Kidnapped Hearts by Cait Jarrod
Chapter
1
Thunder boomed outside The Memory Café.
Pamela pushed her chair from the desk and crossed to the window. Lightning lit
the darkened August sky, illuminating the fragile trees bowing in the wind
along the historic streets of Fredericksburg in Virginia.
She should have left with her employees.
Instead, a half-hour after the café closed, she had watched them climb into
their cars and drive away. Her heart had pommeled pounded when she twisted the
deadbolts before heading to her office.
Why had she stayed alone? Her father
said she needed a backbone, so she stayed, trying to live up to his motto: Be
strong. Be brave.
She sucked in a deep breath, settled in
the chair behind her desk, and looked at the picture of her grandparents, dad,
and herself on her laptop. Though they lived in Florida hundreds of miles away,
the three of them were her inspiration.
A loud rumble vibrated the office.
Pamela jumped. She should have checked the weather channel before deciding to
stay late, but the skies had been clear earlier.
Don’t be scared of what you can’t see.
Another one of her father’s sayings reverberated in her head. Those words,
along with defense classes her dad had paid for, gave her courage but not in a
storm. Thunderstorms reminded her of the evil in people, one in particular.
She clicked the mouse, opened the
bookkeeping application, and started entering the night’s figures. Lightning
cracked, lights flickered. Her heart pounded to the beat of the rain hitting
the windowpanes.
Enough was enough; backbone or not, she
needed to get out of there. She switched off the computer, grabbed her purse,
and then headed toward the back door, turning off the light on the way. She
grasped the doorknob with one hand and unlocked the first deadbolt Panama Jack
had installed four months ago. The doorknob moved under her hand. Jerking her
hand away, she backed off.
The knob twisted again. Her heart leaped
into her throat. Not again.
She relocked the deadbolt, ran into the
kitchen, and snatched a knife from a drawer before squatting behind the
stainless steel island.
The storm rumbled outside. Minutes
passed with no sign of movement. Pamela peered around the island. The window in
the back of the kitchen lit up. A face stared in. She screamed. Her purse fell
to the floor with a loud thud.
Sam? It couldn’t be—he was in jail.
The window illuminated again. The man
grinned, his teeth gleaming. Not Sam.
Fear knotted her stomach. She lost her
balance and fell. The knife clattered across the concrete floor, hitting the
wall. Afraid, she sucked in gulps of air, trying to calm her nerves enough to
move.
After a few minutes passed, she surveyed
the window. A flash of light cast the outside in a beam of light, followed by a
loud clap of thunder. The face had disappeared. She bit her bottom lip. Where
did he go? She scooted to the knife on her bottom, not an easy task in a form
fitting skirt. With the knife secured in her hand, she rose and pressed her
body against the wall.
Slowly, she inched toward the window
where the teeth had gleamed at her. Not wanting to see him, but also not
wanting to remain scared that the intruder was still out there, she peeked
around the window trim. The parking lot came into view. The lights in the back
lot glowed while the spaces bordering the building remained dark. The bulb
outside the back door had blown since her employees left.
A hissing sound escaped her. The fear
she experienced the night of the attack recurred tenfold, as the familiar scene
unfolded, and the pressing question popped into her mind. Why did she think she
needed to stay alone? Be strong. Be brave. Her dad’s words replayed in her
mind.
Someone pounded on a door.
The knot in her stomach jumped to her
throat. Kitchen lights were on, making it easy for whoever was outside to see
her. She pulled off her stilettos, ducked under the window, then inched toward
the switch. Lightning beat her to it.
The emergency lights blinked on, but not
in the kitchen. It remained in darkness. Only the glow from the dining room and
the hallway seeped through, giving little light.
The knife clutched at her side, she slid
her hand along the kitchen wall to the receiver.
The phone line was dead.
It can’t be. Phone lines were
underground in the city. With a trembling hand, she reached for her cell inside
her purse, coming up empty. Her purse lay on the other side of the kitchen.
Another thump on the door, and her knees
buckled. She slumped to the floor. This can’t be happening. The coldness from
the concrete floor penetrated her skin. The night of the attack roared into her
mind with the sound of thunder.
