Shielding His Christmas Witness. Laura Scott
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Miles answered in a raspy voice.
“Who is this?”
“Marc. I need a favor.”
As if by magic the sleepiness in his brother’s voice vanished. “What’s going on? Why are you calling me from an unknown number?”
“That’s the favor,” he said, avoiding a direct answer. “I need two new untraceable phones. Are you in the middle of something? Can you get them to me ASAP?”
“That depends on where you are,” Miles said. “Is this related to your serial bank-robbery case?”
“Yeah. The safe house where I stashed my witness has been compromised. I don’t want to call the Feds or the locals for help. Not until I have a better understanding as to what’s going on.”
Miles was quiet for a long moment. “That’s not good,” he finally said. “Okay. Prepaid phones, check. Anything else?”
He knew his brother would come through for him. “Not at the moment, but I’ll let you know if that changes.”
“Where are you?”
“Ravenswood Motel. It’s off Highway WW—on the right. You can’t miss it.”
“Okay, but it will take me some time to get there and I have to wait for the stores to open.”
“Understood. Thanks, I owe you.”
“Yeah, and don’t think I won’t collect,” Miles shot back. “Later, bro.”
Marc hung up the phone then glanced up in time to see Kari standing in the opening between the connecting doors. He was surprised to see her up and moving around on her injured ankle.
“Who was that?” she demanded.
“My brother.” Marc slowly rose to his feet. “How’s the ankle?”
“Don’t try to change the subject,” she said, narrowing her gaze. “Why are you calling your family? I thought we were supposed to stay off the grid.”
“We are. Relax. My brother would never betray me.”
“That doesn’t necessarily make me feel better.”
The edge of desperation in her tone made him frown. “You’re my witness,” he pointed out. “Of course Miles would protect you, too.”
“Really? I’m not so sure.” Sarcasm didn’t seem to be her style, but she appeared to be on a roll. “First Vince disappears without a trace, taking every cent out of our joint account, then I get robbed while working at the bank, and then end up running away from a gunman...”
Whoa, wait a minute. He backtracked a bit. “Vince stole money from you?”
Her eyes widened as if realizing what she’d said. With an awkward turn while leaning heavily on the wall, she disappeared inside her room, shutting and locking the connecting door behind her with a loud click.
Marc stared at the closed door, his thoughts whirling. Maybe the reason he hadn’t been able to find Vince Ackerman was because the guy didn’t really exist. His name, his entire identity, was likely fake.
A chill snaked down his spine.
Was Vince just another con man, out to score off naive women? Or was it possible Vince was involved in something more sinister?
Bracing her arm against the wall, Kari hopped on one foot over to the bed. When she’d gotten up earlier to use the bathroom, she’d heard voices. Seeing Marc on the phone had made her see red.
Now that the initial flash of anger had passed, she could admit that she’d overreacted. It was probably better that he’d called his brother, rather than anyone within the police department or FBI. He was right about one thing—his brother would likely do whatever was necessary to help them out.
If only she’d managed to control her temper. The slip she’d made revealing how Vince had taken all their money, most of which had been hers, anyway, hadn’t gone unnoticed.
Then again, she doubted that there was much that passed by Agent Marc Callahan. For some odd reason, knowing he had family, at least one brother, made him seem more human.
Plopping back down on the bed, she lifted her injured ankle and set it gently on the pillows. The ice inside the towel had melted, but she wasn’t in the mood to ask Marc for more.
Later, she’d find the energy to get up and get more ice herself.
There was nothing worse than feeling helpless, than being at someone else’s mercy. But that was the situation she was in, at least for now.
She managed to fall asleep, despite the throbbing in her ankle. The next time she opened her eyes, the sun was shining brightly through the narrow opening between the curtains hanging over the window. Gingerly taking her leg off the pillows, she rolled onto her side and sat up, pushing her dark hair away from her face.
Gathering every ounce of strength, she took another hopping trip to the bathroom, making use of the shower this time. When she emerged fifteen minutes later, she felt better.
Hungry.
She limped over to the bed, threading her fingers through her damp hair, wondering if she should open the connecting door and wave the white flag of truce. There was no reason to be at odds with the man protecting her. Especially considering they would likely be in close proximity for the next five days.
A knock on the door startled her. Not the connecting door, but the main motel-room door. Before she could hobble over to open it, she heard the lock disengage. The door opened, revealing Marc holding a tray of takeout food.
The enticing scent of bacon, eggs and coffee made her mouth water.
“Good morning,” he greeted her cautiously, as if trying to gauge her mood. “I thought you might be ready for breakfast.”
“I am,” she agreed with a tentative smile. “Thanks.”
Marc set the tray down on the table and then pulled a white drug-store bag out from beneath his arm. “I bought a bottle of prenatal vitamins as well as some ibuprofen for your ankle.”
“I’ll take the vitamins,” she said, making her way over to the table. “But nothing else.”
He opened his mouth as if to argue, but then must have decided against it. “Okay. What about coffee?”
“Decaf,” she said with a sigh. She really, really missed regular coffee.
Marc nodded, then crossed over to the small coffee pot located on the dresser to prepare a cup of decaf. Her stomach was rumbling, but she waited for him to return to the table before bowing her head in prayer.
She thanked God for keeping her safe and for the food they were about to eat. She was still new at this prayer stuff, and tried not to fidget beneath Marc’s intense gaze.
He waited until she’d opened her disposable container before digging in to his. She unwrapped her plastic silverware and then dug in to her scrambled eggs.
“Delicious,” she murmured between bites.
A tiny corner of his mouth lifted in what she suspected was his version of a smile. “I’m glad you like it. I wasn’t sure what you preferred, so I got a little of everything.”
“I love all breakfast foods,” she confessed, nibbling on a slice of toast. “Especially now that I’m not having very much morning sickness.”
Instantly, any hint of a smile vanished. “Listen, I think we need to talk about your ex-boyfriend, Vince Ackerman.”
Her eggs suddenly tasted like papier-mâché. “Why?”
“I