They ended up with both of us. Two for the price of one.”
“Where did they take you?”
“I curled up on my mom’s lap. We put on blindfolds. She pretended it was a game but I knew better. We drove for a long time. When we got out, we were in a fabulous house—a palace, really. They took us up a marble staircase to the third floor. The doors were locked, but we had plenty of space with a bedroom, a sitting room and a bathroom.”
“And then?”
“Nothing,” she said. “We stayed there for a week. We were well fed and mostly left alone. Then they put on the blindfolds and took us home.”
Troy reminded himself that she was telling this story from the perspective of a seven-year-old. Her mother had been there to protect and reassure her child, and he suspected that Olivia’s mom had gone through hell during that week. “Tell me about a typical day when you were being held captive.”
“I don’t think I can remember much detail, but I’ll give it a try. First, we’d get up and do some exercises, touching our toes and reaching for the sky. And then, we’d wash up. I had to help my mom because she had a bruise. On her cheek. A huge, dark bruise. Oh, my God.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I had completely forgotten about the bruise. It was terrible. How could I forget?”
Memory was a funny thing. She hadn’t wanted to think of the abduction as a trauma, and she’d suppressed negative thoughts. “How did she get the bruise?”
“Late at night, one of the men came into our room,” she said. “He was loud and angry and he smelled bad. His face was red like a devil. And he slapped Mom so hard that she fell on the tile floor.”
She inhaled a sharp gasp before continuing. “I ran to the man. I kicked and I hit and I shoved. I did everything I could to keep him from hurting my mom. And he went away. Mom held me, told me she wasn’t really hurt, and we had to be quiet.”
His heart ached for the brave little girl who had tried to take care of her mother. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
“Mom told me to run and hide in the bathroom whenever anybody came into the room, and that’s what I did. I stood on the other side of the door and listened really hard. They never hit her again. If they had, I don’t know what I would have done.” She shook her head. “After a week, we went home.”
“Were you ever given an explanation? Did your parents ever talk to you about what happened?”
“Never. We accepted that a bad thing had happened, and we moved on. Literally, we moved. We went to Washington, D.C., for my parents’ next assignment.”
Because of the kidnapping, their cover story had been compromised. He knew that the Laughton family never returned to South America. Her father had gone on short assignments in Europe and the Middle East. But it wasn’t until both of their children graduated from high school and went to college that Richard and Sharon returned to regular work in foreign embassies.
Troy respected her parents for making the safety of their children a top priority. It was going to be difficult to tell them that their daughter was almost, once again, the victim of a kidnapping. Still, they needed to know. The intruder at Olivia’s cabin had taken a photo of the entire family.
* * *
T HE LODGE - STYLE hotel where he had reservations was four stories tall, and their suite on the top floor had deluxe amenities. After the bellman left her suitcase and his duffel, Troy inspected their space with an eye to security, prowling through the spacious sitting room with its cream-colored leather furniture, the bedroom, bathroom and the tiled area with the hot tub. He positioned a chair in front of the door so anybody breaking in would make a lot of noise, then he stepped onto the balcony that looked toward the moonlit slope. In a few months, the groomed mountainside would be filled with skiers and snowboarders.
Olivia stepped outside and stood beside him at the metal railing. “Are we safe?”
“A determined kidnapper could climb from one balcony to another and get up here. But I think we’re okay.” He lifted his face to the cool night breeze. “Nice place.”
“Very nice.”
“When I’m deployed, the conditions are usually awful. I like to treat myself to good hotels.”
“With room service,” she reminded him.
“Hungry?”
“You can order for me, as long as it’s fish, rice, a veggie and maybe a little something sweet.”
“A healthy meal for mom and baby.” He looked down at her bulging midsection, glad that she was taking good care of their unborn son. “Before you get comfortable, you should call your parents.”
“I don’t know what to say to them.”
She strolled inside, gingerly lowered herself onto the leather sofa and stretched her legs out. Her feet were already bare. She must have kicked off her sneakers as soon as she’d entered the room. In her purple scrubs, her shape reminded him of a ripe eggplant—a comparison he knew he shouldn’t mention. They were just beginning to connect, and he didn’t want to do anything that would jeopardize his chance to get close to her.
There was one thing all women loved. “Foot rub?” he asked.
“Yes, please.”
He sat on the sofa and lifted her feet onto his lap. Her toes were a little puffy. When he took her heel in his hand and gently kneaded her instep, she responded by wriggling herself into a comfy position against the sofa pillows and closing her eyes. Her fingers laced on top of her belly.
As he stroked and rubbed, he studied her face. Seldom had he had the chance to observe her at rest. She was lovely. Though she had dark circles below her eyes, her lightly tanned complexion was flawless—not exactly glowing, but close. Tendrils of blond hair curled alongside her high cheekbones.
“That feels so good.” Her lips parted as she made a low, sensual hum. “I don’t want you to stop, but I do want you to call room service.”
“You have a call of your own to make,” he reminded her.
“Mom and Dad.” She sighed. “My father is going to love you. The way you poked around the suite when we came in was exactly what he would do.”
Checking the security was a natural instinct for anyone in the intelligence community. “Your dad and I have a few things in common.”
“More than a few,” she said. “You’re a lot like him.”
“I doubt that.” Troy had seen photos and had read dossiers on the career of Richard Laughton. He was the kind of spy who looked good in a tux and worked in a high-class political arena. “From what I can tell, your father is slick and sophisticated. That’s not me.”
“And what’s your style?”
“Down and dirty,” he said.
“But you’re both spies. I know that military intelligence is different from the
