Jack was on his third scotch, eyeing the wedding guests and idly pondering lithe brunette versus busty redheadâ€”heâ€™d been avoiding blondesâ€”when his cellphone vibrated in his pocket.
He thought about not answering itâ€”everybody whose call he absolutely had to take was in the reception hallâ€”but yapping on the phone beat standing around watching other people have a good time.
The number wasnâ€™t familiar to him. â€śDonovan.â€ť
The music was too loud, to say nothing of the voices and laughter, so he headed toward the door. Once he was on the other side of it, he could hear a lot better. â€śYeah. Whoâ€™s this?â€ť
â€śIsabella.â€ť The name hit him like a hard shot to the chest. â€śIsabella Arceneaux.â€ť
â€śIsabella,â€ť he whispered, unable to get anything else past the sudden logjam of emotion in his throat.
It had been almost a year since he rescued her from the guerrilla stronghold where sheâ€™d been held captive for over two years. Almost a year since he told her there was nothing between them but a little hero worship and put her on a plane out of Africa. It was the hardest lie heâ€™d ever told.
â€śYou told me if I ever needed you to call,â€ť she said, and he heard the subtle tremor in her voice. â€śI think I need you now, Jack.â€ť
â€śWhatâ€™s going on?â€ť Not that it mattered. He was already pushing himself to his feet, patting the tuxedoâ€™s pockets for his car keys. His go-bag was in the trunk of the rental, along with his weapon.
â€śI think somebodyâ€™s trying to kill me.â€ť