In the Enemy's Arms (18 page)

And the biggest question: Was she willing to risk having her heart broken again?

Because no matter how readily she admitted Justin had changed, she just couldn’t quite picture him in a happily-ever-after, especially with her. She couldn’t quite
trust.

And the thing was, she didn’t know if it was him she couldn’t trust…or herself.

* * *

Justin hadn’t expected an affirmative response to his suggestion that they put the sofa to good use, but it would have been nice if she had at least agreed to pick up where they’d left off at the Dumpsters. That kiss had been sweet, and it had made him restless, wanting more, but there hadn’t been any doubt to her refusal. Oh, maybe to her words—
I don’t think so,
way better than
not in a million years
—but the shake of her head had been firm. He wasn’t getting lucky on this flight.

Did she still distrust him? The idea nagged at him. Granted, as she’d said, they’d had thirteen years of knowing where they stood with each other, only to have things do a one-eighty now. He’d admitted to having been a jerk. He’d shown her—hadn’t he?—that he’d grown up. And she’d kissed him.
She
had kissed
him.

Maybe she was right. Thirteen years versus a couple of days…

But for a lot of those thirteen years, he’d been more of a person than she’d given him credit for. What would he have to do to get her to give that credit and a little bit more?

A whole lot more, he acknowledged. He wasn’t even sure of exactly how much
more
he wanted. Sex, sure. Time together, right. A chance—a real chance—at whatever she might give. Whatever she
could
give. Maybe…

Forever.

Itching to move, he glanced out the window at the billowy clouds stretching endlessly beneath them, then released his seat belt and stood. “You want something from the galley? Water, pop, booze, chocolate?”

She shook her head, and he moved down the aisle to the forward galley. Of course it was well stocked; people who could afford private jets cared about that sort of thing. He debated over the choices before picking out a bottle of water and a banana.

Forever.

He’d always figured there would eventually be someone he’d think that way about. In his family, divorces were rare. Marriages lasted, though he wasn’t sure that in some cases, it didn’t have more to do with the fortunes involved than with love. But Seaverses took marriage seriously. That was one reason he’d never given it a lot of thought. Once he was in it, he was likely in it for good.

Well, that, plus the fact that he’d never met the woman he could face spending the next fifty years with. But if he considered it, if he mostly closed his eyes and squinted a little, he could see himself spending more time with Cate. Not days, not even months, but years, maybe. Forever. Maybe.

As he turned back toward the cabin, he kept his eyes wide open.

He bypassed the table where she sat and approached the aft workstation, booting up the computer, then settling comfortably into the chair. In less than five minutes, he had a video linkup with Garcia, sitting in front of the array of computers that filled one of her two offices. Her hair was straight today, as conservative in style as his mother’s, though he doubted Mom would ever consider striping her blond hair with orange. The stud in Garcia’s nose was small, discreet—a skull, he thought, though it was hard to be sure.

“Hello, my pretty,” she greeted him. “Wherefore art thou?”

“Somewhere in the skies between Atlanta and Phoenix. You have anything for us?”

“I see you’re traveling in style. You have a printer there?”

“I do.”

With a flourish, she clicked the mouse a few times, then said, “Everything you could ever want to know about the non-Southern families on the list is coming your way. You can peruse it at your leisure.” She smiled tightly, then asked, “How’s Cate?”

He was about to answer when Cate slid into a chair beside him. All those scents of hers drifted on the air, so much richer than the expensive-jet smells. “I’m fine. Fully recovered from my encounter with Mr. Grayson.”

“Huh. You’re tougher than me, sweet pea. I’d still be peeking out from behind Justin.”

“I wasn’t much good at the time,” he said drily. “I didn’t even know…” But not again. Cate wasn’t approaching anyone else by herself.