Lightning flashed, illuminating the room
and bringing the image of Sam’s angry face to mind. Pamela flinched. The memory
of Sam’s reaction to her when she refused his unwanted advances still unnerved
her.
The rain came down harder, drumming even
louder against the roof. She had to leave.
Glass shattered across the kitchen from
the window the intruder stood at minutes ago. A loud thud followed.
She screamed.
Be strong. Be brave.
On shaky feet, Pamela stood. She
clutched the knife in her hand like the killer in Psycho.
The Memory Café’s security alarm
whirled. A shattering sound from the dining room penetrated the volume of the
alarm.
This wasn’t good.
On the night Sam busted in the back door
and attacked her, the police had arrived quickly. She blew out a puff of air,
blowing sweat-dampened, dark hair off her forehead, and prayed they would
arrive as fast as last time.
A light seeped into the kitchen through
the swinging doors that lead to the dining room. A figured moved. The doors
swung closed, and the light from the dining room disappeared, taking the figure
with it.
Her heart thumped wildly in her chest.
A hand slid over her mouth, and another
grasped her wrist. The knife clanked to the floor. The hand left her wrist and
slid across her stomach, holding her firmly against a hard body.
“I’m FBI.” A man’s voice whispered next
to her ear. “Is anyone else here?” He lifted his fingers away from her mouth.
“Don’t scream.”
She swallowed the scream he warned her
against and tried to take control of the fleeing instinct as she wondered how he
found her so easily. “How do I know you are who you say?” she whispered back.
“You don’t. You’ll have to trust me.”
Trust, not something she did easily.
“Why?”
“Either trust me or don’t, the choice is
yours.” She felt his hot breath as he leaned closer. “If I was going to hurt
you, don’t you think I would have already?”
She absorbed his words. They made sense.
Right now, not having a means to contact anyone, he was her only defense
against the man at the window.
“Is anyone else in here?” He asked
again.
“I don’t know.”
“Stay here.” His hand slid away from her
stomach.
Pamela gauged the darkness in the
kitchen, and panic set in. She’d take the odds of staying with him over being
left alone. “No way.” She spun, running into his back.
“Keep quiet.”
Tiptoeing behind him, she held the back
of his shirt as they walked into the hallway where he covered the emergency
light with one of the kitchen towels from the kitchen, the light in the hallway
dimmed. “Why did you do that?”
He turned to glare at her. “Stay quiet.”
I need the light. In darkness, bad
things happen.
As if he heard her, his words plunged
into her internal rant. “You’re safe.”
The strength of them calmed her, or
maybe the pat on her leg that followed did. Either way, the man personified
safety. Edging toward the storage room, she spotted a gun in his hands, leading
the way. Once there, he said, “Stay.” Before she had a chance to argue, he
pulled her hand off his shirt and added, “Don’t argue.” He disappeared into the
darkened room. Emergency lights should be installed in every room.
Less than a minute later, he reappeared.
Her chewed nails thought he’d been gone a lifetime.
He touched her hand. “Let’s go.”
How could he see? They went through the
same procedure when they reached her office. Only this time, she nibbled on the
nails on her other hand.
He stepped out of the office.
She finally asked, “How can you see?”
“Concentrate.”
She’d been concentrating but still
couldn’t see anything. “Did you cover the lights in the dining room, too?”
“No. It must have malfunctioned.”
“Like the ones in the kitchen.” She
didn’t believe it. Someone must have tampered with them. But who? Why?
He crossed to the emergency light in the
hallway. “No one’s here,” he said, removing the towel.
She skimmed his dark hair and five
o’clock shadow.
“What’s your name?”
“Pamela Young, I own this
establishment.”
The overhead lights flicked on, shining
brightly. His blue gaze stared into hers. “Are you okay?”
Her hand flew to her chest. She could
lose herself in those eyes.
“You’re pale. Shock will do that to a
person.” He grabbed her hand and tugged. “You need water.”
The kitchen fluorescent lights glowed,
permitting Pamela to see the broken window. He released her hand and walked
toward the sink.
