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.
The baby. The man had seemed to shift his focus when she'd mentioned being pregnant.
"I have to go to the bathroom," she blurted.
"You're joking, right?"
"I'm pregnant." And damn, but this might work. "I swear there's no way I can hold it a minute longer. If my husband doesn't come to in time for delivery of the schedule, don't you think it'll raise a few questions if I answer the door with wet clothes, not to mention the smell, and it's not like I'll have time to change my clothes once the doorbell rings—"
"Okay! Okay, lady, I get the point." Gun waving, he grimaced. "You can go to the bathroom, for God's sake."
A small victory, but she'd take it. Plus, every time she pushed and won, she discovered more about her enemy.
"But I'm going to search you when you come out."
She pulled a weak smile. So much for the paperweight she would have to ditch now.
He kicked the door shut on J.T.'s prison and followed her to the half bath around the corner.
Rena stepped into the bathroom and closed the door. Exhaling, she sagged against the door, searching for ideas. But there weren't any convenient guns in the toilet tank.
She considered writing Help on the window in lipstick, but he might check the bathroom and she couldn't risk triggering his anger.
Yanking open the medicine cabinet, she scanned the metal shelves. No nifty drugs to drop in his drinks. Nothing but a soap refill and the nail-care products from Julia Dawson's gift at the hospital a couple of weeks ago.
Rena snatched up the metal nail file, bent it into a curve and slipped it into her bra down near the underwire. Uncomfortable as hell, but not visible in the mirror. At least her swollen, tender pregnancy br**sts offered better hiding.
Wouldn't that make an interesting headline for tomorrow's television news flash? Pregnant housewife takes down abductor with her killer bra … more details to follow at eleven. Stifling a hysterical laugh, Rena ditched the paperweight in the trash.
Rena flushed the toilet and turned on the faucet. She needed to get a grip.
She twisted off the water, gripped the doorknob. Fear sliced through her with every tight breath. What hell J.T. must have gone through overseas. She'd known, of course, but hadn't really known until this moment.
Guilt crawled over her. She hadn't been there for J.T. when he needed her. Sure, she'd gone through the motions when he'd lumbered off that plane. But when he'd walked out of the house a couple of days later, she should have chased his ass down. Dogged him until he came home where he belonged, until he had time to come to grips with his hellish experience.
He'd braved her family, offered her safety, a haven. Love. He deserved the same from her.
She'd fought for her marriage. She'd fought for herself.
Now it was time she fought for J.T.
J.T. fought the fog.
God, his head hurt. Groaning, he rolled to his side, off his numb hands. Still they wouldn't move.