by Cat Johnson
“No. You?” he asked, a slight quirking up of the corner of his mouth telling her he liked where this conversation was going.
“Nope. Not a thing.” Unless she included getting enough of this man to cure her craving for him. If she counted that then yes, she had plans. Lots and lots of plans.
She sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the mattress. Glancing back over her shoulder she said, “Meet me in the shower?”
His brows rose. “Hell yes.”
He was already in motion, scrambling off his side of the bed, by the time she stood.
Peter Greenwood was sweet and adorable. No doubt about it.
And right now, when she didn’t want to like him, didn’t want to lose her identity by being tied to one man as she built her career, that might be her biggest problem.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Peter eyed the stack of newspapers as he waited for the coffee to finish dripping into the carafe.
All the seemingly innocuous pile of the dozen or so copies of the same issue of the Washington Post did was remind him that Marty was gone.
He didn’t begrudge Elijah his desire to want to hoard the issue that had his speech printed as the Op Ed inside. Just as he didn’t blame Marty for going on the working vacation she’d had planned for long before they’d met.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t wallow in his misery over the situation.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that this time apart was going to be his downfall. That if she’d stuck around D.C. after that weekend they’d spent together, they’d be well on their way to a serious, long term—maybe even permanent—relationship.
Now, she’d had two solid weeks away from him. Any number of things could have happened during that time.
She could be falling in love with some Greek millionaire at that very moment, for all he knew. Why wouldn’t she? It wasn’t like he ran in her social circles or could provide the kind of life she was used to. The kind she’d grown up in.
He sighed and pulled the carafe out from beneath the stream, splashing three quarters of a cup worth of steaming liquid into his mug. A few drops of coffee fell, hissing and dancing on the hot plate before Peter could shove the pot back under to catch them.
The hot black coffee scorched down his throat, but it didn’t warm his insides even half as much as one smile, one glance, from Marty did.
“Jesus, man. Stop pouting.”
Peter turned at the sound of Elijah’s voice. “I’m not pouting. I’m thinking.”
“Christ. That’s even worse.” Elijah shook his head and made his way toward the coffee maker. He eyed the mug in Peter’s hand and scowled as he reached for a dirty jelly jar in the sink. He rinsed it out but didn’t say a word.
They owned only one mug at the moment, ever since Elijah had dropped the other one on the floor last month. Since neither one of them had gotten around to buying a new one, they just dealt with this new reality.
Yes, Peter had gotten to their one and only proper coffee vessel first. But since his roommate was the responsible party for there being only one, he didn’t feel guilty about it.
Given the happenings in the country the past few years—the gas shortage, the impeachment, nuclear testing, the fall of Saigon—their current mug situation paled in comparison.
Still he should make an attempt to remedy it. The problem was, the shops he passed while going to and from work each day were tourist traps. He’d be damned if he spent ten times as much as a simple coffee mug was worth just because it said Virginia is for Lovers or because it had a picture of the White House on it.
Maybe he could just slip a mug from the diner into his overcoat pocket once the weather turned colder.
With his luck, he’d get caught. Petty thievery, even just of a coffee mug, was the kind of thing that could sink his hopes for a career in politics.
He’d just suck it up and take the long journey to a five-and-dime store. He should probably buy a nicer set of sheets too, while he was there, if Marty was going to be in his bed again.
If. He realized that was a huge if and with that thought, his misery returned.
Luckily, Elijah had taken his jar of coffee into the bathroom so Peter’s pouting—and yes, he did admit it was indeed pouting—didn’t have an audience.
When was Marty coming home again?
He glanced at the calendar on the wall. It was some freebie they’d gotten last Christmas, when stores gave things like that away to their customers. The generic picture of a field with wildflowers didn’t interest Peter, but the date he’d circled in pencil did. Two more days and Marty would be home.
If he had the timing correct, she’d have left Greece today.
Her flight back to the States from Athens connected at Charles de Gaulle Airport, so she had plans to spend the night there in Paris. To do a little sightseeing and enjoy some Parisian food, she’d said, before heading home. All alone.
He didn’t love that. Yes, he liked she was a strong independent woman, but if she was going to be in the most romantic city in the world, he wished he could be there with her.
Then there was that part of him that couldn’t help but worry. A woman alone, in a foreign country . . . the world was too volatile nowadays for him to be okay with that. Even if his concern would piss her off and earn him a lecture on women’s liberation.
He drew in a breath. Maybe the morning news would distract him until he left for work. Once he was in the office, he’d barely have time to eat lunch or even take a piss, never mind worry, probably needlessly, about Marty’s travels.
After flipping on the radio on the kitchen counter, Peter turned. If he wanted breakfast before he left for work, he was going to have to look and see if there were any Pop-Tarts left, or if Elijah had eaten the last one and put the empty box back on the shelf again.
The cabinet open, he was just reaching for the box when what the news reporter on the radio said stopped his hand.
