Christmas Kidnapping

by Cindi Myers

  But the temptation to sit across from him and learn more of his story, to have his attention fixed on her for a little while longer, won out over common sense. “All right,” she said. “I can have lunch with you.”

  * * *

  SITTING ACROSS FROM Dr. Andrea McNeil in a café down the street from her office, Jack felt better than he had since the shoot-out. Maybe it was being with a pretty woman. He hadn’t dated in a while and she was definitely a looker—her businesslike blue suit did nothing to hide her shapely figure, and her high-heeled boots showed her gorgeous legs to advantage. Her sleek brown hair was piled up on top of her head, drawing attention to the smooth white column of her throat, and she had lively brown eyes above a shapely nose and slightly pouty lips.

  But though he could appreciate her beauty, he attributed most of his good mood to the way she focused on him. As if anything he had to say were the most interesting thing she had heard today. That was probably just her therapist’s training, but it was doing him a lot of good, so he wasn’t going to complain.

  “How did you hear about me?” she asked when they had ordered—a salad for her, a chicken sandwich for him.

  “I have a friend—Carson Allen, with the Bureau’s resident agency here in Durango. He and I have done some hiking and stuff. Anyway, he said you’re the counselor for the police department and the sheriff’s office. How did you end up with that job?”

  “My husband was a police officer.” She focused on buttering a roll from the basket the waitress had brought.

  “Was?”

  “He was killed three years ago, by a drug dealer who was fleeing the scene of a burglary.”

  The news that she was a widow—a cop’s widow—hit him like a punch in the gut. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That must have been tough.”

  She met his gaze, serene, not a hint of tears. “It was. But I lived through it. I have a son, Ian.” She smiled, a look that transformed her face from pretty to breathtaking. “He’s five. I had to be strong for him.”

  “Sounds like he’s a pretty lucky little boy.” And her husband had been a lucky man. Jack envied his coworkers who had found women who could put up with the demands of a law enforcement job. He had never been that fortunate.

  “Tell me more about this talent of yours for remembering faces,” she said. “What did you call it?”

  He recognized the shift away from any more personal conversation about her, and he accepted it. “I’m a super-recognizer. I think it’s one of those made-up government descriptors the bureaucrats love so much.”

  “I’ll admit I’m unfamiliar with the concept. It must be pretty rare.”

  He shrugged. “It’s not something that comes up in casual conversation. Scientists are just beginning to study facial-recognition abilities. More people may be super-recognizers than we realize. They just don’t admit it.”

  “Why not admit it?” she asked.

  “It makes for awkward social situations. You learn pretty quickly not to admit you recognize people you haven’t been introduced to. I mean, if I tell someone I remember seeing them at a football game last fall or on the bus last week, they think I’m a spy or a stalker or something.”

  “I guess that would be strange.” She speared a tomato wedge with her fork. “How old were you when you realized you had this talent?”

  “Pretty young.” For a long time, he had thought that was the way everyone saw the world, as populated by hundreds of individual, distinct people who stayed in his head. “In school it was kind of a neat parlor trick to play on people—go into a store to buy a soda and come out three minutes later and be able to describe everyone who was in there. But as I got older, I stopped telling people about it or showing off.”

  “Because of the social awkwardness.”

  “Because it made me different, and if there’s anything teenagers don’t want to be, it’s different.”

  She laughed, and they waited while the waitress refilled their glasses. “Did your ability get you the job with the Bureau?” she asked. “Or did that come later?”

  He shrugged and crunched a chip. “You know the government—they test you for everything. I was doing a different job—one that used my electrical and robotics background—when someone in the Bureau decided to put together a whole unit of people like me and I got tapped for it. Gus was a recognizer, too.” A familiar pain gripped his chest at the mention of Gus. Jack didn’t have any brothers, but he had felt as close to Gus as he would have any brother. They had been through so much together.

  “Is that what brought you two together?” she asked.

  “Not at first. We were in the same class at Quantico and we hit it off there. We had probably known each other a year or so before I found out he had the same knack I had for remembering faces. We used to joke about it some, but we never thought anything of it. Not until both of us were recruited for this special project.”

  “That’s really fascinating.” She took a bite of her salad and he dug into the chicken sandwich. The silence between them as they ate was comfortable, as if they had known each other a long time, instead of only a few hours.

  But after a few more minutes he began to feel uneasy. Not because of anything she was doing. He glanced around them, noting the group of women who sat at a table to their left, shopping bags piled around them. A trio of businessmen occupied a booth near the front window, deep in conversation. A family of tourists, an older couple and two clerks he recognized from the hotel where he had stayed his first two nights in town months ago filled the other tables. Nothing suspicious about any of them. He swiveled his head to take in the bar and gooseflesh rose along his arms when his gaze rested on a guy occupying a stool front and center, directly beneath the flat-screen television that was broadcasting a bowling tournament. Average height, short brown hair, flannel shirt and jeans. Nothing at all remarkable about him, yet Jack was positive he had seen the guy before. Probably only once—repeat exposure strengthened the association. But he had definitely been around this guy at least once before.

