Sweet Hostage

by Leslie Jones

  “Thanks. Apparently I can do skank if I need to. Seriously, though. What’s the next step, Trevor?”

  He scratched his chin. “We lay low for the next day or so. I need you to think where you could go to be safe. If possible, I rejoin the Bedlamites.”

  “Is that even an option?”

  “Could be. Depends on a lot of factors.” The odds were slim, but best keep that to himself. She already blamed herself for his mission going balls up.

  Shelby’s shoulders hunched as she ducked her head. “I’m really sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Things were going to get cocked up either way.”

  “Because of the hostages?”

  “Because of me.” His grin flashed and vanished. “I threw a spanner in the works, but someone jumped the gun. The police showed early. The plan was for us to arrive after the museum closed and all the visitors had gone.”

  Shelby’s shoulders relaxed. “But what about finding Mr. Smith?”

  He shook his head. “No one in the Bedlamite cell knows his real name. I know what he looks like. As soon as we get you sorted, I’ll do a police sketch and start combing Interpol’s criminal databases until I find him. You should get some rest.”

  “I’m not tired.”

  “Doubtful. It’s nearly one in the morning, and you’ve had quite the active evening.”

  Shelby stretched, rotating her neck to loosen the muscles. “What about you?”

  “I’m good to go.”

  Shelby shrugged, a frown pulling her face. “Fine.”

  As expected, she fell asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow. Trevor watched the rise and fall of her chest. What would have happened if Christina hadn’t called him the night of the gala in Ma’ar ye zhad? If he hadn’t answered his mobile, or had sent someone in his stead? Might their delicious romp have blossomed into something more?

  He shook himself like a dog shedding water. What was done was done. No use speculating about the could haves and might haves.

  He allowed himself to doze, coming fully alert at the buzz of his mobile. Shelby bolted upright, alarm in her eyes.

  Fishing it out from his front pocket, he checked the screen. “It’s Eric. That took longer than I expected.”

  Shelby tensed. “You expected—­”

  He pressed the green button. “ ’Bout time you rang.”

  “What the fuck happened?” Eric sounded pissed.

  Trevor didn’t hesitate. “It took me a while to catch up with the girl. And I had to avoid the coppers, didn’t I?”

  “A nobody, huh, Trev? Seems like she’s somebody to you. Do you have her?”

  Trevor made a disgusted snort. “I did have, but Nathan and Fay bollixed that up. She ran off.”

  “Fay says you attacked them. What the fuck, Trev?”

  His voice grew an edge that wasn’t feigned. “What was their mission, Eric? Looked to me like they were there to kill the girl. Maybe both of us.”

  Eric didn’t answer, which was answer enough.

  “You fucking prick.” Any chance of rejoining the Bedlamites evaporated. Eric no longer trusted him.

  “See, here’s the thing,” Eric said. “I don’t know if you’re thinking with your pecker or if you’re just a coward.”

  Trevor growled. “You know I’m no coward. Northern Ireland proved that.”

  Eric blew a breath down the phone line. “You’ve changed, Trev. Gone soft. I don’t think you have the stones for it any more.”

  “What’s really going on here, Eric? What does Mr. Smith want? Destroying a ­couple of paintings, even bombing a few museums. That’ll change nothing. Fill me in on what you’re really doing for him.”

  “I’d’ve done it once we were clear of the coppers,” Eric said. “But now . . . ? Why did you really contact me in London, in the first place?”

  Neither was going to answer the others’ question over the phone. “Meet me, then. Let’s talk it through.”

  Eric hesitated. “We used to be mates. We have history. Fought together. For that, I’ll tell you. Mr. Smith doesn’t trust you. Wants you dead.”

  “Who is he really, Eric? Do you even know?”

  “Goodbye, Trev.”

  The line went dead. With a growl, Trevor flung the phone across the room. It shattered against the wall. “Fuck.”

  Shelby clasped her hands together. “What did he say?”

