Tennyson had switched hotel reservations on them, claiming the one Grant had previously booked was too much of a risk. This suite had a private elevator and consumed the entire top floor of the building. There was no balcony and only one way inside. Tennyson had hired another guard to stand watch by the outside door. As long as the guard didn’t come inside, Mallory was okay with it.
As soon as they’d arrived, Grant had disappeared into his room to catch up on some paperwork and have a video call with his assistant. Mallory stepped from her room, hoping to watch something light on TV—a comedy maybe. She needed a distraction from everything that had happened.
As she padded across the carpet, she spotted Tennyson sitting on the couch, flipping through something on his lap.
Mallory observed him a moment.
His hair was longer now than it had been when he was a SEAL. It spiked up in uneven waves on top of his head. He wore a black T-shirt that showed off his muscular arms and chest. She’d tried not to notice. She’d failed, though.
Just like Mallory had tried not to notice how handsome Tennyson had looked earlier dressed in his suit and tie. Just like she’d tried to stop herself from constantly seeking him out at the reception earlier.
But something about having him nearby made her feel better. As long as Mallory knew where Tennyson was and that he was watching, she could breathe. He’d rescued her before, and Mallory knew he would keep her safe now.
Were those thoughts crazy? She hoped not. After all, Tennyson was her bodyguard. Mallory should feel that way about him. It had nothing to do with how good he looked in both a T-shirt and a suit.
All that, not to mention his eyes. Blue eyes that held an ocean of depth. Depth she wanted to explore.
Of course that could never happen. Dante had taken things from her that she knew she’d never get back. All the prayers in the world wouldn’t change that.
She took a better look at what Tennyson had in his hands. Photos, she realized.
She walked closer and peered over his shoulder. When she recognized the face there, she sucked in a breath.
“Why are you looking at pictures of Dante’s first wife?” Mallory asked.
Tennyson didn’t bother to conceal the pictures. He’d obviously heard her coming—he didn’t even flinch. But at least he wasn’t hiding anything from her. She appreciated that about him.
“I studied everything about Torres in the years leading up to his death.”
That wasn’t the answer Mallory had been expecting to hear. She sat down beside him, curious to learn more about this man who’d rescued her from a living nightmare.
Throughout the past two years, she’d tried to fill in the blanks herself. She’d made up his backstory, and it included all things perfect. A perfect family. A spotless reputation. He’d probably rescued runaway neighborhood dogs as a child and volunteered at nursing homes in high school.
No doubt he’d gotten plenty of interest from females. He was that type of guy. And he probably dated women who were perfect—just like him. Ones who were named Miss Congeniality in their yearbooks. Who made cookies for people. Who were without blemish.
In other words, the opposite of Mallory.
“Why did you study Torres?” she asked.
A shadow crossed his face. “Personal reasons.”
Mallory nodded, not pressing any further. She knew what it was like to want to keep things private, and she needed to respect that, even if it disappointed her. “I see.”
Tennyson frowned and raked a hand through his hair, as if second-guessing his response or surrendering to courtesy. “The truth is that it’s a long story. Aside from my personal reasons, I had a job to do. Torres was the most wanted man in the world. As soon as I caught him, I was done with being a SEAL. My mission was accomplished, and I figured I could finally sleep at night.”
She tried to carefully measure her words. “That doesn’t explain why you’re looking at pictures of Alessandra now. She’s deceased.”
The corners of his lips tightened in a frown. “As I’m sure you probably know, her brother, Roberto Sanchez, was Torres’s right-hand man.”
Mallory considered what he was trying to say, but she couldn’t quite piece it together. “You think Sanchez is a threat? That he’s tracking me? That maybe he sent that e-mail and signed Dante’s name?”
“Why would he?” His gaze latched onto hers, and his words sounded slow, purposeful. The question was asked calmly and without emotion, but the intensity in his stare showed how focused he was.
Mallory shrugged, refusing to break eye contact with him. Her dad said it showed weakness, and it did. She’d avoided Dante’s eyes every time he came near her. “I have nothing that he could want.”
Tennyson continued to study her. “You didn’t hear anything during your time in captivity that would make you a risk to them now?”
She started to shake her head but stopped, determined to truly think the question through. She let out a long breath as snippets from the past echoed in her mind.
“I did hear things,” she said. “But nothing that made sense. Usually it was in Spanish. Besides, if members of Inferno wanted me dead or back in their custody, they’ve had opportunity before now.”
“You were whisked away and harder to find then. Now you’re out in public.”
Her throat tightened at the truth in his words. “Maybe.”
“Were there any indications that someone was looking for you before this tour started?”
She rubbed her neck, wishing this conversation was a bad dream. “Someone did try to break into my home outside DC once. It was never connected to Dante, of course. He was dead. His terror group was disbanded.”
“The police said that?”
“Of course. They figured it was neighborhood kids who assumed the house was abandoned. As soon as the alarm went off, they ran.”
“More than one?”
“Two sets of footprints. Why?”
