CHAPTER EIGHT
She’d fallen asleep almost an hour ago and he stayed right where he was. Damn, she felt right in his arms. What the fuck was he doing? He’d known almost to the moment she fell asleep, her head tucked under his chin. Her tears had nearly killed him. Fuck. He’d wanted to go back to Mali and kill those fuckers all over again.
No family should ever have to go through that. She’d put on a brave face for her parents, as if she hadn’t been living through her own personal hell. He couldn’t help but admire her strength.
He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Fuck. He needed to get out of her bed.
Loosening his hold, he slid his arm out from under her neck and eased from the bed. He grabbed the laptop and left the door cracked behind him.
“How’s your girl?” Westin asked. He shoved a piece of steak into this mouth.
Jordan shook his head. “She’s out. Don’t suppose you ordered one for me.” Westin pointed toward the dining table and a covered plate. He grabbed the plate, napkin, and silverware and sat down on the plush love-seat. He opened the laptop on the coffee table. “Have you been watching any of the news about her? Us?”
Westin drank some beer before answering. “There haven’t been that many reports on it here. One or two on BBC. Parker’s monitoring feeds back home. Why?”
Jordan stared at the beer, then Westin. “We’re in a Muslim country. Where did you get beer?”
“The fridge.”
“No shit.” He made went to the small fridge and opened it. “Where the hell did you get Sam Adams?”
“It’s Abu Dhabi. It’s the Las Vegas of the Middle East.”
He popped the cap and rejoined Westin. “I thought that was Dubai.”
He shrugged. “They’re about the same.”
Cutting into the perfectly cooked steak, he chewed and pulled up a search engine on the computer.
“You looking up news about Emme?”
He typed out his search and hit enter. “Her parents mentioned a doctor who’s been making statements in the news.”
“That guy. What a fuckwad.”
Jordan stabbed the green beans. “What’s he been saying.”
“Not a lot, honestly. Just the way he says it makes me want to throat punch him. He’s been on every talk show and news channel possible in the last two days.”
“What’s his story?”
“Parker’s looking into it.”
He nodded and clicked on the first link. The video showed a slender, dark-haired man.“Emmeline France is a dedicated medical professional. She’s a very special woman and I hope she is safe, wherever she is.”
“They’re all like that. He’s worried about where she is. No one is claiming responsibility for her rescue. That sort of bullshit.”
Jordan’s forehead wrinkled. “Who is he?”
“Doctor at the NGO your girl worked for. Parker’s digging deeper. Emme can fill us in tomorrow if she’s up to it.” He got up and took his empty plate to the dining room table. “We’re running in the morning. You in?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Later.”
“Later.” Jordan ate while clicking through links of news reports on Emme’s kidnapping and interviews the doctor had given. Westin was right. He wanted to throat punch the fucker. Something about him was off.
He looked over his shoulder at Emme’s room. Who was this guy to her? He closed the laptop, put it on the side table, and plugged it in.
