T is for Temptation (16 page)

“What the hell is wrong with those guys?” Jake slammed his hand against the wall. “You’d think they had me pegged for a serial killer.”
 

“That was rough.” Alex agreed. “I’m glad I was present. Sit, Jake, calm down. Have a drink before you hit the road. Scotch?”

“Sure.” He slumped into the chair, rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger, and accepted the tumbler Alex proffered. Ice cubes clinked against the glass.

“Can I delay giving them my passport?” He took a sip of the liquor.

Alex sat in the adjacent armchair. He put his glass on the round mahogany table and tore a lined yellow sheet from the pad laying there.

“I wouldn’t advise it, and they don’t need it to prevent you leaving the country. My guess is they’ll red-tag you as soon as they get to their office and that effectively cuts you loose. Even if you managed to get on a plane and land in another country, the minute immigration processed you, you’d be in custody.” He wadded up the paper, threw it across the room at a burgundy leather wastebasket, and nodded in satisfaction as it hit the target.

“Want to lay odds against me being in
London
before
midnight
?” Jake downed the contents of the tumbler.

“Don’t even contemplate it. I vouched for you. You leave the country and my ass is on the line. Friendship is one thing—”

Jake’s fist connected with Alex’s jaw before he could finish the word, and he followed up the blow with a right jab. Alex slumped against the desk, and his eyes rolled up in his head.

“Sorry, buddy.” Jake dragged Alex over to the couch and lifted him onto it. He disconnected the landline, searched Alex’s jacket, found his mobile, and pocketed it. He didn’t want the authorities to have any reason to blame Alex for his disappearance, and he intended to be on a plane bound for
London
within the hour.

A wad of greenbacks paved his way.

Figuring Homeland Security’s focus would be Heathrow, Jake hired a jet to take him to Gatwick,
London
’s other major airline destination. He’d figure out how to deal with British immigration when he got there.

The steward’s voice over the intercom announced the arrival of the plane in
London
. Since Jake booked a first class seat for her, Tee was the first one off the 747.

Heathrow airport had to rank as one of the most inefficiently designed airports in the world, Tee thought, as she trudged the endless, crowded hallway to the immigration area. To her surprise, only a few dozen people stood in the EU line. It moved quickly. She took out her passport.

The female officer seated behind a tall counter called out, “Next.”

Tee smiled, gave the woman her passport, and rested her purse on a narrow counter. Her thoughts centered on Jake and the coming time with him.

“Mrs. Trent, would you mind stepping this way, please?”

Startled, Tee stared at the immigration representative in front of her. “Pardon me?”

Two uniformed men materialized on either side of her.

Tee glanced from one to the other. “Is something wrong?” She directed the question to the female official holding her passport.

The woman averted her eyes.

Hands cupped her elbows. The men stepped forward with Tee in between them. She planted her feet and tried to shake them off.

“Wait a minute. She has my passport.” Cold air hissed from the vent above. She shivered.

“It will be returned to you. Madam, you must follow us.”

“Why, who are you?” A cold sweat broke over her flesh.

“We work with Scotland Yard, madam.”

“I want to see your ID first.” She appealed to the younger man, who appeared more sympathetic.

He sighed, whipped out a leather billfold, flipped a laminated ID at her, and tucked it back inside his jacket.

“I’ll come with you, but I’d prefer if you didn’t touch me.”

“I’m afraid that is not possible. We follow a strict protocol.”

Tee gritted her teeth and adjusted her stride to match their pace. They led her to a tiny, windowless office, which smelled moldy and musty. It contained a scuffed metal desk and two chairs.

The younger man waved at a rusty foldout chair. “St, Mrs. Trent.”

“I’ve been sitting for eight hours on a plane. I’d prefer to stand.”

“It wasn’t a suggestion,” the older man barked.

Tee flinched, swallowed, and sat. As subtly as possible, she rubbed her damp palms on her skirt.

The men flanked her. Tee dared a quick peek. They stared straight ahead, not at her. The chill air in the narrow, claustrophobic room raised goose bumps on her bare arms. She looked for her brown Coach handbag. In all her confusion, she hadn’t missed it until now.

“Where’s my purse?” Tee cleared her throat.

“It will be returned to you later, madam.”

“You took my purse?” No one answered her question. “I’m cold. My sweater’s tied around the handle of my purse.”

Silence.

Tee squinted at them. Witchy temptation inched its way into her thoughts. “I said I’m cold. Will one of you please obtain my sweater for me?”

No reaction, not even a blink of an eye, nasty, rude males, Tee stifled a snort. Of the firm opinion English civil servants confused civility with servility, she stood up, determined to take charge.

Shuffling his feet, the junior inspector turned, pressed a hand on her shoulder, and pushed.

“You will not manhandle me.” Tee edged out from under his hold. “I demand to see your supervisor. Now.” She stamped her foot.

