She hesitated, then added, “Maybe I could just take a quick shower while we’re there?” She offered him a wry little smile and ran a hand through her hair. “I hate to stay this way.”
He looked sympathetic. “Sure. That should be all right.”
Piece of cake. Acting ability intact! Satisfied, she snapped on her seat belt, leaned against the window and settled in to take a nap on the way to the hospital.
Grant took a good, long look at her for the first time as she exited the exam room. It seemed before he’d only taken in bits and pieces of her at the time—dirty face, big round china-blue eyes, messy hair, cut-up feet and a milk-white length of exposed leg.
Now she stood there, eyeing him with a mixture of mistrust and gratitude that defied description. He didn’t think he’d ever seen a woman combine those two expressions while looking at him.
She looked like a little warrior queen, battered but undefeated, absolutely driven to thrive and to seek retribution. That determination would fade, he knew. As soon as the adrenalin rush subsided, and it would, she’d probably collapse in tears and be perfectly willing to get as far away from Germany as was humanly possible.
But right now she was a picture to behold, so tiny in his oversize sweats and socks, one hand on her hip while the other impatiently raked the tousled blond curls back off her brow.
For a minute he saw Betty Schonrock, the first girl he’d ever loved. Beauclair had that same challenging lift of the chin. Aside from both having blond hair and small frames, the resemblance ended there. She wasn’t Betty, but seeing Beauclair safe and knowing he’d had a hand in it caused a little of the weight to lift off his chest.
He had been head over heels for Betty, who’d been almost four years older, a senior at Frankfurt American High School when he was a lowly freshman. She had only spoken to him a few times, smiled at him now and then and rarely gave him a second look, but he’d loved her anyway.
Suddenly she had disappeared without a trace. Everyone thought she was a runaway and the investigation hadn’t lasted even a week. Grant had never believed that Betty, a popular cheerleader and straight-A student about to graduate, would simply take off without a word and leave her charmed life behind. He was convinced she’d been abducted, but no one would listen to a thirteen year old who hadn’t even known her that well.
His limited psychometric ability had failed him then, and so had his nearly nonexistent power of persuasion. But he had found this girl in time, and she was safe now. Wherever you are, Betty, this one’s for you. He felt marginally better.
“How did it go?” he asked Beauclair. Probably not the most tactful question considering she’d just undergone an examination for possible rape, but he needed to know.
“No damage. I’m okay,” she said, defenses up like a nearly visible force field.
He doubted she was anywhere near okay but nodded his approval anyway. “Great, I’m glad to hear it. I guess we can go, then.”
Grant knew he had to debrief her, ask for all the details of her abduction and captivity and get all he could on the kidnapper before sending her home. But he’d have to do that somewhere else and later, when she’d calmed down a little. Maybe after her meltdown.
Who knew when that would happen? Soon, he expected. He knew from experience that the higher the adrenalin level, the harder one fell. The inquisition could wait awhile.
He hated debriefing. Extraction of a hostage or victim was his thing; the rest of the job package, a necessary evil.
Grant had to smile. Marie Beauclair hadn’t waited for a rescue. Spunky little devil had really saved herself. If he hadn’t been there, poised to make entry when he saw her coming out of that window, she’d probably have found help somewhere in the village and gotten back to Munich on her own.
Unless she’d been caught in the back alleys or on a deserted street. The thought sent a chill up his spine. At least he’d quickly gotten her away from the scene, as ordered.
That probably accounted for the smidgeon of thankfulness he saw in her eyes. The mistrust—he couldn’t figure it, unless she now feared men in general. Not that unusual, he supposed, given what she’d just been through.
He should reassure her that he was only there to take care of her and keep her safe. “You’ll be all right now,” he said, reaching out to take her arm.
She moved back before he could touch her. “I know. And I don’t need babying, so knock it off.”
“Your feet…” he reminded her.
“My feet are just fine. If I fall down, you can pick me up, okay?”
“Okay,” he agreed with a sigh, “Miss Independent.”
She shot him a glare that would curdle milk and stalked out the doors ahead of him. Testy little thing, but he chalked that up to her ordeal and didn’t blame her a bit.
That made him wonder what she was like before. Soft as silk, he’d bet. He knew her type. He could almost picture her attending consulate functions in a slinky little black dress, that cloud of hair done up on top of her head, natural-looking makeup that took hours to apply. And killer stilettos on those pretty little feet.
He glanced at her hands. She had the badly chipped remnants of a French manicure, and her wrists looked raw. His lips tightened in anger at the bastard who’d tied her up and scared her to death.
“Don’t be afraid he’ll find you,” Grant told her. “We’ll see that you’re safe.”
She gave a short cough of disbelief as she stopped in her tracks and narrowed those wide blue eyes. “He damn well better be afraid I’ll find him!”
Grant shook his head and suppressed a smile. “Get in the car, tiger.”
He couldn’t help feeling sorry for Marie. She’d had a horrible experience, and he thought the exam at the hospital hadn’t been any fun, either. Even though she hadn’t been raped, he knew how violated she felt.
He had believed her determined bravado was beginning to fade when she’d gotten a bit teary and pleaded with him to go by her apartment. He was afraid just being where she was abducted would set her off, but she seemed to need that ring she mentioned. Maybe that symbolized some small victory over the kidnapper, that he hadn’t found it or taken it from her.
When they arrived in Munich, Marie gave Grant directions to her apartment, a second-floor walk-up in a German neighborhood near the consulate.
They stopped at the super’s flat and got a key. The old man was inordinately glad to see her, apologizing profusely for the fact that someone might have copied his keys and stolen access to her flat from him.
Grant noted that Beauclair spoke excellent Deutsch and conversed easily with the man as she reassured him he’d done nothing wrong. She looked to Grant for backup.
“The report said the lock showed signs of tampering,” Grant told him. “The man was a professional. No one’s holding you responsible, Herr Horst.”
Marie thanked Grant with a perfunctory
