backrubs, but it was close enough. Her muscles complained that sleeping on the couch hadn't been one of her better ideas, but it was outside the line of sight from the door and provided three escape routes from the room—even if one of them was a windowless bathroom.
Spencer hadn't had to teach her anything about paranoia.
oooooOOOOOooooo
When Jo came out of her room, clothed and clean, she found Sterling at the small table where they'd eaten the night before, staring with a brooding expression at a lidded take-away cup. "Tea doesn't set you off, does it?"
"Not so far. Just coffee. And eggs, peanut butter, sausage, baloney and cold pizza."
"This changes things," he said.
She didn't bother to pretend he was talking about breakfast. "Does it?" she asked, taking a seat.
He raised his gaze to hers. "If I'd known you were pregnant, Ms. Schulte, I never would have asked for your assistance." He gave her a wry smile. "Despite what you may have heard, I'm not a monster."
She shrugged. "But Wencel is. He's not going to stop coming after me and my family just because I'm pregnant. This," she patted her stomach, "just gives him another potential hostage."
"I can offer you and your family use of a safehouse."
"For how long? Do you think you can talk Mr. Ford into telling you what he did with Madeline? I'm the one who asked him for help in the first place."
"And how did you meet Nathan Ford?"
She kept her voice even. "Eliot sometimes helps me escort abuse victims to the shelter when they can't escape on their own and won't call the police. I was having trouble figuring out how to get Madeline Wencel out and Eliot said Mr. Ford was good at planning things like that. So I asked for a meeting." All absolutely true . . . if not chronological. And there was no way she was telling him a sociopath kidnapped Spencer and she needed help getting him back.
"And how do you know Eliot Spencer?"
"He's my husband's business partner. I'm surprised you don't know this already." Jo was pretty sure he had; Hardison had mapped most of her life in under thirty minutes— Sterling had had all night to access his Interpol resources.
She was a little surprised he hadn't offered her Saltine crackers to settle her stomach before she'd thrown up.
He drummed his fingers. "I've no doubt that Nathan would see it my way . . . eventually. But I'll admit that time is of the essence." He drummed a few more times before producing his phone and punching in a number. "We will be revisiting your relationship with—Ah, yes. May I please speak to Dr. Harbanks? It's concerning her patient, Josephine Schulte. Not exactly an emergency, no, but it is important that I speak to her. Thank you."
So Sterling knew the name and number of her obstetrician—Jo couldn't decide whether that meant he had already known about her pregnancy . . . or that she'd spent longer in the shower than she'd thought. Either way, the presumption was ticking her off.
He took a sip of tea, made a face, and set it far away from him. "Dr. Harbanks? This is James Sterling of IYS. Ms. Schulte is doing some work for us, and I wanted to know—no, I'm not asking for personal details, but may I ask if a short airplane flight would offer any risk to either Ms. Schulte or the baby? This afternoon and back again tomorrow . . . She'd be in the air about forty-five minutes each way . . . No, private. "
He shot Jo a look as he listened. "I promise you, all precautions will be taken. . . . Thank you, doctor. I'm sure Ms. Schulte has your private pager number—good. Might we have it, for emergencies? "He repeated a number Jo had by heart. "Thank you. Of course I will. Good-bye. "
He tucked the phone away. "Dr. Harbanks says hello. Gather your things together, please."
"You could have asked me if I could fly." Or let her talk to her own doctor.
"Forgive me for exercising caution, Ms. Schulte. You used the word miracle—and you don't strike me as a woman given to exaggeration." He gave her a searching look. "It appears I was right. Not many women get a private pager number at 12 weeks."
"No," she said, getting up and heading for her room. "They don't."
Jo was glad to have Dr. Harbanks go-ahead for the flight, but that didn't mean she owed Sterling any private information. She suspected his protests about the risks to her were all for show—the James Sterling she'd heard about wouldn't give much of a damn, as long as he got what he wanted. And anything that happened to her now was all with her consent.
The man was slick, all right.
She just hoped he wouldn't figure out that she didn't give much of a damn about his manipulation as long as she got what she wanted.
