Hidden Hearts

by Susan Kearney

  “You tell me when.”

  “We go when he’s less than two feet from the trailer door. You first. Keep your head down below the dash.”

  She understood that he wanted to hide their getaway from any interested observers. If the truck kept moving, he hoped that no one would realize what they were doing. The concrete truck would provide cover and they could sneak away unnoticed—if the driver didn’t accidentally run them over…

  Fear escalating, but determined to do nothing to hinder their chances, Alexandra slung her purse strap over her shoulder and picked up her briefcase. She felt a little better when she remembered that they’d hidden the duplicate copies in the cardboard blueprint tubes. Her biggest worry was that someone would stop the driver to question him and they’d be caught trying to leave. However she knew Aaron was busy with his engineering crew and Tyson had gone to check over the plumbing, so neither man should miss her until she was long gone.

  Roarke’s diversionary explosion made her jump. Flames shot out of a trash can. No one would be hurt. No damage would occur.

  With all eyes presumably occupied on the flaming trash can, she fought to keep her nerve as Roarke first opened the trailer door, then advanced and opened the passenger door of the concrete truck as it rolled closer.

  “Ready.” He paused. “Go.”

  She rushed out the door.

  He didn’t wait for her to climb inside by herself, giving her an unexpected boost from the rear. She tumbled onto the dusty seat, barely remembering to keep her head low.

  Right on her heels, Roarke dived onto the floor-boards, sending up a cloud of dust and closing the passenger door behind them. The entire procedure couldn’t have taken two seconds. The driver shifted into another gear and the truck accelerated a few miles per hour.

  “Turn right the way you always do at the gate,” Roarke instructed the driver.

  “Will do.”

  Curled on her side, Alexandra looked up awkwardly at the driver. The middle-aged, overweight man shook his head at her but gave her a thumbs-up.

  The truck’s windows were closed, the air-conditioning blessedly welcome, so she didn’t fear anyone hearing her and felt free to speak.

  “Appreciate your helping us out,” she told the driver, raising her voice over the noisy engine.

  “No problem. You should get one of them restraining orders against your old boyfriend, ma’am. Then you wouldn’t have to resort to this kind of stuff.”

  Restraining order? Old boyfriend? She figured Roarke must have told the driver another story, and she marvelled at his inventiveness. While she had doubts that all his precautions were necessary, she’d much rather play it safe—even if she did ruin another outfit.

  Cement dust stained the seat, her clothes and her hair. On the floor, Roarke must be filthy. Yet, he didn’t move or complain. Instead, he’d taken a telescopic device that looked like a miniature periscope from his pocket and peered out the window through the eyepiece from his position on the floor.

  They headed through the city streets for several minutes before the driver slammed on his brakes.

  Unprepared for the sudden stop, Alexandra tumbled onto the floor, her purse and briefcase going with her. Roarke let out a grunt as she landed on top of him.

  Both doors of the cement truck jerked open.

  Alexandra looked up and into the barrel of a deadly-looking gun being held by a white man of medium build with thinning brown hair. He appeared to be in his fifties, and his eyes were cold and deadly.

  “Get out, lady,” the gunman growled. “Keep your hands up,” he instructed the driver. Then he peered down at Roarke. “You move and I’ll shoot her.”

  Alexandra did as she was told. While her purse remained slung over her shoulder, she’d left the briefcase behind. She thought she heard the slight sound of Roarke shifting her briefcase under her seat and took her time climbing out to the deserted side street.

  Another man grabbed her, yanked her hands behind her back, tied them with tape and shoved her into a car trunk. Less than a minute later, the men shoved Roarke in next to her.

  The trunk’s lid came down and left them in darkness. Packed like sardines and spooned on their sides, her chest to Roarke’s back, Alexandra was very glad she didn’t suffer from claustrophobia.

