1
ONE YEAR,
THREE MONTHS,
TWENTY-SEVEN DAYS EARLIER
US Secret Service Agent Tessa Reed was no stranger to hangovers. Her head throbbed in rhythm with the beat of her heart. She didn’t want to open her eyes. Didn’t want to face the day. She cracked one eye enough to confirm that it was still dark. She had no idea how much longer the night would last, but she didn’t fight the pull of sleep and allowed it to drag her under once more.
When she returned to consciousness, her headache was unimaginably worse. Light filtered through her closed lids and a noxious odor assaulted her with every breath.
She could power through. She’d done it before. Too many times. But the pain that radiated through her skull at the slightest movement had no equal in the vast landscape of her memories.
A few more breaths and she’d—
A cold realization flooded her as three separate sensations registered in a tsunami of horror. She was lying on top of the covers and ... Her eyes flew open, then slammed to slits in an effort tominimize the impact of the light wedging around the edges of the curtains. She twisted, slowly, to confirm what she already knew.
Her shirt was missing.
No. No. This couldn’t be happening.Jesus, please, don’t let this be happening.
Tessa forced her eyes to open and took in her surroundings. She was in what had all the appearances of a cheap motel room. Her shirt was gone, but she still wore the rest of her clothes, including her shoes.
She had no idea where she was, how she got here, who had been with her, what they had done to her, or when they would return.
She fought the nausea and forced herself to sit, then held her head in her hands and took shallow breaths until the phantom ice pick slowed its attack on her brain.
Long before she was ready, she lifted her head and scanned the room. Her purse was on a low nightstand. Her shirt was nowhere to be seen.
What happened to her last night?
She took stock of her body. No bruises. No marks. No pain other than the hangover headache. Nothing felt numb or tender.
She reached for her purse and opened it, fully expecting it to be empty.
Her phone and keys were exactly as she’d left them.
If someone had abducted her, it was the worst kidnapping in history.
If she’d come willingly—no. She wouldn’t have. Right? Could she have come here—whereverherewas—on her own? That didn’t make sense.
She strained to remember. She’d gone to Gino’s. She’d sat at the bar. Then? There was something lingering on the edge of her memory, but when she tried to pin it down, it floated out of her grasp.
This was not a normal hangover.
She pulled her phone from her bag.
Dead.
If she exited this room, she’d be walking into a completely unknown, and almost certainly hostile, environment—unarmed and unprepared for whatever was out there. And she’d be doing it without a shirt.
But if she remained, there was no way to predict what, who, or how many people might come through that door.
Tessa could handle herself. Far better than most women, and men, for that matter. But again, she had no weapon. And while she was no slouch in the martial arts department, shecouldbe overpowered.
She couldn’t stay here. Every step sent pain ricocheting through her head, but she forced herself to check under the bed and in the drawers. Her shirt was definitely gone. She eased over to the window. Standing to the side, she peered into a parking lot. She couldn’t see a sign or any distinguishing features that told her where she was.
An ancient rotary phone sat on the dresser. She backed up toward it, facing the door at all times. She lifted the receiver and listened.