And right now Jo wanted to talk to Nate Ford about more than Madeline Wencel.
oooooOOOOOooooo
The flight was comfortable. Check-in to the facility where Nate was staying . . . . wasn't.
"Not even the TSA is this thorough," she said, as she watched her shoes disappear into the x-ray machine and a guard wanded her and patted her down. "No offense meant," she added, as the guard stood aside to let her pass.
"None taken, I'm sure," said Sterling, ushering her to a window next to a sliding gate. "James Sterling, Interpol. Here to see Nathan Ford in room five." He showed his ID and signed the sheet on the clipboard and handed Jo the pen while he pulled out a small wallet and handed it to her.
She opened it and saw her face looking out of a brand new Massachusetts driver's license. She showed it to the guard and signed in. The gate slid open.
The moment they cleared it, Sterling held out his hand for the wallet. "I'll keep that for you, Ms. Schulte." His tone brooked no argument.
She slapped it into his palm. "You have serious trust issues."
"Mmmm. I can't imagine why."
Two more gates and she was led into a room. She was expecting a two-way mirror, but the walls were bare and solid. The only windows were far too high to let anything in but sunlight and anything out, period. There was a long table and a few chairs clustered at one end.
In one of them was Nathan Ford.
Orange—mused the small part of Jo's mind that wasn't busy keeping her from hugging him—wasn't really his color. Neither was stainless steel, she thought, as the cuffs rattled against the legs of his chair.
"I've brought you a visitor today," said Sterling.
"Hello, Mr. Ford," said Jo. "Do you remember me?"
Nothing in Nate's posture or expression indicated surprise or concern. "Hello, Ms. Schulte. To what do I owe this pleasure?"
"Robert Wencel tried to have me kidnapped," she said.
Nate's spine straightened—just a little, but Jo saw it. "Revenge? Or information?"
"Probably both," said Sterling. "MR.s Wencel emptied a very important safety deposit box on her way out of town. If she left town."
Nate ignored him. "Tell me about it."
Jo glanced at Sterling and started talking, glossing over a few things and using free cryptic with others. ". . . And here we are."
"So now you want me to tell you where Madeline Wencel is?" he asked.
"I'm hoping you could just tell me where that stuff from the safety deposit box is hidden."
He shook his head. "That, I don't know. And I suppose Sterling here won't arrest him without whatever it is."
"Got it in one, Mr. Ford." She cleared her throat. "I'm not afraid for me . . . but if he comes after my children . . ."
Nate's eyes widened. "I thought you only had a son."
She couldn't help but grin and touch her stomach. "Twelve weeks yesterday," she said. "Wencel kind of interrupted our celebration."
For a moment, his whole face brightened. "Hey, that's—congratulations, Ms. Schulte."
"Thank you." She grinned back. "But the doctors are telling me I have to take it easy, and this is about as stressful a situation as I can think of. Can you help me, one more time?"
Nate's expression went grave. "Well, I'm still not—" He broke off as Sterling's phone rang.
Sterling took it out, glanced at the number, and went into a corner to mutter in a low voice.
"Mr. Ford," said Jo, mindful of recording devices. "It really is good to see you again."
"Don't worry,' he said, keeping his voice low. "Sterling has all the cameras and microphones turned off in here during his little visits. He doesn't share well with others. I'm so happy to hear about the baby. Ron must be over the moon."
"Dougie, too, I think," she said. "How're you holding up?"
"Not bad for someone who was shot a couple months ago. I wish someone had loaned me a Kevlar vest," he said, referencing the first time they'd worked together.
"Did you think to ask?" she shot back, in the same, slightly sarcastic voice.
Nate started to say something, but stopped to look at Sterling, whose voice was rising.
". . . do we pay you for? Never mind!" He said a bad word very loudly and jammed his phone into his pocket. "Someone just tried to access restricted files on Robert Wencel."
"Don't look at me," said Nate, easily. "I don't even have TV privileges in here."
Jo tried to look puzzled instead of alarmed. It didn't have to be Hardison—the odds were better that Wencel himself wanted to know what kind of information the agency had on him-but she knew it was him all the same. It wasn't always a good thing to be the best there was.
