In the Enemy's Arms. Marilyn Pappano

the scraggly grass, its contents scattered.

      “No whining, Dr. Do-Good.” He had to wiggle the key to get it into the lock, but it turned without too much effort and the door swung open. Surprised by the interior, he forgot to step inside. Cate got halfway around him before she stopped, too. After a moment, she went in, and after another moment, he followed her.

      “Wow. I never would have thought…”

      The room wasn’t fancy by any means. It was so small the two beds were twins, with barely enough room to pass between them. Instead of cheap-motel bedspreads, they were made up with quilts, and a spotless vinyl floor took the place of cheap-motel carpet. The bathroom was a real bathroom—no sink and mirror against one wall, with a commode and shower in a tiny room—and it was spotless, too. The lone painting on the wall above the beds was an original of good quality, the lamps were bright enough to actually see, and the air-conditioning unit in the window lowered the temperature with no more than a quiet hum.

      Justin made sure the door was locked, then set his backpack on the nearest bed. “It must be a family room, one they normally don’t rent out.”

      The only response from Cate was the closing of the bathroom door. Grinning, he folded back the quilt on his bed, kicked off his shoes and stretched out on soft, faded sheets and comfortable pillows. Remembering the cell he’d taken from her and stuck in his pocket, he pulled it out, turned it to silent mode, then put it away again. If he didn’t keep it close, the first time he dozed off she’d try to reclaim it and make those damn phone calls she’d been talking about.

      Phone calls that should be made? She was right: they weren’t qualified to deal with kidnappers. But he knew where the data the Wallace brothers wanted was, and he couldn’t get that picture their thug had sent him out of his head. He didn’t want to wind up that way, didn’t want Trent or Susanna or even Cate to wind up that way.

      He also knew more about the brothers than Cate did. Too bad he hadn’t known more before he’d recommended Susanna’s project to them for funding.

      Cate came out of the bathroom, still wearing the same clothes, the same braid, but somehow looking fresh, as if she were just starting her day. Must be one of the benefits of being an E.R. doctor: deal with guts and blood and gore, and revive on breaks.

      She’d removed the floppy hat—definitely a plus— and buttoned her shirt. That should be a plus, but he could see through the damn thing, and somehow having that thin, gauzy fabric just barely covering the bright colors of her bikini bra and the creamy gold of her middle seemed more interesting than safe.

      She sat down on the other bed, facing him. “So.” The word sounded momentous for one short syllable. “What’s going on?”

      There was a time to BS and a time to be honest. This, it appeared, was the time for honesty. Too bad. He enjoyed BS-ing her so much more.

      He rolled into a sitting position, stuffed the pillows where bed met walls and leaned against them so he was facing her. “Okay. Do you know who Joseph and Lucas Wallace are?”

      Her nose wrinkled, drawing her mouth into a dissatisfied set, too. “Trent used to call them Mississippi’s version of the two of you. Rich, irresponsible, reckless, immature—”

      “You could have stopped after ‘you,’” he grumbled. “I got the picture. True enough. Except that the brothers inherited a chain of hotels right after college and found out they have an ability to make more money than they ever imagined. They own an interest in every top hotel or resort in the entire southern hemisphere, or so it seems.”

      “Trust-fund babies creating trust funds for their own babies. Who would have thought.”

      Her surprise honed the edge of his irritation. “You know, Trent and I don’t jet around all the time figuring ways to deplete our trust funds even faster. We do stuff, too.”

      Cate took a moment to mimic him, pushing back the quilt, sliding off her shoes, banking pillows behind her for comfort. She might wish for that warm beer or fine tequila of Tio Pablo’s, but she was truly comfortable for the first time since dawn. “What does Trent do besides help out at La Casa?”

      “‘Help out’? Is that all you think it is? He deals with all the fundraising. He brings in new money, and he updates the regular donors on what their donations are doing and keeps them happy enough to continue sending money. He does all the PR, arranges events for the girls and coordinates all the volunteers from the U.S. It’s a full-time job for which he receives a room to sleep in and free meals, as long as he does some of the cooking or the cleaning.”

      Her first thought was to argue. That sounded like a do-gooder, which Trent certainly was not. Doing good was something he did for himself, not underprivileged kids in another country.

      But he said he loved Susanna, and he said it with far more sincerity than he’d ever given Cate. People could change for love, could become better and kinder. She had to consider it was possible. Rather, she had to consider it might be permanent. She had to admit, every time she heard from him or Susanna, she expected it to be the time she heard that he’d gotten bored and said goodbye to Susanna, the school and the girls to return to his thrill-seeking, globe-trotting life. After all, he’d committed to her, and how long had it been before he’d left?

      Could Susanna be different? Could the love he claimed for her be so much more substantive than the undying love he’d pledged to Cate? Could Susanna hold him when Cate couldn’t? And would Cate mind if she did?

      “Okay,” she agreed. “Let’s say Trent has transformed into Saint Trent of La Casa para Nuestras Hijas.”

      Justin’s jaw tightened at her supposition, but she didn’t let it stop her. His jaw had tightened, his brow had furrowed or his eyes had gone hard every time she’d ever seen him. It was part of the animosity that he usually managed to cover with sarcasm, faked good humor or mocking.