  Until this moment, she hadn’t had time to be scared. They’d been taken from one vehicle to another with such precision and swiftness, she’d barely kept track of what had happened. But now that they were enclosed in the darkness, fear made her shake and her teeth chatter despite the heat.

  As the car drove away with them inside, she was thrown against Roarke. “What happened to the concrete driver?”

  “Don’t worry about him. He must have been in on their scheme.”

  “He’s a regular driver, not a criminal.”

  “So they paid him off.”

  “How did they know we would try to get out that way?”

  “These guys are pros. CIA.”

  CIA? Oh, God! What the hell had her brother gotten her into by sending her those papers?

  Chapter Seven

  Roarke raised his aching hands behind his back, wondering if he could raise them high enough for Alexandra to bite through the tape. But there wasn’t enough room. Lying with his knees to his chest, almost in the fetal position, his legs were cramped, his arms ached and his fingers were going numb from the tight wrist bindings. Alexandra had to be feeling the same discomforts, but she hadn’t complained.

  He’d have to think of a way to free himself. Meanwhile, he gave Alexandra more information about the organization he knew so well.

  He whispered to prevent his voice from carrying to their kidnappers. “On a sunny day, the agency can direct a satellite to read the date off a dime lying in the dirt. Our escape could have been spotted from overhead. Or the trailer could have been bugged before we arrived.”

  “You shoved my briefcase under the seat?”

  “Yeah.” He’d been pleased she’d exited the truck so slowly, covering his movements, and now he knew why. She’d read his intentions all along. She might be untrained, but she had a knack for undercover work. “I don’t think the driver noticed. But right now I’m more concerned about getting out of here.”

  It was hot enough inside the trunk to make him sweat. Her breasts rubbed against his back, her hips intimately pressed against his buttocks. And every time the car bounced or turned, her body stroked his enticingly. Now was not the time to notice how her breasts felt. Nor were these already cramped quarters the place for his groin to swell, but that part of his anatomy had a mind of its own. However, not all the heat stemmed from the friction of two bodies rubbing together. The sun was turning the trunk into a steam-room.

  “I still have my purse and your gun.”

  “Good.” He was thankful that she was thinking clearly.

  He’d come loaded for war, but he’d been taken by surprise and stripped of his weapons. He really wished he knew exactly who they were up against. Although these men had to be CIA-trained, they could be rogue agents. Or on an unofficial assignment from a higher-up with his own agenda. Either way, Roarke felt sure the operation wasn’t legitimate. The CIA didn’t kidnap American citizens and stuff them into car trunks. He took some comfort from the knowledge that, while he didn’t stand a chance of hiding a woman in the U.S. for any length of time with the full resources of the CIA behind the search for her, a few rogue agents could be defeated with luck and a lot of planning.

  The assessment of their tactical situation took even less time than the analysis of their position. “When they frisked me, they took my backup weapon, my knife and my belt buckle, which has a razor blade hidden inside.”

  “There’s manicure scissors in my purse. Think they’ll cut through the tape around our wrists?”

  “One way to find out.”

  Alexandra twisted and squirmed, pressing and rubbing against him to free her purse strap from her shoulder. She used her knees to bring the purs
e to his tied hands. He opened the bag and rummaged for the scissors. Touched metal.

  “Damn,” he swore softly. “I dropped them.”

  She held still, giving him as much space as possible. “You’ll find them. Take your time.”

  “Okay.”

  “You…have…them?”

  “By the tips.”

  “Wait until…we finish…going around this…corner.”

  “All right. Slow and easy this time.” Cutting himself free in the jouncing car with his hands tied behind his back required the skills of a contortionist and the concentration of a determined mind.

  While he worked the scissors, she stopped talking. Her breathing turned ragged and he didn’t like how she sounded.

  “Straighten up if you can. You’ll breathe easier.”

  “Are we…running…out…of air?”

  “That’s the least of our worries. We can release the air in the spare tire if we have to. I’m more concerned about the temperature.”

