by Karen Leabo
He tried not to let her criticism bother him. “Costello’s, over on Richmond. Don’t come up to the table, and keep your camera out of sight. I don’t want my friend to know you’re there. Just sit down at the café. I’ll find you.”
After he ended his call with Fran, he went through all his pants pockets, including the ones in his closet, and came up with ten dollars and change. Not enough to pamper a society girl like Christine Greenlow, even for an hour. Looked like he’d have to resort to plastic.
Christine looked up when her host reentered the kitchen, and she had to take a deep breath to counter light-headedness. He’d covered up the undershirt with a crisp cotton shirt similar to the one she was wearing, except that it fit, pale yellow in color. He’d also combed his hair and shaved. GQ-perfect, but still with a rough edge. Why did he seem so exciting to her?
Maybe it was simply the adrenaline in her system. She was having an adventure—the only adventure of her boring life, she realized—and that made everything seem exciting.
Funny, she’d never thought of her previous life as boring until she was kidnapped. She’d thought of herself as content, settled, and had even been slightly contemptuous of those who always lived on the edge. Her father’s addiction had been the only fly in the ointment, and she’d felt confident that Stan Greenlow would see the light, get some confidential counseling, and everything would be as it had been.
Even her impending marriage to Robert Warner hadn’t worried or upset her too much. Her father had introduced them two years ago, and it had seemed like a natural extension of the life she’d chosen that she should marry a man in politics—a congressional aide for one of her father’s cronies—and life would go on.
Why did it suddenly seem that her life had been empty, shallow?
“Bad news,” Ryan said as he claimed the chair across from her. “All the seats on all the flights to Raleigh are booked until Tuesday.”
Christine sagged with disappointment. She was anxious to get out of town, to confer with her half sister. Practical, solidly middle-class Michelle could look at things with a perspective Christine didn’t have. She was unsentimental, and she had once lightly rebuked Christine for not “getting a life” of her own, though Christine had dismissed the gentle chiding at the time.
Now it seemed that Michelle might have some answers for her. And she would have to wait until Tuesday to meet with her. Meanwhile, what would she do with herself? Ryan had already said he didn’t want her taking up space in his apartment for any length of time.
“The good news,” Ryan said, “is that I have some business in Raleigh. Nothing urgent, and I’d planned to take care of it later in the month, but I could do it tomorrow as well as any day. In fact, my sister lives in Emporia, which is on the way. I’m overdue to visit her.”
“You mean you’ll drive me?” Hope flared.
“Sure. It’s only, what, five hours?”
“About that, I guess.”
“Then we’ll leave first thing tomorrow morning.”
“And what about today?”
Ryan looked resigned. “I guess you can hang out with me.”
Well, it wasn’t the most gracious invitation she’d ever had, but she’d take it. Suddenly she giggled. The sound of her own voice making such a weird noise surprised her, and she realized she didn’t often laugh, or giggle. Or maybe even smile.
“What’s so funny?”
She shrugged, in love with the idea of having a whole day, almost twenty-four hours, to kill. No meetings, no telephone or beeper, no worries. The best part was that she got to spend it with her handsome knight in shining armor.
She thought again about the police. She should let someone know she was out of danger. But there would be questions, hundreds of them. Her father would be notified, of course. She would have to talk to him.
She sighed. She simply couldn’t face such an ordeal right now. Maybe it was the drug she’d been given, but something was wrong with her. For the first time in her life, she was unable to face responsibility.
For a whole day, she could be someone else. Not the senator’s staid daughter or the congressional aide’s demure fiancée, but someone named Chrissy, whose main concern right now was the fact that she had no shoes.
Chapter 3
“Where are we going again?” Christine asked as she watched Ryan putting on his Nikes. They looked well-worn, as if perhaps he actually ran in them, as opposed to making a fashion statement. She thought longingly to that one year she’d spent at Radcliffe, when she adopted the habit of running three miles every morning before classes. She’d wanted to continue after her father called her back home, but he’d insisted it was too dangerous for her—the daughter of a public figure—to run amok on the public streets of Washington without protection.
