Chris flung his backpack onto the ground by the park bench outside school.>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.
He was tied. Ah hell.
He blinked against the dark, his eyes slowly adjusting with the help of a thin bar of light slanting under the door. Small space. Hands tied. Rubistan? His brain logy, he battled with now and then. Wrestled down dread. Forced even breaths in and out to stuff down the swell of nausea. From a concussion?
He filled himself with air. Smells, too. Smells of home. Rena's cologne. He struggled to sit, canting up closer to the scent wafting off … wool dangling overhead.
A coat. Hers.
He was in a closet, not a cell. Relief washed away nausea. Memories blasted through of the man at his desk. Rena walking in. And then… What?
J.T. jerked against his constraints. He had to get out. To his wife. He couldn't allow thoughts of what might be happening to her.
And then he heard her. Her voice pierced the door, growing louder.
He slumped back against the wall. She was alive. For now. With slow, controlled moves, he worked to free his hands as he grounded himself in the husky, vibrant—alive—sounds of Rena's voice.