  “Hot,” she agreed.

  Stifling. The Florida sun was baking through the trunk and roasting them. Without water, they could dehydrate within fifteen minutes.

  While Roarke kept that grim possibility to himself, he used the tiny manicure scissors on the tape around his wrists. Beside him, Alexandra seemed limp.

  “You still with me?” he asked her softly.

  “Don’t feel too good.”

  He cut through the last of the tape. “I’ll cut you free in a minute. First let me see what I can do about the temperature in here.”

  “Always knew…being next to you…make me hot. Isn’t…what…had…in…mind,” she joked, her voice weak.

  “Hang on. Don’t talk. Don’t move. Save your strength.” With his hands free, Roarke found a flashlight in the trunk and flicked it on. “Good news. There’s a toolbox.”

  Alexandra’s breathing sounded like raw gasps. She needed air. Fast.

  Still she whispered. “You’re good with…hands.”

  He doubted she knew what she was mumbling. Found nothing amusing in her rambling comments. He had to get the temperature down while he could still think coherently.

  Inside the toolbox, he found a rusty screwdriver and went to work on removing the rear taillight. It wouldn’t be a lot of ventilation but it could help, and just might make the difference between living and dying. If he could remove both taillights and kick or punch out the reflector panels, he’d create a cross current of air to help even more.

  And maybe a cop would notice the missing taillights and pull the car over.

  Sweat dribbling down his forehead into his eyes, Roarke’s damp hands kept slipping on the screwdriver. But finally he removed enough screws to pull the taillight into the trunk. He knocked out the reflector with his fist.

  Turning himself around proved impossible in the cramped space. So he bent over and eventually he pulled in the second taillight, too.

  The outside air rushing through the trunk helped bring down the temperature and gave them fresh oxygen to breathe. While it was still very warm, he no longer thought he might dehydrate beyond a point where he could think.

  He wished he could change positions with Alexandra and let her have more of the cool air but no way was that possible. Nevertheless, her breathing seemed a little better and she no longer rambled incoherently. While he couldn’t switch places, he could roll until he faced her. He nudged her onto her side and cut her wrists free.

  “How’re you doing?”

  “You sure know how to show a girl a good time.”

  Another joke? Maybe she hadn’t been incoherent before. Maybe the lame jests were her way of dealing with discomfort and stress. My kind of woman.

  But she was not his woman—she was a client, he reminded himself, wondering if he was thinking as clearly as he’d thought. Especially with the wild idea that had just popped into his head.

  He flicked off the flashlight to give her some privacy. “Would you please remove your bra?”

  “EXCUSE ME?” Alexandra must have heard him wrong. Between the wind rushing through the trunk and the bits of dust being kicked up and swirling around, she’d surely misheard him. “I thought you asked me to remove my bra.”

  “I did.”

  While she knew Roarke couldn’t be making a pass at her in the car’s trunk, she didn’t like the idea of removing her underwear—even in the dark. With the cool air flowing through, her thinking cleared, and she easily recalled all the rubbing she’d done against his back. Even now her breasts still seemed a bit tender. To remove her underwear in such close quarters and receive more sensual stimulation was the last thing she wanted. Accidental or not, she had had enough friction in her sensitive spots, thank you very much.

  While the flashlight had been on, Roarke had no longer looked like Mr. Perfect. Sweat beaded his dark skin and his hair was damp with sweat and slicked back on his head. He sported a smudge of dirt from his cheek to his chin. Cement dust covered his clothes, but, though not perfect, he still looked good enough to pose in one of those working-man’s commercials.

  That she’d been turned on by his looks while her life was at risk annoyed her to the point of crankiness. She had to force a calmness into her tone that she didn’t feel. “Mind telling me why you want me to undress?”

  As usual, Mr. Silver Tongue had an answer for everything. “I want to push your bra out the taillight hole and use it as a flag.”

  “Couldn’t we use your shirt?”