She walked toward the object that had
made the thud. A brick with an envelope tied to it.
Another one?
She stopped.
Water soaked her back.
“Crap.”
Her eyes were glued to the brick, or
rather the note attached to the brick. She didn’t notice the towel he had in
his hand until he grumbled, “I’ll do it myself,” and started to blot the back
of her shirt.
A
glass of water sat on the counter. She drank it, wishing for something stronger
to wash down the burning fear.
“I’ll take care of it.” He plucked a
couple of latex gloves from a box she kept on the counter, slipped them on his
hands, and untied the envelope. After pulling out the note, the agent glanced
up at her.
She shook her head. No way would she
read it.
He unfolded the paper and silently
scanned it. His grim expression confirmed her fear, another note. Her arms
folded across her body.
The first said, Give back the bonds.
Two days later and she still didn’t have
a clue about the bonds.
The second read: Leave the bonds in the
trashcan by the City Docks, or your mother will suffer the consequences.
If the person who made the threat knew
anything about her life, he or she would know Pamela rarely talked to her
mother. She hadn’t since Vivian decided to leave for a career in New York City.
The previous notes, Pamela had deemed to
be sick pranks by teenagers. One was in her mailbox and the other under the
windshield wiper on her car. Both were classic juvenile stunts. Judging by the
agent’s expression, this note held more impact. “What does it say?” Her voice
shook, making the words barely recognizable.
Instead of answering her question, the
agent asked, “Are you involved in criminal activity?”
Her mouth opened. The audacity of the
question rendered her speechless.
His eyebrows rose, waiting for an
answer.
Dropping her arms, she said, “Of course
not.” Her chin jutted upward. “What does the note say?”
He glanced at the paper, studied her for
a second, then cleared his throat. “It says: you’ve run out of time. Don’t
involve the police.”
She turned away, clutching her stomach
as bile rose to her throat.
A consoling hand touched her back.
She swallowed.
“If you’ve got yourself in a mess, I can
help, but you’ll have to be honest with me.”
She straightened and looked over her
shoulder. He stood close, too close. “Who are you?”
“Police, is anyone in there?” a voice
shouted from the rear of the café.
Thank goodness, the police arrived
quickly, Pamela thought.
“In the kitchen,” the FBI guy responded.
An officer wearing a blue uniform
appeared. “I didn’t know you were back in town.”
“I just returned tonight.”
The officer chuckled as he shook the
agent’s hand. “Glad to see you, Jake Gibson.”
Finally, she had a name. She looked at
the man named Jake. His name seemed familiar, but not his face. Hands on her
hips, she glanced around the kitchen. Several uniformed police officers
inspected The Memory Café.
“Pamela, you need this.”
Pamela She glanced behind her to see
Jake holding a towel. “Wrap this around your waist. Your skirt’s torn.”
It took a few seconds for the words to
register. She touched the ripped material, feeling the fabric separated. It had
torn from the hem to the waist; no wonder the concrete floor felt cold earlier.
At that moment, it dawned on her. Jake He stood behind her when she clutched
her stomach, getting a view of her bare butt. Pamela glared at him and accepted
the towel. Deciding to wear a thong to avoid unwanted panty lines had seemed
like the right decision this morning. Next time, she’d go with the lines.
In response, Jake winked.
“Ma’am,” the officer said.
“Sorry, Pamela Young is the owner of The
Memory Café. Ms. Young, this is Sergeant Glenn Harrison.”
Pamela She held the towel tightly around
her waist and forced a smile. “Please call me Pamela.”
Sergeant Harrison lifted his chin and
flipped open a notepad. “PamelaMa’am, what triggered your alarm?”
Jake moved behind the detective, held up
the note and shook his head. The message was clear; he didn’t want her to tell
the police. His blue eyes urged her to listen. She did. Looking away from the
officer and his shadow, she eyed the broken window. “Someone threw a brick
through the window.”
Jake’s hand fisted, but he remained
silent. His gloves had vanished.
The officer glimpsed the brick on the
table then tilted his head toward the window on the far wall. “That window?”
