Covert Evidence (12 page)

“No. He couldn’t make the turn and ran off the road. Tail gone.” He sounded so smug and satisfied.

She slumped down in her seat. Slowly—very slowly—her heart rate returned to something resembling normal. The city disappeared behind them as dwellings spread out. “Where are we?”

“On the road to Kurubaş.”

She bolted upright again. She’d studied enough maps of the area to know that was a small town south of Van. “What? I thought we were going to the police. In
Van.
”

“I changed my mind.”

The nagging fears and doubts that she’d been trying to ignore surged to the surface. Her breathing became shallow as the full import of her situation sank in. Her body flashed into full-blown panic, no passing Go, no two-hundred-dollar payday. She was in deep shit. And it was her own stupid fault for trusting John Baker. “You.” She gasped for breath. “Are.” Another heave. “Abducting.” She hiccupped at the end of that word before choking out, “Me.”

She grasped at the door handle. She could throw herself out of the vehicle. But the door was locked, and in the moment it took for her to fumble with the mechanism, he’d sped up. Diving from the vehicle would maim or kill her.

His hand landed on her knee. “No, Cressida, I’m protecting you.”

“Get your fucking hand off me.”

He lifted his hand. “Sorry. It’s just—you’re panicking.”

She sucked in another gasping breath. “Don’t you think I know that?”

The car slowed. He pulled onto the narrow shoulder and stopped. She reached for the door handle.

Stupid. She should have grabbed the gun, which she’d set on the floor at her feet.

Instead, he grabbed it, but he didn’t point it at her. He released the clip, which fell into his lap, rendering it useless as anything but a club.

She grappled for the door handle again. He reached for her, but his hand stopped short. “Cressida, I’m not abducting you. I’m protecting you. You can’t flee. You don’t know the language. You don’t even know where we are.”

She froze. John was right; she couldn’t flee. Her suitcase was in the backseat, and they were stopped on a road in the middle of nowhere in freaking Eastern Anatolia. She curled her fingers around the handle but didn’t pull it. “You aren’t abducting me. Right.” She met his gaze. His jaw was tense, but his eyes…they said something else. “And if I open this door and get out of the car, what will you do? Will you grab me? Pull the other gun and threaten me?”

“I’ll try to talk you out of it, but I won’t stop you.” His voice was low, almost pleading. “My company has a safe house on the outskirts of Kurubaş. I’m taking you there. We can regroup. Figure out what to do.”

“We? As in you and me, or you and Sabal?”

He leaned back against the driver’s seat and closed his eyes. “I don’t know what happened to Sabal. I can’t reach him. That worries me.”

“He was supposed to take the guy with the knife to the police. He was going to file a report for me…” Her voice trailed off. If Sabal hadn’t gone to the police, then no one knew she’d been mugged. No one—except Berzan, who might not even exist—even knew the name of her hotel. Not that it mattered since she wasn’t there anymore, but she hadn’t called Trina yet, or Suzanne.

No one who cares if I live or die knows where I am.

She was a cipher. Invisible. If she disappeared, no one would have the slightest clue where to start looking.

“You weren’t safe at the hotel. I
had
to get you out of there.”

“Why didn’t you take me to the police?”

His hands curled into fists. “Remember the phone call I made while you packed?”

She nodded. She’d shamelessly eavesdropped, but he’d spoken in Turkish. For all she knew, he’d called his wife and said good night to his kids.

Where the hell did that thought come from? She had no doubt John was hiding things from her, but she had no reason to think a wife and kids were among them. And even less of a reason to feel a tinge of pain at the mere idea.

She was seriously whacked. Abducted for five minutes and already suffering from Stockholm syndrome? She was an overachiever in the psychoses department.

And nice to know her track record for picking the worst men imaginable remained unbroken.

“I was talking to my boss—reporting what had happened. He did a little checking, and apparently, there’s a warrant out for your arrest in Antalya. A man was murdered in your hotel room last night.”

Chapter Eleven

A
s far as lies went, it wasn’t a bad one. Especially since it was damn close to the truth. Ian congratulated himself for coming up with it and thereby securing her cooperation, because he couldn’t take the catch in her voice when she’d panicked.

Except now she let out a choked shriek, which was sort of worse, actually. “Todd or Hejan?” she asked, her voice cracking on the second name.

“What?”

“Was the d-d-dead man Todd Ganem or”—she struggled for breath—“Hejan Duhoki?”

“The second one. Duhoki. Who is Todd Ganem?”

She shocked him by flopping against his chest. Apparently, her need for comfort was greater than her fear of him. Ian wrapped his arms around her and stroked her back, telling himself it was what John would do, but knowing he held her because he wanted to, not because it was his damn role.

“Okay, forget Ganem. Who is Hejan Duhoki?” His quick lie was even better than he’d hoped. He could question her,
finally.

“My translator.”

“You mean the guy who set you up with Berzan, the mugger?”

“We don’t
know
Berzan was my mugger.” She pulled away from his chest and swept back a lock of long dark hair, tucking it behind her ear. “I barely knew him, but his death must be my fault.

“How so?”

“My last night in Antalya… Jesus, was that just
yesterday
?” She rubbed her temples. “Please. Let’s continue on to the safe house. I can tell you on the way. I need a bed.”

