But first she needed a long, hot bath to wash the memory of him from her skin, if not her humiliated conscience.
Donning a robe, she padded out of her small quarters and downstairs to one of the shared bathrooms on the second floor.
Phaedra was just coming out of Rosa’s room, a basket of little Angelina’s baby clothes and crib toys under her arm. She smiled at Sia. “I suppose we’re going to have to empty out this bedroom and make room for another girl before long.”
Sia nodded. “I can do it if you like. I’ll start right after I finish with my bath.”
Phaedra lifted a brow, her tone confidential, even conspiratorial. “I heard a man’s voice upstairs last night. I didn’t realize you were home and I almost knocked on your door before I realized you were in there with a…guest. Is he still here?”
“No. He’s gone. And he won’t be back, either. I’m sorry if I worried you.” Sia glanced at the items her friend carried, eager to change the subject. “How’s Angelina doing?”
“She’s a sweet baby. But I know she must miss her mama, even though she won’t understand what happened to her for a very long time. The poor thing slept in fits and starts all night. I think it will help to have her crib and some of her toys and other things.”
“Of course,” Sia agreed. She spotted a bit of soft pink fluff hiding in the midst of the collection Phaedra carried. “No wonder she’s having trouble sleeping. She doesn’t have her favorite blanket—”
All of a sudden, a prickle of instinct raced through Sia.
She pulled the pink blanket from the basket and held it out before her, searching for something she couldn’t name, yet was certain was there.
“What’s wrong?” Phaedra asked.
Sia couldn’t answer. She zeroed in on the satin binding that ran along the edges of the tiny coverlet. And then she saw what she was looking for—a row of stitches that didn’t quite match the rest of them. One small section of the blanket’s binding had been loosened then mended.
And something minuscule was sewn inside it.
“Ah, there you are,” she whispered as she glanced up at Phaedra, her heart racing with excitement. “Rosa came here because the man she had been involved with—Angelina’s father—had run afoul of a very dangerous man. He was killed for something he had on this bad man, and her attackers the other night felt certain that whatever it was, Rosa was in possession of it. They didn't even glance at Angelina when they were in the room and she was wailing and crying. Not even a single look.”
Phaedra frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“This blanket. It was a gift from Angelina’s father not long after he told Rosa he was in some kind of trouble.” Sia slid her fingernail under the mismatched stitches and started ripping them open. “The men who showed up here looking for Rosa? They were totally focused on her. They dumped her purse and backpack, they rifled through her closet. But what neither of them thought to do was search the crib. Seems like the perfect place to hide something you didn’t want someone to find would be—”
“On the baby,” Phaedra whispered.
Sia fished inside the hole she’d made and tugged out the tiny item concealed inside.
“It’s an SD card,” Phaedra said, staring at the fingertip-sized wafer of plastic and circuitry in Sia’s palm. “They’re used for storing large amounts of data. Tamisia, what do you think is on that card?”
“I don’t know. But I know someone who will.”
Chapter 9
Trygg swung a battle-ax one-handed, burying the blade all the way into the thick pillar of oak in the training area of the weapons room at the command center. The wood splintered on impact, exploding a hail of jagged shards in all directions.
“Motherfu—” His comrade, Savage, came up from the sudden crouch Trygg’s strike had sent him into, his eyes wide beneath his mane of wavy blond hair. He swiveled his head to look at the blow that narrowly missed him, then chuckled. “You asked me to spar with you, asshole, not volunteer as guillotine fodder.”
“Just trying to keep your questionable skills sharp,” Trygg replied. “You’ve been spending so much time with that new mate of yours, it’d be a shame to watch you go soft.”
Savage smirked. “Being with Arabella does anything but make me go soft. And since when have you given a shit about time I spend with her? Not getting jealous, are you?”
Rather than dignify the jab with an answer, Trygg snarled and brought the ax around for a second swing. Savage spun to dodge it, bringing his own weapon down and driving the iron blade of Trygg’s ax into the concrete floor.
“Now who’s the one going soft?” Savage taunted with a quick grin.
“Again.” Trygg raised his weapon for another round, but Savage held his hands up in surrender.
“Forget it. You’ve already shaved a couple of inches off my hair with that thing today and Bella needs something to hold on to.” When Trygg only grunted in response, his friend cocked his head at him in question. “Something wrong? If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were the one with troubles of the female sort. And since the only woman I ever saw you look twice at was that Atlantean icicle Tamisia a few weeks ago—”
“You know nothing,” Trygg grumbled. He relaxed his stance, then strode across the room to stow his weapon in the rack.
