He pointed to J.T.'s recliner in the office, a butt-ugly green chair she'd made fun of just before she'd jumped her husband's bones on the eyesore.
"And don't move, ma'am," Mr. Stuck-on-Himself added. "I'll be able to see you. One twitch from you and I'll crack your husband's head open this time."
She shivered. Nodded. Started to move for the chair, but suddenly found herself reluctant to leave J.T. She pressed a kiss to his head and whispered, "I love you."
"Touching," Mr. Narcissist mocked. "Now get in the chair while I lock this guy up. Then you're next."
She inched away, careful to keep her moves smooth, predictable. Her captor tucked the gun in the small of his back, in his belt, his gold buckle and design catching the light…
A red circle with a black triangle inside.
What did Chris's mess have to do with someone wanting J.T.'s flight schedule? And damn, damn, damn, why couldn't she figure out why that symbol looked so familiar?
The man rolled J.T. onto his back again. He gripped under J.T.'s shoulders, dragging him into the hall, straining and scooching backward.
What a dumb ass. He should have put her in a closet first so she wouldn't be free while he maneuvered J.T. Not that she intended to mention the oversight. Instead, she processed the new insight. The man wasn't as smart as he thought.
Rena studied him closer, saw sweat seeping through his mask. Stress or heat? His hand fidgeted with his belt—again. Stress. Definitely.
While that edginess could be dangerous, it could also be her weapon since it impaired his logic. Playing him, outsmarting him would be a tightrope walk, but he had her on size and firepower.
When he turned his back to open the door, she snatched a paperweight off the edge of J.T.'s desk and tucked it in her pocket.
Mr. Narcissist shifted back, huffing. He tugged his gun out again. "Okay. You next. Closet."
At least she would be with J.T. again. She crossed into the hall.
"Are you nuts, lady? You get your own closet."
No damn way could she let that happen. She needed to talk to J.T. when he woke, update him, reassure him. She extended her wrists. "Tie me up before you put me in there, but I'm not leaving him. You're the one with the gun, all the power."
"You're damn right." He pressed the gun to her temple, a cold, lethal kiss. "And you'll do whatever the hell I say."
Childhood memories shivered over her, visions of the soulless eyes of her father's friends who carried weapons like these. Panic thrashed against reason, threatening any hope of calm. She had maybe three seconds to figure something out. Her gut churned. The baby somersaulted.>Right then, he knew. He couldn't put her through this anymore. She'd wanted him gone and maybe that was the best thing after all.
But not just yet. He hated himself for being a selfish bastard, but he couldn't walk today. The kids deserved this homecoming, Rena, too. And, damn it all, he couldn't make himself walk away from the chance to lose himself in her body one more time.
They would have their homecoming, before he left for good.
And what a homecoming it had been, so perfect, and somehow he'd felt like a freaking black cloud walking through the clean light of his house. Like now, standing in the hall, wanting to go back up those stairs and wondering if staying away was better for her in the long run.
He glanced upstairs, frowning. Had he started to understand, then, this deeper love he felt? God knows it confused the hell out of him now, and he'd been too much of a mess then to process much of anything.
Holy crap. He slumped against the wall, bracing his foot on the banister across from him for support. He hadn't walked away to protect her. He'd left because the dawning realization of how much he loved her scared the hell out of him.
He couldn't reconcile it all then. Still wasn't sure he could.
Except now, he wanted to.
At least he was home. Alive. He could—and damn well would—deal with the rest. Once he got his head on straight. He needed five minutes to pull it together again and then he'd go back upstairs for damage control.
He opened his office door.
To find a man dressed in black and a ski mask sitting at his desk, rifling through drawers. What the hell?
The man looked up, eyes narrowed in the ski-mask slits. Anger, rage, raw emotions still stark and ugly on the surface roared to life. J.T. launched forward.
The man's hand slid into sight—holding a Glock, the big nasty-looking 9mm stalling J.T. quicker than a brick wall in the face.