The Broken Road
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters in this fic!
Chapter Twenty-One
So very glad. Her words shot straight through him, a slice of heaven; sweet, stunning and true. An arm snaked out, wrapped around her waist, tugged her close. Content to stand with her by his side, miraculously at peace with himself and the news Dan accidentally let slip, he watched and waited until they were on the floor to the penthouse. When the doors opened, inviting them out into the hallway, Jim reluctantly dropped his arm from her waist, only to end up holding onto her hand instead.
"We need to smile," Trixie ordered softly, her cheeks turning a pretty pink. She couldn't believe how relaxed she felt around him again; how comfortable, how tranquil. Had someone asked her even an hour ago if she thought they could ever overcome the newest hurdle, her answer would have been an unequivocal no. Now, with Dan's astuteness, her resulting flippant behavior, and Jim's willingness to cave and actually admit what was bothering him the most, her heart felt lighter, surer, and much happier. She pinned a smile on her face, one that deepened the beautiful sapphire blue of her eyes. Standing on tiptoes, she brushed a small kiss on his cheek and whispered lowly, "We need to look happy and excited. Tonight is supposed to be about the realizations of our dreams, the end of our financial problems, the beginning of our future happiness. We have to be ecstatic."
With her kiss still warm on his cheek, he smiled back at her. "Will this work?"
Since it took her breath away, she knew it would. "Yes," she murmured, dazzled by him. Going with the gentleness of the moment, she laid her head on his shoulder and breathed in deeply, simply enjoying the moment. "There's no need to worry. Everything's going to be just fine."
"I know it will." His voice was deep and throaty. He gave in, rubbed his chin over the gilded waterfall that was her curls, reveling in the softness of the texture, the pure sweetness that was her. "This is it, Trix. Let's go do what you do best."
She couldn't have been more astonished. Her mouth bowed open and she dropped back, to stare at him. A close inspection of his face revealed that he wasn't being sarcastic or facetious. He meant it. Because he did, a special spark entered her eyes. Luscious lips in a vibrant shade of red curved. Delighted, she grabbed his hand and led the way towards the front door of the penthouse, an excited bounce to her step. A poke of the doorbell sent the chimes ringing rhythmically.
The door opened before the doorbell had a chance to repeat the musical pattern. The disapproving butler was back, only dressed in more casual attire this time than he had been before. Khaki pants, a white button-down shirt with thin blue stripes, dark brown loafers. Well-dressed and quite casual. "I see you're back," he remarked in his practiced polite tones that weren't polite in the least, not when spoken to them. He stepped back, lowered himself enough to motion them to come inside, and looked down his nose.
She noticed the clothing, and its implication, immediately. Her earlier unsettled suspicions about the meeting returned with an eerie vengeance, carelessly destroying their almost idyllic interlude. She gripped Jim's hand tightly and nodded at the butler but didn't move forward, debating the best move for them. "Do you have special plans for the evening?" she inquired brightly, her mind spinning with many various possibilities. Not many of them were pleasant.
He unbent enough from his lofty perch to nod his head. Stiffly. Since they didn't make a move to enter the penthouse and his night off officially commenced when the antique grandfather clock intoned eight o'clock three minutes earlier, he decided it was his boss's problem, not his. Striding out of the penthouse, he brushed past them. "I believe Mr. Young is awaiting your arrival inside," he offered and walked away from them without a backwards glance.
Her suspicions were right. The butler wasn't going to be there. Her back went ramrod straight. Her eyes frosted with worry. She reached into her purse, pulled out her cell, needing to have it at the ready should it become necessary. Fellow agents were only a quick touch away. She'd put the new app to use without a qualm. There was no way she was putting Jim's well-being in jeopardy. So in tune to her, Jim quickly caught on to her swift change in mood. A dark frown settled on his face.
"Ah! The guests of the evening!" Mr. Young sang out congenially. Arms spread out wide in apparent welcome, he walked towards them, sauntering the entire way, and met them at the entrance, a delighted grin on his face. "Come on in, you two. What are you doing out there, in the hallway? Please, step inside. We've been waiting for you."
Trixie recovered quickly. Ignoring the strange look Jim gifted her with, she pulled her lips into a travesty of a smile. Only someone who truly knew her would have realized how false it was. "We were merely wishing your butler a good evening, Mr. Young. It appears he must have the evening off."
"Every now and then he asks for a Saturday night to himself," Mr. Young admitted, keeping to himself the fact that his butler hadn't requested the evening off but had, instead, been offered it. With full pay. He'd even given the man a fistful of one hundred dollar bills to start him off at the tables in the casino below. He wasn't expected to return until well into the night. "He's so good at his job. I can never bring myself to tell him no."
"You're a good employer," Trixie simpered, offering up the correct answer. Unable to combat the odd shiver that worked its way up her spine, she barely resisted the urge to look over her shoulder. "He's lucky to have you."
Mr. Young preened under the praise. He moved back, gestured for the two of them to enter the penthouse, and closed the door with an ominous click once they did. "Please. Follow me. I'll bring you in to the dining room. Dinner tonight is a specialty of my chef's. I think you're going to enjoy it."
She palmed her cell, ready to tap the handy little app should it be deemed necessary, and moved in front of Jim, wanting to cover him. Mr. Young advanced through the penthouse with a speed she hadn't associated him with, leading them through the spacious and opulently decorated living room. She carefully inspected each aspect of the room but couldn't see anything untoward. No one was around. No one. It was quiet…almost jarringly so. Already nervous, her senses went on full alert.
"You didn't have a chance to see the formal dining room the last time you were here." Mr. Young looked back over his shoulder as he led them through the large and ostentatious living room. "I think you'll enjoy it. There is an absolutely spectacular view of the strip. It's fantastic. You can see everything of importance from here."
"Sounds wonderful," Jim inserted when he realized Trixie wasn't going to offer up anything. He granted her a quizzical look. Understanding dawned quickly. She was uncomfortable with the situation. Extremely so. Because she was wary, he felt it, too. When he noticed the cell in her hand, he shot her another strange look and almost voiced his concerns. A quick, almost imperceptible shake of her head had him swallowing back his question.
Unaware of the signs flinging back and forth between his two guests practically underneath his nose, Mr. Young stopped in the middle of the room to give an appreciative grin. "You better believe it is, Hart. In my opinion, it's the best view the city has to offer. You can feel the city humming at your feet. The gorgeous skyline. All those bright lights. It's something you won't forget, I can promise you that."
Trixie lifted her head. It's something you won't forget. The words matched her sinister feeling, in an unpleasantly perfect way. Sweat pooled in her palms while she tried to come up with a way out of the penthouse, a way where she wouldn't raise Mr. Young's suspicions or his ire. Unfortunately, nothing came to mind. She was blank.
Mr. Young continued speaking, never thinking twice about the sudden pallor to her cheeks, "The dining room is right through the door. My wife and I don't use the formal room a lot. We prefer to eat our meals on the enclosed terrace or in the comfortable little nook in our kitchen. We only use it when we have very special guests over." He stressed the word special on purpose and gifted them with another large, toothy smile.
The compliment should have sounded sincere. The accompanying smile should have looked genuine. Neither did, not to her. Bright, bright red flags were rippling before her eyes, warning her to proceed with extreme care. Pale with worry, Trixie demurred because it was expected of her but the color refused to re-enter her face. "Thank you, Mr. Young."
