by Cherry Adair
Her stomach clenched and her heart raced.
No.
She’d never risk Casey.
Not for money. Not for anything.
But how long would his kidnappers keep him alive? They, like everyone here in this frigid place, needed a power source for the thermal blanket. The idea was brilliant and truly had the possibility of saving the world. But she just wanted her son back. Joanna was terrified that the only thing keeping him alive was that one last piece of information—who was to say that they’d actually let Casey go, as they’d promised?
Her mind was a maze of terror. She lifted her coffee mug, noting the way her hand shook. But she needed the caffeine, it kept her semi-coherent.
The only respite she had from the debilitating fear was when she was with Grant. He understood her tears, and the reason she had to keep the kidnapping a secret. There was nobody in this world that Joanna loved more than her son. Yet there was something about Grant that allowed her to forget, just for a little while, how scared she was. He gave her a shoulder to cry on, a strong chest to lean against. As always, thoughts of Grant were welcome and brought a warmth the coffee hadn’t been able to give. Guilt followed. Casey should be the only one on her mind. God. When had she become a lousy mother?
It wasn’t that Grant took precedence over her missing baby—but he offered her hope, a light in the darkness of despair. Was it so terrible to take a small amount of comfort in Grant’s capable arms?
What if? What if something happened to Casey? Then what? Sitting here, surrounded by her peers, Joanna felt the familiar cold wash of unadulterated panic bathe her body inside and out, and she quickly hid her face behind the mug before she cried out loud. She wanted to hold her son. She wanted his lopsided grin smiling at her from across their kitchen table, she wanted to trip over his sneakers in the foyer…
Casey consumed every waking, and most of her sleeping, moments. The only time she felt less stressed was when she was with Grant. Anxiety clenched at her heart. She was pinning all of her hopes on the poor man, making Grant a hero for trying to find her son. That wasn’t right. God. That was wrong in a million ways.
Joanna rubbed a hand across her eyes, sick, scared, confused. Trapped.
Serena was one of the most compassionate people Joanna had ever met. What if she did go to Serena…
They’d kill Casey.
But how would they know she’d told her boss?
Bile rose in her throat. The same way they’d known she’d told Henry.
The Foundation Director could possibly have had the stroke anyway. But Joanna wasn’t convinced that they hadn’t somehow caused it. Henry had been in a coma for almost two weeks, and he might never recover.
Serena was so visible with all the work she did for the Foundation, she’d be an easy target for the people behind the kidnapping.
And damn it, she still wasn’t any closer today than she’d been three weeks ago to finding the power source. She’d bloody well given the bastards everything else they needed to know about the thermal blanket on a silver platter. Well, almost everything. There was that one little piece Henry had forgotten to document. The piece she’d been asking him about when he’d collapsed.
As soon as the kidnappers realized that they were missing that piece of the puzzle, they’d run out of patience.
She was running out of time.
Making an effort to pretend she was listening to the spirited conversation around her, Joanna smiled and nodded, wondering if Serena was even in the building. She hadn’t seen her all day, but that wasn’t unusual. Serena spent hour after hour on the phone trying to raise funds for the Foundation.
She was either upstairs in her room, or maybe she’d teleported somewhere else for a while, checking on another project.
Maybe those horrible stepsons were giving her grief. Her husband had known what he was doing, putting Serena in charge of the Foundation.
She was good at it, too, Joanna thought, curling her hands around the unwanted cup of lukewarm coffee. Serena was beautiful and smart. People gravitated to her.
Studies had been done proving that tall, attractive people, both male and female, got the best jobs, earned more money, and generally fared better than their Plain Jane counterparts. But she wasn’t jealous—she’d come to terms with her forgettable features a long time ago and it didn’t bother her. Especially since she’d become involved with Grant. He thought she was beautiful.
Love was definitely blind.
She checked her serviceable watch, trying to keep from screaming. The kidnappers should have sent the video e-mail by now.
There’d been no contact all day, and they usually sent an e-mail before lunch. Her stomach roiled with tension, and a headache throbbed behind her eyes. Setting the mug on the table, she rubbed her temples as she tried to concentrate on what Stuart Menzies was saying.
Please, God. Let this be the breakthrough we need. Please.
“Driving force of a jet engine is the afterburner,” Stuart continued, leaning forward, animated and intense. “We could use water-injection, and air bleed-off methods. An afterburner would use the exhaust gases from the engine for additional combustion, which would result in higher compression. However, it does consume large amounts of fuel.”
He blew out a frustrated breath, although no one had interrupted. “Yes, yes. I know. Not viable in all locations. Injection of water into the air-compressor inlet also increases the thrust, but would also be problematic because it can be used only at takeoff and the water consumption would be astronomical. Air bleed-off, the fan augmentation method, also makes more efficient use of air otherwise wasted—” He cut himself off and glanced at the faces of the others. “Not going to fly, is it?”
“What we need is something that doesn’t utilize any of the resources of the countries we’re trying to aid,” Denny said quietly. It was a much-used phrase that none of them needed to have repeated. Dennis kept his verbal contributions brief. If he didn’t have anything he considered valid to share he’d just sit there and listen.
