Oh God, she couldn't even think about that.
Time to pile on the lies. Because no way would she let J.T. die before they'd worked things out between them and until he'd apologized for walking away from her again, bless his stubborn soul. They deserved forever.
"Okay, fine. What I said was true, but there's more. The schedule isn't here—yet. J.T. had to leave work early to bring me home. I'm on half days because of a car accident—and I'm pregnant," she rushed to add in hopes that even if this slime didn't respect her condition, he might fear the harsher legal ramifications if he killed a pregnant woman.
She watched her assailant for hints of his personality, weaknesses, anything to provide an edge, if only she could see his facial expressions. Instead, she had only body language and flickers of emotion in those narrow eyes peering back at her through the slits in the knit mask. Gun steady, he smoothed his other hand along the wrinkles in his black T-shirt.
Fastidious? Obsessive-compulsive? Or just plain freaking amoral that he would think he could break into her home, hurt her husband.
She frowned, watched. "J.T. left early, and someone from work is supposed to bring his schedule by later."
Geez, that was lame and so not how things worked, but hopefully this person would buy it anyway, the best she could come up with while under so much crushing pressure.
"Why don't they e-mail the schedule to him?"
Why hadn't she thought of that? "Because the computers were down today. One of those out-of-control virus things. You'll probably hear about it on the news in the morning."
She'd never tested her aptitude for her family's shady penchant for lying, but obviously she'd picked up some of the skill by osmosis from years of exposure while growing up. One thing to be grateful for from her childhood.
His eyes squinted in the mask. "Okay, I'm not saying I trust you, but what you say sounds possible. You're going to help me tie up the big guy here and then you're both going to hang out secured in a closet while I look. If you're actually telling the truth, I'll let one of you get the schedule at the door. But I'll be holding a gun to the other one's head. Understand?"
Rena nodded. God, had he actually stolen a glance of himself in the windowpane as he walked? She was worried about dying here and he was checking himself out?
Rage threatened to blind her. Come hell or high water, she was taking down Mr. Narcissist.
He looked around the room, knelt, unplugged a short extension cord. "Now tie his hands behind his back with this. And do it tight, because I'll be watching."
Rena hefted her husband's limp body to his stomach, stalling as best she could, an easy enough prospect since he was heavy. Gently, she pulled his limp arms behind his back. How long had he been out? Was he awake now, faking to listen, plan, establish an edge?
If so, he was doing a helluva good job with the act.
Once she finished, she glanced up, exhausted, scared. And determined not to fail.
Mr. Narcissist waggled the gun toward the hall. "Drag him into the closet."
"You have got to be kidding. There's no way I can manage that. No way." If she could get him to put down his gun…
"I see your point. But I want you to sit there."
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.