“Don’t blame yourself, doll. Nobody’s fault but the bad guys’. On the other files, I’m still hitting a brick wall, but if you hit it enough times, even the strongest wall will give eventually.” Garcia’s gaze flickered away from the camera. Her mouth thinned and the tightness in her expression increased when she looked back. “There, uh, is something else. I’ve been keeping an eye on the international news services and, uh…”

Justin’s gut knotted. He didn’t want to hear bad news. A jerk of his arm blamed on nonexistent turbulence, a click of the mouse, and the connection would be cut. But that would just be a temporary reprieve.

“What is it?” Cate sounded calm, though he could feel tension radiating from her, shimmering the air between them.

With a deep breath, Garcia rushed it out. “A man’s body was found in Cozumel just an hour or two ago. No ID, nothing. He was apparently not a local, and he’d been beaten to death. They’re waiting on a positive identification from fingerprints, but his description—height, weight, hair color, eyes—matches…” She faltered.

Trent.

“It’s not him,” Justin said flatly.

“I pray it’s not.”

“They gave us forty-eight hours.” Yeah, they were killers, perverts and God knew what else, but they’d set a deadline. Surely they realized the deadline would mean nothing if they’d already killed Trent.

Except they would still have Susanna.

“We’ll think positive thoughts,” Garcia said, her voice forced into optimism. “We’ll give them credit for being smarter and better and more honorable than they are. And I’ll let you know ASAP if I find out anything new.”

“Thank you, Amy,” Cate said when he couldn’t find any words.

The face that usually never failed to cheer him disappeared from the screen and silence settled over the cabin. He stared at the bulkhead, doing his damned best not to let images form in his brain. The body washed ashore on the beach. The last time he’d seen Trent. The first time he’d seen him. God, they’d been buddies half their lives after meeting on a dive trip when they were sixteen. He couldn’t imagine… He
wouldn’t
imagine.

Cate’s hand on his arm startled him, his gaze jerking to her. She looked as serious as he’d ever seen her, as fearful. “He asked why he should wait another hour, why he shouldn’t dispose of Trent now.”

“He didn’t do it.”

“He could have. He’d still have leverage. He’d still have Susanna.”

Justin scowled at her because deep inside he wanted to give in to the same fear. “It’s not him. Why kill one of your hostages—the rich one, the one closest to the people you’re trying to trade with?”

To prove to you that this business is serious.

That was what the bastard had told her, but she didn’t repeat it now. She didn’t need to.

Pressing his lips together, Justin shook his head stubbornly before meeting her gaze. “He’s my best friend. It’s not him.”

If she noticed that his voice broke on the denial this time, she didn’t show it except for the faint grip of her fingers on his arm before she let go and gestured to the computer. “Check your email. We need to have a plan when we get to Phoenix.”

The gentleness in her words was almost his undoing. His hand trembled before he got a good grasp on the mouse, and his movements were jerky. When he signed in, a half-dozen files popped up, one for each of the families.

Once the printer started spitting out pages, he shoved the chair back and paced the length of the cabin. This wasn’t the time to think about anything except Phoenix and what they would do there. It wasn’t the time to feel at all. Trent was alive. Susanna was alive. And God help them, they were going to stay that way. So were he and Cate.

And Joseph and Lucas Wallace and that oily bastard who worked for them were going to die.

Or wish they had.

While the printer was running, Cate found clips in the desk drawer and separated the pages into families. The one in Phoenix had been the first file, so it was the first done. She scanned the pages, then went back to the first and read through. She was calm.
Tougher than me,
Garcia had said. Tougher than him, too. But then, she dealt with life-or-death situations on a regular basis. Being a good E.R. doc—and he’d never doubted she was a great one—required staying calm in crisis. She might melt down later, but right now she was in control.

“Their name is Sutton,” she said, her attention still on the pages, “and they live outside Chandler, Arizona, where they have a half-dozen thoroughbreds, a small kennel of registered champion German shepherds and—supposedly—one child. Luisa. The girl Susanna’s volunteer friend tried to adopt.”

The girl whose adoption had spurred all the questions and doubts.

“Neither Sutton has ever been arrested. She travels a good deal with the animals—she’s going to a show in Los Angeles this weekend—and he…” Her nose wrinkled and loathing filled her voice. “He’s a pediatrician.”

