Читать книгу Claimed by the Secret Agent - Lyn Stone - Страница 13

“If I give you a picture of him,” Marie offered, “you could have it run through Interpol?”

“Sure, but how—”

“Art major. Worked my way through LSU doing sidewalk portraits around Jackson Square.”

“That’s not in your file.”

“Don’t tell the IRS. I worked for cash only. I’ll need charcoal and a sketch pad.”

She pushed past him and returned to the outer room. Have you checked out the rest of this place. Maybe he dropped something else.”

He followed. “Because of you, we have breaks in the case now, you furnishing that likeness of the perp and this, the location where he held you. None of the others that lived have been able to provide any information. They were drugged the entire time, then dumped in a public park, either alive or dead. Forensics hasn’t gotten anything, either, but this time, we’ve lucked out.

“I got a partial print off the bed frame.”

Marie smiled her approval. “You brought a print kit?”

“Boy Scout. Always prepared.” He held up the salute.

“Hey, I hear they give badges for that!”

“Funny girl.” He ushered her through the door to the street. “You aren’t always this perky, are you? I hope this is another guise to throw me off the real you. Perky just irritates the hell out of me.”

“And condescension annoys me, just so you know. Your car or mine?”

“Mine. All my gear is in it and your ride isn’t exactly low profile. Is that hot little number part of your fluffy persona, or are you naturally a show-off?”

“You saw my car? When?”

“No, I haven’t seen it, but I did read your file. Except for your art and erstwhile tax evasion, I know just about everything there is to know about you.”

She raised her eyebrows and gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Believe that at your own risk.”

He guided her to the same gray sedan they’d used earlier. The car looked as if it had seen its better days in the last century. It wasn’t a pretty ride like hers, but it had made great time this morning and had beaten her here on the return trip. Hidden power beneath the hood. Like the driver, maybe?

Marie made a face as he opened the passenger door for her. She stepped away from his touch when he tried to usher her inside. “You really are a Boy Scout, Tyndal. Help little old ladies across the street, too?”

“Whether they want to go or not,” he said, making her laugh.

She liked the man in spite of herself. He didn’t like her much, though. Thought she was deceptive, impulsive and too aggressive. She didn’t have to be psychic to get that. She also didn’t need extrasensory perception to know he was physically interested, though he hid it pretty well. She could use that. Sometimes it was the most valuable tool available, but it was risky and she seldom employed it.

Her touch-me-not attitude was for real, but most men saw it only as a come on. It must intrigue them or something. With Tyndal, that would probably work very well. She needed him on her side, helping her but not coming on to her. That last part bothered her.

Unless she had misjudged him, he wouldn’t make any sexual demands, because of his ethics. Not that she trusted any man’s ethics very far. There was a price to pay for following through with a calculated flirtation, a very heavy price she was not willing to pay again.

But fantasies didn’t cost anything, she thought with a sigh. Fantasy was always better than the reality anyway.

“Pull around to the main drag,” she ordered as he got behind the wheel. “There’s a stationer, where they might sell art supplies. If not, I can make do with plain paper and a pencil. While I shop for that, you can call for somebody to pick up my vehicle and store it.”

He did precisely as she instructed, which Marie took as a sign that he was prudent. She didn’t, however, mistake it for submission on his part. He still thought he was running this show and she would let him think it. For now.

She worked best on her own and resented the fact that she needed him. She didn’t like needing anyone for anything. Surviving on her own was a way of life for her. Lonely at times, but that was no excuse for abandoning what worked best. But partnering on this mission was necessary.

Grant cast sideways glances at the sketchbook as he drove. She was damn good. “We have another artist on the team, Renee Alexander. You’ll like her.”

“Assuming I ever meet her. Is this all she does?”

“No,” he said. “She’s an agent.”

“That’s not what I meant. Can she do what you said you could do? You know, psychic stuff?”

“Some.” He didn’t expound on it, since Marie wasn’t on board with the team yet. He’d probably volunteered more than he ought to already.

