Is this just the latest manifestation of my attraction to her? Wanting to provide for her? I have to wonder as I’m laying my selections on the counter for the bored-looking checkout girl to ring me up. Am I really trying to make Jenna happy so she’ll consent to stay with me for her own safety? I could just lock her up if that was all it was. Maybe I’m trying to make her happy because I want her to be happy with me.
I don’t want to use the handcuffs on Jenna. But is that human decency? Or is it more to do with the fact that I don’t want her to hate me?
This is getting far too complicated.
The drive back to the cabin is less stressful than the drive to Colebrook was, probably because this time I’m moving toward Jenna instead of away from her. I’m still nervous about what I’ll find when I get back. She probably didn’t run, I tell myself, but if she did, she’s got almost an hour head start on me. And if she’s been out in the snow without proper footwear for an hour…well, she’s definitely going to lose some toes.
As soon as I drive up to the cabin and park the car, I know I don’t have anything to worry about. I can see her silhouetted in the windows, moving around. I get out of the car and grab my purchases to bring in with me.
Stepping into the cabin, I’m met with a warm, sweet scent. Jenna has her back to me, working at the stove. “I made breakfast,” she says. “To make up for ruining the eggs.”
I sit down at the table. She’s cut up several of the fruits I brought—apples, pears, even the grapes are cut in half—into bite-size pieces. Blueberries are sprinkled among them. It’s a fruit salad. It looks delicious, but it doesn’t account for the smell I noticed when I walked in.
Then she steps back from the stove, saucepan in hand. “Hot chocolate,” she announces and pours it into two cups. She places one on the table in front of me.
I stare. “How did you make hot chocolate? I didn’t buy any hot chocolate.”
“You bought chocolate and milk,” she says with a grin. “I just combined it. Try it.”
I do. It’s delicious. “Thank you.”
She shrugs. “I was bored.”
I indicate the plastic bag from the drugstore. “I picked up some things for you.”
She pulls the bag toward her and lifts out the new clothes, laying them out as carefully as if they were designer garments that she didn’t want to wrinkle. When she gets to the shoes, she smiles. She pulls one over her bare foot, walking a few steps to see if it fits. “You got the right size,” she says.
“I took a guess,” I say.
She pulls out the last few things I bought—a couple novels, a book of puzzles, and a few magazines off the impulse buy rack at the front of the store. Then, at the very bottom of the bag, she finds the smallest of my purchases.
She withdraws her hand, looking confused, and holds it up. “Nail polish?”
“I don’t know,” I say. My eyebrows shoot up as I shrug. “Don’t girls like to play with nail polish?”
Jenna bursts out laughing.
Chapter 11
Jenna
I’ve read about Stockholm Syndrome, of course, and seen depictions of it in movies and on TV. But even though I know it’s a real thing, it always seemed made up to me. How could a hostage or a kidnapping victim become so overwhelmed by the situation as to develop affection for their captor? I mean, maybe it makes sense for little kids because it’s in their nature to bond with whoever’s caring for them, but an adult would have to be unusually weak-willed to fall victim to something like that, right? Certainly, it could never happen to me. I’m too strong, too smart, too self-aware.
After less than twenty-four hours with Joel, however, I’m really starting to question that assessment. Something is going on with me. Maybe my sanity isn’t quite as reliable as I’d previously thought. That dream I had about him was alarming enough, but I’m awake now and yet find myself stealing glances at him, noticing the muscles in his arms and the way his hair swoops across his forehead. The strength of his jaw. The softness of his lips. I’m wondering what they might feel like on my skin. I’m probably going crazy.
And this isn’t just about looks, either. I’ve changed clothes for the first time since we got to the cabin, and I have to admit, I feel like a different person. Not a very stylish person—in a baggy purple unisex T-shirt that comes down to my knees and a pair of black leggings—but I’m clean and comfortable, and that’s thanks to Joel. He didn’t have to get me these things. He took the risk that I might run away from him again, and his only reason for doing so seems to have been to make me more comfortable. If I leave out the kidnapping—or if he’s telling the truth about working for my father and trying to keep me alive—then he’s a kind person.
It’s confusing. I feel like I should hate him, but I don’t. And I almost feel as if I’m betraying myself by softening toward him. Am I just weak? Am I choosing the path of least resistance because I’d rather focus on being here with a nice man than on being the victim of a kidnapping? Am I stupid? Or is there something more going on?
I sit down at the kitchen table. Joel is already there, methodically tearing pages out of a book. It doesn’t look like a particularly thrilling book—tilting my head, I see the words “a biography” on the spine, and a name I don’t recognize—but I’m still scandalized by the act. “What are you doing?”
He points unnecessarily to the stacked pages he’s already ripped out. “Paper.”
“But, like, why?”
In answer, he picks up one of the pages, slowly and carefully folds it into the shape of a lily and passes it across the table to me. Perfect. Why does he have to be charming? What am I supposed to do with that?
I tuck the lily in my hair, behind my ear. “So, you do origami?”