"Oh, it's my pleasure. Believe me." Mr. Young bent down and gallantly reached for her hand. He pressed a swift kiss to the top, never realized the effort it cost her not to snap her hand back, and tugged her towards the room. The door was closed. "This is it. My cook made a wonderful eggplant parmigiana for dinner." He stopped to sniff the air. "Hmm. Can you smell it? It's too die for good."
"I can smell it." Trixie forced the happiest possible tone to her voice. It sounded tenuous at best. "Is it as good as the beef stroganoff?"
"Better." He tossed a wink her way, let go of her hand. Five feet from the doorway, his cell let out a musical chirp. He pulled it out, frowned down at it. A pre-arranged text message from Ritch. We're ready was all it said. He tapped a finger against his chin, apparently in deep thought, and suggested, an apologetic expression on his face, "I'm really sorry for the delay, guys. I'm going to need to respond to this text right away. Why don't you head on in and get settled? I'll be along in a few minutes."
"Okay." Trixie's heart rate sped up. Already knowing she wasn't going to like what she found behind the door, she approached it with an unusual sort of trepidation that normally didn't assault her on a mission. It didn't help that they had the unknown ahead and the known behind. It certainly didn't help that she had Jim at her side. And then there was the fact that they were going to be sandwiched between Mr. Young and whoever was inside the room. Realizing that she could be putting Jim in a potentially precarious situation made her extra cautious. She tossed a slanted glance over her shoulder; saw Mr. Young with his back to them, apparently busy with a phone call. Holding her cell with one hand, she carefully felt for the gun hidden within the lining of her purse. Her free hand closed over it while she nodded at Jim to open the door.
Jim sucked in a deep breath. She looked composed. She looked relaxed. She appeared to be comfortable. Looks were deceiving. Whether it came from their adolescent years of working on mysteries together or more from his own innate sense of all that was Trixie, he knew. When she nodded again, he slowly turned the doorknob and pushed the door open. It opened soundlessly. It felt like even the air had turned stagnant.
Trixie put out a hand to prevent him from entering first. "Let me," she murmured, wanting to be the first one in, needing to get the best view of whatever pleasant or unpleasant surprises were awaiting them inside the room. She didn't give him a chance to refuse.
The first thing she noticed upon stepping over the threshold was the smell of the food. Mr. Young wasn't lying about that. Four sets of covered silver platters were placed out invitingly on the table. The light from the large chandelier above reflected off the silver tops, gleaming bright, almost blinding. A large Waterford vase sat sentinel in the center of the table. Countless tulips in multiple colors cheerfully poked their way out of it. One worry down. It really was the formal dinner room. And he really was offering dinner. To them? She couldn't be certain. Not yet.
She took another step forward, sent a long searching glance to the left, quickly cataloguing it. Another door; closed. Probably led straight to the kitchen, she mused inwardly, for the ease of the staff in serving the meal. It was the only other exit/entrance to the room. She lifted an eyebrow and turned to look at the right side of the room.
Then all she felt was a jolt. Something hard, unexpected, pressed right to the center of her upper back. The pain. Immense. One long, low gasp of sheer and total shock. Her purse slipped from fingers unable to hold onto the strap any longer. Her cell clattered next, landing on the gleaming hardwood floor. Without a word, without a warning, her legs buckled and she fell, too. She tried to brace herself but couldn't. Her hands refused to obey the mental order to move. She landed on the floor in an ungraceful heap. Her head grazed the wall, made solid contact with the floor. She could feel the bump on the back of her head but her hands wouldn't move to touch it. And her legs…she wanted to stand up again, she truly did, but they wouldn't move either. Her body truly felt like it had been turned to stone. Nothing moved. Nothing worked.
Panic briefly overwhelmed her. Then she ordered her mind to calm down, to start to figure out what had happened. Since her eyes were the only thing that she seemed to have any control over, she flicked them off to the side, saw a pair of rugged mountain boots close by her face. A low, fierce growl of pure, unadulterated fury came from behind, one she immediately recognized as belonging to Jim, and then the owner of the mountain boots was slammed back a good five feet and collided into an ornamental table. Wood skittered, splintered. Glass clinked, toppled, and then smashed on the floor. She closed her eyes. Luckily, none of the glass came near her. Something else did, though. Something hard slipped out of the unknown assailant's hands, rolled to a stop next to her purse. Squinting, she stared at the black object, realized what exactly had been used on her.
Dwelling in that realm well beyond fury, Jim threw off another man who had come up from behind to trying to restrain him. A vicious snarl emanated from his lips, an uncivilized sound he'd never thought he could ever produce. He crouched down protectively in front of Trixie, keeping a hand on her waist. The first man he'd tossed halfway across the room started to move forward, ready for round two. He shook his head, glared, and declared in a low, threatening voice, "Don't even think about it."
Ritch dusted off the seat of his pants and wiped away the thin trail of blood coming from his nose. Never had he expected Hart to have such a strong left hand punch. Never had he expected him to show such anger, either. He'd classified the redhead as relatively harmless. It looked like he was going to have to rethink his analysis. Gingerly, he felt the side of his face. Already starting to swell. His eyes narrowed dangerously on the couple. The woman was already incapacitated, wouldn't be moving of her own free will for quite some time. Hart…well, he was looking a little too healthy. Evening the score seemed like a wonderful idea. He took a menacing step forward, meaning to do just that, only to have his intentions brought up short. His face pulled back in a sneer, much like a dog would when it reached the end of its chain, but he obeyed. Reluctantly.
"What do we have here?" Mr. Young sang out gaily from the doorway, obviously pleased by the sight before him. He made a small tsking sound, shook a finger in the direction of Ritch, and motioned towards the couple. "Ritch. Ritch. Ritch. Honestly. What were you thinking? Is this any way to treat our guests?"
Although he despised doing it, he managed to regain control. Ritch watched dispassionately as Jim gently cradled Trixie in his arms. Since he wasn't going to get any satisfaction right now, he dropped back. Broken glass crunched under his boots. "Guests, no," he answered, well-versed with how his employer had planned on handling the situation. Everything had been carefully planned out, from the very beginning to the various possible endings. "But there's a slight problem. We're not certain how to classify our visitors anymore. Are they guests? Maybe. Or they could be considered something else."
Rocking back on his heels, Mr. Young pretended to ponder the answer. "Hmm…Excellent point there. Absolutely excellent. We don't know if we have guests, liars, or downright enemies in this room with us right now." He lifted a shoulder, walked past the two sitting on the floor as if he didn't know they were there, and skirted around the large dining room table.
Ritch leaned down and picked up the small item he'd used to immobilize the woman. He quickly checked her over. She was breathing and she was aware. She wasn't moving, though. And she wouldn't be, not for a long time to come. Delighted with his night's work so far, he leered at her, completely ignoring the waves of anger emanating from her fiancé. While not physically incapacitated at the moment, Hart couldn't do anything right now. Whistling, he joined Mr. Young at the side bar. Getting into the spirit of the evening, he posed the next question, "How are we going to decide who, exactly, we have visiting with us this evening?"