Pamela She scanned the table for the
rope that had tied the note to the brick. It had vanished. She shifted her eyes
to the hole in the window. “Yes.”
“So youYou have a Peeping Tom?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you give me a description of the
person?”
“It was a man. A hood covered his head.
The only thing I could see was his teeth and they shined at me.”
The officer wrote in his notepad. “What
happened to your front door?”
Pamela believed the agent had caused the
commotion in the dining room, but hadn’t asked.
“I broke the glass in the front door
when I heard a female screaming and. When no one answered my knock, I broke the
glass.”
The officer looked at him. “And you
happened to be near the café during a thunderstorm?”
The agent shoved his hands in his
pockets. “Yep.”
“I don’t see how you could have heard
anything between the thunder and the security alarms, but you’re the agent, not
me.” The officer’s phone rang. “Excuse me.”
When the officer walked away, Jake
turned to her. “Are you holding up okay?”
“I could be better.”
The officer came back into view. “That
was the FBI. They didn’t know you were here, but once I told them, they asked
that you stay. Two FBI agents are en route, a forensic artist, and a field
agent. Know anything?”
Jake shrugged.
The officer hit his notepad against his
thigh. “Typical agent, you guys are never forthcoming.” He turned toward
Pamela. “Ms. Young, do you have anything else that you need to tell me?”
She needed to tell him about the notes,
but for some reason Jake wanted the information kept quiet. She hoped this
vaguely familiar man wasn’t leading her astray. The last thing she needed was
to get in trouble with the police for withholding evidence. On second thought,
she wasn’t the one keeping information from the officer. It was Agent Gibson.
“No.”
Footsteps coming toward them interrupted
their conversation. A woman wearing the same blue uniform as the officer in
front of her, with the exception of the skirt, stopped beside them. “The light
bulb was busted.”
Pamela twisted away from the police. One
hand covered her mouth while the other held the towel like a lifeline. She
mumbled, “This isn’t good.”
The agent touched her shoulder. The
action, although a small gesture, meant a lot.
“If you need anything, give me a call.”
The officer handed her his card, then smacked the agent on the back. “See you
around.”
“Have a good one,” Agent Gibson replied
to the officer’s back, as he handed over an inside out latex glove to the
arriving field agent. The FBI’s forensic artist followed.
The agent separated the material and
looked inside the glove then nodded. “I’ll send the note and string to the
lab.”
“You put them inside the glove?” Pamela
asked, looking up at Jake.
Jake He didn’t respond. “I need the lab
work expedited on the note, string, and brick,.” Jake then pointed at the third
item.
The agent placed the evidence in a
Ziploc bag. “Will do.”
The forensic artist led Pamela to a
table in the dining room. She gave the a parcel description of the man in the
window while Jake cleaned up the glass by the front door.
Within minutes, the artist packed up the
supplies and the two agents left.
Pamela twirled, looking for Jake. She
found him by the rear entrance, where the doorknob twisted beneath her hands.
He shook hands with the officers as they exited the café. Everyone knew him.
She took in his clothing. He wore jeans and a t-shirt, not a drop of water on
him.
He smiled at the last officer leaving
the café before turning his blue eyes on her.
Pamela She jammed her hands on her hips.
“If you were outside during the storm, why aren’t you wet?”
He closed the distance to her and jutted
his chin toward the hooks by the front door. A black raincoat hung from a hook,
a puddle of water beneath it. “I can’t move well in the coat.”
She glared at him.
He montioned for him to follow her
and unbuttoned a couple of buttons on
the back of the jacket. The flap dropped down, and the words FBI appeared. “I
am who I said, except I retired a few days ago.”
She looked him over. “Why were you
outside my café this time of night during a thunderstorm?”
“We’ll get to that. First, we have a few
things we need to take care of, then I’ll escort you home.”
Her eyes widened.
“Your windows first, and then
afterwards, we need to find a way to keep you safe. I’m assuming by your
reaction earlier you’ve received other notes.”
She remained silent. What was she
supposed toshould she say to him? He wanted answers but wouldn’t answer her
questions.
“And by the silence, I know I’m right.”