He nods. “There’s a lot of sitting around in my job. It’s good to have a hobby.”
“Your job. Which is what, exactly?”
“I told you,” he says. But he doesn’t sound impatient at having to repeat himself. In fact, he’s reaching for another piece of paper, and as I watch, he begins folding something else, something that looks more complex than the flower he gave me. “I make people disappear.”
“You can earn a living doing that?”
“You might be surprised by how many people want a fresh start,” he says.
“Who?” I ask. “Who needs to disappear like that?”
“You did.”
“But this can’t be common,” I say. “People aren’t just disappearing all over the place.”
“More than you’d think,” he says. “It’s just never been anyone you’ve known personally, that’s all. But certain types of people—”
“You mean criminals, don’t you,” I interrupt, folding my arms across my chest. Now I understand who he is. How could I have thought he was a decent person? “You help criminals escape justice.”
He frowns. “Are you a criminal?”
“Well, no.”
“I never work with criminals,” he says. There’s a bite in his tone, now. “My clients are people on the run from criminals. People who owe debts, or who have gotten their hands on information someone would kill to protect.”
I’m about to counter that I don’t owe any debts or know any information, but I stop myself in time. He doesn’t mean me. My father was Joel’s client, the one who wanted to disappear, and he was worried they—whoever they are—would use me to get to him. I don’t know if Joel meant to let slip what my father was hiding from. For the first time, I feel like I have a real clue to what’s going on, but I’m not going to point it out.
I change the subject quickly. “Why would you choose a job like this? It sounds depressing.”
“Sometimes it is,” he says.
“Then why?”
Joel sighs, gets up, and grabs a beer from the fridge. I’m surprised. I didn’t know there was beer in the cabin, and I thought I’d searched that fridge thoroughly. It must be at the back or something. I resolve to give it a more thorough going-over lat
er. I’m determined to take over the cooking as soon as possible. Joel offers me a beer, which I accept, and sits back down.
“My father was killed,” he says, a new intensity to his voice. “When I was a kid, just barely a teenager, he pissed off a loan shark. My father was a gambler. When his luck went cold, he borrowed money to keep playing until eventually, they came after him.”
I don’t know what to say. Having grown up without my mother, I can relate to the loss of a parent. But my mom died when I was a baby, so I can’t quite relate to the grief I see etched on his face. I can’t even imagine losing Dad.
I rest my hand over Joel’s. “I’m so sorry,” I say, my voice soft.
A long, uncomfortable moment passes between us, and then he shakes my hand off and gets to his feet, moving toward the refrigerator as if to get another beer. The one on the table is still full, so when he reaches the fridge, he just pulls open the door and stares in awkwardly. I get the feeling he’s looking for something to bail him out of the conversation. Of course, there isn’t any such thing in there. Eventually, he comes back to the table and sits down.
“It’s all right,” he says. “It was a long time ago.”
“You couldn’t have gone into this business right away,” I say, “if you were only a kid when that happened.” I’m trying to put the timeline together and also hoping to distract him from a topic that’s clearly painful to talk about.
“Well, no, but I never really put it out of my mind,” he says. “I didn’t want anyone else to ever have to go through what I did. Losing someone that way. My dad was a gambler, sure, and not always the best guy. But he didn’t deserve to die the way he did. My mom didn’t deserve to lose her husband.”
“And you didn’t deserve to lose your father,” I say.
He nods slowly. “Anyway, I joined the military. I had a friend there. Shadow, we all called him. It wasn’t unusual in the SEALs to choose yourself a nickname.”
“Did you have one?”
He chuckles. “No.”
“You can tell me if you had one,” I say. “I promise I won’t laugh at it.”
“Well, I didn’t,” he says. “Nobody ever gave me one, and I didn’t want to be one of those guys who decide their own nickname. Even if everyone else was doing it.”
“A rebel. I like it.” I keep my tone jocular, but actually, I do like it. It’s easy to go along with what the group is doing. I imagine in a military organization, where you’re conditioned to follow orders, behaving like a maverick is even harder. Not that not nicknaming yourself is anything to be especially proud of. It’s starting to feel like my crush on Joel is so out of control that I’ll seize on anything that makes him seem more attractive.
God, did I just call it a crush?
Joel is still talking. “Shadow saved my life,” he says. “I took a bullet to the leg on a mission, so close to an artery I could have bled to death on the battlefield. He dragged me to safety. He risked his own life to do it. After that, I felt a kind of karmic responsibility to spend my life helping people. And given my personal history, what happened to my dad…” He shrugs. “It was easy to decide, at that point, what I wanted to do.”
“That’s kind of beautiful,” I say.
“I don’t know about that. I just sleep better at night thinking about the mothers who don’t lose their children, the families that aren’t torn apart because of what I do.”
“Like my dad?” I say.
He looks at me. “So you believe me?”
“I think I do.” His story was so full of emotion, and the detail of it obviously meant so much to him. I can’t imagine he made all that up just to trick me, especially in light of the fact that he has handcuffs here. He doesn’t have to persuade me at all; he can just lock me up. There must be a reason he isn’t.