Acting as if the two objects of their conversation weren't currently in the room with them, Mr. Young poured a glass full of his favored wine and offered it to Ritch. After pouring another one for himself, he pulled out a chair and sat down. Sniffing the air; he placed an expensive lace napkin on his lap, lifted the cover off his dinner and began cutting his eggplant parmigiana into tiny, precise squares. Only then did he answer the question. "So far, we have met our first criteria. Hart and Johnson have to know by now we're seriously displeased with them."
"You could say that again," Ritch answered jovially. Copying his employer's movements, he sat down at the table. Both men had a perfect view of the couple.
Trixie heard everything. She listened as attentively as possible, doing her best to overlook the annoying fact that she didn't have any control over her body. It could have been much worse, of that she had no doubt. The small electro-shock device hadn't been allowed to show the depths of its true power. She'd obviously only been given a minor dose, just enough to incapacitate but not enough to continually hurt. When she saw Jim reach for her cell phone, she gathered all her strength to shake her head. It wasn't much of a shake, more of a small tilt to the side, but it worked. Surprised, he looked down at her, concern evident on his handsome face. It took a huge effort but she forced her mouth to form the single word. "No," she whispered hoarsely, already coming to the conclusion that having her fellow agents burst in on the situation wouldn't be in their best interest. Not with her immobile and an armed set of heavies who'd appeared out of nowhere to guard each doorway. Neither she nor Jim would stand a chance.
He followed her eyes, frowned at the burly men and noted the presence of their weapons. "Yeah. I get it," he mumbled back, understanding without words that they were at a serious disadvantage. He didn't have a doubt in his mind that Trixie would have been able to get the two of them out of the situation, had she not been taken down. He clasped her closer, kissed her on the forehead, and sent an icy glare of hatred towards the two men sitting at the table, who were calmly eating their meal as if they didn't have a set of guests watching them from the floor.
"I see our darling girl over there is enjoying her present," Ritch noted jovially.
After thoughtfully chewing his most recent bite of the delicious meal, Mr. Young deliberately laid down his fork. Although he only spared a short glance in their direction, he took everything in. Turning back to Ritch, he corrected, "I'm not sure if enjoying is the right word, Ritch. She doesn't look all that comfortable right now. And her fiancé? Well, he seems mad. Livid, even. Tell me again what you gave to her. I'm curious."
Ritch felt the burning emerald eyes of the furious man upon him. The promise of retribution of equal or greater force was definitely there, couldn't be ignored. It unsettled him. He chose to shrug it off and lifted the black item in his hand. "Do you remember this useful item, Mr. Young? We acquired it a while back. We haven't found a buyer yet who'd like to purchase the prototype, though. No one has agreed to meet our price. So we truly have the only one currently in existence."
"It is a clever little thing," Mr. Young agreed after forking some more of the delicious smelling food into his mouth. "It's come in handy a few times since it's come into our possession."
Ritch turned it over, inspecting it closely. "It's better than a taser. In fact, it's the best electro-shock weapon out there. It has to be. Not only does it completely immobilize all victims immediately on contact and sends them straight to the ground, rendering them totally helpless, it also keeps them there for a much longer time than the mere minutes caused by the taser," he concluded with an ugly little laugh.
"How did she get to be the lucky one?" Eyebrows lifted, he waited for the answer
Ritch carelessly lifted a shoulder. "I wasn't picky. I figured I'd share it with the first one who came through the door. It turned out to be her. Fortunate girl." He took a leisurely sip of his wine, followed by a large forkful of his dinner. Then he reached over, ripped a roll in half and calmly started buttering it. "She didn't get a full blast, though. I had it set on the lowest possible setting. All she's experiencing right now is minor compared to what she could be experiencing. She simply can't move. Nothing more, nothing less."
"You're right. It could have been much worse." Mr. Young idly swirled the red liquid in his glass, raised it in a silent, mocking salute to Jim and Trixie, the first time he'd acknowledged their presence. "I can say that the evening could be termed a success so far. We certainly have the attention of our…ah…guests. We can easily assume that they both must understand the seriousness of their current situation. Don't you think so, Ritch?"
"Definitely. But let's ask them for their input." A satisfied curl tugged up his lips. "Hart? Johnson? What are your thoughts?"
"Go to hell." Quietly uttered but with a great deal of serious heat behind it. He turned his shoulder on the two, wrapped his arms around her in order to offer the only protection that he could. He placed her cell phone on the floor, right next to them, to allow her fellow agents the best possible view. Her purse he kept hidden, behind her back. He snuck a hand into it, found the presence of her gun. Carefully, he began working its way free from the lining. Just in case.
Ritch turned back to Mr. Young, eyebrows raised and a pleased glint to his eyes. "While we didn't hear a thing from Johnson over there, I think it's safe to say that she understands the seriousness of their position. Hart, who we did hear from, sounds extremely ticked off right now."
Mr. Young leaned back in his seat. A deep chuckle shook his chest, rumbled out and filled the air. He clapped Ritch on the shoulder. "I agree with you there. I certainly do. Hart's going to have to get his feelings under control though since he's the one who's going to have to field all of our questions. We'll be reaching stage two of the evening soon, you know. Inquisition."
"After dinner?" Ritch inquired hopefully. He gestured towards their half-eaten dinner, felt his stomach rumble. "I always enjoy a good inquisition much better after a full stomach."
"By all means. After dinner it is." Mr. Young turned enough in his chair so that he wasn't staring directly at Jim and Trixie any longer. He pitched his voice lower, intentionally keeping it softer so Jim and Trixie couldn't hear them, and began a murmured discussion on the rest of their plans for the evening.
Trixie closed her eyes, trying to battle her frustrations with her immobility. Whoever created this weapon had more than improved upon the taser. She didn't have the ability to move, couldn't string together two coherent syllables, let alone attempt to talk. In essence, she was completely and totally defenseless. There were only two things she still retained the ability to do: breathe and think. Grateful for the wall of strength Jim provided her, she gave up trying to regain control of her muscles and listened to the rhythm of his heart, in desperate need of something positive and strong to focus on.
Feeling her pain, her desperation, and, even worse, her defeat, Jim dropped his head on top of hers and nuzzled the curls. He murmured a low string of supportive, encouraging words, right by her ear, quiet enough so only she could hear, and was rewarded with a small sigh. The sight of her hand lying limply against her thigh made his fury resurge. He gently reached around, picked it up, and laced their fingers together, hoping to infuse some of his strength into her. He breathed in deeply, her lovely berry-scented shampoo tickling his nose, and whispered while the two men continued their meal at the table, "We'll get through this, Trix. You've got my word."
Somehow she managed to move her head. It was small, nearly unnoticeable. He felt it. It took a few tries but she made her lips form the word. "You," she said, her voice hoarse, rough and rasping, hoping he understood what she was trying to get across.
He understood. Resting his chin on top of her head, he vowed, "I'll do it. I'll say whatever it takes to get us out of here. You can trust me." Jim tightened his hold on her. He started to draw small circles on her hand, concentrating on the softness of her skin, the small wispy breaths escaping her lips, the even rise and fall of her chest. The male voices from the bastards above droned around and beyond him. He didn't attempt to listen in, not particularly caring about anything the two had to say. Instead, he focused on what was coming next. Inquisition. Soon. He had to be ready for it, to field all their questions and create the best possible answers. And he wasn't leaving Trixie's side. They were in it together.