  “What is it?” Andrea spoke softly. “You’ve gone all tense. Is something wrong?”

  He turned to face her once more. “That guy back there at the bar—the one in the green plaid shirt—he’s watching us.”

  She looked over his shoulder at the guy and frowned. “He has his back to us.”

  “He’s watching us in the bar mirror. It’s an old surveillance trick.”

  “Do you know him?” she asked.

  “I’ve seen him before. Maybe only once. I think he’s in our files.”

  “Why would he be watching you?”

  Jack shoved back his chair. “That’s what I’m going to ask him.”

  He pretended to be headed for the men’s room, but at the last second, he veered toward the guy at the bar. The guy saw him coming and leaped up. He overturned a table and people started screaming. Jack took off after him, alarmed to see the guy was headed right toward Andrea, who stared, openmouthed. Jack shoved aside a chair and dodged past a waitress with a tray of plates, but his bum leg made speed difficult and the guy was almost to Andrea now.

  But the perp didn’t lay a hand on her. He raced past, headed toward the door, Jack still in pursuit. Andrea cried out as Jack ran by her. “My purse,” she said. “He stole my purse!”

  Chapter Two

  Andrea stared at the water glass on its side, ice cubes scattered across the cloth. Jack had taken off after the purse snatcher so suddenly she hadn’t had time to process everything that had happened. One moment he was saying something about the guy at the bar watching them, and the next her purse had disappeared, and so had Jack.

  “Would the gentleman like the rest of his meal boxed to go?”

  Andrea blinked up at the waitress, whose face betrayed no emotion beyond boredom, as if purse snatchings and overt
urned tables were everyday occurrences.

  “No thank you,” Andrea said. “Just bring the check.” She glanced toward the door, hoping to see Jack. Had he caught the thief? Had he been hurt in the attempt? She needed to get out of here and make sure he was okay.

  The waitress returned with the check and Andrea realized that, without her purse, she had no way to pay the bill.

  “I’ll get that.” Jack’s hand rested atop hers on the tab. He dropped into the chair beside her, his face flushed and breathing hard. “He got away,” he said. “I’m sorry about your purse.” He shifted his hip to retrieve his wallet and winced.

  “You’re hurt,” she said, alarmed.

  He shook his head. “I’m fine.” He removed his credit card and glanced around. Two busboys were righting the overturned table and most of the other diners had returned to their meals. “Where’s our waitress?” Jack asked. “I’m ready to get out of here.”

  He helped her with her coat and kept his hand at her back as they left the café. “What was in your purse?” he asked. “I’m assuming a wallet and credit cards. Driver’s license?”

  She nodded. “And my car keys, house keys and cell phone.” She took a deep breath. “I can call and cancel the cards, get a new license, and I have spare keys at home. I’ll have to get a new phone.”

  “Let me take you by your place to get the keys,” he said.

  “You don’t have to do that. I can call someone.” Maybe Chelsea, who was babysitting for her, would come—though that would mean bringing along Ian and Chelsea’s baby, Charlotte.

  “I have the whole afternoon free, so you might as well let me take you.”

  “All right. Thank you.”

  Jack drove a pickup truck, a black-and-silver late-model Ford that was the Western equivalent of a hot sports car. She gave him directions to her home and settled back against the soft leather seats, inhaling the masculine aromas of leather, coffee and Jack Prescott. If some genius were to bottle the combination, it would be a sure bestseller, the epitome of sex appeal.

  “Nice place,” he said when he pulled into the driveway of the blue-and-white Victorian in one of Durango’s quiet older neighborhoods. Snow frosted the low evergreens around the base of the porch and dusted the large pine-and-cedar Christmas wreath she had hung on the front door. Jack had to move Ian’s tricycle in order to get to the walkway to the steps.

  “Sorry about that,” Andrea said. “I keep telling him not to leave it in the way like that, but he forgets.”

  “He’ll be ready for a bicycle before long,” Jack said. “If he’s five.”

  “He’s been asking for one for Christmas but I don’t know...” The thought of her baby riding along the narrow and hilly roads of her neighborhood filled her with visions of collisions with cars or tumbles in loose gravel.

  Chelsea opened the door before they were up the steps, Charlotte in her arms. “Oh, hi, Andrea.” She sent a curious glance toward Jack. “I didn’t know who was here in that truck.”

  “My purse got stolen at lunch,” Andrea said. “I came home to get my spare keys. This is Jack. Jack, this is Chelsea. She’s my best friend and she looks after Ian while I work. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

  “Hello, Jack.” Chelsea pushed a corkscrew of black curls behind one ear and smoothed the front of her pink polo shirt.

  “I’ll just get my keys and get out of your hair.” Andrea started to step past her, but at that moment, Ian barreled out of the house.

  “Hey, Mom!” He grinned up at her, the dimple on the left side of his mouth and the thick fall of dark hair across his forehead foreshadowing the lady-killer he would no doubt be one day. Just like his father. “You came home early,” Ian said.

