by Joyce Lamb
Standing beside Layton was a disheveled, exhausted teenager with messy blond hair in need of a haircut, piercing blue eyes and the same angle-cut features that age had softened on her husband. He was on his way to being as tall as Layton and wore grungy-looking blue jeans with holes in the knees, black athletic shoes that had seen better days and an incongruous "Welcome to Washington" T-shirt sporting an artist's rendition of the nation's Capitol. One wrist bore a sports watch, the other a loose bracelet woven out of black and red material. One ear was pierced, a diamond stud winking in the light.
Her sister's son took her breath away.
Layton, beaming, gave Jonah a nudge toward Addison. "Addy, this is Jonah. Jonah, your Aunt Addy."
Speechless, Addison tried to smile, feeling as if a stranger had control of her facial muscles. Dammit, too much wine. "How do you do, Jonah?"
He met her gaze briefly before his blue eyes -- so like his father's -- darted away.
"He's tired," Layton said. "He needs a good night's sleep." He slapped the boy on the shoulder, pal-like. "Don't you, kiddo?"
Jonah cast his gaze down at the floor, clearly shell-shocked. Addison looked at Layton. "How did --"
"I'll explain everything once Jonah here is settled. He's had a long day."
She studied her husband's face, alarm growing at his triumphant glow. Oh God, what have you done? Her stomach churning, she turned her attention to her nephew. "I'll show you to a guest room, Jonah --"
"His room," Layton interrupted. "It'll be his room."
Addison forced a smile. "Right." She led the teen up the stairs. "We have several guest rooms, but you can have the biggest one," she said, unable to stop herself from babbling. That damn wine. "In the morning, you'll see that it has a fantastic view of the Potomac."
She flicked on the bedroom light. The décor was all wrong for a teenage boy -- from the white down comforter to the gauzy black shears that fell to the floor. She indicated a closed door along one wall. "There's a full bathroom with clean towels and a selection of toiletries. Use whatever you want." Facing him, she clasped her trembling hands before her and tried to think of something to say. "Is that a new shirt?"
He sank onto the bed, his gaze fastened on her face. "You look like my mother."
Her chest tightened with dread. "How is she?"
He looked down at the hands tangled in his lap. "I don't know. She'll be worried."
If he thought that, then perhaps Alaina was okay. She clung to that. Considering anything else was too distressing. "When did you see her last?"
"This morning before school," he said, rubbing at his right eye as if it itched.
She sat beside him, careful not to crowd him. "Can you tell me what happened?"
He turned his head to look at her. Even though his eyes were Layton's blue, she saw in them what she remembered most from Alaina's. Mistrust. Dejection. Anger.
"I want to help," she said softly, gripping his forearm. "I'm going to help you."
"He says he's my father."
She nodded, giving him a sympathetic smile. "He's very happy to finally meet you." She squeezed his arm. "So am I. The last time we saw you, you were a tiny baby."
"She told me she didn't know my father, that he was a one-night stand."
Addison's heart twisted. Alaina couldn't have told him the truth, but how it must have tormented her to present her son such an unsavory image of herself. "She was protecting you."
Rage leapt like fire into his eyes. "From what?"
"It's very complicated --"
"No kidding." Pushing himself up, he crossed to the window and peered at the darkness outside. There was nothing to see, but he concentrated as if he could see every blade of grass.
Addison stayed on the bed, allowing him the space he sought. "Jonah," she said. "Tell me what happened today."
His shoulders squared, then sagged, the weight of the day too heavy for bravado. He leaned his forehead against the window as if the contact would cool a raging fever. "I was at Lucas'." He stopped, and when he spoke again, his voice shook. "They shot his dad."
Addison flinched, as much at his words as at the pitiful catch in his voice. "Who shot him?" she asked.
"Two guys. They busted in, and when he tried to fight them, they shot him." Turning, he dug his fingers into the front of his shirt and pulled it away from his skin as if the feel of it chafed. "His blood splattered on my shirt."