“ . . . it’s believed the hijackers boarded the plane in Athens.”
He spun, staring at the radio as if seeing the source of the sound would clarify what he’d heard. Because he certainly needed clarity.
A flight from Athens. Hijacked. On the day Marty was flying out of Athens.
It was one hell of a coincidence, but he had to remember it didn’t mean it was her flight. There had to be dozens of flights a day out of—
“The flight, originally scheduled to travel to Paris, has been diverted by the hijackers . . .”
His heart pounded as he braced both palms on the counter to keep himself upright.
“ . . . to Libya—”
“What’s he saying?” Elijah asked from behind him.
“Shh!” Peter waved away the question, leaning closer as he turned up the volume.
“In response to the reports that there are American citizens onboard the flight, the FBI hostage negotiating team has been called in. More in a moment.”
The damn station dropped that information that there were Americans on that plane and then they cut to a commercial?
Peter fought the urge to toss the radio across the room in frustration.
His chest tightened and his mouth went dry as he said, “I think that’s Marty’s flight.”
“What are you talking about?”
“There’s been a hijacking. A flight from Athens to Paris. Marty is on a flight from Athens to Paris today.”
Elijah shook his head. “That doesn’t mean it’s hers. There could be more than one flight between those two airports a day.”
“Well, I’m going to find out if it is hers.” And he wasn’t above using every resource in his arsenal to do it.
Senator Scott’s name would go a long way in getting what Peter needed. That being the flight manifest listing the passengers’ names. And he wasn’t afraid to take advantage of that.
Peter spun toward the bedroom. He needed to get dressed and get to the senator’s office.
“Where are you going?” Elijah called
after him.
“Work.” He didn’t explain further.
He didn’t have any brainpower to spare for this conversation as his mind spun with worry to the point of panic. But more than that, his mind also worked on his plan of action.
The trip in was a blur, but once he was at his desk, Peter was like a machine, calculating, focused, determined. He'd remembered he had more than just the senator’s connections to use. He had Tim and his military connections.
So step one was to use the one best resource he had personally—Tim. Chances were very good that even if Tim’s team wasn’t called in to respond to the hostage crises involving the Americans on board, he’d at least be able to get more information about it.
It was still early. Tim lived on the Navy base and as far as Peter knew, he was currently stateside.
Unless Tim was out for a morning run, he should still be near his phone. Of course, he could also be on a flight heading to the rescue mission.
Peter didn’t know if that possibility—that the most well-trained operators in the Navy had been called in along with the FBI—was comforting or even more frightening.
“Talk quick.” Tim’s brisk greeting as he answered the phone knocked Peter out of his own head.
“It’s Peter.”
“Bro, I’m heading out the door. Literally.”
Peter rushed to get out what he needed to, straight and to the point. “I think Marty is on that flight that’s been hijacked.”
There were a few seconds of silence before Tim asked, “Who’s Marty?”
Peter remembered things had happened pretty fast between them. He hadn’t spoken to Tim since their visit a couple of weeks ago. It was like that between them. They would go weeks without talking, between his schedule and Peter’s. But when they got together it was like no time had passed at all.
“Marty. Martha. The girl I met at the bar when you were here last. The one who shot me down. We’ve been . . . kind of seeing each other.”
That was putting it mildly. He’d seen all of her, many times over that weekend she spent in his bed before she’d left for Greece. And he was hoping to see much more of her, now and for the next oh fifty years or so, God willing.
“She’s been in Greece for the past week,” Peter continued. “She was flying out of Athens today, with a connection to Paris.”
“Jesus.” That being the only thing Tim said didn’t bode well.
Peter swallowed, afraid to ask the question uppermost on his mind. Afraid Tim wouldn’t be able to answer it. Even more afraid that he would.
Finally, he forced out the words. “That’s where you’re going, isn’t it? To rescue the hostages because there are Americans on board.”
Tim drew in an audible breath. “I’ll see what I can find out about Marty and call you back. Where will you be?”
His friend hadn’t answered the question directly, which was an answer in itself. Peter’s heart thundered as he said, “I’m in my office.”
“Okay. I’ll do my best.” Tim hung up, but his non-answer was the only answer Peter needed.
There was no doubt in his mind that SEAL Team Two had been called in because of the hostage crisis. Whether Tim was just on stand-by or they’d be flying out to mount a take-down of the hijackers, Peter didn’t know, and wasn’t sure he wanted to.
He laid the receiver in the cradle and ran his finger over the stuffed Rolodex containing the senator’s contacts, flipping the tiny cards one by one as he reasoned out who among them would be able to get him what he wanted—that list of passenger names. Possibly even this country’s plans for a rescue.
Would it cost him his position there if he used the senator’s name to gain information without his permission? At the moment, Peter didn’t care.
One pass through all the contacts didn’t prove very promising. There were a few weak relationships that might offer maybe a slight chance of gleaning him the flight manifest of the hijacked plane. But nothing strong.