  “Not to stay, I’m afraid.” She hugged him and smoothed the hair out of his eyes. But his attention had already shifted to Jack. Ian ducked his head behind her leg and peeked out.

  Jack squatted in front of the boy—it had to be an awkward movement, considering his injuries, but a slight wince was the only sign of difficulty he gave. “Hello, Ian,” he said. “My name is Jack.”

  “Mr. Prescott,” Andrea corrected. She nudged her son. “Say hello, Ian.”

  “Hello.” The words came out muffled against her leg, but Ian’s eyes remained fixed on Jack, bright with interest.

  “What’s your favorite food, Ian?” Jack asked.

  Ian looked up at his mom. “You can answer him,” she said.

  “Grilled cheese sandwiches,” Ian said.

  Chelsea laughed. “He would eat grilled cheese every meal if his mother and I would let him.”

  “I like grilled cheese, too,” Jack said.

  “I’ll just get my keys.” Andrea slipped inside and went to the drawer in her bedroom where she kept her spare set. She paused to study the photo on her dresser, of her and Preston and eighteen-month-old Ian on her lap. Ian liked to hold the picture and ask questions about his father, but one day pictures and her memories weren’t going to be enough. A boy needed a father to help him learn to be a man.

  She returned to the porch to find Jack and Ian in the driveway, studying something on the tricycle. “What’s going on?” she asked Chelsea.

  “Guy talk.” Chelsea dismissed the two males with a wave of her hand. “What’s this about your purse being stolen?” she asked.

  “A purse snatcher. Jack chased him, but the guy was too fast.” She jingled her keys. “I’ll have to call when I get to my office and cancel my credit cards and see about getting a new driver’s license.”

  Chelsea sidled closer and lowered her voice. “Jack is definitely a hottie,” she said. “How long have you two been an item?”

  Andrea flushed. “Oh, no, it’s not like that. I mean, we just met.”

  “You don’t act like two people who just met.” Chelsea grinned.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You can’t take your eyes off him. And he feels the same way.”

  Andrea glanced at Jack, something she realized now she had been doing every few seconds since she had returned to the porch. He was kneeling beside the trike, listening while Ian gave some long explanation about something. Just then Jack looked up and his eyes met hers, and she felt a jolt of pleasure course through her.

  Jack stood and patted Ian’s shoulder. Then the two rejoined the women on the porch. “Ian was telling me about the pedals sticking on his ride,” he said. “I’ll bring some oil over sometime and fix the problem for him.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that,” she protested. Jack was a client. They were supposed to have one casual lunch and some conversation. Now he was getting involved in her personal life.

  “I’m going to help Jack fix my bike,” Ian said.

  “Mr. Prescott.” Her voice sounded faint, even to her, as she made the automatic correction.

  “It’s no trouble,” Jack said.

  Arguing about it, especially in front of Ian and Chelsea, seemed a waste of breath. “All right.” She knelt and hugged her son. “I have to give a speech tonight for a police-officer spouse group, so I won’t be home until late,” she said. “But Chelsea has a special treat for you.”

  “Pizza and a movie.” Chelsea put a hand on the boy’s head.

  “And root beer?” Ian asked.

  Chelsea looked to Andrea. “All right. You may have one glass of root beer with your pizza,” Andrea said.

  “A big glass,” Ian said.

  Jack laughed. “You’re quite the negotiator, pal,” he said.

  Ian beamed at the praise. Butterflies battered at Andrea’s chest. This wasn’t good. She didn’t want Ian so focused on a man she hardly knew. Especially a man like Jack, with a dangerous job and a reckless attitude. “We’d better go,” she said. “I have clients to see this afternoon.”


  “I like your truck,” Ian said to Jack.

  “Maybe I’ll give you a ride sometime,” Jack said.

  Andrea waited until they were in the vehicle and driving away before she spoke, choosing her words carefully. “You shouldn’t have said that, about giving him a ride in your truck,” she said.

  “I would want you to come along, too,” he said.

  “Saying you’ll take him for a ride promises some kind of ongoing relationship.”

  His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel, the only sign of any emotion. “Would that be so bad?”

  She turned toward him, her hands fisted in her lap. “You’re my client. I hardly know you.”

  “I had a good time today,” he said. “I’d like to see you again. You and Ian.”

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “It just...wouldn’t.”

  “Because of the client thing? What if I decided not to see you in a professional capacity anymore?”

  “It wouldn’t matter.” She looked out the window, at the passing lines of shops crowded along the highway in Durango’s downtown area. Evergreen garlands, wreaths and hundreds of tiny white lights decorated the Victorian buildings, making the scene look right out of a Christmas card. People filled the sidewalks, hands full of shopping bags, or carrying skis or snowboards, fresh from a day at Durango Mountain Resort.

  “Is there someone else?” he asked. “Do you have a boyfriend? I didn’t get that vibe from you.”

  What kind of vibe would that be? But she wasn’t going to go there. “I’m busy with my job and raising my son,” she said. “I don’t have time to date.”

  “You don’t have time to date a cop.”

  His perceptiveness momentarily silenced her. She stared at him.