Sterling's frown deepened. He walked to the table. "Show me your ears," he ordered Jo in a voice that reminded her that he was a dangerous man.
"What?"
"Show me," he said, "your ears."
Nate spoke in a quiet voice. "Sterling, she doesn't know what you're talking about."
"I'm waiting."
Jo slowly tucked her hair back, and put her hands on the table so he wouldn't think she'd palmed anything. She flinched as Sterling gripped her chin and was careful not to resist as he moved her head to one side and the other, though she couldn't keep her hands from clenching into fists.
"Sterling," said Nate, his own voice dangerous.
Sterling backed away, hands up. "My apologies, Ms. Schulte. These are trying times."
"Tell me about it," she said, having no trouble expressing outrage. "What were you looking for, waxy build up?"
He ignored her and looked at Nate. "Are you going to tell us where you sent Madeline Wencel?"
"No," said Nate.
"No," said Sterling. "May I remind you—"
"I'm going to tell Ms. Schulte. You are not invited. Or," he said, as Sterling opened his mouth, "we can wait for my lawyer. I think she's in Germany at the moment."
"You acted as your own counsel," growled Sterling.
"I'm thinking of making a change." Nate gave his patented innocent smile. "You know what they say about a man who defends himself."
Sterling's lip curled and Jo didn't have to guess what he wanted to say. He visibly restrained himself. "Five minutes," he said, and stalked out.
"You really get under his skin," said Jo.
Nate smiled. "Mmmm. I can't imagine why. But we don't have much time before he gets the recording devices turned back on." His hand shot out to grab hers. "How are they?"
"Surviving. Parker thinks you're an idiot, Hardison is hurt that you didn't let them help, and Spencer . . . he's still pretending you don't exist." Jo pulled away. "Do you know how hard it is for them? They trusted you to trust them. Do you have any idea—"
"I have a very good idea," he said, and she could see the tired pain in his eyes. "Believe me. But what about Sophie . . . is she . . . does she—"
"Forgive you? Of course she will, you martyred son-of-a-bitch. How could you do this to her? You know how she feels about you."
He closed his eyes and rubbed his cheek. "Sophie can hold her own."
She snorted. "She's too soft on you—I would have broken your jaw. Of all the self-important, selfish—"
"I would have thought you of all people would understand. We do what we have to, to keep our loved ones safe." His blue gaze seared into her eyes. "We'll do anything at all, because we failed once—and facing their anger and hatred is better than burying them."
Jo's breath hissed out. "You don't play your own team."
"Do they know you're here?" he said, so quietly that the words seemed like telepathy. "With Sterling?"
She stared at him, wanting to belt him one, just for being right. She'd bet that almost everyone he met felt the same way. She opened her mouth to ask, but he reached out and patted her hand. "I'm sorry you've had such a rough time, Ms. Schulte."
She sighed, and rubbed her eyes. "Please just tell me where Madeline Wencel is," she said, not bothering to keep her voice down. "I want to go home. I miss my family."
Nate blew out a breath. "I can relate," he said. "Madeline Wencel is in the last place you'd look—or want to."
She waited. "Can you be more specific?"
He raised his eyebrows. "The very last."
Jo thought about that. The last place she'd want to . . . Her eyes widened. "No. No way."
He smiled, and damn if his eyes didn't twinkle. "Bet you a hundred?"
She closed her eyes. "Mr. Sterling!"
The door opened. "Yes?"
She stood. "We're done here." She held out her hand. "Have a good sentencing, Mr. Ford."
"Thank you, Ms. Schulte," he said, giving her fingers a squeeze. "Please give my regards to your family."
Jo walked past Sterling and the two guards and kept going down the hall until she was stopped by the gate. She glanced at Sterling, who had caught up. "How do you keep from punching him in the nose?"
"It's a constant temptation, believe me. Where are we headed?"
Damn it, damn it, damn it.
"Franklinsburg," she said, through her teeth. "We're going to goddamn Franklinsburg."
If all isn't clear, it soon will be. I hope.
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