“I’m just trying to gather all the facts.” He looked back down at Alessandra’s picture. “She looks like you, you know.”
A weight pressed against her chest. “I know. I think that’s why Dante chose me.”
She had Tennyson’s attention now. “Is that right?”
She nodded, not bothering to fight the nausea in her gut. She wasn’t sure if that would ever go away when she mentioned Dante’s name or talked about her time with him. “In his own way, Dante really loved her. When she died from breast cancer, he was devastated. He used to call me Alessandra sometimes. He bought me designer clothes that looked like hers. Had me cut my hair to match hers.”
His face paled. Whose wouldn’t when processing that information? But at least Mallory had spoken the truth. There was no need to hold back. In fact, she almost felt a driving need for Tennyson to know the truth. Maybe it would help circumvent this attraction she felt toward the man. If he knew the truth about what had happened to her in captivity, they’d have no chance.
“He was sick,” Tennyson muttered.
He studied her face a moment, and she sensed he wanted to ask questions. “What is it? You can ask me.”
His jaw flexed, and he rubbed it before asking evenly, “How did he treat you?”
“Treat me?” She hadn’t expected that.
He swallowed hard. “I know it’s a strange question.”
“No, I guess it’s not so strange. No one’s ever asked me that way before, though. They’ve asked what he did to me. I guess the answer is that he was generally kind—in a bizarre way, of course. I was very homesick, to say the least, when I first arrived. Dante actually found a snapshot of my mom and dad. He had it framed for me.”
“I saw that picture the night of the raid.”
She nodded slowly. “Yeah, it was there. It actually did make me feel better. This sounds weird, but I suppose it could have been worse.”
His look clearly showed he didn’t believe her.
Mallory raised a hand, begging for him to wait as s
he explained herself. “Don’t take that the wrong way. What happened to me was horrible. Devastating. I wouldn’t wish the situation on my worst enemy. But you learn to count your blessings.”
He didn’t say anything, as if waiting for her to continue.
So she did. “So many girls who are trapped into human trafficking are passed on from man to man, from city to city. They’re living in the slums and don’t have medical care, even though disease is rampant in those environments. They’re beaten and discarded and drugged. In the overall scheme of things, I was treated . . .” What was the word she was looking for? Finally, she shrugged. “I was treated okay. I had shelter and food. He . . . he didn’t beat me.”
“That takes a lot of strength to say.”
She wasn’t so sure about that. “Someone once told me you can’t be a victor and a victim at the same time. I choose to be a victor. I choose not to ask ‘Why me?’ and make the best of things.”
“Sounds wise, Mallory.”
“The last two months were two of the hardest. Dante was becoming unhinged and acting erratic. I . . . I almost ended my life once.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. She had to change the subject. She’d never intended to go this deep with Tennyson. “Anyway, none of this really tells me why you’re looking at pictures of Alessandra.”
A new emotion clouded Tennyson’s face. Was it . . . regret? What did he have to be sorry about?
He cleared his throat. “I’m just trying to familiarize myself with everyone who was in Torres’s network.”
“She’s dead, though.”
Tennyson nodded. “I know. But the people we surround ourselves with tell a lot about us.”
“All I know is that Alessandra was the love of his life. Something snapped inside him when she died. At least, that’s what I heard.”
“Do you know how they met?”
Mallory let out a long breath. “I heard that Dante saw her when she was walking on the beach. He approached her, and it was love at first sight. They were married for five years.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“No, one of the maids at the compound—her name was Gabriella—did. We would talk on occasion.” As the words left her lips, her throat tightened, nearly choking her.
Tennyson waited, not saying anything.
“The maid . . . I think she died because of me.”
Tennyson’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“She tried to help me escape once. Dante found out, and I never saw her again.”
“You think he killed her?”
“He must have.”
“I’m sorry, Mallory. That was noble of her to help.”
She was desperate to change the subject. “Now, on a happier note, I suppose Grant gave you my schedule for the next few months?”
He nodded.
“So you know I’m doing another television interview tomorrow? I’m being reunited with Jason, my former boyfriend.” Her throat tightened at the words.
Something crossed Tennyson’s gaze. Disapproval? Why would he disapprove, though? “I did hear that. You haven’t spoken with him since you’ve been back?”
She shrugged. “There are a lot of things unsaid between us. I haven’t reached out to him, and he hasn’t reached out to me.”
“So how did this televised reunion come about?” The words were said with a bitter edge that surprised Mallory.
“Grant, of course. He thinks it will help give me closure.”
He studied her again before asking, “Why on TV?”
“Everything I do is to help raise awareness, even if that requires sacrificing my privacy.”
“Even if it means sacrificing your own peace of mind?”
Her throat suddenly felt dry and achy. “If that’s the sacrifice I have to make to open people’s eyes, then so be it.”
He nodded. “As long as you’re okay with it, and your eyes are wide open, then I guess no one can argue with you.”