He was sitting in the easy chair beside Joanna, and she realized that it wasn’t just the fragrance of cake and coffee that should be comforting, but the smell of a surprising sexy cologne from the man sitting beside her.
Edgy, she snapped, “Every power source we’ve come up with utilizes something.” Her voice was sharper than she’d intended, her frustration at the kidnappers unraveling her temper. “We can’t exactly run the damn things on corn.”
“Well, in theory we could,” Dennis pointed out in his quiet tone. “But taking the very food source we’re trying to give them doesn’t have any benefit.”
“What we need is an autonomous in-orbit satellite system. That’ll work.” Sal slid a generous slice of Joanna’s cinnamon swirl cake onto his napkin, lifted the cake to his mouth, and took a large bite.
Joanna swallowed convulsively and briefly shut her eyes against the thought that Sal was enjoying Casey’s cake.
“Sure,” Stuart said, just as frustrated as everyone else. “And it would take us ten years at least to get it up and running.”
“Perhaps,” Denny mused sitting up straighter. “If we had to design it, assess stress analysis, engineer materials, create a prototype and flight test support. But what if we didn’t have to do any of those things?”
“You got a magic wand, boy?” Sal asked.
“I wish,” Denny took no offense at being called a boy. “No. But we could piggyback onto an existing, fully operational satellite. We don’t need to develop our own lasers and advanced instruments, because we’d find someone who has a satellite doing some of those tasks already. The development of subsystems—propulsion system design, controls systems, and appropriate reliability analysis and quality assurance—will have already been done for us.”
Denny had come up with the answer. Joanna had to use all her self-control not to jump into the air and shout for joy. Thank you, God.
She half listened to the others as they
hashed out the feasibility of piggybacking their need of a power source while she tried not to panic about the meaning of the odd lack of communication from Casey’s kidnappers. Terror for her son’s safety made every part of her body hurt unbearably. Now she knew that the phrase “a broken heart” was absolutely true. The pain in her heart was a physical reminder that Casey’s life was dependent on her. And only her. She wasn’t sure she could sustain this level of pain much longer without cracking under the pressure. It was hard to think of anything but Casey.
How could anyone survive this? She certainly wouldn’t want to live if anything happened to her baby. No, she thought fiercely, nothing was going to happen to him. Nothing. Her team had come up with what the kidnappers wanted. She’d give them the information, and find that last little piece of information on the manufacturing of the thermal blanket, and they…God.
Would they keep their promise? Logically, she knew the chances were slim that they would return her son to her unharmed.
She was damned if she did, and damned if she didn’t.
She wished Grant was more easily accessible. He was the only person who knew the tremendous stress she was under.
“Are you all right?” Denny leaned over to ask quietly.
“Headache.” She rose and shrugged into a full-length alpaca coat. “I’m going up. I want to see feasibility studies and satellite data at our lunch meeting tomorrow.” Or sooner. Like now. Immediately.
Denny rose as she did. “I’ll walk you up.”
“No. Don’t.” Done buttoning her coat up to her throat, she pulled on a knit cap over her short hair. Denny reached out and tucked a strand of hair beneath the edge. His touch on her skin made her shiver, but it wasn’t from cold. Their eyes met. His were brown, a soft, gentle brown that invited trust.
An emotion she couldn’t afford. “It’s too cold out there,” she said briskly, stepping away from him and pulling on her gloves. “Thanks. I’ll be fine. Good night.”
She left the room quickly because she felt the unaccustomed prickle of tears behind her eyes. Glancing at the watch sandwiched between the edge of her sleeve and her knit gloves, she walked quickly down the freezing corridor toward the stairs. Grant should be here soon. Any minute. And she had excellent news. With a furtive glance to make sure nobody saw her, Joanna teleported to the third floor.
Materializing in her room, she rushed over to the bed where Grant was lounging as he waited for her.
He frowned at her. “That wasn’t very smart, Joanna.”
She flushed, pulling off her hat and gloves, shoving them into the pocket of her coat before she unbuttoned the garment and hung it in the closet.
“I made sure no one saw me.”
“It’s not those brainiacs downstairs I’m worried about,” he said, not moving. “What if Serena saw you teleporting?”
Half-wizards like Joanna weren’t capable of teleportation. Grant had gifted her with the power. She was very careful to use his gift judiciously. “Serena isn’t here.” Joanna didn’t think so anyway. “I was in a hurry to see you.”
He relented and held out his hand. “Were you, darling? Then come and show me how much.”
She took his warm palm, her troubles evaporating at his nearness. This was what she craved, oblivion for just a few minutes.
“I think we finally have the answer! God, this could be just what you need to get Casey back for me.”
He pulled her down beside him, his body hard and strong as he settled her head on his broad shoulder. “Slow down, and tell me about it. You know I want Casey found just as much as you do, baby.” He rubbed the back of her neck and the tension headache vanished. “Remember to keep it simple, I don’t understand all that scientific mumbo jumbo.” He kissed her forehead and she melted a little more.
While she told him about the idea of utilizing a satellite as a power source, they slowly undressed each other.
