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  Mitch wondered what Alaina had told Jonah about his father. He wondered how she justified keeping the boy from the man who so badly wanted to know him. He wondered how she slept at night knowing what she had denied Jonah by taking him from his father, where he would have had anything he wanted, the best of everything, not to mention a good male role model.

  The bathroom door opened, snapping him out of his thoughts.

  Alaina walked out in the jeans and T-shirt he'd picked up for her. The jeans hugged her slim curves a little too well, and the white T-shirt, with its short sleeves, showed off the toned muscles in her arms. She looked too young to be the mother of a teenager, too vulnerable to be a scheming bitch.

  Who was he kidding? Looks had nothing to do with a person's capacity for deception. He gestured toward the chair that went with the desk. "Sit."

  She didn't move. Instead, she folded her arms across her chest, a renewed determination in her eyes. "Let's cut the civilized bullshit. You look like the kind of man who has a hard time with it. What did Layton hire you to do?"

  Mitch wanted to tell her that it'd take more than a tough attitude to convince him that she wasn't quaking on the inside. Her eyes were far too readable. "I think you've forgotten who's in charge here," he said.

  "You got a gun in your pocket you're going to aim at my head until I beg for mercy?"

  Deliberately, he slid his hand back to his hip, shifting his jacket enough for her to see the holster under his arm. Her gaze settled on the gun. Then, as those haunting eyes slowly lifted to meet his, he realized that she'd played him. She hadn't known whether he was armed, and now she did. Annoyed that she had manipulated him so easily, he snapped, "Don't worry, I don't point guns at unarmed women."

  She smirked. "I bet you don't kick puppies either."

  He jerked the chair out from the desk. "I prefer kittens. Sit."

  She stayed put. "You're wasting your time. Jonah knows what to do. In fact, he's probably already long gone."

  "Unless the people who shot your friend have him." He tried to enjoy the way the color drained out of her face, but he couldn't.

  "Grant was shot?"

  He nodded.

  "How bad?"

  He could see she held her breath in dread. "He's expected to recover," he said. "His kid got roughed up, too. Pistol-whipped."

  "Oh, God," she said, closing her eyes.

  He waited until she opened them again, ignored the sick horror in them. "It wasn't a robbery," he said. "What was it?"

  "I don't know."

  "I think you do. You were in an awfully big hurry when you left work. You obviously thought something bad had happened at the Maxwells even before you saw all the blood."

  "The police cars --"

  "And when you flew out of work?"

  She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin. "I don't have to explain anything to you."

  "Maybe you'd prefer to explain it to the cops or the feds. Because we can go see them at any time."

  She pressed her lips together, as if suppressing a frustrated scream. "Layton found out where we are, and he sent someone to collect Jonah. Grant probably resisted --" She broke off, swallowed hard.

  "I'm afraid there's a gaping hole in that theory." Mitch savored how still she went, enjoyed that moment of power, enjoyed knowing he could so easily turn her world upside down. Enjoyed it even as he wondered why it should matter. She was nothing to him. A job. "Layton Keller doesn't know where you are," he said.

  "Of course, he does. You said he hired you to find us, and you did."

  He didn't respond, watching all the possibilities flit through her eyes, impressed by how quickly she drew the right conclusion.

  Confusion created a crease between her brows. "I don't understand," she said. "Why haven't you told him where we are?"

  He didn't say that the situation had made him uneasy, that he'd been trying to work out some inconsistencies before calling Keller. Instead, he shrugged. "Maybe I'm milking the job."

  When she just stared at him as if she thought he was nuts, he said, "My point is that he couldn't have been involved with your friends getting hurt because he doesn't even know about them. Someone else did that job."

  "Well, the FBI knows where I am. He probably has a source among the feds."

  "Wait a minute," he said. "The FBI?"

  "You wanted to know why I bailed out of work so fast. That's why. Two agents were there asking for me."

  "Why?"

  "What do you mean why? They found me. Just like you did."

  He was silent a moment, puzzling it through. Keller had told him the feds weren't after Alaina. So why were they asking for her at the newspaper? It had to have been about something unrelated. Yet, the coincidence seemed too much.

  "Let me guess," Alaina said, impatient. "Now you're thinking Layton can't possibly have a mole in the FBI. Do you think he got where he is today without having connections in high places like the federal government? Without having multiple backup plans? It's highly unlikely that you're his only hired thug."

  Irritation at the job description flared, but he shoved it down. "It doesn't matter. What's going to happen here --"

  She charged him. Her body hit him hard, and he dropped back against the dresser, shocked by the attack. She may have been small, but she was fast and strong and already her hand was inside his jacket, groping for the gun. Grabbing her wrist before she could jerk the weapon out, he twisted until, gasping, she went down on her knees in front of him.

  Thinking he had her subdued, he loosened his grip. She instantly surged up, knocking the top of her head under his chin. As his head snapped back, lights bursting before his eyes, she nailed him in the gut with her elbow. His breath left him in a pained woosh, and before he could drag in air, she whirled and brought the heel of her hand down on the bridge of his nose.

  The pain was red. As was the blood that spurted out of his nose. His rage was black.