His words resonated in her mind. She was okay with all of this . . . right? Because she’d had a touch of anxiety about the televised reunion with Jason since Grant mentioned it. But she didn’t want to be afraid anymore. And meeting Jason face-to-face seemed like the perfect way to accomplish that.
Victor not victim, she reminded herself again.
After Mallory was asleep, Tennyson pulled out her book, Unfettered. The title seemed unconventional, but he liked it. It brought to mind the image of a bird being released from its cage. Like that bird, Mallory was now free to become herself, not in the wild way of her youth, but in the strong, principled way she was trying to live now.
He stared at the picture on the front cover. It was a nice photo, taken with the beach behind her. The wind blew her hair back, but she stood there with her hands on her hips and her chin raised. Her smile wasn’t large and wide, but it was subtle and confident. Her pose screamed “overcomer,” which only seemed accurate.
He opened it to the first page.
Dedicated to my Lord Jesus Christ. I couldn’t have gotten through this without You.
He smiled. He knew what that was like. Jesus had turned his life around as well and pulled him out of the pit of despair. Reminded him that he was a victor, as Mallory had said.
His smile quickly faded as he began reading. The beginning contained mostly things he already knew about Mallory, her upbringing, and the start of her vacation in the Caribbean. He hadn’t realized that her grandfather had died only three months before that fateful trip. She talked in the book about how his death affected her, and she could sense something changing inside her.
She’d vowed when she returned from the Caribbean that she was going to get serious about her life. Though she’d been working for her dad and using her business degree, she really hadn’t applied herself fully. She hadn’t had to. She had a trust fund and total job security.
He slowed as he began reading about her time in captivity. There were things in there that he knew. There were other things that he’d expected. There were other details he didn’t want to know. Though she never shared too much about what Dante had done to her, every time he thought about it, his blood burned with anger.
He paused as he reached another section that talked about how she passed the time when she was locked away in her room. She dreamed of home. Mourned her parents. Wondered what her friends were doing.
She’d made a handcrafted mancala game, using some old cups, and she would play against herself. She’d mark the days that passed on the inside of a dresser drawer. She’d dream about what she would do with her life if she ever got it back.
Sometimes she would even listen through the vents for a clue of what was going on outside of her room. She’d make up what the conversations were about when she couldn’t identify it. She likened it to playing telephone as a child—the old game where people would sit in a circle, and someone would whisper something to the person beside them. The next person would whisper what they thought they heard, until the phrase made it all the way around the circle.
That revelation made Tennyson pause. Maybe she’d intended on being lighthearted with that information, but other people could see that as threatening. What if she’d heard something that could incriminate someone?
After she’d been rescued, the government had debriefed her on her time in captivity. Certainly she’d mentioned this to them. He knew the interviews had been extensive. They would have warned her not to share any sensitive information.
Still, something about seeing those words in print made him feel unsettled.
If there were any of Torres’s men left out there, fighting for him, they wouldn’t like hearing this. In fact, he was surprised the publisher had put this in the book. The revelation could put Mallory at risk.
Who was looking out for her? It seemed like everyone was looking out for their bottom line instead. Was this whole experience greed in action?
Unease jostled inside him at the thought.
He picked up his phone an
d left a message for an old friend, Leigh Sullivan. A forensic anthropologist. She didn’t answer, so he left a message asking her to call him back.
There was only one definitive way to know if that man had really been Torres. That was to reexamine the body, which had been shipped back to the States. Even in two years, technology had advanced.
Tennyson just had to figure out how to convince the right people that his idea had merit.
CHAPTER 10
The next day, Mallory had a million doubts about whether or not she should be reunited with Jason, but here she was, at the station, waiting for him to arrive.
The reporter—a hotshot named Dana Cavanagh—volleyed between checking and double-checking her makeup in a handheld mirror and reviewing her notes. Though they were in a studio, the space was set up to look like a living room, complete with gaudy wallpaper, dark tables, and dimly lit lamps. Lights in the background flooded the two chairs where Mallory and Jason would sit. Camera crews scurried around, and producers called out directions to their underlings.
Grant had assured her that this would all help to bring awareness to her cause. Everything that happened in Mallory’s life was to bring awareness. She hoped he was right. The only thing she’d learned about publicity as a teenager was that the squeaky wheel got the grease. It wasn’t exactly the mantra she wanted for her nonprofit, however. Not by a long shot.
Mallory pushed a lock of hair behind her ear as she sat in an armchair, lights glaring down on her. She rubbed her lips together and pulled her gaze up until she met Tennyson’s. He sent her a reassuring smile.
“You ready for this?” When Grant stepped into the room, the air around them seemed to change from relaxed but nervous to supercharged and uneasy.
Mallory immediately went tense and nodded, sitting up straighter.
The crews got into place, cameras lined up for the reunion, and Dana sat in a chair and crossed her legs. Finally, a man stepped into the room.
Jason Wentworth hadn’t transformed that much from the party boy he’d been when they first met. Tragedy had a way of making some people grow up, but others regress. She didn’t know what side of the spectrum Jason fell on yet, but her gut feeling wasn’t favorable.
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