“Maybe,” Ryder drawled.
“Leave her alone, Ryder,” Remy protested. “Give the girl a break.”
Ryder turned to look at him, his eyes flat and hard. “I don’t remember asking for your opinion.”
“Don’t be a bigger asshole than you already are.”
To Jenny’s astonishment he actually laughed at that. “That’s part of my job description,” he said, before glancing back at Jenny. “We leave the house at five. Be ready.”
She almost told him to fuck off. She opened her mouth to deliver the stinging response, then shut it again, sudden uneasiness filling her. God damn that man. There was just enough of her that was frightened of him. She could face down her father, bureaucrats, corrupt policemen, and hanging judges without flinching, but all Ryder had to do was deliberately cause her pain and something had broken inside of her. She hated it, and she hated him.
She couldn’t give him a docile response either. She made do with a simple nod, walking away from him without a backwards glance. It wasn’t until she reached the safety of the kitchen that she looked down and saw that her hands were trembling.
Chapter Thirteen
Ryder had almost hoped she’d be sulking. Not that she didn’t have every right to—he’d hurt her, simply because he’d had no choice, and in the safe cocoon of the United States, most women weren’t deliberately, passionlessly hurt. Thank God. With someone from Calliveria—Soledad, for instance—he’d have to do a lot worse to get her attention.
But Parker was acting calm and passionless. Granted, she had a stick up her ass, but he certainly couldn’t blame her, and he treated her with distant courtesy, always the safest bet after the few minutes of cruelty.
She wasn’t showing any sign of discomfort, but he noticed she was only using her right arm, which made sense. She’d be in pain for another day, and then the ache would begin to wear off. He could have done much worse, and he would have if she hadn’t broken so quickly. There was always the chance that when she began to heal she’d start to trust him again.
Scratch that. That was never going to happen—he’d never be able to get near her again, which was definitely a good thing. He’d grown a little too fascinated with her recently, and not just because he suspected her of knowing something important. He’d liked watching her, liked her sassy attitude, liked her haughtiness.
She said nothing when she climbed aboard the expensive private jet that Peter Madsen had designated for their use. It was a hell of an expense, but it turned out to be a necessity. Even though they were stationed in New Orleans, the Committee was worldwide, and they needed the ability to get where they were needed at a moment’s notice.
If Parker appreciated the comfortable leather seats and built-in flat-screen TV and bar, she didn’t show it. She headed straight for the back of the plane, for the one seat that was usually reserved for a flight attendant, and buckled herself in, staring out the window in the darkness. He suspected she wouldn’t look at him during the entire trip, though he was tempted to make her.
But he’d hurt enough people over the years, people who were basically innocent, and he knew she needed time to protect herself, to heal from the emotional shock of it. He could give her that much.
Once the jet reached cruising altitude he took off his seat belt and headed for the bar. He didn’t tend to drink during an operation, but he’d been on edge ever since those few minutes with Parker, and a beer might tak
e the edge off. The bar came equipped with his favorite craft beer, and he noticed a frozen margarita mix. According to the detailed background check, Parker had a weakness for margaritas. It wouldn’t be much of a peace offering, and she’d probably throw it in his face, but he mixed it anyway, stalking toward the back of the plane and setting it on the table beside her.
She didn’t look up or acknowledge his presence in any way, but she didn’t throw the drink at him, which he figured was progress. When he stole a glance at her half an hour later, the glass was empty.
He slept, simply because God knew when he’d sleep again, and woke only when they touched down at the distant runway outside Calliveria’s small city of Puerto Claro. She was already out of her seat belt by the time he rose, keeping just out of his reach, waiting for him like a docile, abused wife, and he wanted to snarl. Whether it was at her or himself, he wasn’t quite sure.
The air in New Orleans had been warm and humid, but this place was practically liquid. Calliveria’s geography went from rain forests up into the Andes, and Puerto Claro was down low in an area plagued with mosquitoes and disease. The sooner they were out of there, the better.
She wasn’t going to like where they were going, but then, she wasn’t going to like a damned thing about him ever again. “You ready?” he said unnecessarily, because the charged silence got on his nerves.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” she said in a low voice, and his urge to snarl increased. He swallowed it and gave her a small, lazy smile that left her stonily unmoved.
“So you are. And you’re going to do every damned thing I tell you to do, aren’t you?”
“Will it save my brother?”
“I doubt it. But it might save Soledad.” Whom he didn’t trust one bit, but Ms. Parker was far too gullible when it came to people—people like her brothers.
“I’ll do what you tell me to do,” she said flatly. “Within reason.”
“Reason has nothing to do with it.”
“Then you should have left me behind in New Orleans.”
“You didn’t leave me much of a choice. You like being difficult, don’t you?”
Again that shuttered look. The old Parker would have given him enough sass to amuse and infuriate him. The new Parker was muffled, faded, and it pissed him off. She’d given up fighting—she was a pale ghost of her former self, and it made him want to shake her.