Ironically, it had turned out that his own front porch was the most dangerous place for her, but, of course, he couldn’t have anticipated that.
“We’re going to a cappuccino bar,” Ryan said casually.
“We just had coffee.”
“Yeah, but this place has really good coffee. And cinnamon rolls. I get the feeling you’re still hungry.”
She was, though she was too embarrassed by her unladylike appetite to agree with him out loud. The thought of a gooey, fat-laden cinnamon roll made her mouth water and her stomach rumble. “We’ll have to do something about my bare feet,” she said. “I can borrow your shirts and shorts without that much trouble, but I’m guessing your shoes would be less than a neat fit.” She felt silly even asking; she’d never in her life been unable to walk into any store in the city and purchase what she needed. “I’ll pay you back if you buy me some shoes. Some cheap canvas ones would be fine.”
“Okay. First stop, Target,” he said, giving the discount store’s name a French pronunciation: Tar-zhay. “Is there anything else you need?”
“A toothbrush,” she said, a little desperately.
“Okay. How about...underwear?” He raised one eyebrow and waited for her to answer.
“If you must know, I’m wearing a pair of yours, and they’re pretty darn comfortable. I don’t think I’ve worn plain cotton undies since I outgrew my Carters.”
Maybe he’d intended to embarrass her by mentioning underwear, but he was the one who looked away a bit nervously. “Target, I’m pretty sure, sells the all-cotton variety for ladies,” he mumbled. “Anything else?”
She wondered if she would be recognized in the street. Not that she looked a lot like the photo in the newspaper, which had been taken a couple of years ago, when her hair was shorter. Plus, she’d been glammed up for the camera. Nonetheless, her face was a familiar one in certain Washington circles. “Sunglasses and a hat,” she said. “And that’s all, I promise.”
“So none of your friends will spot you slumming with a mechanic, I presume,” he said matter-of-factly as he stood and walked back into the kitchen. She followed, curious, to find him rummaging around in a drawer. He came up with a pair of aviator sunglasses. “These never fit my face right. Try ’em on for size.” While she did just that, he disappeared into the bedroom, returning shortly with a Baltimore Orioles baseball cap.
Surprising her, he grabbed her hair, twisted it up at the crown of her head and plopped the cap on top. She shivered as his fingertips brushed her nape.
“There, your own mother wouldn’t recognize you.”
She must have flinched or looked surprised, because he immediately said, “Sorry, did I say something wrong?”
She smiled reassuringly. “I shouldn’t be so sensitive, or so transparent. My mother died a few years ago.”
“Now I really am sorry,” he said again.
“Don’t be, not for using a common expression.” Although privately she had to admit that not a week went by that she didn’t fervently wish her mother hadn’t left her to deal with her father alone. Stan Greenlow would never have made the life-threatening decisions he’d made if his wife was beside him, to temper his melodramatic natur
e.
“I’m ready if you are,” she said, anxious to be off the subject of her mother. If she wasn’t careful, she would give him all the clues he needed to figure out her identity, with or without seeing a picture. Chrissy Green? Was that the name she’d given him last night? Well, she never had been much of a liar.
Ryan nodded, and they were off.
They tiptoed down the front stairs. “You probably don’t remember me telling you this last night, but my landlady’s a dragon,” Ryan whispered as they descended. “If she finds out a woman slept in my apartment, she’ll throw me out.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. What century was she born in?”
“Deadly serious. It’s in the lease. I thought she was a bit Victorian when I read the terms, but the rent is pretty low, too, so I couldn’t pass up the opportunity.”
“How do you manage?” she asked, imagining that he probably had a slew of sleep-over girlfriends. No man with his looks didn’t at least have the opportunity.
“I abide by the terms. Guess I’m old-fashioned.”
“What about me?”
“You’re the exception. I tried to take you home last night, but you wouldn’t give me an address. I didn’t have much choice but to take you in. Quiet, now,” he said as they reached the first floor landing. With cautious glances over his right shoulder toward apartment 1, he tiptoed to the front door and pulled it open noiselessly. Only someone with an inverted glass against the wall would have heard the slight noise.