  She was only halfway to the door when he mowed her down. On her stomach under him, she immediately started to squirm. He put an end to that by planting his weight on the middle of her back, tangling his legs with hers and pinning her shoulders to the floor. Immobilized, she went limp under him, her breath sawing in and out.

  "No more Mr. Nice Guy," he growled, shifting so he could jerk her arms back to snap the cuffs on her.

  She cried out at the rough treatment, but he ignored her as he pushed himself to his feet and swiped his hand under his bleeding nose. He couldn't tell if it was broken, but it throbbed in time with the frantic race of his pulse. She'd almost had him. He outweighed her by an easy seventy pounds. He'd had extensive FBI training, had held his own in many a bar fight in his younger days, and this slight woman had very nearly bested him.

  He glared down at her. "Be glad I'm a reasonable man, because anyone else would be kicking your ass right now."

  She rolled onto her side, still out of breath. "You're not his only detective."

  Turning his back, he stalked into the bathroom for a towel. His head was pounding now, too. His head, and his pride. He told himself that he'd held back because she was a woman. A man he would have dropped with one punch. But the truth was, he hadn't really held back. And that made him feel like an asshole. She'd almost made him lose control. When she'd hit him, he'd wanted to hit back. He'd wanted to hurt her, to make her pay. Where had that come from?

  Bracing his hands on the edge of the sink, he met his own eyes in the mirror. She's a job. None of this is personal. Do your job and go home.

  He heard her voice but not what she said. "I don't want to hear it," he replied, splashing water on his face.

  He was drying his face on a white towel, streaking it with blood, when he walked out of the bathroom. She was as he'd left her, on her side, her hands chained behind her back. Her flushed face was damp with sweat, her dark hair falling into her eyes. He could see why Layton Keller had gone for her. She was easily the most striking woman he had ever seen.

  He knew,
too, that she was far stronger than she looked.

  She still hadn't completely caught her breath, and the cords in her neck stood out in sharp relief. With a hitch in his stomach, he remembered her bruised shoulder. The pain around that damaged joint must have been blinding when he'd cuffed her so roughly.

  There was no choice, he told himself. She'd given him no choice.

  Resting the side of her head on the floor, Alaina wet her lips, her gaze never leaving his face. "He probably had someone follow you while you were following me."

  Mitch leaned against the dresser, draping the towel around his neck. "And why would he do that?"

  "If he suspected you were milking the job --"

  "I wasn't."

  "Then why haven't you told him you found me?"

  He let the question hang as he crossed his ankles and tried to puzzle a way to get her to tell him where to find Jonah. It occurred to him that she may have been a kidnapper and a liar -- even a killer -- but she was also a mother desperate to ensure that her only child was safe.

  "Jonah is out there," he said. "Alone and scared. You're just going to leave him like that?"

  Some of the tension left her body, like hope draining away. "He knows what to do."

  "It's abandonment."

  "You obviously don't have any children."

  He stiffened. "My status as a father has nothing to do with this."

  "If you had a child, you would know that I will do anything to keep my son safe."

  He knelt beside her. He didn't know whether he should feel satisfaction at the way her eyes widened and she pressed back, or shame. "Explain to me how stealing that boy from his father kept him safe," he said.

  She looked away from him, up at the ceiling. "I don't have to explain it to you."

  "No, but I suppose eventually you'll have to explain it to a judge, won't you?"

  Her gaze shifted to him, and her eyes shimmered. "I didn't have a choice. Layton convinced a judge that I would be an unfit mother. You watched Jonah and me for three weeks. Do I look like an unfit mother to you?"

  He straightened, his knees cracking. "I have no way of knowing what kind of mother you were fourteen years ago, so that's not an issue."

  "They took my child away. I was going to be allowed supervised visits every two weeks. They weren't even going to let me be alone with my son. He was my life. My everything. What would you have done?"

  "This isn't about me." He strode into the bathroom, where he rinsed the towel and applied its cold wetness to his throbbing nose.

  "It's at least partially about you," she said from the other room. "Layton is using you to do his dirty work. He's smooth and charming on the surface, but underneath, he's mean and cunning. You may think you know him, but you don't. Not like I do."

  Leaving the bathroom, he stared down at her. "And I suppose you're the only one who knows the true Layton Keller."

  "One other person knows."

  That surprised him, and he lowered the towel. "Who?"

  "My mother."

  His surprise turned to irritation. "How convenient that the only person who can corroborate your claims is dead."

  Her lips parted in shock, the angry color in her cheeks fading. "What?"

  It struck him that she hadn't known, and he regretted his insensitive tone. Before he could say anything, she asked, "When?"

  He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to remember the notes Julia had given him. "Five years ago. Car accident in Grand Junction, Colorado."

  "Oh my God," she said, her lips barely moving as her eyes slid closed. "He killed her."

  His annoyance returned, along with the conviction that she would stop at nothing to try to turn him against Layton Keller. "Not quite. Her car slid off the road and down an embankment."

  She didn't seem to hear him as tears rolled back into her hair. "She found me, and he showed up. She saw him ... oh, God. He killed her to keep her quiet."