At this rate, he might be better off sitting in front of a television and waiting for the list of passengers to be released to the public.
That—waiting, helpless—might just kill him. It would at least give him an ulcer.
He was about to go through the contacts again when the phone on his desk rang. He dove for the receiver, nearly dropping it when the twisted cord fought him.
Finally, he untangled the cord and said, “Hello?”
“It’s me.” Tim’s voice would have been a welcome sound, if not for the tone of those two words.
“Tell me,” Peter said, knowing Tim had more to say and there was a good chance he wouldn’t like it.
“Is your Marty’s full name Martha Vanderbilt?”
His heart started to pound. “Yes.”
“She live in DuPont Circle?” he asked.
“Yes.” He swallowed and considered there was a good chance he was about to vomit.
“She’s on the flight.” Tim let out a breath. “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?” Peter asked cautiously. “Are they . . .” He swallowed and began again. “Is she . . .”
Dancing around the question wasn’t going to get him answers. Tim was good, he’d gotten this information some way, possibly through less than legal channels and his connections in the Navy, but he was not a mind reader.
Peter braced himself and asked, “Have the hijackers killed any hostages?”
“We don’t believe so. No.”
The air whooshed out of his lungs. “Thank God.”
If she was alive there was still hope. But for how long?
“The radio said they’re in Libya. Are you being sent there?”
“Pete, you know I can’t say.”
Peter clenched his jaw. “I know.”
He couldn’t be angry at his friend. Tim had already given him more information than he should have, at great risk to his career. But he could be angry at the situation. At the hijackers. At the whole damn universe for giving him Marty and then taking her away.
“Will you be able to call again if you learn more?” he asked.
“I doubt it, but I’ll try. If I can, I will.”
That was all he could ask of his friend. All he could expect. That he’d try.
Peter drew in a breath. “Okay. Thank you.”
Tim might not be able to do more for him, but Peter wasn’t without resources of his own.
He said goodbye to Tim and returned to the senator’s contacts. There had to be someone in there who had the power to help and Peter wasn’t above lying to get him to do it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“On behalf of our crew, I’d like to welcome you to Air France Flight 139. Our flight time from Athens to Paris is . . .”
Marty only half listened to the stewardess’s speech.
The same words had already been delivered in French, which Marty spoke and understood fluently. Since she hadn’t been all that interested in what the woman had to say the first time, she instead stared out the window.
Her final glimpses of Greece grew slowly smaller as the plane climbed higher. She couldn’t be too sad to leave such a beautiful place because she was ready to be home.
She had her story to write. And being with her cousins was great for a week. But for a month? She’d lose her mind. A person could only wake to a day of drinking champagne and lounging in the sun so many times before it started to get old.
And then there was Peter. She ignored the small yearning feeling inside when she thought about him. And for some reason she had thought about him, often, while she was in Greece.
She refused to say she missed him, but she was willing to admit to herself she was looking forward to seeing him again.
Just this flight, a night in Paris, then tomorrow night, she’d be back home in the States.
Until then, she could make good use of her time in the air. Marty reached for the notebook and pen she’d stashed in the pocket of the seat in front of her prior to take-off. She could probab
ly draft the bulk of her article before they landed.
Commotion drew her attention away from her notes as two men stood, rising from their seats, one on each side of the aisle a couple of rows in front of Marty.
The stewardess glanced from one man to the other. “I’m sorry. The pilot hasn’t turned off the seat belt sign.”
When two more people began walking up the aisle from somewhere behind Marty, one man and one woman, the stewardess repeated her warning.
Marty wouldn’t have normally thought all that much about it. Travelers broke airline rules all the time. Standing when they should sit. Leaving seat belts unbuckled. Smoking in the non-smoking section of the plane. But to see four of them at once, accompanied by the stewardess’s visibly rising agitation, sent warning bells ringing in the back of Marty’s brain.
Marty wasn’t the only one who noticed something was wrong. The flight buzzed with murmurs in various languages.
An elder passenger in a suit stood and questioned what was happening.
One of the men spat loud, angry sounding orders at the gentleman in German, who, after a concerned look at the stewardess, backed off and returned to his seat.
Marty was starting to think the four of them were all together. Not only together, but also planning something. Something she didn’t want to put a name to but couldn’t help doing so.
It couldn’t be. What were the chances that of all the flights in all the world, the plane she was on would be hijacked?
Maybe these people were just drunk. Or on drugs. Or—
Her pointless hope-filled guesses were cut short at her first glimpse of the guns in the hands of the two men standing in front, facing the seated passengers.
The woman moved toward the front of the plane and screamed, prompting the co-pilot to open the cockpit door and investigate.
The man with her spoke in rapid German as he pushed his way into the cockpit and slammed the door.
After the sound of shouting from inside the cockpit, Marty felt the plane turn. She glanced out the window but they were up in the clouds. She couldn’t tell anything except they were definitely changing course.