She got the message and didn’t ask anything else about it. Grant liked that she sensed when to drop things without being told.

Her drawing looked almost finished when he pulled off the autobahn an hour later to fill the gas tank and get some food. She hadn’t eaten a decent meal yet and it was already three o’clock.

“You must be starved,” he commented. “What would you like?”

“Fast food. Hamburger,” she muttered, still intent on her drawing.

“C’mon. That stuff will kill you. Let’s get a schnitzel.”

“Oh, yeah, like that will keep your arteries clear. Humor me and find some Golden Arches, will you? And a beer. I want beer and a burger.” She rubbed the picture with one finger, smudging in a shadow. “Make that two. Two burgers. One beer, unless you’re driving all the way. Then I’ll have two of each.”

Grant clicked his tongue, exasperated. “How do you keep that figure?”

“I only indulge when I’ve been kidnapped,” she said with a smile that looked forced. “Buy me some comfort?”

He bought her some comfort, watching her with no little fascination as she consumed two quarter-pounders with cheese, fries with mayonnaise and two cups of draft.

“Isn’t it wild that you can buy beer everywhere? Even here?” she asked.

“I see you’re still going through culture shock. Do you even like beer?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Unfortunately, I do. German beer anyway.”

“Apple pie?” he asked, nudging one toward her side of the table and wondering just how much she could hold in that tiny frame before exploding.

She took the pie and simply looked at the cardboard container longingly. “Maybe later.”

“Maybe? No maybe about it, you eat like a lumberjack,” he said with a laugh.

“I haven’t had a hamburger or pie since I was a kid,” she admitted. “I had to give ’em up.” She shook her head as if she couldn’t believe what she’d just eaten. Her gaze met his. “Aren’t you going to ask me why?”

“Okay, why?”

“I was a fat kid.” Her blue eyes widened in that engaging way she had, and she nodded for emphasis. “Really, really fat.”

And now she was really, really tipsy. “Yeah? How long since you had beer?”

“Month or so. I love the taste of it but don’t indulge a lot. I’m not much of a drinker.”

Obviously. Her eyelids were drooping.

The stress was catching up with her, adrenalin crashing right on top of those two little cups of beer. “I think you need a nap. Let’s go and you can sleep on the way.”

“Wait! You have to get the picture to Interpol!”

“Is it finished? Let’s have a look.” He pulled the sketchbook to his side of the table and opened the cover.

The profile was detailed, right down to the mole near the eye and stubble on the jaw and neck. Off in one corner was a man’s left hand with a scar delineated on the wrist. “Man, it’s so realistic! You are good.”

“Photographic. That’s what I do best,” she replied.

He pulled out his cell phone, caught the images on his screen, then e-mailed them along with a short message to Mercier, who would do the proper distribution. “There. All done.”

Grant smoothed the page down with his hand and almost gasped. The energy radiating from the drawing virtually leaped up his arm. Rage. Determination. And suppressed fear.

Damn. He couldn’t let her go into this with that much emotion. It would wreck the whole mission, not to mention what it might do to her if she ever actually confronted her captor. But now was not the time to discuss it.

She wouldn’t voluntarily rescue herself, not easily anyway. Maybe he could somehow make her see reason before they reached Holland.

He led her to the car and settled her in the backseat, stuffing his folded jacket under her head as a pillow.

Grant had noticed how she shied away from him, but now she accepted his help easily enough. Either she trusted him a bit more or the beer had lowered her defenses. Any woman who had undergone all that she had in the last twenty-four hours probably couldn’t stand any man getting too close. From now on, he’d keep contact to a minimum whenever possible.

A shame, he thought, as his fingers brushed against her braid. She needed hugging in the worst way and didn’t even know it.

“Thanks,” she mumbled, cradling her face in one hand and closing her eyes.

“Fat little kid, huh?” he muttered to himself as he closed the door and went around to the driver’s side and got in. “You sure fixed that problem.”

