Secret Defender

Of course, she’d been hospitalized, banged and broken after the boating accident, but alive. She’d been nineteen, a sophomore at Yale, ready to take on the world, firmly planted in the invincibility of youth. With a jolt, her life had been turned upside down, and she’d ruthlessly learned that no amount of money or privilege could make her immune from pain and suffering.

“What’s wrong now?”

She opened her eyes. He stood right in front of her, thankfully in jeans, zipped but not snapped, his chest still bare.

“Nothing,” she muttered, closing her eyes again, wishing he’d just go away. Leave her alone for the next week. Assuming he really would let her go then. She sniffed and curled into a tighter ball.

“Sydney?”

She tucked her chin lower.

“Sydney.” His voice was closer, and she slowly, cautiously opened her eyes.

He had crouched beside her, at eye level, and she reflexively drew back. His sharp intake of breath made her shrink back as far as her bound hand would let her.

“Look, Sydney, I’m not trying to frighten you.” His expression gentled. “And I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You already have,” she said in a small voice that made him flinch.

Abruptly, he stood. “We’ll eat in about twenty minutes.”

She watched him walk back to the bathroom, her curiosity growing. It hadn’t been her imagination. He’d actually flinched. Odd. Maybe he was new at this kidnapping business. Maybe he was having second thoughts about his involvement. Maybe she could…

“Luke?”

He turned around and met her eyes with a hardness that wasn’t there a minute ago.

“Never mind.”

He said nothing, his gaze staying on her a moment longer, and then he disappeared into the bathroom.

Sydney relaxed against the pillows, her brain and body drained of all energy. What the hell was she going to do? Wait around and hope he didn’t kill her? Worse, stay wrapped in the false sense of security that he wouldn’t?

Deep down, her every instinct told her this man wouldn’t harm her. The belief belied all reason. Was that what her therapist would call denial?

She hadn’t seen Rhonda for nearly six months. The psychiatrist had been her lifeline after Syd’s parents’ death. And then, after the pain of loss eased, she became more of a friend, a confidante. The mother Sydney no longer had.

Willard was great. He’d always been there for her. But he was very much like her father. Concerned with her financial security, with both enjoying and exploiting the Wainwright name. No surprise. They’d been college fraternity brothers, both born into wealth with a talent for compounding their money.

Dr. Rhonda Levine reminded Sydney of her mother, a simple country girl, the daughter of a farmer, who’d caught Harrison Wainwright’s eye. Like Sydney’s mother, Rhonda had been raised in a middle-class family and understood the struggles of the working class. She’d put herself through school, established her own successful practice and, taking up where Sydney’s mother had left off, coached Sydney into self-reliance.

“I have to make a phone call.”

At the sound of Luke’s voice, she looked up. He’d pulled on a worn black T-shirt that molded to every muscle in his chest and arms, and showed off his slim waist. But she was more interested in the cell phone he had in his hand.

As if reading her mind, one side of his mouth lifted and he said, “You need the code in order to use it.”

“You get an A for efficiency.”

Ignoring her sarcasm, he ran a hand through his still damp hair. “I’ll be right outside the door so give that scheming brain of yours a rest.”

“Then it wouldn’t matter if you untied me.”

He snorted and left.

She kept perfectly still, trying to listen, but all she heard was the creak of the porch floorboards. Followed by several minutes of silence. Which didn’t necessarily mean anything. He could be sitting on the steps.

She twisted around to scope out the window and saw him standing near the car, watching her. He continued to talk into the cell phone. Probably reporting in to someone. His partner? Or was Luke just a hired hand? He didn’t strike her as a man who’d be content as someone’s flunky.

The position was awkward and uncomfortable, and she slumped back against the pillows. Let him stare at her all he wanted. She didn’t care. For now. He had to sleep sometime.

The door opened, startling her, and she raised herself on one elbow to watch him enter the cabin and head straight into the small galley kitchen.

“Who’d you call?”

Over his shoulder, he gave her an amused look.

“Your partner?”

Shaking his head, he got something out of the refrigerator. “You’re something else.”

“Your employer?”

“Enough.” Impatience darkened his face.

“Pizza delivery?” she asked quietly, rubbing her bound wrist.

“Don’t you ever shut up?” He came around the counter toward her.

She dug her heels into the mattress and scrambled back against the wall. And then she saw that he had a plate in his hand. He stopped to pick up a tray and brought both to her.

“Don’t be so jumpy.” He tried to hide a smile. The bastard.

She straightened into a sitting position and peered at the plate. Some kind of sandwich made with whole wheat bread and baby gherkins that were her favorite.

“Here.” He set the tray down in front of her. “What do you want to drink?”

“Why can’t I sit at the table?”

“You have a choice of water, Coke or orange juice.”

“Water, please.” She stared down at the tray, avoiding his eyes. “I’d really like to eat at the table.”

He stayed silent for so long that she finally looked up. He studied her, his brows slightly furrowed, as if considering her request.

“It’s not as if I can escape.” She gave him her best smile. “You’re right here, and I couldn’t get far on foot, anyway.”

Snickering, he shook his head as he went to the refrigerator and got out a bottle of Evian. Her hope faltered and then resurfaced when he set the water on the table.