And there’s a deeper reasoning here. Even as I’m trying to logic it out and figure out whether Joel is trustworthy, my gut has already decided. I’m not afraid of him. I think he’s telling me the truth, and that he does have my best interests in mind.
It’s a scary thing to accept, because it means the real danger is outside these walls, in a world I considered friendly. It means unknown forces are seeking to harm me, and the only way I can hope to escape them is by entrusting my life to this stranger. But it also means that, here in the cabin, I can relax. I can feel secure with Joel.
He stands again and goes to the fireplace. In a minute, we have a roaring blaze. While watching him work, I notice that I’m shivering. The snow is still coming down outside, and the temperature has dropped significantly. I join Joel on the thick carpet that’s spread in front of the fireplace, drawing warmth from the flames and from his body. He hands me a log, indicating that I should feed it into the fire. I do, somewhat hesitantly.
“You’ve never done that before,” he says.
I laugh. “Was it that obvious?”
“You seemed nervous.”
“Playing with fire is dangerous.”
His hand is on mine. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you, Jenna. It’s my job.”
I look from his hand up into his eyes.
“I care about you,” he says, finally, almost reluctantly.
I nod. It’s all I can do. The words I care about you, too are caught in my throat.
His hand slides up my arm, wraps around my shoulders, and a split second before he turns me toward him I realize he’s about to kiss me. I have no time to brace myself, mentally or physically, to consider whether this is a smart move. Unthinkingly, instinctively, I am kissing him back. My hands are already finding their way under his shirt to pull it over his head as his hands slip down the back of my hands and grip, pulling me closer.
I can’t think. He’s easing me down onto the rug, his body covering mine, sliding my pants down over my hips, and I’m shifting my weight to make it easier for him because I want this. My body wants this. As I lock eyes with him, my mind catches up to us, and I know that every part of me wants it. I reach up with my arms and legs and pull him down, breathing his name into his ear.
“Where are you going?” Joel murmurs.
“To the bathroom,” I whisper. “Stay.”
He nods sleepily and rolls away from me, toward the warmth of the fire.
Thank God for men always falling asleep right after sex. I step lightly, knowing that if he hears what I’m doing, he’ll wake up quickly. I grab my clothes on the way to the bathroom, and right before I shut the door, I also grab a small black bag that’s been sitting on the kitchen floor since our arrival yesterday.
Once in the bathroom, I lock the door and turn on the water. I’ve got to move quickly. I tug my clothes back on and immediately begin searching the bag, trying not to make too much noise with the zippers. I don’t want to rely too much on the sound of the running water to cover me. All he would have to do is notice that the bag is gone.
I don’t think Joel would hurt me. Not anymore. I believe he cares for me, and honestly, I care for him too. The intimacy between us just now was real. It makes me feel that much worse about what I’m about to do. It feels like a betrayal. But I think it’s a necessary one.
Finally, I find what I’m looking for and exit the bathroom. Joel is still dozing in front of the fire, a contented half-smile on his face. I take a moment to steel myself. This is not going to be fun.
Whipping the handcuffs from the bag out of my pocket, I clap one end around his wrist and the other around an exposed pipe running from floor to ceiling on the wall beside the fireplace. Then I move quickly, grabbing his shirt from the floor and jumping out of his reach.
Joel, of course, is immediately alert. “What the hell?”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry, Joel.”
He understands immediately. I can see it in his eyes. “Jenna, don’t do this.”
“I really do care about you,” I say. I’m already rummaging through his shirt pockets. The breast pocket. That’s where I’ll find the information I need. I keep t
he map to your father close to my chest, he said. My hand closes around a piece of paper, and I stuff it into my sock, not having any pockets of my own to work with. “I have to find my dad,” I say. “I have to know that he’s okay.”
“Jenna, we can talk about this,” he protests, pulling at the cuffs.
But I’m done talking. I’ve tried to talk. He hasn’t given me answers. I pull on the shoes he bought for me, grab the car keys from the counter, and set off into the snow to find out the truth for myself.
Chapter 12
Jenna
As I pull away from the cabin, I’m already wondering if I made the right decision.
The map is easy enough to read, thank goodness. It shows the town of Colebrook to the south, and some miles above it, a red dot that I can tell denotes where we’ve been staying. Farther up, about equally as far from our cabin as Colebrook is, there’s a second dot. That must be the second safe house. It has to be.
I navigate carefully down the gravel driveway, grateful for the fact that Joel has already driven here today and disturbed the snow that’s still coming down. I hope the roads themselves aren’t too awful.
The first turn takes me up a steeply graded incline, and although I can see that the road has been plowed and salted, I’m still nervous. Driving up the side of a snow-covered mountain is one of the scariest things I’ve ever done. The only thing keeping me from turning around and going back is the thought that I’ll find my father at the top. If he’s up there, it’s worth driving through any weather conditions, even along the side of the mountain. All I can think about is whether or not he’s all right.
My Protector (Once a SEAL, Always a SEAL Book 5) Page 8