When chairs scraped back and twin dark shadows loomed above, Jim went with defiance and refused to look up at them. He found more pleasure in staring down at Trixie's hand held securely within his. He held on, waited for them to begin whatever it was they had in mind next, while fury like he'd never experienced before ate away at him.
"Here, Ritch? Or my office?" Mr. Young inclined his head to the side, looked down his nose at the two cozied up on the floor. There was one thing he already knew with a certainty. Whatever the two were, whatever they turned out to be, he was one hundred percent convinced that they were truthful about their feelings for each other. It was evidenced in the way Hart was holding onto his girl; in the way she was resting against him. Their relationship was solid, not a front for some inexplicable, unexplained reason. "Where do you think would be best for the question and answer period?"
"Why don't you take Hart to your office? I'll be glad to watch over Johnson, if you'd like," Ritch offered, a smile that could only be termed slimy tipping his lips up. "We can stay here. I'll take good care of her."
Jim snapped his eyes, revolted by the very thought. Max's warning from the beginning of the mission rang clearly through his mind. He offered up one word, one word only. "Never."
Mr. Young's eyebrows lifted. He'd already seen the bruise forming on Ritch's face, as well as the tell-tale trace of leftover blood. He himself had felt the anger directed at them from Hart for what they had done to Trixie. And now Hart was staring at them through cold eyes that promised serious retribution. He didn't take offense. It actually impressed him, made him see one James W. Hart in a new light. He hadn't pegged him as a fighter. Filing away the information, he suggested evenly, "We'll all stay here. You and Johnson look pretty comfortable on the floor. We'll allow you to keep your spots as our doormats. You're doing marvelously well at it."
Disappointment flickered briefly in Ritch's eyes before he accepted his boss's decision. He pivoted around, stomped over to the sidebar, and returned with two laptops. He put one in front of Mr. Young, set the other one up in front of himself, and sat in the chair Mr. Young motioned for him to take. "I have everything we need to begin," he said, sounding snubbed.
"As I said before, we are now at stage two," Mr. Young began, acting like he was running a complicated board meeting instead of dancing around the fate of the two literally sitting before him. "We will ask the questions. You, Hart, will provide all the answers."
Sitting on the floor with their two inquisitors frowning down at them left him at a distinct disadvantage. Being called by a last name, and a last name that wasn't his, only made it more so. Having Trixie pressed against his side gave him the courage to listen, to think, and to vow to respond in any way that would get them out of this current situation safely. Lying? He nearly snorted at the thought. He'd do it, and then some, to get Trixie away from these two. Glowering, he sneered, "What are your questions?"
"Now, now, Hart. There is no need to be hostile," Mr. Young chastised, wagging a finger at him and woefully shaking his head at the same time. In a long-suffering voice, he continued, "After all, you were invited into my home. Twice. A fine dinner was served, in your presence, I must add, and now you are being afforded the chance to defend yourselves. Truly, that is a lot. You must know I don't always offer such a chance to others who have lost my trust."
"I appreciate it," Jim muttered through clenched teeth. His tone said it all. He didn't appreciate it, not in the least.
"Good." Mr. Young nodded, knowing that was the only amount of cooperation he was going to get out of the man. It still surprised him, that strength of steel. He hadn't pegged it. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, he shot out the first point of contention. "Here is the first issue. This morning, my right-hand man, Ritch, had a conversation with one of the hotel clerks downstairs. Her name happens to be Maria. She checked your fiancée in. She also talked to you the afternoon you checked in with the concierge, too. She brought to light a slight inconsistency to us." He took a deep breath for effect. "Tell me, Hart. Why did you check in only a few minutes after Beatrix Johnson did? You successfully explained away the two different room numbers a while back but never brought up this issue. I need an answer…a satisfactory answer. I need it now."
A highly gifted liar he was not but Jim pulled out all the stops. With Trixie's well-being on the line, he strove for perfection. Keeping his face expressionless, only allowing the anger he was feeling to be revealed by the flickers of heat within the deepening emerald of his eyes, he concentrated completely on the feel of Trixie. The lie fell off of his lips, as smooth as the butter melting on the silver trays on the table. "It was all part of the surprise. I came in on another flight, landed a few minutes after Trixie's. I even saw her exiting the lobby. I wanted the surprise of our suite to be just right so I didn't try to catch up with her then." He threw in a shrug, paired it up with another glare. "That's all. There wasn't anything devious or nefarious to it. I merely wanted to surprise my fiancée."
Ritch cued up his laptop. All business now, he clipped out, wanting the details, "You said you came in on another flight. Where did you come in from?"
Since he was glancing down at the halo of blonde curls spread across his chest, Jim was able to successfully hide his surprise. Hoping that Max and the rest of Trixie's agents were listening in and able to make his lies a reality, he called out the first city that came into his mind. "San Francisco. I was there for a job interview."
Mr. Young put his hands behind his head. He arched an eyebrow at Ritch and ordered, "Check the flights for Wednesday."
Ritch's fingers flew across the keyboard. Using his superior computer skills, he accessed the airport's schedule for Wednesday, saw a flight from LA that he knew from past research that Beatrix Johnson, and only Beatrix Johnson, had arrived on. Then he started scrolling down. After a moment, he nodded. "James W. Hart. He's listed on a flight from San Francisco," he murmured, confirming the information. "It's here, Mr. Young. It arrived twelve minutes after her flight."
It was the first sign Jim had that Trixie's friends were working on the other end, most likely furiously, to get them out of here. He let out a low, controlled breath. They were keeping up with him. "I told you," he growled, going for belligerent. "We've done absolutely nothing to deserve the treatment you've given us today. Nothing."
"Maybe. Maybe not." Mr. Young tossed a patronizing smile down at the hostile man literally reclining at his feet. "It's business. When it comes to business, I don't take any chances. None at all. You'll have to excuse me."
"No, I don't," Jim shot back, letting a little of the famous Frayne temper loose. It felt good.
The insolence didn't bother him. Mr. Young laughed, slapped a hand on his knee, and suggested, "Well, how about this. If you clear up all of my questions and worries, I'll be glad to make you an offer. Twice what you're asking. It'll be my apology for putting you and your lovely fiancée through this slight…inconvenience."
Jim wanted to tell him to take that offer and shove it somewhere painful but Trixie sighed again. He got the picture. "We'll think about it," he grumbled. "For some reason, I can't discuss it with Trix. She's not in the best shape right now."
He felt the recrimination but let it roll off of him in the same way water slipped off the back of a duck. Resiliency. There was nothing like it. "Let's see about issue number two." Mr. Young turned back to his laptop. He called up the surveillance tape and quickly showed the first tape he found bothersome. "This is the beginning of it. Look. Right here." A finger tapped as a handsome man entered the hotel. "This unknown man came into the hotel's lobby today. Early afternoon, I do believe."
"1:05 PM," Ritch supplied helpfully.
"Yes. You're right." Steepling his fingers, Mr. Young studied the time. "We haven't been able to piece together where he came from, what he's doing here, or even where he went after he talked to your girl outside of the bar. But you can help us right now. Let me warn you. Don't even think about lying. I know he's acquainted with your girl. What's his name?"
Truly hoping he was giving the right answers, saying the right things, Jim's mind whirled with possibilities. Obviously, Dan was the second issue. He recalled how they came by their present names, decided it would work for Dan, too. Simple and sweet, as Trixie had advised him earlier. It would be easy for them to remember too. "Daniel Regan," he answered quickly.