He rubbed at his eyes again, and this time when he lowered his hand, they were bloodshot and watery. "I ran," he said. "I just took off, but one of the guys came after me." He swallowed hard, his gaze turning inward. "I hope they didn't hurt Lucas. He's my best friend."
"He's fine, Jonah. I promise."
"How do you know?"
"I just do." She paused. "Can you tell me what happened after the man caught you?"
Jonah focused on her. "He tied my hands. Made me get into the trunk of their car. They drove for a long time, and I could hear them talking, but they were doing it too quiet and I couldn't hear what they said. Then one of them called someone, and the connection must have been bad, because the guy on the phone started talking really loud. Said they had something that person wanted. I thought they called Mom. I started to yell, to tell her I was okay, but I didn't want to, you know, scare her. The guy asked for money. Fifty thousand dollars."
As he talked, the words began to spill out faster.
"They set up a meeting," he went on. "Said they'd turn me over, no harm done, for the money in small bills. I kept thinking there was no way Mom could pay them. We don't have that kind of money. And then I started thinking that they grabbed the wrong kid, that they'd meant to get Lucas. He's got rich grandparents down in Florida." He lowered himself to the other side of the bed. "After a while, they parked and opened the trunk, and I was trying to figure out if I should tell them they got the wrong kid, but I was afraid." His voice lost volume, and he paused, seemed to take a moment to regroup. "I was afraid they'd kill me if they realized I wasn't who they wanted. I saw we were in one of those big buildings at the airport where they park airplanes. A hangar. The car was parked next to one of those corporate planes. White. With a dolphin nose."
Addison recognized his description of what could have been the PCware Gulfstream.
"I started yelling for help, and the guys laughed at me. They told me no one was around to help me. This other guy walked up in a suit and tie. He had a bag that I guess had the money in it, because he handed it to one of the guys and told them to beat it. They took off, and the new guy ... he untied my hands, told me not to worry. He asked if I was okay. Maybe because he saw all the blood on my shirt. I told him he had the wrong kid. He looked at my face really hard and said, 'You Jonah?' When I said, 'Yeah,' he pushed me toward the steps that led up into the plane. Told me to get in, we were going on a trip. He closed the door to the cockpit, so I couldn't talk to him. We stayed on the runway a long time, I guess because it was storming. Then we finally took off. I was scared. I'd never flown before. But it was also kind of cool. I was beginning to think I was going to be okay." He gave a small shrug. "He could have left me tied up and all."
She tried for an encouraging smile. "What happened when you landed?"
"We taxied a long time, to a hangar like the one in Chicago. When the door was opened ... he was there."
Addison understood who "he" was. Layton. She waited.
"He gave me a clean shirt." Jonah looked at her. "Is he really my father?"
She nodded. "Yes."
"He told me you're my mom's sister. She's never mentioned you."
That stung, even though Addison knew she had no right to feel hurt. Straightening off the bed, she moved toward the door. "You're tired. Why don't we talk more tomorrow, after you've gotten some sleep?"
"I want to call Mom. She's going to be worried."
"I'll call her, okay?"
He hesitated, not happy with that suggestion but apparently unable to figure out how to insist. "Tell her I'm f
ine. They didn't hurt me."
"I will. Sleep well."
In the hallway outside the closed door, she met her husband's veiled gaze. He was leaning a shoulder against the wall, the tail of his white shirt out of his slacks, hands in his pockets. He offered no apology for eavesdropping, not that she expected him to.
"That's quite a story, isn't it?" he said.
She walked by him to their bedroom at the other end of the hall, conscious of him following, hands still in his pockets, that damn bounce in his step. Once in the bedroom, she shut the door and whirled on him. "What the hell happened, Layton?"
He spread his hands before him. "Why are you angry at me, Addy? What did I do?"
"That boy was kidnapped and delivered right to you. Forgive me for being a little suspicious about how that came about. Jesus, a man got shot."
Layton dragged a hand through his blond curls, and some of the happiness in his face fell away. "You're right, honey. It's terrible. I feel terrible."
