That Summer In Maine. Muriel Jensen

      “Mine was ripped out,” she replied. “I no longer have one.”

      He put a hand to her knee and patted gently, the gesture curiously fraternal. “Ah, but you do. It sleeps after great tragedy, but it will stir again. There is still passion in you onstage.”

      She shrugged. “When I’m onstage, that isn’t me. I’m someone else. And there’s no one to pay my ransom. I have no family left. I’m afraid I’ll have to be a political statement rather than a continuation of your work.”

      He frowned at her. “It alarms me that you would prefer that. I see it in your eyes.” Then he smiled. “I know you have a father who loves you very much.”

      She sat up in alarm. “It would be cruel to frighten an old man for nothing. I assure you he has no money to pay a ransom for me.”

      One of his men shouted to him and beckoned him with the radio. He rose gracefully to his feet and shook his head at her. “Take a breath, madame. Inhale the wind and the night. There is much to live for.”

      “Do not call my father,” she ordered his retreating figure.

      He didn’t hear her. Or if he did, his cause was more important than her concerns for a lonely old man.

      “It’ll be okay, love,” Baldy comforted, nudging her with his shoulder. “There’ll be a public outcry when the world learns we’ve been taken. The army will mobilize. Citizens will arm themselves with torches and pitchforks and come to our aid.”

      “You’re the one lost in a script, Baldy,” she said grimly, stretching gingerly to try to ease the pain in her shoulders. She longed for the moment a little while ago when she hadn’t really cared whether she lived or died.

      Now she was worried about her father.

      Chapter One

      June 23, 7:05 p.m.

      Lamplight Harbor, Maine

      Duffy March was already formulating a plan as he listened to Elliott Lawton wind up the story of his daughter’s kidnapping. Under the professional assessment of danger, and the knowledge that he’d have to argue for a place among the gendarmes responding to the scene, was the awareness that this was the scenario he used to dream about when he was eight and Maggie was his sixteen-year-old baby-sitter. Her father worked for the State Department, while his taught history at Georgetown University.

      Then nothing had separated them but eight years and a stockade fence between his parents’ property in Arlington and the Lawtons’, but that had changed considerably since she’d moved to Europe.

      She was now the much-adored star of the London stage, and the widow of a prominent banker, while he was the single father of two, who owned and operated a security company. He had a staff of forty who’d helped him acquire a worldwide reputation among the noble and the famous who needed protection. The living was good, with a penthouse apartment in Manhattan and a very large waterfront home on the coast of Maine where he and the boys spent the summers.

      “What I fear the most,” Elliott confided as he paced the broad deck that looked out on the ocean, “is that…she’ll be happy to let it all go bad.”

      Charlie March, Duffy’s father, who’d flown the light plane that had brought them here from Arlington right after the State Department called Charlie with the news, caught his friend’s arm and pushed him into a chair. “Sit down, Elliott, before we have to resuscitate you.”

      Charlie sat beside him and shook his head grimly at his son. “She’s had a sort of death wish since she lost Harry and the boys. He’s afraid she’ll do something reckless and…you know.”

      “Tell me you can go to France,” Elliott pleaded, on his feet and ignoring his drink. “I know the gendarmes will do all they can, but with six hostages and men with guns everywhere, I’m so afraid she’ll literally get caught in the crossfire. I can get you clearance to accompany them. And you have your own connections there, don’t you? Didn’t you work for a member of the French parliament once?”

      He nodded. Gaston Dulude, who’d waged war against a band of French drug dealers, had wanted protection for his wife and himself as the case went to trial.

      “Of course I’ll go to France,” Duffy assured him, “but my housekeeper’s on vacation. You’ll have to stay with Mike and Adam, Dad.”

      Charlie nodded. “Of course.”

      “I’ll stay, too,” Elliott promised. “What can we do to help you get ready?”

      “You can get me that clearance, Mr. Lawton,” Duffy said, pointing to the phone, “while I get myself a flight to Paris.”

      “Just get packed,” Elliott said. “I’ll get you a plane, too.”

      As Duffy headed for the stairs, the back door slammed and his boys came racing through the kitchen into the living room. They’d been at a birthday party for the Baker twins, boys Mike’s age who lived two doors over.

      Mike, seven, led the way, stick-straight black hair flopping in his eyes, the red sweater and jeans that had been pristine just a few hours ago now smeared with food or finger paints, or both. Four-year-old Adam followed in his dust, the food and finger paints smeared across his face as well as his clothes. He had Lisa’s fair good looks and passionate personality.

      The boys ignored Duffy completely and went straight for their grandfather. “I saw your car, Grandpa!” Mike exclaimed.

      Wisely, Charlie sat down as Mike flew into his lap. Adam followed, wrapping his arm gleefully around his grandfather’s neck. Duffy saw Elliott turn away, holding the phone to his ear and blocking the other so that he could hear, using the call as an excuse to be able to focus his attention elsewhere.

      It had to be hard for him, Duffy guessed, to see Charlie enveloped by his grandchildren when he’d never see his own again.

      “Are you staying for dinner?” Mike asked.

      As Duffy topped the stairs, he heard his father reply that he was staying a little longer than that.

      Duffy had packed a small bag, made a call to his office in New York and was ready to go when the boys rushed into his room as though pursued. Mike always traveled at top speed, and Adam was determined that his older brother never escape him.

      Duffy sat on the edge of his bed to explain his sudden departure.

      “When are you coming back?” Mike climbed up next to him and leaned into his arm, looking worried. “Grandpa said he didn’t know.”

      “I think three or four days,” Duffy replied, lifting Adam onto his knee. “If it’s going to be longer, I’ll call you.”

      “Grandpa said you’re going to help a friend.”

      “Yes.”

      “He said bad guys took her and you have to get her back.”

      “Yes. But I’m going to have a lot of help.”

      Mike sighed. “You won’t get shot, right, ’cause you always know what you’re doing?”

      Duffy liked to think Mike’s faith in him wasn’t misplaced. “That’s right. I’ll be fine. And so will she. I’ll be back home before you know it.”

      “You’re friends with a girl?” Adam asked. He screwed up his pink-cheeked face into a ripple of nose, lips and chin, and crossed his bright blue eyes. “We don’t have any girls around here ’cause we don’t like ’em.”

      Duffy laughed and squeezed him close. “I like them. I just don’t happen to have one. But I would if I could.”

      That was apparently beyond Adam’s comprehension. “They’re silly and they’re afraid of snakes.”

      “I thought