"Daniel Regan." Mr. Young leaned back in his chair and repeated the name. "Daniel Regan. Good, strong name there. Sounds Irish. Tell me more about Daniel Regan. I want to know everything that you know. Now."
"I don't know much," Jim began, hedging as much as he could. Grateful Ritch wasn't yet typing in his computer, wasn't starting to search out a Daniel Regan, he explained slowly, "I know he's an ex of Trix's. That's all. Short and simple. I didn't know about their relationship until she confessed it to me when we went back to the room."
Hitting the scroll bar, Mr. Young moved forward until the incident from outside the bar was flashing before them in all its bright glory that rivaled anything ever put out with Technicolor. "I see. I see." He hummed, watched it again with a new insight. It made sense, truly it did. An ex. Pleased with the beginning of the explanation, he pointed to the embrace, the one Dan seemed to be enjoying way more than Johnson. "Ritch, that would explain why she wasn't enthusiastic about the hug."
"Also, it would tell us why she pulled Hart away at the end. She never even let him talk to Daniel Regan. If I remember correctly, she looked worried, too." Ritch frowned at the scene, not sold on the explanation yet. The answer almost seemed too…pat. He'd like to know more. Much more.
"You're frowning," Mr. Young noted curiously.
"I don't know. Ex-boyfriend fits but…" Ritch lifted the corner of his mouth.
"Yeah. You're right." His eyes snapped back to Jim. "We need more. Job, history, their relationship. All that stuff. Start talking. We'll do the checking."
"If it gets us out of here, you better believe I'll tell you. Anything you want." A hundred different possibilities started swirling through his mind. Hundreds of them. Working hard to appear calm and in control, Jim quickly discarded the most unrealistic ones of all. Hoping the CDA could keep up with him, he took a deep breath.
"We're listening." Mr. Young picked up his favored silver monogrammed pen. Rolling it between his fingers, he watched Jim with the cool intensity a cobra gave its prey right before it struck.
Jim exhaled his deep breath slowly. "I believe he works for a dealership; selling cars. At least, that's what he did when he dated Trixie. When he lived in LA. Trix told me that was just his day job, though. According to her, he was actually waiting for his big break or something like that."
"Actor, huh?" Mr. Young started to methodically click and unclick his pen, a sure sign that he was judging the veracity of Jim's explanation.
"I think. She could answer this better than I could, though. Someone made sure she can't right now." He aimed a killer of a glare at Ritch.
Ritch threw up his hands, not feeling the least bit of guilt over the whole escapade. Truth to tell, he'd enjoyed watching her collapse to the ground. "Hey, don't look at me, Hart. It could just as easily have been you if you'd been the first one to come into the room. It was simply the luck of the draw, man. The luck of the draw."
"Don't get off track here." Mr. Young admonished. "So, he's a car dealer by day, an actor by night. Lived in LA. Does he still live there?"
Jim shook his head. "I don't think things worked out well for him there. Trix said that the last she heard he'd given up the acting bug and moved away. She didn't know where, though."
Mr. Young held up his hand, preventing any other flow of words. "That's enough for us to work on. Type it in, Ritch. Where did Daniel Regan move to?"
Ritch did as requested. "Three men with the same name have popped up so far," he explained as he started investigating the names. "First one, Daniel R. Regan…yeah, not our guy. Fifty-eight and lives in Portland, Oregon. Second one, one Daniel S. Regan…could be him. Let me dig a little deeper." Frowning, he concentrated on the info appearing on the computer screen. "There's not much here. Says he drives for a trucking company, has an apartment in Phoenix. Age would be…forty-three."
"That's not him." Mr. Young shook his head. "Let's hear the bio on the last one."
Jim sent up a prayer, hoping that Trixie's fellow agents had enough time to complete a history on one Daniel Regan. It hadn't taken them long to come up with one for him. He wasn't certain if five minutes was enough time, though. His heart rate increased with each second that passed by.
"Daniel Thomas Regan. Born in Three Springs, South Dakota. Small town. Population: under one thousand. Moved to LA a few years back. Had a few small roles in some television shows, a recurring role on a now-defunct soap opera, appeared in a couple of commercials. Nothing big, it seems, and nothing within the past couple of years. He worked as a bouncer, worked for…oh, here it is…Ford. And currently resides in…Santa Barbara. It looks like he was transferred down there from the dealership. As you said, acting did not work out well for him." Satisfied they hit on the right person, he winked at Mr. Young.
"I'm telling you right now. There was no reason for all of this." Jim barely held onto the leash of his temper. "No reason at all. We have answers for all your questions. All of them," he stressed strongly. "You've made a huge mistake."
"It's not only about the answers, Hart, although that is arguably a good deal of it. No, the real issue here is trust. I don't work well without it. And if someone has destroyed the trust I've decided to put in them…" Mr. Young let the sentence hanging. There wasn't any need to finish it. "Neither you or your girl are out of the clear yet, either. While it seems like we've cleared up the identity of the mystery man, there's still more I'd like to know. Tell me more about the relationship he had with Trixie. It's blatantly obvious that she didn't want you to run into him." He pointed to the computer. There was a frozen shot, of Trixie grabbing his arm and pulling him away and Dan watching them leave. "Why?"
"Like I explained to you a few minutes ago, I didn't know about him." Jim strove to make his tone jealous instead of angry. His face flushed with the effort. "Trix hadn't told me about their relationship before today. She knows I have a jealous streak in me. She tries to hold it at bay whenever possible."
"Fair enough." Mr. Young accepted the answer with a stiff nod. "I can understand that one. Your fiancée is smart, blonde and very attractive. I can see you having some trouble with jealousy."
"So she dragged me away before I saw him. She didn't want me to cause a scene. I knew something was up with her but didn't get an answer until we got back to our room." Jim spoke almost accusingly. "That's it. There's nothing else to the scene but that."
"Ah. I take it you didn't know about their history as a couple when I called you earlier. If you recall, you told me some man hit on her. Nothing more, nothing less," Mr. Young reminded him, wondering if he'd found a loophole in Jim's explanation. "You lied to me, Hart."
Jim ran his free hand through his hair. The other gripped Trixie to his chest, offering her support at the same time he was taking it from her. "Look. I didn't lie. I truly believed it at the time. We'd just gotten back to our room when you called. She didn't have enough time to tell me more." He blew out a frustrated breath.
"Again. Fair enough." Contemplating the answer, Mr. Young couldn't come up with any weaknesses. It fit. It truly did. His forehead wrinkled while he deferred to Ritch, who picked up the next round of questioning.
Ritch caught the unspoken request. Realizing his boss needed some time to digest what he'd learned so far, he asked, "Where did Mr. Daniel T. Regan disappear to? We can't find him anywhere in the hotel. He's gone."
"I don't know." Jim ran a comforting hand up and down Trixie's back. He could feel the tension in her body, as well as her own frustration with not being able to handle any part of the inquisition. Frowning at Ritch, he added, "To tell you the truth, I don't really care where he is. He's not around Trix. That's all that matters to me."
"You know, we can always check with Maria at the front desk," Ritch said after a moment of contemplative silence.
Mr. Young put down his pen. Although he already knew where Ritch was leading them to, he affected an interested expression. "Why do you say that?"