She refused to believe that he felt anywhere near as contrite as he suddenly looked, and she had to fight the urge to throw something heavy and lethal at his head. "Tell me what happened."
He crossed to her, put his hands on her shoulders and gently squeezed. "Don't get so upset. All's well that end's well."
"How has this ended well? A man was shot. He could have been killed." She stopped, hitched in a breath, told herself to get a grip before she blew it. "Where is Alaina?"
His eyes hardened. "That's not our problem, Addison."
"She's his mother. The hell it's not our problem."
"Hey, if she can't keep track of the kid --"
"Layton, I'm begging you." She curled her fingers into his shirt front. "Tell me what happened."
Releasing her, he turned away, one hand going back into his pants pocket, the other massaging the back of his neck. She could see his features in the reflection of the full-length mirror in the corner. He looked genuinely distressed, and she wondered whether he knew she could see his face.
"All right," he said. "You know I've had detectives looking for them all along. Well, a couple weeks ago, I hired a new guy, and it paid off. He found them. But instead of telling me where they were, the son of a bitch hatched a plan to take me for an extra fifty grand. He kidnapped the kid and told me he'd kill him if I didn't pay the ransom. Of course, I paid. I wasn't about to take any chances with my son's life."
He was lying. She was sure of it. But damned if she could see the deception in his expression. Even with his back to her, he kept his game face firmly in place.
"We have to let Alaina know he's okay," she said.
He faced her, indignation artfully replacing his distress. "Why? We haven't heard from her in fourteen years. She hasn't once let us know a damn thing about my son, and she never bothered to tell him a fucking thing about me. Can you believe that?" He shook his head. "It's our turn now, Addy. She lost him, and now he's ours. Like he was supposed to be all along. Remember? That judge gave him to us, not to her."
She couldn't argue with him. Not without making him suspicious. Forcing herself to relax her shoulders, she said, "You're right." She turned her back as unexpected tears flooded her eyes. Her chest ached for her sister, for the father who'd been shot in his own home by her husband's thugs. Guilt mixed with the sorrow. Maybe if she hadn't been a blind idiot so long ago ...
Layton's fingers settled on her shoulders again, kneaded. "Don't cry, honey. It'll be okay. I know it's messed up right now, but we'll make a good home for him." He chuckled. "Did you see his holey jeans? That earring? What kind of mother was she to let him dress like that?"
Her heart seized up at his use of past tense. "Was?"
"Yes, was. You're his mother now, Addy. And I'm his dad. He's the luckiest kid on the planet."
Chapter 13
Alaina woke, knowing instantly where she was and why. What she didn't know was how long she had been asleep or what had awakened her. Had Mitch returned? She lay still and listened, hearing only the hum of the room's heater and the traffic of a busy street.
The clock beside the bed told her she'd slept for half an hour, yet it seemed hours had passed. Would Mitch come back tonight or wait until morning?
Sitting up, she gingerly rotated her shoulder as much as the cuffs allowed, trying to work some of the soreness out. It probably should have been iced and stabilized in some way to prevent further injury, but she didn't know how to accomplish that, especially while shackled to a bed.
Her stomach growled, and she realized that, having skipped lunch at work, she had not eaten since breakfast, some twelve hours before. No wonder her arms felt leaden.
She worked the cuffs anyway, alternately trying to slip the manacle over her hand, then checking each and every chain link for a weak one. When that didn't work, she inspected the contents of the drawer in the bedside table for the second time that night, hoping against hope she'd find a stray paperclip to try to pick the lock.
She was sitting there, propped against pillows and staring at the steel encircling her bruised wrist when the door slammed inward and a man she didn't recognize sauntered in.
He had a gun in his hand and a grin on his face.
* * *
Mitch sat in his car in the hotel parking lot, tapping the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. A paper bag of burgers and fries sat on the seat next to him. The greasy smell turned his stomach, even though it had been more than eight hours since his last meal. He wished like hell it were the next day and that his captive was on the PCware corporate jet, en route to the feds. His job would be done, just as Keller had said.