He nodded and put the car in gear. “What happened yesterday in Antalya?”

She got her emotions under control enough to tell him about Ganem showing up first at the bar, then her hotel room door. She briefly described Ganem’s arrest, followed by her own, and the fact that Ganem had fled the US with the aid of his powerful uncle in Jordan.

He pulled into the carport of the safe house. The neighborhood—old, run-down, and largely abandoned after the 2011 earthquake—was quiet.

The house itself was little better than a shack; half of it looked to be on the verge of collapse, but the support beams were solid, making it the ideal hideaway.

“Is this where you take all your clients?” Her tone was skeptical.

He laughed. “No. This is a fallback position, in case something goes wrong, and we need to hide the CEO of Microsoft. No one would ever think to look here.”

“Is the CEO of Microsoft your client?”

“No, random example.”

He stared at her, trying to decide his next move. Too risky to leave her in the car while he checked out the house. No choice but to enter together. He kissed her, a brief press of his lips to hers. “Please don’t shoot me,” he said and dropped the Sig and magazine into her lap, then pulled out his own pistol.

C
ressida followed John into the run-down house, hardly able to believe the place was habitable and longing for either of the two hotel rooms she’d paid for in the last two nights. The interior was as dilapidated as the exterior, but the tidy rooms smelled of cleanser.

Even as she willingly followed the man who may have abducted her into the house—although the fact that he gave her back the gun argued against abduction—she wondered if her trip could possibly be salvaged. Her academic career had ridden on success here, and her universe, her essence, everything she’d worked for since she was seventeen years old had been entirely based on academic success and the respect it could bring.

She would never be rich, but she’d have a career that made her happy, because she knew from her mother’s example that happiness wasn’t to be found in relationships. Now, with a Master’s degree under her belt and well on her way to a PhD, she was still the bastard who craved acceptance and respect. A shrink would have a field day inside her brain.

But everything had changed in the last few hours. This wasn’t about academics anymore. She had reason to believe her life was in danger. And she didn’t know if John Baker was her savior or her warden.

Fight him, or work with him?

Run or stay?

The US Embassy was too far away. Even the nearest consulate was several hours by car. If she had a car. Or could get through the checkpoints without ID.

She was exhausted but strangely wired. Maybe she could figure out what to do if she had a cup of coffee. Coffee fixed everything. She made a beeline for the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” John asked.

“I need coffee.”

“You don’t need coffee. It’s almost midnight after a hellish day. You need sleep.”

She turned and glared at him. “You may be my warden, but you aren’t my mother. I can have coffee at midnight if I want to, dammit.”

He shrugged. “There’s some Nescafé in the cupboard.”

She hated instant coffee, but it would have to do. In minutes she had a warm bowl-shaped mug cradled in her hands. She lifted it to her mouth and breathed in the aroma.

When she was a little girl, she’d get up early to join her mother in the kitchen for alone time. If a man lived with them, he inevitably slept late, because Sarah Porter was never in long-term relationships with men who worked regular, daytime hours. The smell of coffee brought back those moments—one-on-one time with the only person in her world who mattered and a slice of happiness for an attention-starved girl.

Sarah was a smart woman. Her fatal flaw was the need for the love and affection she’d never received from her own parents. A fatal flaw Cressida shared with her mother, but triggered by different circumstances. Cressida was all about the daddy issues.

At best, the adult men who’d populated Cressida’s childhood were takers—selfish pricks who preyed on her mother’s weaknesses. The three worst had been predators, emotionally or physically abusive. One, Two, and Three had needed to dominate and control.

During the reign of Two, Cressida had done a stint in foster care, but she’d worried about her mother, fearing Two’s violence would escalate without Cressida there to protect her. Cressida snitched a gun from her foster family’s arsenal, and ran home. The end result was Two moved out—in a hurry—and Cressida was no stranger to pulling a gun on a man. Now the question was, could she pull the trigger?

“Where did you go just now?” John asked, breaking the spell cast by the scent of hot coffee and bitter memories.

She took a sip. The brew had a richer flavor than she’d expected. She met John’s gaze over the mug. “I was wondering if I could shoot you.”

He cocked his head; one corner of his mouth crooked in a faint smile. “What did you decide?”

“I haven’t yet.”

He stepped toward her. “Can we start over? Or at least go back to where we were after I saved you at the train?”

“You mean when I was terrified of you?” She shrugged. “Sure.”

“No. I mean when you looked at me like I’m Superman.”

“I can’t do that.” She pushed off the counter and entered the tiny living room. “So, what’s the plan from here? We threaten each other, then form an uneasy alliance, or should we skip the drama and you let me go?”

He touched her arm, and she turned to face him.

“I think,” he said, “we’ll go with the threatening and alliance thing if those are the only options. It’s not safe for you on your own.”

She felt every millimeter of his hand on her bare arm, and the tempo of her heartbeat increased. She didn’t trust him. But his touch wasn’t harsh or violent. And in her mind, she saw his face in that moment beside the train. And later, in the elevator. She shivered at the memory of his hot kiss.

He didn’t scare her. Far from it. John Baker turned her on. And
that
scared her.

She glanced around the living room. “Tell me something that will help me trust you.” She set her mug on a low end table. “What is this place?”