"I followed up with this part of the story." He scrolled along the bottom of the bar, brought the surveillance tape back to the very beginning and tapped on the screen. "You see? Right here. It's Daniel Regan. He's talking to Maria, our very friendly and peppy clerk. You made quite an impression on her, Hart. She liked you a lot," he added in an aside, winking at him. "She wasn't too impressed with your fiancée, though."
Jim choose not to respond. In a show of blatant insolence, he dropped the hated man's gaze, gathered Trixie ever closer, and braced himself for the next set of questions. They were gearing up for something. A sneaking suspicion slipped through. If they were going to bring up what he thought there were going to bring up, he truly hoped that the CDA was as good as Trixie and Dan claimed them to be.
"The first thing her ex did when he arrived was to approach the front desk. No surprise there. It's a pretty normal occurrence when someone enters a hotel," Ritch said with a chuckle, amused with his own wry humor. "He talked to Maria, flirted a little with her. Then he kept asking for someone who he thought was registered here with the hotel."
His suspicions were dead-on accurate. Schooling his features, Jim prepared himself for his actual name to be said. No response, no response, no response kept running through his mind. Do not respond. Going for bored, he declared, "He was probably looking for some girl. Trixie told me he wasn't the best of boyfriends. According to her, he was a little too free with other women. That's why she broke up with him. She found out that he was cheating on her."
"Who was he looking for? Was it a girl?" Mr. Young spoke calmly, even friendly, but the harsh look to his eyes gave him away.
"Nope. Not a girl. Ironically enough, he was looking for someone named James. Quite a coincidence, don't you think?" Ritch didn't take his eyes off Jim, watched him closely and made a mental note of every reaction. "Two men named James, in the same place, the same hotel. Interesting, if you ask me."
Jim idly started playing with one of Trixie's curls. "Did he find him?" he wondered aloud.
"Nah. According to Maria, the person he was looking for doesn't have a reservation here." Ritch turned back to Mr. Young, dropped the name. "James Frayne. He was looking for a James Frayne."
"Check him out." An interesting coincidence, just as Ritch described. He wasn't one for coincidences. Mr. Young stood up, walked over to the computer, and stared down at the screen.
Trixie let out a tiny breath. Oh, no. Oh, no. She'd forgotten to tell Max about that little tidbit. Mentally berating herself, wondering how she could have forgotten something so crucial, she chewed on the inside of her mouth, hating the lifeless, limp feel to her limbs. Absolutely despised it. Having something else to think about certainly helped, even if it was her own huge glaring mistake. She prayed, quick and hard, that either Max or Shane were able to rectify her mistake, and swiftly. Otherwise, they were doomed.
Jim let go of the curl. He didn't say a word, didn't want to draw any attention back to them. Instead, he tucked his hand back into her purse. Long fingers curled over the gun. Her gun. A finger touched the safety, ready to flick it off should it became necessary, and watched the other two carefully, waiting, just waiting, to see what they found, gauging their reaction. Hopefully they wouldn't come across his picture. Hopefully.
"There seem to be a lot of James Fraynes out there. Five have come up," Mr. Young noted out loud as Ritch clicked on the first one that showed up. He rubbed his chin, pondering the importance of the name. It could mean nothing, like it appeared to. It most certainly could. But…there was one thing he did know. He wasn't going to leave any stone unturned; not now, not when certain doubt had been cast. Even if the two came through it all with flying colors, he would much rather prefer being safe over sorry. He'd simply make good on his promise to double the asking price. A small price to pay for forgiveness. After all, money was their driving force. They'd be able to forgive just about anything for the right price. "Has she ever mentioned a James Frayne to you, Hart?"
The lie came surprisingly easily. "No. She never has."
"Well, she never mentioned a Daniel Regan to you until today, either," Ritch pointed out sardonically, lifting his head up from the screen. He studied the incapacitated woman, then suggested with a cruel twist to his lips, "Maybe we should ask her."
Immediately liking the suggestion, Mr. Young slowly stood up from his chair. He took three careful, measured steps towards the couple who'd spent the past hour on the floor and crouched down in front of them. Ignoring Jim altogether, he reached out, tilted her chin up. He correctly read the flare of defiance in her eyes. It pleased him to see it; showed him that she had as much spirit as he'd imagined her to have. Even though it was beginning to look like the couple was completely innocent and exactly who they portrayed themselves to be, he didn't feel an ounce of regret for his actions. He had to be sure. "Hello, my dear. I understand you once dated a Daniel Regan. He's in Las Vegas, apparently looking for a James Frayne. Do you know anyone by that name?"
"No," she breathed out raspily, her mouth working hard to form the single word. The touch of his hand on her made her skin crawl. Had she been able to, she would have jerked away from him. As it was, she didn't have to. Jim took over for her. His hands settled at her shoulders. Tenderly, but forcefully, he pulled her away from the other man's touch.
While he could have held on, he let go, met Jim's glare with a mocking grin, and spread his hands out but not in apology. He truly didn't feel the need to apologize. "I've got to cover my bases here, Hart. You're going to have to forgive me, you know. I can't work with people I don't trust. I simply can't."
A scowl was his only response. Jim chomped down on an imaginative response that used a lot of coarse and non-family friendly words. Long fingers touched her chin, hoping to eradicate the memory of Mr. Young's recent touch on her.
Ritch leaned forward, furiously clicking and reading each tidbit that came up on the computer. "Nothing all that interesting has came up so far. I've finished choice number 3. Onto number 4 right now," he mumbled, more to himself. "Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Mr. Young, come on over. Here's one possible match…a twenty-seven year old, soon to be twenty-eight. Works for a business. Out of New York…City," he tacked on, after reading more.
Although it was one of the most difficult things he'd ever done, Jim kept a vicious hold on his emotions. His face remained impassive. He ordered himself to stay still, to not react to anything that was revealed, and held Trixie even tighter. The gun was at the ready, in his hand, hidden in her purse. In that moment, it was as clear as the Waterford vase that served as the centerpiece on the table. He would shoot. To kill, if needed. If it saved Trixie, if it saved him, hell, he would do it. And, for the first time, he felt a complete and total understanding for Trixie, for her job, for her need for secrecy, for everything. A peculiar place to have an epiphany, especially one of this magnitude, but it was there, and he was strangely grateful for it.
"I'm calling up a picture right now." He turned the computer screen towards Mr. Young, jabbed a finger when the picture surfaced. "This could be the man Daniel Regan was searching for."
Hoping his own face wasn't staring back at him, Jim slowly lifted his head up and glanced at the screen. Relief, blessed, wonderful relief, immediately coursed through him. The CDA, it seemed, could work like hell on fire when the situation warranted it. A tall, blonde man, about fifty pounds overweight, looked back. Brown eyes. Blonde hair. Looked nothing like him. Nothing at all. He breathed an inward sigh of relief and slumped back against the wall, taking Trixie with him. He knew she was relieved, too. She nuzzled her head against his chest and relaxed against him.
"He heads up the personnel department for a local Mercedes-Benz dealership out of Manhattan." He closed out the screen. Connecting the dots, he inferred, "It looks to me like Daniel Regan's looking to make a change. I wouldn't be surprised at all if he's trying to meet up with this Frayne fellow to discuss a possible job offer. Maybe he's ready to turn in California for New York."