  Unnerved by the emotion, and even more by the allegation, he said, "We don't have time for this. Tell me where to find Jonah."

  She looked at him, the grief unmistakable in her gaze. "Forget it."

  "All right," he said. "Get up."

  He reached down to pull her up, bracing her shoulders when she stumbled against him. A small moan escaped through her clenched teeth as he eased her onto the edge of the nearest bed. She sat gingerly, her hair hiding her face. She was obviously hurting. Inside and out.

  Guilt at how he might have further injured her slithered through him. Taking out the key, he released the cuffs and waited patiently while she rubbed her wrists and rotated her sore shoulder, her gaze quizzical on his. Pointing at the chair in front of the desk, he held up the cuffs. "One end goes around your wrist, the other attaches to the furniture."

  "You don't have to --"

  "It's not up for debate. Park it here." He pointed at the chair. "Now."

  Surprisingly, she obeyed, sitting silently as he secured her left wrist to the leg of the desk. "I'm going out," he said. "I'll be gone for fifteen minutes, maybe less. That means that if you start to scream for help, I'll be back before the cops or anyone else gets here. Got it?"

  She nodded.

  Chapter 8

  As soon as he slammed the door behind him, Alaina reached down, stifling the groan that threatened as her abused shoulder and ribs protested. Lifting the corner of the desk so that the leg she was handcuffed to was suspended an inch off the floor, she shook her cuffed wrist until the manacle dropped free of the leg.

  She didn't waste time marveling at how easy it had been. She was too busy thinking about what to do next. She assumed that Jonah had escaped the people who had shot Grant. Mitch Kane considered him missing, which meant that Layton's people couldn't have him, otherwise Mitch would know. So that had to mean that Jonah had indeed gotten away. All she had to do was find him before Mitch or any of Layton's other henchmen did.

  Seizing the phone, she dialed Jonah's cellphone number. An automated voice said, "The party you are trying to reach is unavailable at this time."

  Breaking the connection, she tried their home phone. By the fifth ring, the answering machine hadn't picked up, and she couldn't get a response to the numbers she punched in to check for messages. That meant the device had been turned off or wasn't working.

  She had to make a decision, and she forced herself to be calm, rational. Unemotional.

  If Jonah were in crisis mode, like he should be, he wouldn't be at their apartment waiting for her. But if by some fluke he didn't know that all hell had broken loose, he could be there, wondering where she was. It was possible, too, that seeing his friends get hurt had frightened him so much that he had gone into hiding rather than proceeding with the plans they had made over the years. In fact, the past few years, he hadn't really taken the plans seriously anymore. She couldn't even be sure that he had listened the last time she had gone over them with him.

  Going to their apartment could waste precious time. But it was also the most likely place Mitch would go upon finding her missing. And if Jonah were there, Mitch would get to him first, and that absolutely could not happen.

  Alaina grabbed the denim shirt hanging on the back of the desk chair and shrugged into it, tucking the dangling handcuff into the sleeve. Whipping open a desk drawer, she dug out the hotel information to decipher where she was and where to find the closest bus stop or train station.

  Finally, luck was on her side: A bus stop was only two blocks away.

  On her way out the door, she spotted the loose change on the desk and stopped. Her predicament hammered home. She'd dropped her purse when she'd been hit by the car and had not seen it since. She had no ID. No money. No credit cards. No checkbook.

  Even if she hadn't decided to try to catch Jonah at home first, she had to go there anyway to retrieve the locked firebox stashed at the back of her closet for exactly this instance. That box held the new identities that she'd bought for them just after they'd arrived in Chicago, when she'd made preparat
ions for the next time they'd have to run. She'd expected it to be sooner than this.

  Scooping the change into her cupped hand, she pocketed it. She'd need it to pay for the bus and train ride to her car. Luckily, she had had to double park her Honda for work that morning and had left her keys with a garage attendant. She didn't anticipate having any problem getting them back without the ticket because she parked there every day, and the attendants knew her.

  Outside in the cold drizzle, she walked as fast as she could for the first block, constantly scanning for Mitch and praying that wherever he had gone hadn't taken him in the direction she was headed. The wind was sharp, and she huddled against it, ignoring the throb in her shoulder, the ache in her chest.

  She prayed that Jonah was okay, that he hadn't seen what had been done to Grant and Lucas or hadn't been injured himself. Remembering the blood that Mitch said had been Lucas' made her head spin. It so easily could have been Jonah's blood. She shoved the memory away, turning her face into the rain to clear her head.

  Even so, guilt was a balled fist in her stomach. The Maxwells had gotten hurt because of her. She had tried to cut herself off from others, to isolate herself and, with the exception of Rachel, she had succeeded. But she couldn't have asked the same of Jonah. The boy had to have friends. How could she have possibly denied him friends?

  And, really, she hadn't thought any of them, even Rachel, were in direct danger from Layton. He had never indicated that he wanted to harm anyone close to her. One of his people had found her once, and that had had a tragic outcome, but not because of any orders that came from Layton. Yes, it was true that she feared him. She had good reason to fear him. But her main objective the past fourteen years had not been to run for her life. It had been to keep from being found, because if she was found, she would lose Jonah.