  “Nothing good. We need to leave. Jukes will have traced the phone.”

  Shelby didn’t say a word as she picked up her bag.

  Trevor headed for the window, which overlooked the pub instead of the street. It opened with minor protest. He sat backward on the sill, tilting his body through so he could grasp the outside top of the window. He swung himself out butt first, lowered himself to the bottom of the sill, and dropped the eight feet to the roof of the pub.

  Shelby leaned out the window. “It’s too far.”

  “It’s not. Turn onto your stomach and crawl through feet first.”

  “Okay.” She looked doubtful as she stuck one leg then the other out the window, then wriggled around until her stomach pressed into the sill.

  “You’re doing great. Now let yourself down with your hands as far as you can and drop. I’ll catch you.”

  “How can you?” Her voice sounded shrill. “I’ll squash you.”

  “Shelby,” Trevor said, “you need to trust me. I won’t let you get hurt.”

  They couldn’t stay here. The Bedlamites were coming for them. Finally, finally, Shelby nodded, took a deep breath, and wriggled backward until she hung outside the window.

  “Good. Now let go.”

  Eyes scrunched closed, she released the windowsill.

  He closed his arms around her before she could touch the ground. With a gasp, she clutched his shoulders, body sagging in relief. He set her down.

  “I did it,” she said in wonder.

  “I knew you could.”

  They stood on the pub’s roof. Trevor went to the side away from the street and looked over the edge. “I’m going to lower you down, okay? You won’t have more than a few feet to drop.”

  She joined him. “That concrete looks awfully far away to me.”

  He wasn’t going to lie to her. “A bit farther, yes. We’ll do it same as before. Lie on your stomach and dangle your feet over.”

  She did as instructed. “I don’t want to do this.”

  “You’ll be fine.” If he had another option, he’d have taken it. This was the best way for them to leave the hotel unnoticed. Laying down next to her, he pushed himself back. “Wriggle off. I’ll let you down as far as I can.”

  “I really don’t want to do this. Why couldn’t we just go out the front door?”

  “One, do you really want that weasel seeing us leave? Because two, if he doesn’t see us leave, he’ll assume we’re still inside. In the time it takes Eric to threaten or bribe him, we can be well away from here.”

  “Okay.” Her voice was small. Shifting backward, she gripped the edge as tightly as she could, lowering herself until she hung from the edge. She closed her eyes.

  Trevor hung next to her, holding on with one hand as he offered her the other. “Give me your hand.”

  She cracked open an eye. “You can’t be serious. I’ll yank you right off the roof.”

  “You won’t. But you can’t hang here forever. Didn’t you climb trees as a child?”

  “I had a tire swing that we’d use to jump into the river. Concrete isn’t as soft as water. And it was a lifetime ago.”

  Trevor grabbed her hand. “I promise I won’t drop you.”

  She squeaked and let go.

  The muscles in his arms bunched as he absorbed her weight, lowering her even farther. As he’d promised, she was mere feet from the ground.

  “Rea
dy?”

  She risked a glance down. “I don’t have much choice.”

  He opened his fingers. She fell the last few feet, landing on her heels and immediately falling backward onto her butt. Trevor dropped down beside her, offering her a hand up.

  “Are you hurt?”

  She shook her head.

  “Let’s go, then.”

  He took her two streets over to another dive. This time, she unbuttoned her shirt almost all the way, showing her bra and the tops of her breasts. Sauntering up to the counter, she leaned against it, prepared to play her role.

  The proprietor had leaned back in his chair, head tilted back and mouth open. A tiny rivulet of drool trailed its way into his beard. He snored softly.

  “Working off a bender, I’d say,” Trevor said. He reached around the desk and snagged a room key. “He won’t even notice.”

  This hotel at least had an elevator, which they took to the third floor. The room itself was marginally better than the last one, with two full-­sized beds, a guest chair, and a desk. Shelby flopped into the chair. Trevor stood next to the window, drapes closed but for a small sliver through which he peered. He paced to the bathroom and back several times before finally sitting on one of the beds.