Whipping out metal handcuffs from a pocket, the senior official, in a swift move, surprising because of his bulk, clamped a meaty, damp palm over her hand. Soured sweat slapped her nostrils, making her head snap back.

Escalating rage and apprehension triggered her instinctive flight reaction. Tee closed her eyes and visualized Heathrow’s baggage claim area and the restroom located at its entrance.

Peeking out from under one eyelid, she let out an audible sigh of relief. For once, her witchy powers had functioned as she wanted.

The women’s toilet and sink section of the lavatory teemed with bustling travelers. No one noticed her sudden appearance. Tension seeped out of her neck muscles, and a giddy triumph had her almost skipping through the entrance.

Cheeks warm, she checked the lone screen outside for the location of her baggage claim area. She found her flight number and read
Carousel Eight
. Singing the words, “I am woman, hear me roar,” under her breath, warrior-confident and elated, Tee grinned like a banshee and weaved her way through the throngs of passengers, arms swinging.

The airport’s perpetual expansion made for long walkways. Tee noticed two uniformed airport security personnel at the far end of the noisy corridor. The female officer made eye contact with her and stared at her empty hands.

Alarmed, she ducked around a corner and stepped up her pace. Two hallways converged, elbows jostled, shoulders bumped, feet shuffled. One tweed-clad traveler stumbled, a couple stopped to assist her, and a domino effect occurred. Irritation mounted in the crowd, someone swore, and in the middle of the melee, Tee pictured her purse.

Thirty paces farther the crowd thinned, and victory loomed like the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. A light tap on Tee’s shoulder made sweat break out on her brow. Clenching her clammy palms, Tee did a slow pivot.

“Did you lose your handbag, madam?” asked the female guard who’d been staring at her.

She held up her brown Coach bag.

The woman frowned, scrutinized Tee, and exchanged a glance with her male counterpart. “Apologies.”

The middle-aged man smelled funky. He shrugged.

Tee smiled. In her best American accent, she murmured, “No problem.”

She sashayed away from them, dangling the purse in her hand. An announcer on a television screen mounted by Baggage Area Three blasted the news. Tee stopped when she heard the words, “Tight security clampdown at Heathrow airport.”

So, that’s what all the fuss was about, a terrorist roundup worldwide. They probably pulled her out of immigration as a spot check. Tee worried about her actions for long moments and decided no one would believe those two men anyway. She had her bag back. No one could prove she’d even been in that horrible little room.

A group of men in dark suits with identical black devices tucked into their ears pushed past. Tee waited until they gained a ten-foot head start and followed the path they forged through the multitudes. The men broke into a jog and raced to Carousel Eight. One of the men heaved a brown suitcase banded with a distinctive red and white strip off the revolving U-shaped conveyor belt. Hers.

Nauseated, limbs shaky, Tee leaned against a square column. A drop of perspiration tricked down her temple. She swiped at it and, pulse skittering, dug her fingernails into her palms. An airbag seemed to explode against her chest when the man gave her luggage to a uniformed police officer. As she watched, the milling throng surrounding the belt parted and reformed, absorbing him.

The other men dissipated, winding through the thick mass of passengers crowding the spinning carousel. One approached a woman who resembled her, same hair color, a little shorter. During a brief interaction, the female scowled, pulled a passport out of her oversized purse, and slapped it into the man’s outstretched hand.

Damn, damn, damn.

Her knees buckled. She gulped and did a ninety-degree turn around the column holding on to the rough concrete. For the briefest moment, she considered using her powers, but chucked the idea as too risky given the pounding in her eardrums.

One deep inhale, another, and both legs obeyed her commands. Tee concentrated on maintaining an even, unhurried pace as she headed in the opposite direction. Deciding to linger around Baggage Claim Two, she slouched against the shadowed far wall.

Why had they taken away her suitcase? Her breath came faster. This had to be some sort of mistake. She had to acknowledge the fact they were looking for her, but couldn’t reason why. Authority figures always made her nervous, afraid somehow she’d let out her secret, wished for something without realizing it, and it had appeared. Tee suppressed her rising panic and concentrated on making it out of the airport, to the secure
harbor
of
Claridge
’s.

Ahead of her, a group of noisy, large male teenagers dressed in black sweaters with the slogan
Woolton Warriors
written in neon green across their chests chatted boisterously. They moved to the exit doors.

She pushed in between them, ducked her head, and let them jostle her out to safety. Although a hot cup of tea held the appeal of nectar to a hummingbird, she strode past the Starbucks outlet on her right, kept her head down, and walked towards her normal exit area.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder, and though tempted to snarl, “Don’t touch me—anyone,” she managed a modicum of restraint. Another tap.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Trent?”

She curled her clammy hands into tight fists, and a flare of terror paralyzed every limb, sliding an iceberg down her spine.

“Mrs. Trent?”

Tee gritted her teeth and answered without turning around, “I beg your pardon?”

“Mr. Jake Mathews sent me to pick you up.”

She swiveled. “How do you know who I am?”