  “Which article of clothing do you think will draw more attention?”

  There was no winning an argument with him. Without another word, she unhooked her bra and slipped it off from beneath her shirt, a maneuver difficult at any time, but while lying on her back she had to struggle.

  She finally handed it to him, glad he’d turned the flashlight off. Not that her bra was unusual. Plain, white cotton with underwire cups. Not in the least erotic. So why did she feel embarrassed? “Here you go.”

  “Thanks.”

  With her bra gone, the air cooled the perspiration on her chest. And yet she felt twice as vulnerable. Although she no longer expected Roarke to attack her at any moment, she didn’t trust her own reactions to him. She didn’t want to notice his looks every time she glanced his way. She didn’t like having to peer through the pretty-boy image to see what he was truly like. It was difficult enough to get a handle on this man without his distractingly outrageous good looks.

  She knew deep down that not every good-looking man took advantage of women. She knew deep down that judging Roarke by his appearance and comparing him to Patrick was unfair. Yet old habits died hard.

  One moment Roarke could be so light and teasing. But when he suspected danger, he closed down the charisma and charm, revealing a far darker side to his character. This side of him alarmed her more than the civilized one, because, while he would protect her, she found his intensity unnerving.

  He’d taken the bra and started to slip it out the taillight when the vehicle slowed, then halted. The car engine kept running, but they could hear a door open and shut.

  She felt Roarke’s movement and heard the rustle of cloth on metal as he yanked the material back into the trunk. She held her breath, wondering if the trunk would open, wondering if their captors had spotted the missing taillights.

  Roarke lay on his side, his head crammed up against one opening which blocked most of the light. Without the air rushing through from the car’s forward progress, the trunk’s temperature began to increase again.

  Lying quietly, she picked up the sound of coins dropping and someone punching buttons. At a pay phone. They’d stopped to make a phone call.

  Clearly their captor had no worries about them overhearing the conversation. Why should he? Even if he didn’t know they had a gun or that their hands were free, they were trapped. Alexandra hoped the trunk didn’t become their coffin.

  She shuddered at the grim thought. Her parents would have no idea what had happened to her. She could be o
ne of those people who just disappeared and was never heard from again. And what would happen to her beautiful building? Someone else would take over, change her plans and probably ruin her clean design.

  Frustration welled up inside her. She wasn’t ready to die. No matter what happened when that trunk opened, no matter how weak she felt, she vowed to fight. If they were going to kill her, she wanted to take one of them with her.

  The savage turn of her thoughts shocked her. She didn’t think of herself as a vicious person, but having her freedom taken from her, being stalked for some reason she couldn’t fathom, had brought out her fighting instincts. She didn’t want to die, yet even if she survived, she would be different. Just knowing how far she might go to stay alive had changed her in an elemental way.

  The man’s words drifted to her clearly from the phone booth. “Boss, we got the package. Where do you want me to deliver it?”

  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that she and Roarke were the package. And that these men were taking them to meet at least one more bad guy—their boss.

  Next to her, Roarke turned and whispered. “I see a sign. We’re at the corner of Main and Ninth. If anything happens to me and you get away, tell the FBI these jokers made a phone call from here.”

  “Okay.” Main and Ninth. She wouldn’t forget, but she sincerely hoped Roarke would be around to do the talking. Not only would she feel tremendous guilt if they couldn’t escape together, she would miss him.

  Somehow, her dislike had turned to like. She was not immune to his easy courage and his blatant charm. And, while she needed to be truthful to herself, she still didn’t know how he’d changed her opinion of him. He was still arrogant, bossy and determined to have his own way. But he was also thoughtful, considerate and a fine man to have on her side in a dangerous situation.

  “Yes, it’s the right package.”

  She held her breath to hear better.

  “Hey, I killed her father, I can do the daughter, too. No problem.”

  Oh, God!

  At hearing the driver so casually mention killing her father, Alexandra stifled a scream.