Trixie flexed a finger. Then she realized what she had done. Testing, she flexed another. It actually moved, filling her with surprise. Full movement wasn't coming back; wouldn't be there for a long time yet, but feeling was returning. She flexed it again, her fingers curling around Jim's. She couldn't grip his hand as tightly as she wanted. And she felt about as weak as a newborn kitten. But her strength would return. Until then, she had Jim.
He jolted at the contact. For the first time since they stepped foot into the penthouse, he smiled, an honest-to-goodness smile. Leaning down, he brushed a small kiss on her cheekbone. "Good for you, Trix," he mumbled quietly, for her ears only. "I'm proud of you."
Her voice was still raspy. It took an almost insane amount of concentration but she made her facial muscles move. She whispered back, managing to give life to a whole sentence, "I'm proud of you, too, Jim."
Oblivious to their quiet exchange, Mr. Young picked up the checklist and studied it. All points had been covered. All answers seemed to be perfect. There was one more thing he wanted to check, though. One small, tiny, nearly insignificant item. They hadn't run them yet, hadn't seen the need to, but he wasn't going to overlook it now. One simply never knew. Since doubt had reared its ugly head, he wasn't going to ignore it now. He glanced up, allowed a travesty of a smile to cross his face. "All right. Hart, you've given us some serious peace. I'll give you that. However, since I've had to endure this scare, I really want more. No, let me rephrase that. I demand more peace. There is one more thing you and Johnson must do for me before I can let you leave."
Ritch cocked his head to the side, curious. He hadn't been informed about another hurdle for the couple to jump over. He'd thought they were finished. "What do you need them to do now, Mr. Young?"
"Fingerprints," he replied immediately. "We need fingerprints. We purchased an amazing program a few years back. It's truly one-of-a-kind. No one else has anything like it. It contains the identifying marks for practically everyone in the world…or at least anyone who's ever owned a driver's license."
"What do you mean?" Jim glared at the man.
"I don't need to go into specifics, Hart. Let's just say that this little program has all kinds of information in it, whether you ever realized you were fingerprinted or not." He jerked his head towards his right-hand man. "Call up our program, Ritch. Get your equipment. I want to make certain our…guests are exactly who they say they are."
"So, we're back to being guests, are we?" Jim inquired sarcastically, hoping to buy a little more time. Fingerprints? Had the CDA thought to cover up their fingerprints? He watched curiously as Ritch left the room, only to return a few minutes later with a small black pad.
"Almost," Mr. Young remarked in that jovial tone Jim absolutely despised. He accepted the pad from Ritch and approached the couple again. "Really, this is a slight oversight on our part. We should have taken care of this earlier. There just didn't seem to be a point." He sighed, long and loud. "We thought we could trust you from the very beginning."
"You can trust us," Jim insisted through clenched teeth. "We never gave you a single reason not to."
He ignored Jim. "I can see you're both interested in my pad," Mr. Young noted with a cheer that caused shivers to shoot up and down Trixie's spine. "This is specially designed for us. What you and your lovely fiancée will do is put your hand on it. Immediately, Ritch's computer over there will search out your true identity and report it back to us. Simple. It can't get any more simplistic than that."
"I see." Just when he was starting to feel like they had overcome all that needed to be overcome, a new roadblock popped up, mocking them with its very presence.
Mr. Young stopped in front of Trixie. "Ladies should always go first, my dear."
Not wanting to show that she was starting to get some movement back, she glowered up at him. "I can't," she declared with as much pride as she could muster.
"Oh, that's right!" Mr. Young exclaimed, chuckling slightly. He slapped his forehead, shook his head. "You have been rather inconvenienced tonight. I forgot. Here. Let me help you." He made to take her hand but Jim interceded. He covered it with his own larger hand and pulled it back, not wanting the man to ever have cause to touch her again.
"I'll do it," he stated gruffly. Turning Trixie away from Mr. Young, he tenderly held out her hand, fanned out her fingers as he was instructed to do. Lightly, he placed it on the small black pad, being careful not to press his own hand onto it with hers.
Mr. Young waited a moment before barking out to Ritch, "What's the verdict?"
"Five, four, three, two, one…and the winner is…" Ritch murmured under his breath, counting down until the name flashed on his screen. "Beatrix B. Johnson. She's cleared, Mr. Young. She's come through with flying colors. Our girl is exactly who she says she is."
"Well, well, well." Mr. Young stroked his chin, unable to decide if he was pleased or disappointed. "Half-way there. It may still prove to be preemptive since we still have your fiancé to test but it seems that apologies may be in order." After admitting it, he had the audacity to smile benignly down at her.
"Don't mention it," Trixie countered, her voice whisper soft and her eyes shooting sharp daggers of disgust at him.
"Hart, you're up next." Mr. Young held the pad out to him. "Let's see if you can pass the test with as much ease as your lovely lady here."
Jim took it as an encouraging sign when Trixie squeezed his hand. Copying her movements of a few minutes earlier, he put his hand on the black pad and waited for the technological marvel to do its thing. All he could do was hope that the CDA fixed his fingerprints.
Ritch counted down for the second time and frowned at the result. It came up as inconclusive. "We've got to try it again," he muttered, tossing an odd look back at the gathered group. "There's no match this time."
"It happens from time to time," Mr. Young stated although his eyes took on a shrewd and unpleasant gleam again. He offered the pad back to Jim. "It could be a glitch in the program. Try it again, Hart. Maybe you can hit the jackpot this time."
Striving for nonchalance, Jim placed his hand on the pad again, all the while urging the CDA to do their thing, already, and somehow miraculously make his fake name come up. When the computer beeped, he looked up, his face carefully blank. Inwardly, he was a bundle of nerves. The few seconds it took Ritch to read the answer felt like an eon.
"Well?" Mr. Young called out forcibly, for the first time all evening showing the depth of his emotions.
"James W. Hart," Ritch replied, shaking his head, wondering why the machine hadn't come up with the affirmative the first time around. "Believe it or not, he's cleared, too."
Frowning, Mr. Young let the information sink in. Every issue had been seen to. In his opinion, no rock had been left unturned. Guilt should have been a natural response. But he didn't feel it. Truly, he did not. He turned around, stared at the couple still residing on the floor at his feet. "Well, it seems it wasn't preemptive. Trixie. Jim. Apologies are definitely in order."
"Double the amount like you promised and we'll forgive and forget," Trixie muttered frostily, noticing that he finally called both of them by their first names.
"Consider it done." Mr. Young motioned towards the table and invited, "Dinner is ready. Past ready. But, if you're hungry, feel free to enjoy it. There is plenty of food."
It hurt but Jim managed to match the conversational flow. "If it's all the same to you, we'd like to go back to our suite." There was no way in hell he was going to partake of any type of meal with Mr. Young, especially now.
"Yes, yes. I can understand it." Mr. Young ordered the silent men flanking the doors to leave their posts with an authoritative flick of his hand. "Please. Make your way out of the room, take some time to recover. We'll finalize our deal tomorrow. I'll be in touch."
Jim picked up the bright pink cell, dropped it into her purse, and threaded his hand through the straps. Slowly, he stood up, taking Trixie with him. When her legs skittered out from underneath, proof that she wasn't anywhere close to steady yet, he swung her up, cradling her carefully in his arms. She felt frail, uncharacteristically so. Keeping a wary eye on the men, as if he expected them to prevent their leaving, he carried her over to the doorway. Only one thought was in his mind. He was getting out of there, as fast and as quick as he could manage it.