  “Finally. You were making me dizzy.”

  He grunted. “You should sleep.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m fine.”

  She made a rude sound. “Big tough he-­man never needs food or sleep?”

  He frowned. “Of course I do. Just not as much as a civilian.”

  She rose abruptly and went to the bed, kicking off her shoes and crawling between the sheets without hesitation. “Fine.”

  “The truth is, I could use a kip as well.” He took her Beretta from his waist and set it on the bedside table within easy reach. Unlacing his combat boots, he set them next to the bed, stripped off his T-­shirt, and lay down. “For the moment, we’re as safe as I can make us.”

  It seemed to take a long time for her to relax. In contrast, Trevor slept almost instantly. For a while, she simply watched him. Finally, her eyes fluttered closed.

  SHELBY SHIFTED IN her sleep, caught in a nightmare where Crawley used his huge knife to gut Floyd, then turned the knife on Trevor. Blood ran in rivers, getting onto her hands, clothing, even into her hair. She began to thrash.

  “Shh. It’s just a dream. You’re safe.”

  She came awake with a cry, fighting against the bonds holding her.

  “Shel. Shelby. It’s me. You’re safe.”

  It took her several moments to realize the bonds were simply Trevor’s strong arms around her. He was sitting on the edge of the bed holding her. She collapsed against him with a weak cry.

  “I dreamt you were dead,” she whispered against his chest. His bare chest.

  “Us big tough he-­men are hard to put down.” A soft laugh rumbled through his chest.

  “Trevor, that man. Crawley. He’s deranged. You know that, right?”

  “Is that what you were dreaming about? That Crawley killed me?”

  She nodded against him.

  “I know how dangerous he is, believe me. I will not let him near you.” He started to shift away from her.

  “Don’t let go. Not yet.” She couldn’t bear it if he moved away from her right now. In his arms, she felt stronger. Safer.

  He gathered her close. “My pleasure.”

  She realized she was smoothing her palm across his pecs. As she made to remove her hand, he reached up and captured it, pressing it over his heart. She tilted her head up to look at him. He had a small scar on his left temple, near the hairline. Reaching up a trembling hand, she traced her fingers over it. Suddenly, being held wasn’t enough. She wanted what they’d shared in Ma’ar ye zhad. In her apartment, in her bed. No one had ever set her aflame like that. Nor satisfied her as he had. Her mouth dried as she drank in the sheer presence of him. She bit her lip, uncertain.

  Trevor zeroed in on that small movement. His body tensed, but he didn’t move. Shelby didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved.

  For long moments, neither of them stirred. Then, with a groan, Trevor closed the distance between them and settled his mouth on hers. Electricity shot through her body. Her lips parted of their own accord, blindly seeking deeper contact. Their tongues met, stroking softly, tenderly, making her shiver. She went limp as he brushed his lips across hers, light-­headed from the crisp, woodsy scent of him. At last, he pulled back, looking into her eyes, a question in his.

  A question she couldn’t answer.

  She cleared her throat, sitting up. He let his arms drop into his lap.

  “What time is it?” The heavy drapes shrouded the room in perpetual gloom.

  “Around nine-­thirty, I think. We needed the rest.”

  She stood and grabbed her gym bag. “I’m going to shower and change. I’m sorry you don’t have any clean clothes, but you can use my toothpaste and deodorant, at least.”

  He grinned. “Are you politely telling me that I stink?”

  “No!” She put a hand to her mouth to stop the giggle trying to break free. “Well, okay, maybe a little bit.”

  He made a production of raising each arm to sniff his pits. “I’ve smelled worse.”

  A laugh escaped. “I’m just messing with you. You smell . . . good.”

  He stood abruptly and closed the distance between them. “Not now, because the timing is all wrong. But soon. We need to talk.”