Trailing kisses down her throat, Grant chuckled. “There’s something very erotic about science and sex, don’t you—”
He suddenly, and without warning, disappeared.
Serena woke with a headache, a sore arm, and a feeling of having missed something.
Sitting up in Duncan’s bed she took stock of her injury. He’d done a good job bandaging the bullet wound, she noticed. A bullet wound, for Heaven’s sake! Damn that man. He attracted violence like metal filings to a magnet.
He’d poured Scotch down her throat as an anesthetic, knowing how much she hated hospitals. Or, she thought, throwing back the covers, because he didn’t want to have to report what happened and explain a gunshot wound to the authorities. The latter made the most sense.
A covered glass of orange juice had been left on the bedside table with two white pills and a note.
Drink the juice. The bigger pill is an antibiotic, the smaller one is a pain pill. Take both and stay put.
D.
His handwriting was as self-assured and autocratic as he was.
Ignoring the pills, Serena chugged down the freshly squeezed juice as she walked over to pick up her ruined shirt from a nearby chair. To her surprise, Duncan had magically returned the shirt to its pristine, pre-bullet-hole condition. The same went for her coat.
Good of him.
But it would have been unnecessary if he hadn’t drawn her into his violent world and gotten her shot in the first place.
Glancing at the alarm clock by the bed to see how much time had elapsed, she noticed that almost an entire day had gone by. Damn. She needed to get back to the warehouse and check on the security of the thermal blankets, then back to the Siberian facility to check on any progress they’d made in her absence. She also wanted to have a private talk with Joanna. Something was worrying her. Serena wasn’t sure if it was work related, or something to do with Joanna’s little boy—the woman didn’t appear to have any other family.
Perhaps Joanna needed some quality time with her son. If she didn’t want to take the time to leave the program, not when things were so critical, maybe Casey could visit his mother in Siberia?
She’d talk to Joanna in a few minutes and see how she felt about her son coming for an extended visit. Buttoning her white shirt, Serena tucked it neatly into her jeans and looked around for her shoes.
Her cheeks got hot imagining Duncan removing her clothing…“Oh, get a grip, Serena!” she said aloud. He’d removed her shoes and shirt. That was it. It wasn’t as though he’d liquored her up to seduce her.
He hadn’t taken advantage of her. This time.
Not like that night of Trey’s birthday party when Trey had encouraged her to chug down several shots of celebratory tequila. Serena frowned at the memory as she sat on the foot of the bed to draw on her shoes. How was it that Trey could always convince her to do things she knew were wrong? He’d known she couldn’t hold alcohol, and yet he’d taunted her into complying.
She’d managed three shots before she’d almost passed out.
Oddly, it had been Duncan who’d teleported her home. She’d been embarrassed and woozy, and terrified that Henry and Martha would find out and be furious with her. Or worse, disappointed.
Duncan had wrapped his arms around her in the darkness of the front yard, holding her gently before lowering his mouth to hers. She’d never let him know that she remembered that kiss.
She’d never told him.
Standing straight up, Serena scowled. Chances were, Duncan didn’t even remember the incident anyway.
Okay. He probably did remember what happened right after that kiss. She’d thrown up at his feet.
“Oh, boy,” she said ruefully, reaching for her coat. “There was a Hallmark mome—Oh, hell—” She was teleported out of Duncan’s London flat without warning.
He’d looked around for hours. Duncan stood across the street from the Foundation’s warehouse. A dog howled in the distance. A couple of rats, the animal kind, scurried behind him in the darkness. He was alone.
He’d found several casings on the ground
outside the building. Chances were he would have been nailed but good if he hadn’t teleported back inside to Serena. So, pros for sure. Could be Russian Mafia. But his contacts assured him not. None of the normal players or the locals had been out to the Foundation’s warehouse looking for trouble.
Pissed him off that Serena had paid their price to stay away. Trust her to be capable of reasoning with these goons. Reasoning, bribery, whatever. She’d managed to find a way.
It wasn’t the Russian Mafia.
They didn’t have access to South African weapons. Not unless they did business with Red Mantis.
Why the fuck would Red Mantis be interested in Foundation business? Unless they planned to grow their tomatoes in the tundra, Duncan thought, amused at the prospect.
He stood perfectly still in the shadows. Not stamping his feet, or rubbing his arms, even his breath was invisible behind a black face mask. Damn, it was cold out here.
He wondered if she’d woken up yet. If she had, he’d bet his flat was torn apart and soaking wet by now. Amused, hoping he could be there to witness Serena waking up sans her shirt, Duncan prepared to teleport back home. He’d put out enough subtle feelers about the earlier shooting. If anyone discovered anything, he’d be contacted immediately.
He imagined sipping his fine single malt Scotch, Serena in his bed—
He was suddenly teleported out of the Siberian night without fanfare.
Hot damn. The Tests had begun.
Hot. Dry. Silent.
Duncan stood dead still in the Stygian darkness, orienting himself. For all he knew he could be a mile underground, or standing on the edge of a thousand-foot drop, or even on another planet.
A pleasurable surge of adrenaline surged through his battle-ready body.