Mr. Young trailed behind, keeping a respectable distance between himself and the couple. He chattered away the entire time, acting as if he hadn't just put Trixie through a mild form of torture or engaged Jim in the toughest interview he'd ever experienced before in his life. "I do hope you're able to understand my position, Jim. I can easily see that you're rather angry with me right now. I can understand it. I know we went to great lengths to get our answers but, in my line of work, we can never be too careful…or too gentle. We simply must have to get the right answers, through any way possible." He ended with a low chuckle, not the least bit contrite about the whole ordeal.
Jim didn't offer up any sort of an answer. He couldn't, not with the amount of righteous anger pulsating through his veins, begging for release. If he were to give in to it, to let it out in all its fierce, frustrated glory, they may not get out of the penthouse anytime soon. And he had to get Trixie to their suite. He simply had to. It took precedence over anything else, even his temper. He allowed himself one fulminating glower, which Mr. Young shrugged off. Jim followed him out into the hallway, wanting to put as much distance as he could between them and the damn penthouse. In his opinion, they were never going to visit to Mr. Young's home again.
As they reached the middle of the living room, the front door blew open. In breezed a tall woman, made even taller by the three-inch high heels attached to the bottom of her feet. Her blonde hair was piled exceedingly high on her head. Long gold earrings hung from her ears. Dropping a small purse on a side table with a flick of a flourish, she called out, announcing her arrival, "Hello, Eric! Are you home?"
Mr. Young stopped in his tracks. "Ginny!" he exclaimed, stunned by the appearance of his wife. His composure slipped rapidly. The expression on his face rivaled that of a little child caught taking cookies out of the cookie jar. Almost stammering, he asked, "What are you doing back so early? I didn't expect you home until midnight or later."
She zeroed in on her husband first, overlooked the sight of Jim and Trixie. "I'm only home for a few minutes. I had to come back and do a little repair." She pointed to the silky black hose on her legs. A six-inch run appeared, going from under her thigh to just below her knee. "I've had a slight…" and then she saw her husband's guests. Her mouth bowed open as she added, almost as an afterthought, "Accident."
Swearing would have helped. Unfortunately, his wife didn't like swearing. A flush started working its way across his face. "I, um, see," he mumbled, searching for an explanation to get him out of this current predicament.
"What do we have here?" Forgetting to close the front door, she moved quickly despite the towering heels, her overly cosmeticed face aghast with worry. Long talons wrapped around her husband's arm the second she reached him. She jabbed worriedly at the silently watching couple. "What happened here, Eric? Why is that man carrying the poor woman in his arms?"
"Ah, Ginny." He glanced up at the ceiling, cursing the untimely arrival of his wife. While she had an understanding that his job wasn't exactly conventional, he worked extremely hard to never let her come into contact with it, especially the less than savory parts of it. A slight inquisition where one of the participants was immobilized didn't strike him as something she would be fond of. He could already tell she wasn't going to be happy with him. Haltingly, he attempted to explain, "These are some business associates of mine. Jim Hart and Trixie Johnson. They were invited over for dinner tonight."
"Well, that certainly clears everything up." She rolled her eyes and touched Trixie's hand. "What happened to you, honey? Are you okay?"
Mr. Young stepped in, took over the explanation before either Jim or Trixie could offer up the truth. "Dinner didn't agree with Miss Johnson, I'm afraid. She felt a little faint, a little unsteady, so her fiancé is taking her home. Early, I might add. We weren't able to have dessert."
"Oh. Well. Then." Ginny Young tapped her toe on the carpet. She sent a suspicious glance towards her husband, wondered if she should accept the answer at face-value or do some more digging. When his flush deepened under her intense perusal, she knew she'd be getting out her shovel. "I see."
Mr. Young blew out a frustrated breath. He hated it when his wife got involved in his business. Absolutely despised it. If she found out why Trixie was not leaving the penthouse of her own accord, there was going to be trouble. "There's nothing to worry about, Ginny. Nothing at all. Jim here is taking her back to their room. We had to cancel the rest of our meeting but we're going to continue our business tomorrow."
She clapped her hands together, unwilling to be put off, and inserted herself into the plans for tomorrow. "Delightful. I don't have any plans at all. I'll be more than happy to join you for your meeting. Or maybe we could change your meeting to something else, make it into something more fun."
There wouldn't be any business of any kind, of that he had no doubt. Not tomorrow. Not once his wife got involved. She would want to overcompensate for the evening, in any way she could. He swallowed back a sigh, stared at his two guests with the expression of a condemned man, and felt doomed. It wasn't a pleasant feeling. "Jim, Trixie. Expect a call tomorrow," he said shortly. "Either from me or my wife."
"I'll be calling in the late morning!" Ginny put in gaily. She reached out, tapped Jim on the shoulder, all the while thinking what a marvelously handsome man he was and that the pretty blonde was a very lucky lady. "I'm sure we can think of some entertaining things to do tomorrow. Don't worry. Leave it to me. We'll have a blast."
There was no way he was spending any more time with Mr. Young or his wife. He'd rather have surgery…without the aid of anesthesia. Jim chose not to reply, merely stared back at Mr. Young, his face a stoic mask.
"Have a good night." Mr. Young thought that his face might crack with the effort it took to smile. "We'll be in touch."
"Yes. We will!" Cheerfully, Ginny sailed on through the room, overlooking her husband's guilty look and the less than enthusiastic response from the couple. She could be pushy when the situation warranted it. This situation most certainly did. She headed towards the dining room instead of her bedroom, wanting to check the room out first. Since it was where the couple had spent their evening with her husband, she was certain it carried a significant clue about what had happened to them.
Mr. Young grunted an abrupt attempt at a farewell, pivoted and followed her, his shoulders bunched and his eyes narrowed. She was going to the dining room, the room he hadn't had the chance to have cleaned up yet. She was going to see the splintered table, the broken figurines, the two platters of dinner that hadn't been touched, and possibly Ritch if the man was still inside. Damn it all. It looked like he was going to have a lot of explaining to do.
Amazed to be left alone in the penthouse, it took Jim a few seconds to respond. Then he didn't waste a precious second. He hurried through the open front door, didn't bother with the necessity of closing it, and strode towards the elevator. It obligingly opened after a quick jab at the down button. With his beloved bundle in his arms, he entered it and didn't feel safe until the doors closed, locking the two of them in. "We made it," he breathed out, relieved when the carriage started moving downwards.
Serenely content to stay cuddled, her legs dangling well above the floor, Trixie didn't take the time to search for her cell, to scan the elevator for any cameras. It wasn't needed. She didn't have the energy for conversation, simple or complicated. She could only summon the energy to rest her head on his shoulder. Her thoughts were jumbled up in her mind, finally coming to center on one thing. Gratitude. She had so much to be grateful for. Her fellow agents, with their quick thinking and even quicker typing skills. Their surprisingly easy exit from the penthouse. And, most importantly of all, for Jim and all that he had done for her. A low, comfortable sigh slipped past her lips, causing him to glance down in concern. She didn't notice. Her lids fluttered once, twice, before closing on the third blink. Exhaustion stole over her, sweeping her along its gentle waves. She was asleep before the elevator arrived on their floor.