When he pulled out the slim cell phone tucked into the back pocket of his jeans, he watched that soft gray harden to the color of steel.
“Get out of my way,” she said tightly.
“I’m afraid not.” He punched the buttons on his phone. “And since you won’t talk to me, then we’ll just have to call someone you will talk to.” He pushed the Send button.
“No.” She stared at the phone, her eyes suddenly wide with fear. “Please don’t call the police. Please.”
“I’m out at the Witherspoon house,” Gabe said into the phone a moment later. “Get over here as soon as you can. Bring two of Reese’s best.” He paused, then said, “Yeah, I’ll explain when you get here.”
Gabe hung up the phone, watched the fear on the woman’s face turn to panic as she gauged the distance to the opposite doorway. Even without a small child, she never would have made it. When her gaze swung back to his, the look of defeat in her eyes stabbed sharply into his gut.
She didn’t want his help, that was for certain, Gabe thought with a sigh, but she sure as hell was going to get it.
Trapped.
Her heart pounding, Melanie Hart stared at her captor and fought back the dread welling up in her stomach. He was much too tall for her to outrun; those long legs of his could easily overtake her. And she’d already experienced firsthand the power and strength of his well-honed body, a body she would have greatly admired under different circumstances. He was solid muscle under his faded blue jeans and chambray shirt.
But she couldn’t let herself be caught. Couldn’t let the police find her and Kevin.
She took a step toward the doorway again, but the man moved with her, slowly shaking his head.
How could she fight him? Especially with Kevin clutching so tightly to her legs. Determination glinted in the man’s dark green gaze, and the stubborn set of his strong jaw gave her no hope. The sight of blood on his angled cheek startled her. Had she done that in their scuffle? Guilt tugged at her, but she quickly shrugged it off. She hadn’t meant to hurt him, but if necessary, she would. What choice did she have?
Lifting her chin, she drew in a slow breath to steady her nerves. “This is kidnapping,” she said with a calm that amazed herself. “You have no reason, and certainly no right, to keep me and my son here. I want you to know I intend to press charges.”
“Fair enough.” He lifted a dark brow, then gestured toward the doorway leading to the living room. “In the meantime, why don’t we go sit down? Filling out all those forms will be tiring.”
Once again she thought about running, but the futility of escape loomed as dark as the night. She’d have to find some way to distract this man, or perhaps reason with him, though that possibility appeared to lie somewhere between slim and none.
He stayed close behind as she moved out of the dining room with her son, effectively squelching any ideas she might have had about dashing out the front door as they passed through the entry at the bottom of the stairs. When they stepped into the living room, he flipped on a small brass table lamp.
The room was spacious, high beveled ceilings, tall windows, hardwood floors. A fireplace big enough to drive a Volkswagen into. Oil paintings, mostly landscapes, hung on off-white walls. Two Queen Anne chairs and a long sofa were slip-covered, tables and desks and chairs of various styles and woods completed the room. Like the rest of the house, the scent was musty and stale.
Her captor gestured for her to sit. She glared at him, then took her son’s hand and moved to the sofa.
How could she have known that Miss Witherspoon had died? She had spoken with the woman, though it had been four weeks ago, not last week. Melanie had known that the woman was elderly, but she’d sounded so fit, with too much grit and pluck to die. When she’d driven up a little while ago and discovered the house empty, Melanie had simply thought that the woman was away.
She knew that she’d made a mistake lying about Miss Witherspoon inviting her here, a big mistake. Dammit. She blinked back the threatening tears. She couldn’t afford to make mistakes.
But she was tired. So incredibly tired. And so was Kevin. After leaving California, she’d taken her time zigzagging across the country. But the trip was taking its toll on both her and Kevin, not only the traveling and moving around, but the constant worry, the fear, was mentally exhausting.
But she couldn’t stay here, especially now, with the police coming. She had no criminal record, but if she was charged with breaking and entering, then she would have one. And that might leave a trail she couldn’t afford to leave. “Look, mister—”
“Gabe.” He sat down on the arm of a Queen Anne chair. “Gabe Sinclair.”
Melanie pulled her son onto her lap. His arms came around her neck as he attempted to burrow his cheek into her chest. She brushed her lips over his mop of soft hair and rocked him. “Mr. Sinclair, you’re making a terrible mistake. My husband is an important man in Washington. He’ll be furious that you kept me here without any cause or—”
“Call him.” Gabe pulled his cell phone from his back pocket. “I’d like to speak with him.”
“It’s impossible to reach him right now.” She knew that she was digging her well of lies deeper and deeper. At this point, it hardly seemed to matter.
“You know,” Gabe said, dragging a hand through his thick, dark hair, “you should at least wear a wedding ring if you’re going to lie about being married, especially to a so-called important man. Why don’t you just relax? It shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”
Melanie sank back into the firm cushions of the sofa. She heard her son’s stomach rumble and though he hadn’t complained, she knew he was hungry. She’d been looking for something in the kitchen cupboards when she’d heard the truck pull into the gravel driveway, then seen a man approach the house. She’d barely had enough time to lock the front and back doors, hoping that he’d go away.
But after six weeks of sleeping in thin-walled, rundown motels, eating fast food and avoiding contact with people, it seemed as though her luck, along with most of her money, had finally run out.
And she had Mr. Gabe Sinclair to thank for that.
If not for him, she would have found food for her son and herself, gotten a good night’s sleep here, and been fresh enough in the morning to drive to Raina’s tomorrow. She’d be safe in Boston, at least for a few days.
Melanie glanced at the man sitting no more than eight feet from her. Arms folded across his wide chest, long legs stretched out, he watched her. She met his intense gaze, did not look away. She refused to be intimidated by him, even if he did have the upper hand.
Damn you, Gabe Sinclair, whoever the hell you are.
As if he’d read her thought, the man’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
When Kevin stirred in her arms, Melanie turned her attention to her son and laid him on the sofa beside her. He curled up like a pill bug, tucking his small hands under his cheek and closing his eyes. Her heart swelled at the sight of him, and in spite of the odds, she resolved that she would get them safely out of this situation.
The only question that remained was, how?
When the light from an approaching car flashed brightly through the front windows and swept the room, her heart slammed against her ribs. The man glanced up, then rose.
It had to be now.
She scanned the room, and her gaze fell on a statue sitting on a table beside the sofa, a lovely, foot-tall bronze of an angel praying. Under normal conditions, Melanie would never have considered what she was considering. But this situation was as far from normal as one could get.
With his attention on the front door, the man moved past her and started across the room.
Now