The good guy would win. Just as it should be.
Then why did it all feel so wrong?
He rubbed at his temples, where a headache was taking root. He considered calling Julia. He needed someone objective to talk to. But, he reminded himself, his partner wasn't objective. She had given Alaina the benefit of the doubt from the start, advising him against taking this job. Julia had warned him that it would become personal, and, dammit, she'd been right. He didn't think hearing her gloat would help, so he nixed the urge to call. Instead, he tried to sort it out, despite the ache in his head.
It bothered him that Keller had obviously had him followed. It bothered him more that Keller may have sent henchmen with guns to the Maxwell home to collect Jonah. Mitch kept seeing that bloodstain, evidence that an innocent man had been shot. His teenage son had been hurt, too. It didn't make sense. If the thugs had guns, why harm innocent people? Why didn't they just take what they came for -- Jonah -- and move on? Unless Grant Maxwell had indeed tried to protect Jonah and got shot in the process.
There certainly seemed to be no doubt in Alaina's mind that people who worked for Keller were responsible.
She's paranoid, Mitch told himself.
But he'd dealt with his share of paranoid people, and she didn't fit the bill. He'd also dealt with terrified people. That bill she fit. Which begged the question: Why, now that Jonah was on his way to his father, hadn't she bargained with Mitch to let her go? She'd done just the opposite, adamant that they go to D.C. right then, apparently giving no thought to the consequences to herself. She faced being imprisoned. Yet her only thought was her son.
Mitch remembered leaning over her after she'd been hit by the car. She hadn't just begged him to help her. She'd begged him to help her up, determined to get to Jonah, no matter the cost to her own health. That determination had carried her out of the hospital and to the Maxwells' when she'd been barely able to walk, had sustained her on her mad dash from the hotel to her home and to the airport, had compelled her to try more than once to overpower him, a man nearly twice her size and God knew how many times stronger.
Dammit, he respected her for that. She wasn't giving up, even when she didn't stand a Popsicle's chance in Florida. He wished he'd had her fortitude when Shirley had taken their son and moved out of the state. But he'd been too busy being angry at the world for dealing him a pair of two
s when he desperately needed a full house. Maybe if he'd fought harder ... hell, at all ... ah, what was the use? It was done. He'd folded and walked away a sore loser years ago, and now another man was raising his son. There wasn't a damn thing he could do about it now.
Grabbing the bag of fast food, Mitch got out of the car. He lectured himself as he walked through the parking lot to the room: Do the job, collect the check, move on. So simple it was absurd. From here on in, it was the easiest money ever.
He slipped the key card into its slot, heard the latch slide open --
"Gun!"
"Bitch!"
Mitch, dropping back against the outside wall, heard the sharp crack of flesh against flesh. The fast-food bag fell to the floor as he seized his gun from the holster under his arm. He strained to hear over the blood roaring in his ears. Silence.
"Alaina?"
"Get in here or the bitch buys it. I'm not shitting you, man."
The voice was male and low, coming from somewhere in the middle of the room. Mitch imagined the guy crouching between the two double beds, using the one closest to the door as a shield. His gut lurched as he recalled that that was the bed he'd handcuffed Alaina to. Not only was she helpless in there, unable to defend herself because he'd shackled her, but she also was between him and the intruder, making it impossible for Mitch to get off a clean shot without the risk of hitting her.
"All right," Mitch said, slipping his gun into the waistband at the small of his back. "All right. I'm not armed."
"Yeah, right. Toss your piece in here before you wander in, tough guy."
Well, it had been worth a shot, Mitch thought, as he pitched his gun through the open door.
"The piece strapped to your ankle, too. Make it quick."
Swearing under his breath, Mitch slid the smaller handgun out of its sheath and chucked it into the room.
"Good. Now, keep your hands up," the guy said. "And no fast moves. I'm pointing my gun right at her face. Anything stupid from you, and she's a freak show."
