Chapter Forty-Five

Table for One

Jimmie reentered the restaurant. The hostess flashed a friendly smile. “Finished with your phone call, Mr. Bernwood?”

“I am,” he said. “But I’ll be dining alone tonight.”

Although it seemed a tad insensitive to Cat to keep his reservation, Jimmie thought it would be what she wanted. Plus, the kidnappers had given him until Monday night to meet their demands. There was plenty of time to stuff his face with some old-fashioned southern-style cooking while he debated the most prudent course of action.

The smell of the made-from-scratch buttermilk biscuits had also been calling his name. He opened the menu. He had to focus. Review his options. Not the options on the menu—he already knew what he was going to order. But his options with regards to the kidnappers. He was out of his league, but that had never stopped him before.

The safest course of action was to cooperate with the kidnappers . . . for now. Getting the recorder out of the White House wasn’t going to be easy, though. If it was, he’d have already done it. The Trump administration was so overrun with paranoia that they didn’t let bags in or out of the building. No backpacks, no laptop cases, no purses, no briefcases. Not even fanny packs were allowed, which had to piss off Chef Fieri.

After he’d stuffed himself on his second order of complimentary buttermilk biscuits and was awaiting his third, the hostess arrived with another menu. “Your date is here, Mr. Bernwood,” she said.

“That’s . . . not possible,” he stammered.

Emma Blythe stepped out from behind the hostess and took the seat across from Jimmie. She was wearing a tight, red cocktail dress that accentuated her curves. She looked like she’d just stepped out of a noir novel and into his life.

“Hello, darling,” Emma said. “I hope you’ve saved room for dessert.”