Page 63 of When You Are Mine

“I’m coming, too.”

Her flinted tone left no room for challenge. If Cam thought he could keep her away from the Bennett house, she would have to disappoint him.

“Come on then.” He ran a finger down the side of her face, wiping away the tear she didn’t realize had streaked its way down her cheek.

* * *

Kristeene Bennett was pacing when they walked in, clenching her fists against the flatness of her stomach. She ran a trembling hand to smooth her hair in its already-perfect chignon. She sat down on the leather-covered stool at the kitchen counter.

Kerris trailed Jo and Cam into the kitchen, her face frozen into a mask that hid her thoughts.

“What have we heard?” Jo faced Kristeene, their profiles like two sides of the same coin.

“It’s not good.” Kristeene walked over to the refrigerator. “Water, lemonade, anything?”

Kerris realized the small rituals of hospitality occupied Kristeene, grounded her in some reality other than this nightmare. No one was playing along, though. Everyone refused refreshment. Kristeene sighed, turning to prepare jasmine orange tea for herself.

“He was kidnapped yesterday, we think.” She steeped her bag in the steamy water. “Locals. Thugs who knew he was American, and they’ve requested a ransom. Martin should be here soon to tell us what he knows. He called from the air.”

“How are you holding up, Aunt Kris?” Jo kept her eyes on Kristeene’s thinner-than-usual face. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m fine.” Kristeene diced up the words, narrowing her eyes at Jo. “Don’t fuss. It’s Walsh we need to worry about now.”

“But Aunt Kris—”

“I said stop it.” Kristeene hurled the words through the air like a knife. “I’m sorry, Jo. Just…we’ll talk about…other things later. I’m worried about Walsh and won’t rest until he’s home.”

“Neither will I,” a deep male voice commented from the kitchen doorway.

The man looked so much like Walsh, Kerris almost rubbed her eyes. This had to be Martin Bennett, and he was so much a picture of what Walsh would be in twenty years, Kerris wanted to lift her hand to trace his features, reaching through time to touch Walsh.

“Martin.” Kristeene swallowed visibly. She walked over to her ex-husband, stopping just short of actual contact. “What do we know? Was the embassy any help?”

“No help at all.” Martin’s lips thinned with his disgust. “They have no clue where Walsh is, but I’m working on it.”

“Just pay them the ransom, Martin.” Kristeene grabbed his sleeve. “Whatever they’re asking, just give it to them as soon as you can. Get Walsh back.”

“I have no intention of paying any damn ransom.” He looked fearlessly into the horror Kerris saw in Kristeene’s eyes. “And I amnotrelying on an inept government, Haiti’s or ours, to get my son back. You can believe that.”

“Martin, this isn’t one of your hostile takeovers.” Kristeene didn’t back down from the man towering over her. If anything, she seemed to rise an inch or so. “This is our son. Don’t play the hero. I want him back home, alive. Not in a box.”

“You don’t think I want him alive, Kris? That’s exactly why I refuse to leave my son’s safety to bumbling idiot locals.”

“Well, what then?” With her hands on her hips, Kristeene’s eyes dueled with Martin’s. “And this better be good.”

“I have some military connections,” Martin said, his voice low but confident. “I’ll get my son back, and make sure those presumptuous bastards who took him pay the highest price.”

“Martin, don’t—”

“Don’t ‘Martin’ me. They need to be taught a lesson, and I’m more than happy to do the honors. My contacts are analyzing the information we’ve received.”

“What information?” Jo stepped into the fray for the first time since her uncle arrived.

Martin Bennett looked hesitant, but still hoarded all of the room’s oxygen and energy for himself. Just like Walsh did without even trying.

Martin reached into his suit pocket, laying a grainy photo down on the marble countertop. Kristeene, Jo, Cam, and Kerris moved as one toward the picture, gasping aloud at the grisly sight. Walsh’s passport, his expensive Tag Heuer watch, and the bracelet Iyani made for him lay in a pile scattered on the scarred wood of a table. In the center lay a bloodied finger.

“No!” Kristeene turned her face into Martin’s chest, clutching the lapels of his impeccable suit. “Oh, God, Martin. No!”

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