Claimed by the Secret Agent. Lyn Stone
a time when he did consider making friends a risk. For one thing, they had always moved away or he had. A lasting relationship of any kind had been his greatest wish when he was young, but he soon learned that short-term was his best bet. No gut-wrenching goodbyes to suffer.
Whenever he did get involved with people, he felt responsible for them, compelled to look after them, fix what was wrong with them, ease their way in life however he could. And then they would have to move on, or he would, leaving behind a feeling of distress on his part that they were going off on their own and might be unable to cope. Yeah, it was definitely better not to let himself care all that much.
Because he soon realized that was a cold attitude to live with, he had adopted a smiling, good-ol’-boy warmth that put people at ease. That way, they’d be less aware that he kept a safe emotional distance. He’d had to do that with the people under his command or he would have gone crazy.
He did much better with this civilian job. Working alone sure had its advantages. In this particular case, he was relieved that his association with Marie Beauclair would be temporary.
Grant went into the living room and clicked on the television to cover the sound of her shower. He didn’t want to imagine her wet and naked. It just didn’t feel right to do that. But he couldn’t seem to help it.
Given what she had endured, his response filled him with guilt. He concentrated on pity, a much safer reaction to her and a lot more appropriate. Poor little thing.
Twenty minutes into a boring old movie, Grant began to get worried. The shower was still running. The water should be stone-cold by this time.
Was she in there, crying? Had she gone to sleep? Drowned herself? He’d better check.
“Ms. Beauclair?” He knocked several times. “You okay?” He knocked again. “Marie? Answer me right now or I’m coming in.”
Nothing.
Grant tried the handle. Locked. Well, there was no window in the bathroom, so he knew she hadn’t climbed out. Either she had passed out or was unable to speak for some reason. He backed up and ran against the door. And promptly bounced off. Dammit, he’d break his shoulder. He shouted again. No answer.
Chapter 3
Grant reached in his pocket and pulled out his pick tools. It took a minute or so to slip the mechanism on the bathroom door and unlock it. The room was filled with steam, but a quick scan showed it was empty.
She had thumbed the lock and pulled it shut to buy some time. But how had she gotten past him?
Grant turned off the water and went back into the bedroom. He raked back the draperies and cursed. The window at the back of the building was open. The thin line of a rappelling rope anchored to the bed frame snaked out one edge of the window and dangled nearly to the ground. Probably kept as a means of fire escape. Why hadn’t he thought of that?
He ran a hand through his hair and gave it a tug. Tricked like the greenest recruit, but how the hell was he to guess she’d even want to take off on her own? Where the hell did she think she was going?
After her kidnapper, of course. And the logical place for her to start would be back at that little burg where she’d been held.
A foot-long section of baseboard near the closet lay loose on the floor. The cavity that had lain behind it was the hidey-hole for the grandmother’s ring, if there had even been one, and whatever else she’d felt compelled to conceal so carefully.
He knew exactly what that would be. If he were her, working undercover, he would have his real I.D. and creds stashed somewhere safe. That, and cash.
Always have a back door. Her fire-escape rope verified she’d had that. He was a little paranoid himself about any abode with only one exit, so he couldn’t fault her for that. He could, however, curse her for using it in this instance.
He pulled out his phone and called Mercier. Embarrassing as it was, he would have to report this snafu to control and take his lumps for it. He was mad as hell with the sneaky little devil. And sort of impressed in spite of that.
Mercier wasn’t impressed at all, especially with him. Grant could almost see the boss rolling his eyes.
“I know where she went,” Grant declared. “She tried to convince me to let her help catch her abductor. Since I said no, in no uncertain terms, she’s gone off on her own. I’ll have her on the plane within twenty-four hours.”
“No,” Mercier said. “If she’s that gung ho and that quick on her feet, let her help. You say she’s seen him and heard him. Catch up with her and see how she does.”
“Jack, she’ll just slow me down. I’d rather do this by myself.”
“Noted, but indulge me.” An order, not a request.
“All right, but if she gets in the way, I’m sending her back, cuffed if necessary!”
“If you have to,” Mercier agreed. “Give her a chance, though. She’s been a real asset to the Company, had as much training as you and obviously has had real initiative. No reason to treat her as a novice.”
Yeah. No reason at all. Except that Grant really didn’t think she was up to this. He realized his take on it was colored by his personal opinions. As politically incorrect and chauvinistic as those might be, they were grounded in experience.
His mother had given every outward appearance of strength and courage. Everyone had always commented on how well she coped. Only Grant had known her to break down when no one else could see or hear. One of his first memories was that of sitting in the hallway outside her bedroom door, holding the little stuffed dog she had made for him, feeling her fright and wondering how to comfort her. His dad was overseas where they couldn’t go that time, and his mom couldn’t handle it. Her pretense left a lasting impression on him.
And so had Betty Schonrock, the girl who had everything. Everything but someone to watch out for her and care what happened to her. God, would he live with that failure forever? Twenty years had passed and it still troubled him. It hadn’t been his place to protect her and what else could he have done? He ought to let it go.
He fully understood that women wanted and truly tried to be as strong as men. Maybe some were. He just didn’t think this one was as self-sufficient as she thought she was.
Marie Beauclair looked incredibly fragile and downright helpless at times. Okay, but while he knew that part of that had been an act to throw him off guard, her tears had been real enough. Her fear, the trembling and pain hadn’t been faked. At least he didn’t think so. Had they?
He had never worked with a female partner. He’d even caught himself worrying about the female agents employed by COMPASS. They seemed capable and got the job done, so he heard. But in his opinion, women were just more sensitive, more vulnerable, and they should be protected, not thrown into situations where they might be hurt.
They were physically weaker, a proven fact. And while they were probably more tolerant to pain than men were, he couldn’t see any justification for exposing them to it intentionally. Participating in an investigation of her own abduction and imprisonment surely qualified as painful where Marie was concerned. Dangerous, too.
Grant pocketed his phone and started after her. Maybe if he hurried, he could beat her there.
Marie sailed down the autobahn, grinning at the speed of her little Audi roadster. She loved the convertible, the one fancy she did love about her cover as an eager young admin assistant with her first international job. She had to admit she liked the clothes, too. Had to dress to impress!
No need for that today, though. Her small duffel was packed with only practical stuff, not the froufrou. She wore dark jeans, a black knit shirt and black running shoes with thick socks to cushion her cuts. Her braid kept her still-wet hair slicked back for the most part, but as it dried the wind grabbed at tendrils around her face.
The little Glock 27 lay on the seat beside her,