Christmas Kidnapping. Cindi Myers

I’m not your loved one,” Andrea said. “I’m just an acquaintance you had lunch with.”

      “No. But I’m not going to turn my back on you when you need my help.” And he cared about her. And Ian, too. In the short time he had known them, they had worked their way into a corner of his heart.

      She looked away. “I don’t have anyone else I can call,” she said. “Not anyone who would be safe. If you can pretend to be my boyfriend until we get through this...” She let her voice trail away, as if she thought she were asking too much.

      “I’m not going to leave your side until we’re through this.” He gripped her shoulder again. “You’ve got to be strong now. For Ian.”

      She sat up straighter and took a ragged breath. “What do we do now?” she asked.

      “Can you get ten thousand dollars together?”

      “I can take it out of my savings as soon as the bank opens in the morning.”

      “Let’s wait until the kidnappers call with instructions. Right now, you can’t stay here tonight.”

      “No.” She hugged her arms across her chest and shivered.

      He turned to Chelsea. “What about you?”

      “I want to go home to my husband. I haven’t told him about any of this yet. I’d rather do it face-to-face.”

      “He’ll want to call the police.” Andrea clutched Chelsea’s hand. “You have to convince him to keep quiet.”

      “I will,” Chelsea said. “He won’t like it, but he won’t want anything to happen to Ian, either.”

      Jack stood and walked to the phone on the wall. “What are you doing?” Andrea asked. “Who are you calling?”

      “I’m forwarding this number to my cell phone. That way you can come with me and we won’t miss a call from the kidnappers.”

      “The note says they have someone watching me,” Andrea said. “Maybe we shouldn’t leave the house.”

      “They think I’m your boyfriend. They won’t be alarmed if you come with me.” At least, he hoped that was the case.

      Andrea packed an overnight bag and Chelsea retrieved the baby’s car seat from her vehicle. “My husband can bring me by to get my car later,” she said. “I’m too scared to drive home alone right now.”

      “I don’t mind taking you home. And I’ll talk to your husband, too. I’ll persuade him to keep quiet.”

      Chelsea’s husband turned out to be a burly mechanic who worked for the local Ford dealer. He listened to the story Chelsea told with growing signs of alarm. When she got to the part about needing to keep quiet, he started shaking his head.

      Jack stepped forward. “Mr. Green, I’m with the FBI,” he said. He opened his ID folder to show his badge and credentials. “I’m going to be doing everything I can to get Ian back to his mother safely, and for that, I need your cooperation.”

      “FBI!” Chelsea gasped. “Andrea, you didn’t tell me he was a fed.”

      Andrea said nothing, her face pale and drawn. She looked as if the slightest breeze might make her collapse. Jack resisted the urge to gather her close and hold her tightly. “Will you promise not to contact police and not to say anything to anyone—coworkers, friends, relatives, anyone—until this is resolved?” he asked.

      Mr. Green nodded. “Sure. I’ll keep quiet. I didn’t know the FBI was involved.”

      Not officially, Jack thought. Not yet.

      They drove in silence to his apartment. Andrea made no protest when he took her arm and guided her up the stairs to the furnished unit he had rented when the team relocated to Durango the month before. The television still broadcast the ball game, the sound turned down low, and the harsh overhead light illuminated the wrappings from the sub sandwich and chips that had been his dinner.

      “The bedroom is back this way,” he said, steering her toward the short hallway that led to the unit’s single bedroom and adjoining bathroom. “You can sleep here. I’ll take the couch.”

      Covers spilled onto the floor, silent testimony to a restless night. The pillow still bore the imprint of his head. He rushed forward to jerk the comforter into place. “I’ll get some clean sheets,” he said, moving past her.

      “You don’t have to go to all this trouble,” she said, her hand on his arm. “I can take the sofa.”

      “No, it’s okay.”

      He found the sheets, and together they made the bed, an ordinary, intimate activity that broke some of the tension between them. “Do you have a washer and dryer?” she asked, gathering up the old linens. “I can wash these.”

      “I’ll get them later.” He took the mound of sheets from her and stuffed them into the closet behind him. “Can I get you anything else? Tea? Bourbon?”

      A smile flickered across her lips. “The latter is tempting, but I want to keep a clear head.”

      “Try to get some sleep.” He hesitated, then reached out and squeezed her shoulder. She leaned her cheek against his hand, her skin silky and warm, and no man with feelings would have been able to resist pulling her to him.

      She welcomed the gesture and snuggled against him, her head buried in the hollow of his shoulder. “I’m so afraid,” she whispered. “If they hurt Ian...”

      “Shh.” He cradled the back of her head, his fingers threaded through her hair, which was coming loose from the pins that held it atop her head. He removed the pins one by one and combed out her locks with his fingers. She sighed and settled against him more firmly, so that he was aware of the soft weight of her breasts against his chest and the vanilla-and-honey perfume of her hair. He wanted to bury his face in those silky tresses—and bury the rest of himself in her, as well.

      She raised her head and tilted her face up to his, her expression questioning. “Why do I feel so safe and comfortable with you?” she asked.

      “Because you are safe with me.” He stroked her cheek, silken and warm. “I’m not going to do anything to hurt you.”

      “Kiss me.” She whispered the words, but they had the force of a command. One he was all too ready to obey.

      Her lips were as soft and supple as he had imagined, and she responded to the gentle pressure of his mouth by rising up on her toes and angling her head to deepen the contact. This was no meek surrender to his will, but the urgent encouragement of a partner who wasn’t afraid to take the lead. She traced her tongue along his bottom lip and he opened to her and shifted to snug her body between his thighs, letting her feel how much he wanted her.

      She was the first to break contact, looking up at him with heavy-lidded eyes. “That was as amazing as I thought it might be,” she said. “Thank you.”

      “I’m the one who should be thanking you.”

      She gently moved out of his embrace. “That was very selfish of me,” she said. “I was feeling so helpless and lost... I thought if I kissed you then, just for a moment, I could forget how terrible everything is.”

      He rubbed his hand up and down her upper arm, as much to avoid breaking contact with her as to comfort her. “Did it help?”

      Her eyes met his, the desire he’d seen there only a moment before edged out by sadness. “It did. But it doesn’t change our situation.” She stepped back, putting space between them. “I’m not trying to lead you on. I think I’m so stressed and upset, and I’ve been on my own so long...” She shook her head. “It’s like my emotions have gone all haywire.”

      “You don’t have to apologize for anything.” He understood her more than she would probably believe. The combination of stress and