Twelve

Helena, Montana

“Are you sure about this?” the stylist said, her fingers gripping the long, thick braid that hung down her back. She’d been waiting for them when they arrived. Just like the car had been waiting on the tarmac of the small private airstrip where Reese had set the helo down less than an hour after liftoff. Like Reese, Sabrina was sure the stylist had been chosen for her skill as much as her loyalty and discretion.

She’d been quickly and quietly sequestered in the penthouse suite of Helena’s finest hotel, Reese carrying her suitcase as if he were her personal valet. Afterward, she’d expected him to leave her but he didn’t. He was still here. Like he was waiting for something.

Or someone.

The stylist was still frowning at her hair, the scissors in her hand closed as if she couldn’t bring herself to even open them, let alone use them to do what Sabrina had asked. With a small sigh, she shifted in her chair, lifting her hip so she could reach the side pocket of her cargos and the knife Michael had placed there before she left. She had it unsheathed and under the base of the braid before the stylist could blink. “Positive,” she said, sliding the blade through her hair, cutting it loose. The auburn rope fell from her hand and onto the floor at the stylist’s feet. The poor woman stared at it in abject horror.

Behind her, Reese let out a loud bark of laughter. “God, I’ve missed you.”

She smiled at his reflection cast by the mirror in front of her. “I’ve missed you too. How’ve you been?”

“Oh, you know … living the dream,” he said, his answer as vague as it was purposeful. Whatever Ben had him doing, he wasn’t supposed to talk about it. Surprisingly, it stung that he’d instructed Reese to keep things from her.

She wasn’t going to give up that easily. “How is he?” she said, careful to keep her head straight. Now that the hard part had been done for her, the stylist was more than willing to finish the job.

“Bored.” Reese gave her a noncommittal shrug. “Ask me how many times I’ve been dragged to Vegas to see Britney Spears in concert,” he said, lifting his hands, splaying his fingers wide. “Ten. Ten times.”

She laughed. “Poor baby—”

His phone rang and he dug it out of his pocket. “Excuse me,” he said, standing as soon as he glanced at the screen. He disappeared into one of the suite’s two bedrooms to take the call in private.

–––––

Two hours later she was a strawberry blonde. The cut was short, even shorter on the sides, exposing her neck while longer layers on top swept across her head to angle across her brow. Michael had been right again. Coupled with the warm, hazel color of the contacts she wore, she looked like a completely different person.

The stylist packed up and left and Sabrina had expected Reese to follow suit. Instead of leaving he seemed to settle in deeper, stretching out on the couch watching old episodes of Man vs. Food. He looked relaxed, bored even, but she knew better. Reese wasn’t bored. He was waiting.

“I’m gonna go take a shower,” she said. Without waiting for an answer, she carried her tote into the same room Reese had taken her suitcase. As soon as the door was closed, she locked it, dropping the tote onto the bed. Reaching inside, she found the zippered pouch Michael had given her and carried it into the bathroom. There, she turned on the shower before lifting the lid on the toilet. Setting it on the counter, she opened it. Inside was a burner phone. She set it aside and reached in farther, pulling out a small white envelope. She pulled out the notecard and flipped it open.

The key opens a safety deposit box. Trust your instincts.
If something goes wrong, use it.
I love you.
M.

Below the message was the name and branch number to a bank in Yuma. She committed both to memory before dropping the card into the toilet. The paper dissolved the instant it hit the water. Sabrina reached into her shirt and pulled at the thin chain that hung around her neck. Suspended from it was the promised key. Tarnished brass, with the number 367 stamped into its back. Alongside it was her wedding ring.

A reminder of the promise she’d made him.

She knew the safety deposit box would hold everything she needed to make a fast getaway. Cash. A new set of identification. Passports. How Michael managed to put it all together so fast was something she didn’t really want to think about. Neither was why.

She wasn’t just hiding from her past. She was hiding from Livingston Shaw. If her resurfacing drew any attention, Shaw would be among the first to learn of it. Then everyone she cared about would pay for her mistakes.

–––––

When Sabrina exited her room an hour later, Reese was watching Barefoot Contessa and eating a burger he’d obviously ordered from room service.

He also wasn’t alone.

“What the hell is she doing here?” Sabrina managed, cutting a look toward the person lounging in the chair directly across from her.

“She is eating tacos,” Church answered her around a mouthful without bothering to look at her. “And watching my girl Ina make a kick-ass ceviche.”

“Am I conscious right now?” she said to Reese, ignoring Church completely. “Did I slip in the shower and hit my head?”

Reese finally risked a glance in her direction. His burger stopped midway to his mouth. “No. It’s really happening,” he said, letting his double bacon with cheese hit the plate with a regretful sigh. “I told him this wasn’t a good idea.” Reese shook his head, slouching back into the couch. “Like I said before, Sabrina—I just follow orders.”

Him. As in Ben.

“One of these days, Reese, that excuse is going to catch up with you.” She cocked her head slightly, her jaw tight. “He sent her here? Her. His father’s pet sociopath.”

“Ah—well … yeah.” He looked at Church, hoping for some help but she seemed content to eat her tacos and let him languish.

“Where is Ben?” She should have asked sooner. Should have asked why he wasn’t here. Why he hadn’t come for her himself after sending Leon Maddox on a potential suicide mission to retrieve her in the first place. “Where is he? When is he—”

“Ben isn’t coming, Kitten,” Church finally chimed in, muting the television with a disgruntled scowl. “And for the record—I’m nobody’s pet.”