“Pardon,” Jean-Luc said and looked genuinely apologetic through the blood leaking down his face. He collapsed into a chair someone had pulled up and a man wearing a Stetson—a medic, she assumed, since he carried a bag of medical supplies—pressed a compress to his nose, then flashed a penlight in his eyes. He tried to wave the medic aside, but the medic wasn’t having any of that.
“Either you let me do an exam, Jean-Luc, or I knock you out. Then I’ll know for sure you have a concussion.”
He grumbled but let the medic take his vitals without further fuss and refocused on Audrey. “Things got a little out of hand back there at the apartment, cher. For that, I am sorry.”
“It’s okay.” She felt the man with the cane’s eyes on her again but pretended not to notice. “I apologize for hitting you. And, uh, kicking you in the nose.”
“Jesus, Jean-Luc,” the man in the fedora laughed. “She beat the shit outta you.”
“Hey, Marcus, got a gift for ya.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Jean-Luc said and flashed him the middle finger, which made Marcus hoot with laughter.
“That’s enough, gentlemen.” The man with the cane, again catching himself staring at her, snapped to attention. She watched it happen, saw him yank on the reins of tightly held control.
How often did he let go of those reins? Not nearly enough, she guessed, and she had the inexplicable urge to force his hand.
As he directed his men, Audrey realized she was staring right back at him and gave herself a mental kick. Bryson was in danger. She didn’t care how intriguing and, yes, sexy the man with the cane was. He wasn’t important right now. Nobody was, except Bryson.
When he refocused on her, his eyes were like citrine, cool, calculating, but still sparking with inner fire that no amount of training or control could hide.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“I’m…” She considered giving an alias for all of a half-second, but that would only complicate matters. Given all the computer equipment in the room, her real name wouldn’t stay secret long…if they didn’t already know it. Her art show was getting a lot of press, not only in Central America, but also in the States. All they had to do was look for one of the many interviews scattered over the internet with accompanying photos of her. For the man in the corner pounding away at his laptop keyboard, she bet that would be the work of a minute.
“I’m Audrey Van Amee.”
He nodded as if she’d confirmed what he already knew, but, damn him, he didn’t introduce himself or any of the other men.
“And you are…?” she prompted.
“Looking for your brother.”
Could he be more deliberately obtuse? She jammed her hands onto her hips. “I kind of figured that, given that you were staking out his apartment. What I want to know is if you’re working for or against him.”
Please, please, please say for.
“For,” he said, without a blink of hesitation.
Audrey discovered she was holding her breath again and let it out in a soft exhale so as not to draw attention to the fact. She thought it better that she appeared confident and strong in front of these pseudo-soldiers, but what would she have done if her instincts had failed her and these were the bad guys? Her stomach jittered at the thought.
Bryson was right. She really should start thinking situations like this through before running her mouth. Then again, she’d never been in a situation like this before and was pretty much winging it.
“Who hired you?” she asked. Although the man with the cane had the bearing of a general and his friend in the camouflage pants was most definitely a soldier, they had to be mercenaries. The rest of the group was too ragtag to be official military.
When he didn’t answer, she huffed out a breath. “Do you know who took Brys?”
He ignored the question. Big surprise. She got the feeling he never answered questions not to his liking. “With all due respect, ma’am—”
“Oh, tell me you didn’t just ma’am me.”
Again, he ignored her. “You need to go back to Costa Rica. You’re just as much a target here as your brother was. Let us handle this. We’ll bring him home.”
How did he know she lived in Costa Rica? And what else did he know about her? The idea that he knew more about her than she did him doused her manufactured courage with ice and goose bumps raced over her skin. Even so, she had nothing to hide, and she sure wasn’t falling for that whole let-the-professionals-handle-it, your-brother’s-in-good-hands bit. She’d heard of too many incidences where the so-called professionals were not enough.