  Before she could think how to respond, music started playing from one of Trevor’s cargo pockets.

  “What the devil?”

  Her heart sank as she recognized Avril Lavigne’s song, “Complicated.” Trevor reached for his cargo pants and pulled her cell phone from his pocket.

  “I forgot you still had my cell phone.”

  His brows snapped down as he examined her phone. “Bruce Clinton?”

  She held out a hand that visibly trembled. Why on earth was her ex-­fiancé calling her? She didn’t want to answer the phone, but she knew him. He’d keep calling until she broke down and answered. “I’ll, uh, take this in the hall.”

  His eyes narrowed, but he finally handed her the phone. “It’s not safe. Stay inside.”

  “Then . . . will you go outside?”

  The ringing stopped.

  “I’m not leaving you alone until we get this mess sorted.” By now, suspicion simmered in his eyes, and Shelby knew with a sinking heart he’d figured out who was on the other end of the phone. It began ringing again. Reluctantly, she pressed the green button. “Hello?”

  “Well, this is a hell of a mess you’ve gotten yourself into.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Haven’t you seen the news?” Bruce used the voice she hated the most. The slightly condescending tone that implied she was a complete moron. “Turn on CNN.”

  She found the remote and pressed the power button. The tubes flickered and glowed, finally turning on. She sucked in a breath. On the screen, right next to Trevor’s photo, was her own picture.

  “Oh, my God,” she breathed.

  The female anchor looked grave. “Authorities now believe that the missing hostage, State Department employee Shelby Gibson, might be part of the group who took hostages yesterday at the August Museum of Modern Art. Gibson disappeared along with the Philosophy of Bedlam, and was originally believed to have been taken against her will. She is now believed to be traveling with this man, Trevor Willoughby, who has a long history of violence dating back to IRA attacks in Northern Ireland in the late nineties.”

  The news anchor droned on, but Shelby tuned her out. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

  “What the hell’s going on, Shelby? Are you with that Willoughby character?”

  She turned her back to Trev
or and walked to the window, as though that could give her any sort of privacy. “Why are you calling me, Bruce?”

  “I care about you.” His voice dropped, becoming cajoling. “If you’re in trouble, I want to help you out. It’s been a year. Aren’t you done punishing me?”

  “I’m not punishing you. I broke up with you.”

  “The truth is, I haven’t been the same since you left.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way.” And she was. A Bruce who didn’t want her was far easier to deal with than a Bruce who did.

  “Don’t you miss me, too? Even a little bit? I know I was hard on you at times. I’ve gotten help, though. I’m not the same man I was.”

  She didn’t answer. While she believed absolutely that ­people could change, she just didn’t believe that Bruce had.

  “Shelby? Are you there?”

  “I’m here. What about Bunny, or whatever her name was?”

  “Bitsy. That was over a long time ago. Baby, I want you back.”

  Shelby gripped the phone tighter. “What’s the real agenda here, Bruce?”

  “I’m just worried about you. Are you with Willoughby? You need to go to the police and turn yourself in. I can help you get everything straightened out. Let me get you a good lawyer. We can beat this thing together.”

  She sighed, massaging her temple with one hand. Her head hurt. “So let me read this conversation back to you. The police contacted you in the States, and you said you’d help them bring me in. If you succeed and I’m innocent, you’re on the news as a savior. If you succeed and I’m actually a terrorist, you’re on the news as the hero who brought me to justice. That about sum it up?”

  He was silent. When he spoke again, his voice was full of hurt. “Why would you think that? Baby, I love you.”

  “You love what I do. You love the exposure it gave you. You used me, Bruce.”

  “I know I made mistakes. I’m a changed man since you left. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. Let me make it up to you.”

  Her head dropped. She didn’t believe him for an instant. He’d lied to her so often in the past.

  “Just think about it, okay? I don’t need an answer now. I’ll wait for you, baby, for as long as it takes. Let me make it up to you.”