Her mouth gaped open as he walked into
the kitchen. She padded behind him. He was looking through the drawers.
“What are you looking for?”
“Duct tape.”
“It’s in the storage room.” She led the
way through the hall to the storage room, removed the tape from a box, and
turned, running into his chest again. At five-eight, the top of her head
reached his nose. Lifting her chin, she met gentle eyes and swallowed. A warm
surge of heat rushed through her body. “Umm, I think there’s a roll of vinyl
shelf paper in the corner that we could use to cover the holes.”
He cleared his throat. “I’ll have a man
come over in the morning to replace the glass for you.”
“No need. I have a repairman, Panama
Jack.”
Jake’s eyebrows arched. “Panama Jack?
Well, if he isn’t available, let me know.”
She found the roll and headed toward the
front entrance.
Jake unrolled the shelf paper and held
it over the small hole in the front door while Pamela stretched the duct tape
and attached the vinyl paper to the window. He took the roll and finished
taping the other three sides, and then they moved through the kitchen doors to
the shattered window and repeated the process.
“I’ll need to make a list for the
repairman.” She strolled into her office, settled in her chair, and searched
for a notepad.
Jake followed. His concern started to
touch a place she didn’t want to consider. Giving up on the post-its, her hands
went up in the air. He pulled the pad from an organizer and tossed it to her.
“You can’t stay alone.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Agent Gibson—”
“Jake,” he interrupted.
She focused on the paper; anywhere was
better than being sucked in by those blue eyes. “I have enough men in my life
to watch over me, to a fault sometimes. I don’t need any more.” She knew her
comment was mean, but she couldn’t take the chance of letting this man inside
the wall she erected after Sam.
He crossed to her side of the desk and
propped his butt on the corner. Crossing arms and legs, he looked down at her.
“I’m trained to protect. Are your friends?”
She was forced to look at him, all of
him. One had been. “It doesn’t matter. You’re not watching over me.”
“At least let me drive you home.”
As if to support Jake’s comment, thunder
boomed, and the lights flicked off. The emergency lights immediately flickered,
brightening the area.
She wrote the kitchen and dining room
emergency lights on the list, then the back door light along with the windowpanes.
He made a good point. “I’ll drive to a girlfriend’s house.”
“It’s late.”
The clock on the wall chimed two. Her
friend would unnecessarily worry receiving a call at this time of night.
“What about tomorrow night?” Jake said,
interrupting her deliberations.
Tomorrow hadn’t entered her mind. Late
in the afternoon, the Band of Friends, known as the BOFs, would be meeting at
the café. She could stay with one of them. “I have a friend I can stay with
tomorrow night.”
He straightened and pulled his wallet
out of his back pocket then flashed a badge. “Proof, I’m who I say.”
Pamela looked at the badge and the
picture beside it. The FBI jacket could have been anyone’s, but the badge was
definitely his. Again, the name Jake Gibson caught her attention. “The badge
has retired across it.”
“Like I said, I retired a few days ago.”
He shoved the wallet back into his back pocket. “I’ll sleep on your couch, and
you can lock the bedroom door.”
“Could a locked door stop you?”
He touched both her shoulders. Blue compassionate
eyes looked at her. “Look, I’m here to help you, not hurt. I can’t force you to
let me stay, but I hope you will reconsider.”
As she gazed into his eyes, she noticed
the same unfaltering demeanor she had seen in other men who had been to war. The
look that said, I’d do whatever it takes to protect you. But why would he
volunteer to help her?
He disappeared and a second later
returned with his raincoat in his hands. “Come on, let’s get you home.” He
tugged on her hand until she stood, then wrapped his raincoat around her.
The deer in the headlights look had to
be what he saw when he eased her into his arms and said, “I’ll take care of
this.”
She didn’t understand why this man with
the familiar name was being so nice to her and didn’t truly know if she could
trust him. Yet, she needed help, and he was offering. Burying her head in his
shirt, she did what she refused to do in front of another man. She cried.
Something about his rectitude, his
charm, and she knew under his watchful eye, she’d be safe. From what or who she
needed protection continued to be a mystery.