She was as slender as she could be without looking skinny now, and he suspected the curves she did have were mostly muscle. No doubt she worked out regularly. Excellent shape. His admiration for her kicked up another notch now that he knew she wasn’t just born with lucky genes.

“I was skinny,” he said, his voice hushed in pretend conversation with his sleeping passenger. “Tall and a beanpole. Geeky, to boot. I know what it takes to shape up and how miserable it can be doing it. Good for you, babe.”

He thought he heard a sleepy chuckle from the backseat but decided he must have imagined it. She was dead to the world back there.

Grant smiled to himself, trying to picture Marie as a roly-poly adolescent. All he could see in his mind were those remarkably expressive delft-blue eyes, bright with enthusiasm, intelligence and all-consuming energy.

He hated to disappoint her by sending her home. Maybe Mercier would know what to do with her, because he sure as hell didn’t.

They were already halfway to Holland from Munich, and Frankfurt was out of the way. He’d take her on to Amsterdam and put her on a plane. Then he could get down to business with no distractions.

Marie sensed that in her temporarily vulnerable state she’d given away too much about herself in her effort to befriend Tyndal. He had identified with her childhood problem. She’d figured he would do that. Didn’t all kids have socialization problems of one kind or another? But she had laid it out all wrong, and now he probably saw her as defensive, compensatory and a little out of control. He would dump her if she gave him the chance.

She wasn’t drunk on two beers—not by a long stretch—but the beer had loosened her up while she was winding down from the high of all the excitement and exhaustion.

No use regretting her dietary lapse or trying to get too close to him too soon. She made it a point never to second-guess her decisions or actions. Counterproductive.

Doing something was almost always better than doing nothing at all. Her policy was to go for broke, roll with the consequences, good or bad, and try to make them work for her. Right now she needed sleep, but she couldn’t afford to let this slide.

With that in mind, she sat up and leaned on the back of the front seat. “Why do you think he let me get away? I’d like your take on it.”

“You seriously think he let you?” Tyndal glanced at her in the rearview mirror.

“It didn’t occur to me at the time, but in retrospect, it seems he made it pretty easy. He was speaking Dutch and talking pretty loudly. Could be that he was trying to establish that the abductions are not terrorist acts but simple kidnappings. As a witness who got away, I could send the investigation in a different direction. That would explain why he gave me the opportunity to run.”

“Could be. But I think the abductions are terrorist acts. The earmarks are there. American victims from American embassies and consulates, huge ransoms.”

He glanced up at her again, meeting her eyes in the rearview mirror. “Think about this: He didn’t know you were a trained agent. And he couldn’t have known how long that drug would affect you or precisely how soon you’d be able to overhear him. How would he know you’d even recognize Dutch when you heard it?”

Marie considered that. “Then why did he make it so easy for me to get away?”

“It would not have been easy for most people. If you were the little clerk he thought you were, you’d probably still be there. Now why don’t you get some rest? You’ve got to be wiped out.”

She sighed. “Okay, but I’m fine, just so you know. You really think he’s gone to Holland?”

“Yes. Amsterdam.”

“Explain. The vibe you picked up from that piece of paper?”

“Something like that. Don’t want to bore you with details you wouldn’t believe anyway.”

He took a deep breath and released it, firming his hands on the steering wheel as he looked in the rearview mirror again. “You need to go home, Marie. It’s the best thing all around, for you and for the investigation.”

“I don’t think you want me to work this by myself.”

“I don’t want you to work this at all. You’d like to kill him, Marie. Don’t deny it.”

Well, he had her there. “Wouldn’t you?” she asked, sincerely curious. “The bastard grabbed me in my own kitchen, drugged me and tied me up like an express package! Of course I’d like to get back at him in the worst way. But I won’t go in like Rambo and kill him and any chance of finding out why he did it or who’s running the show.” She pouted for a second. “Give me a little credit for control.”