The door to apartment 1 flew open, and a formidable-looking woman in curlers and a pale green housecoat accelerated into the foyer. “Mr. Mulvaney!” she boomed.
Ryan jumped at least a foot. “Mrs. Reiser, good morning. I’d like you to meet my, um, cousin Chrissy from New Jersey.”
New Jersey? Calling upon her negligible dramatic skills, Christine summoned what she thought was a Jersey accent. “Pleased ta meetcha.” She extended her hand, and Mrs. Dreiser shook it gingerly in her own big, blunt one.
“Yes, well. Here for a long visit?” Her nose almost twitched with curiosity and suspicion, as if she were trying to ferret out a moldy piece of cheese from the refrigerator.
“Just till tomorrow,” Christine said.
“Just for breakfast,” Ryan said at the same time, then quickly added, “Well, she’ll be in town till tomorrow, but we’re just having breakfast. She has other people to visit.”
“I see,” Mrs. Reiser said, in a tone of voice that indicated that she didn’t see at all. She stooped down to retrieve her paper, gave Ryan a hard look that seemed to say, Watch your step, then retreated into her apartment.
Ryan hurried out the front door. “C’mon, before she decides to do a full interrogation.”
“You’re actually afraid of her,” Christine said, amazed. “Last night you rescued me from some gang in a terrible neighborhood, and today you’re afraid of a little old lady wearing sponge rollers in her hair?”
“She terrifies me,” he explained as they walked around the building, toward the carports in back. “I mean, what’s the worst some knife-wielding thugs can do to me, carve me up? Mrs. Reiser can throw me out in the street. Even worse, she can tell my mother. They’re good friends. And, believe me, when she’s mad, my mother makes Mrs. Reiser look like Tinker Bell.”
Christine laughed at that. Ryan Mulvaney had a way with words, not to mention a way with her hormones. It felt good to laugh, she realized. The sun was warm on her face and arms. She wanted badly to indulge in those simple pleasures. But then she thought about her father, and she immediately felt melancholy again. She was going to have to talk to him, and soon. It wasn’t fair to continue to let him think she was being held hostage.
If he even cares, she thought with a grimace. Her throat tightened, and she determinedly swallowed the rising lump. It had to be a misunderstanding, a miscommunication of some sort. Her father might be angry with her, but he wouldn’t abandon her to a bunch of bloodthirsty terrorists.
She started to step out into the alley behind the brownstone, but Ryan grabbed her arm, halting her. “Broken glass. I’ll carry you.”
“But—”
Ryan ignored her objection, scooping her effortlessly up into his arms. “This is how we did it last night.”
She had a vague memory of having been in this position before. She also remembered that she’d liked it. She felt her face warming, and was glad for the baseball cap, which shielded her from Ryan’s view. She couldn’t allow him to know how he affected her, no matter how novel and exciting the sensations. If she really wanted to become her own woman, it didn’t make sense to start out pinning her yearnings on a man, any man.
She fully intended to live life on her own terms as soon as she could manage it. That meant no men, at least for a while. Men always expected a lot from her if she gave them the least little part of herself, and she was good and tired of it.
Even as that thought crossed her mind, Ryan set her down beside a blue Corvette, and she found herself thrilled at the idea of riding around in such an exciting car. That made no sense. She could have bought herself her own Corvette, if she wanted. But somehow, Ryan’s was much more appealing.
The discount store in nearby Arlington was mind-boggling. Christine expected someone to stop her from entering the store in stocking feet, but either nobody noticed or nobody cared. She hadn’t been in such a store in years. She and her father had servants to do all the shopping. It felt weird to be bombarded with so much merchandise, so many signs.