First, do no harm.

The knot in Justin’s gut worked itself a little tighter. “Anything suggesting Luisa is there?”

She flipped through the pages again. “No school records, no obvious child-related expenses, certainly no medical expenses. She’s not on their medical or dental insurance, and she’s not a beneficiary on their life insurance policies. No mention of her on Mrs. Sutton’s blogs, no picture of her among the hundreds of shots of pampered pooches and horses.”

A ghostly smile crossed her face as she held up the final page. “Amy included a satellite photo of the property. Oh, and the only expenses for an alarm system cover the barns and kennels, not the house. At least this time, we’re not going in cold.”

“This time you’re not going in at all.”

Her mouth flattened, her gaze narrowing. “Now, listen up, Justin—”

“No. We’re partners in this mess, doc, but so far, you’ve approached all three families—”

“You were there with the nanny.”

“—so now it’s my turn.”

Now she wore the scowl. It felt normal to have her looking at him as if he were the most annoying thing in her world. Then the frown vanished and her expression softened, turned sympathetic and warm and concerned. “Okay,” she agreed, laying her hand on his arm again.

And normal or not, that felt like the most
right
thing in his world.

Chapter 9

A
my had included more than the one satellite photo in the packet. One showed the house, no more than a hundred feet off the county road; another included the kennel and barn; the third extended beyond the edges of the property and gave a good view of the land across the road. It was unlevel, boulders jutting up here, rises sloping there. The nearest neighboring house appeared to be a half mile away, well out of sight of the Sutton home.

Cate had studied the pictures until the details were etched on her brain, through the rest of the flight, the drive to a hotel, the stop at a sporting goods store and, now, on the way to the Sutton house.

“The Suttons paid nearly double what the other family did,” she remarked, as Justin exited the interstate in accordance with the GPS instructions. “Maybe the Wallaces realized they’d started at a lowball price and increased it to what the market would bear.”

“Or maybe it was important to the pediatrician to have a kid under his control, so he wouldn’t be tempted by his patients.” A muscle twitched in his jaw, and his long fingers clenched the steering wheel.

“Or maybe he and his wife were already accustomed to paying outrageous sums for the animals they wanted.” It would be a blessing if Luisa had been treated a fraction as well as those pricey horses and dogs, but the anxiety lodged in Cate’s chest suggested that wasn’t likely.

That ache had been there since the conversation with Amy. If the dead man was Trent…

No. She had to believe it wasn’t. If the Wallaces had wanted to prove they were serious, Susanna would have made a more logical target. God love her—and Cate did—she was from a middle-class family in some small Idaho town, doing mission work in a foreign country. A lot of people would mourn her death, but it wouldn’t come as a huge shock because sometimes mission workers died in foreign countries. It was a sad risk that came with the job, one that people accepted.

But Trent… His family was rich and powerful. They would create such a firestorm of bad press that both the American and Mexican governments would be forced to get involved. The Calloways would
never
just accept the murder of their son. They would demand justice.

It was just a coincidence—the timing, the physical similarity. If the Wallaces had wanted to send her and Justin a message, they would have used Susanna, and…

Relief washed over her. “It’s not Trent. The dead man’s not him.” As he slowed for a stop sign, Justin looked at her, brow raised, and she couldn’t help but smile, though her relief simmered with guilt. Whoever the dead man was, he was still someone’s loved one. “They sent you that photo, remember?”

“How could I forget?”

“They sent you the picture to show you what they were capable of, to convince you to take them seriously. If they’d killed either Trent or Susanna to drive the point home, they would have let us know. There’s no point in sending a message if they don’t make sure we get it.” Her voice trembled. “It’s not Trent.”

He held her gaze a long time, then slowly the tension drained from his face. The fear left his eyes, and the muscle in his jaw stopped twitching. He didn’t grin or pump his fist in the air or let out a huge whoosh of gratitude. He just stared at her, then turned his attention back to the road, making a right onto the Suttons’ highway.

Though he faced away from her, she heard his whisper. “Thank God.”