Ryan took her hand to lead her through the crowd of Sunday shoppers to the shoe section. She quickly found a pair of crepe-soled canvas flats—with yellow stripes, no less—for $9.99. She thought of how shocked Connie, her maid, would be when she saw them, and smiled. Constance, pushing seventy, had been working for the Greenlow family since her teens, and she’d absorbed an uncanny snobbish-ness—through osmosis, Christine liked to think. Constance would get the vapors at the thought of any Greenlow entering a discount store, much less wearing apparel purchased there.
Christine took a quick tour of the underwear section and picked up some panties, T-shirts and socks—enough to last a couple of days. She pulled off her socks and slipped the shoes on the moment they were outside. “Very comfy.” She made Ryan stop in the first gas station they saw so that she could brush her teeth in the rest room with the toothbrush and toothpaste he’d bought for her. Now she was ready to face the day.
While waiting for Chrissy to finish her morning ablutions, Ryan filled his car with gas and used his mobile phone to call Fran’s voice pager, all the while keeping a sharp eye on the ladies’ room door. He didn’t think Chrissy had any plans to slip away. In fact, she’d seemed eager to hang out with him, a fact that stroked annoyingly on his ego. But he couldn’t be too careful.
He listened to Fran’s voice mail recording, then the beep. “It’s Ryan. We’re running late, but please wait for us at Costello’s,” he said. He was up the creek if he couldn’t connect with Fran. His story would be too easily discounted without good pictures.
“I feel so much better,” Chrissy said as she bounced back into the car. “There’s a restaurant right next door. We could go there for coffee.”
Ryan tamped down his alarm. He had to get them to Costello’s without arousing Chrissy’s suspicions. “And what about the cinnamon rolls?”
“Oh, yeah, how could I forget? Drive on.”
Relaxing, Ryan put the Vette in gear and headed back toward Georgetown.
Parking was a near impossibility in Georgetown, especially on weekends. Christine wondered why they didn’t simply park in Ryan’s apartment carport and walk from there—she thought it was only a few blocks. But then he lucked into a spot on a side street. They walked three blocks to Costello’s.
Christine suspected the café was one of those places that was almost too trendy for its own good. Her suspicions were confirmed when she saw the crowd waiting to be seated. The people she socialized with eschewed scenes like th
is. They usually went to staid, established, even stuffy restaurants where their mere names were enough to immediately get them a table. Often they managed a private room.
This place was so rough-and-tumble that Christine had to watch that her toes didn’t get stepped on as people milled around her. She loved it The variety of humanity surrounding her took her breath away—everyone from blue-haired after-church ladies to goateed musician or artist types here to treat their hangovers with heavy doses of caffeine.
She stepped closer to Ryan to let an exiting group pass. He put an arm around her shoulders. The protective gesture seemed perfectly natural, and Christine leaned in a little bit, reveling in the warmth emanating from his body and the clean, male scent she could barely detect.
She remembered this feeling. She’d had a boyfriend her freshman year in college, Doug Vega, a friend’s older brother who’d escorted her to some silly sorority parties, groped with her in the back seat of his car, and finally taken her virginity in a hotel room he’d rented for the occasion. The whole affair had lasted only a couple of months, ending abruptly when her father pulled her back to Washington. He’d needed her, he claimed, and, as always she’d come running.
She’d realized later that she hadn’t really been in love with the boy, but she remembered her fling with him as an exciting, heady time. They’d been wildly attracted to each other, and their few brief liaisons had given Christine an exquisite taste of the forbidden.
Later, she’d talked herself into believing that mature relationships were based on things more important than hormones. In fact, she’d convinced herself that the intensity of her physical feelings for Doug had been a result of her youth and the fact that he was her first.
Suddenly she wasn’t so sure that was a correct assumption. She’d felt a calm acceptance toward the physical aspects of her relationship to Robert, her fiancé, and believed that was the way things were for adult couples contemplating a lifetime together—pleasant interludes on infrequent occasions.
Now, feeling that quivering in her abdomen that she remembered from years ago, she realized she’d been dead wrong. And she was furious with herself that she’d come so close to throwing her womanhood away in a marriage that was merely “pleasant.” What on earth had made her think it was okay to marry a man because he was a good social match for her and she didn’t find him repulsive?
