Desire Unmatched: 4 (Coded for Love) (5 page)

His gaze shifted to the window and he judged it to be around
4:00 given where the light was hitting the glass. A little while longer until
it was go-time. Only the sound of footsteps outside his door had his muscles
tightening. He crouched on his sock-clad feet, slipped a little then tore the
socks off, sticking them in his pocket along with the handkerchief. The belt he
held tightly in one fist, ready for anything.

The second the door cracked open, Xander grabbed the wrist
holding the plate of his food and twisted. The plate shattered and a howl
emerged from the wrist’s owner.

“Shut up,” Xander said, “or I’ll break every finger on your
hand.” He planned on doing it anyway, but he needed leverage or every occupant
of the house would come running to rescue his guard.

Xander twisted hard, contorting the limb into something
useless. It felt good to be inflicting the pain. The long days of anger at his
forced captivity burst out of him in a rush and he battered the guard’s arm,
dragging him closer and closer to the door until he could reach his arms
through and grab the man’s torso.

In a swift, violent move, he snapped the leather belt
through the opening, then around the man’s neck. With his airway mostly cut
off, he couldn’t call for help.

“Open. The. Door,” Xander said against the man’s scalp.

No answer. He knew he had roughly four minutes to keep his
tight hold on the belt. The thousands of sit-ups and push-ups he’d done during
his incarceration had kept his strength up, but without proper nutrition for
the last month he was weaker than he’d ever been.

Now that he was this close to the exit with his eye to the
narrow opening, he could see the chain bolted from the door to a metal bracket
on the floor opposite. The chain was taut, granting the door enough give to
allow them to stick a small plate of food inside, but not enough for a man to
squeeze through the opening.

Crap, he was going to have to kick the door down in his bare
feet. This was why his terrorist captors had been sanguine about not tying him
up. They knew it was going to be damn hard, if not impossible, to get out of
the room even with no guard sitting outside.

When he’d counted to two hundred in his head, he released
his grip on the belt and the guard slid to the floor. Unconscious or dead. He
didn’t know and didn’t care. Cursing the shaky feeling in his forearms, he
examined the chain. The door would be the weakest link, given the chain was two
inches thick and bolted into a heavy plate on the floor three feet outside the
door.

The easiest thing would be to tug the door, hoping the
screws attaching the chain to the door would yank off. Unfortunately, that
method would be noisy, and he didn’t know who else was in the house. For all he
knew, there was a camera outside the room watching and another guard would be
on him in a second.

Still, with Paulson dead, it was the closest he’d come to
escape, and likely the closest he would ever come. He looped the belt over the
chain as close to where it was screwed into the door as possible.

One tug told him it was a Herculean task. Another tug gave
him hope. It wasn’t his imagination. The plate on the wood with the chain felt
looser. The bitch of it was every time he pulled down on the belt, his arms got
wedged in the doorway. It also meant he was blind to anything coming
downstairs.

It was a chance he’d have to take.

It seemed like forever, though he knew it was only minutes
before the bolts were loosened enough for him to snap off the chain, leaving a
splintered wooden mess behind. Slowly he pushed his way to freedom, having to
push the guard along with the door. With the leather of the belt wrapped three
times around his palm and fist with the metal buckle over his knuckles, he
ventured out of his tiny room. He eyed his stolen boots on the guard’s feet
with longing, but the unmistakable sound of a door closing from above followed
by silence was too great an opportunity.

No easy back exit graced the tiny basement space. That
would’ve been too amazing to hope for. He’d have to head up the narrow
staircase, which made a ninety-degree turn after five steps. He paused near the
top, listening for anything, but heard nothing.

He treaded lightly onto the top step, emerging from the
narrow stairwell and scanning the next room for any danger. The sight that
greeted him saved his life, he’d realize later. For now, it was hard to know
who was more shocked—him trying to escape with his life, or the urbane guard
who was on his ass in the center of a burgundy velvet couch with his trousers
crushed around his ankles.

Xander only caught a glimpse of a very young woman with
sleek brown hair covering the entire expanse of her bare back riding the guard
like he was a pony at the circus.

Arabic words flew at him, but he knew when he was unwanted
and sprinted toward the front entrance while the naked woman was dumped with a
thud onto the expensive-looking rug. The only advantage he had was that the
other man had to take the time to tug on his pants, but that was only an
advantage of seconds, not the minutes he needed to get lost in the city.

He burst out into fresh air, finding himself on a near-empty
street. At this time of evening the bakery and any other shops on the street
were closed. He heard more Arabic shouted and the pounding footsteps of the
guard gaining on him, having the advantage of real shoes and knowledge of the
neighborhood.

Without looking behind him, Xander took off, sprinting up
the sidewalk, hoping the steep incline of the road would help him lose his
pursuer. Wait a second, if this was Marseille as he’d assumed, he needed to be
heading downhill toward the water. There’d be a greater chance of crowds. And
he needed a crowd in which to get lost. One of the few things he knew about
Marseille was that it was the Middle East of France. He’d likely get little
sympathy or assistance from the locals in this neighborhood. He needed to find
the touristy area with Americans.

He made a right at the first intersection, breathing hard
but still gamely pumping his legs. As he turned, he dared a glance back and saw
his pursuer running and talking on a cell phone. Shit. Backup was coming.

Luckily the street he turned onto seemed to be a major
thoroughfare. He dodged right to avoid crashing into a couple walking their
dog. A leap took him over the leash and he kept going. Up ahead he spotted
several diners sipping coffee and eating at an outdoor sidewalk café.
Please
let one of them be of the stupid variety of people who like to set their cell
phone on the table while they eat.

He slowed his sprint a fraction to scan for phones. Shit.
Nothing.

His captor took advantage to shout something in French. The
adrenaline and wind rushing past his ears didn’t let him catch every word, but
enough to understand that he was being accused of being a thief and should be
stopped.

He kept running, but the crazy thought occurred to him that
maybe he should let himself be caught by the French gendarmes. He’d be in
French custody then, but it’d be a hell of a lot better than an illegal
terrorist cell. He could call Shep. Hell, he could call the ambassador.

No. He needed to keep running. After four heart-pounding
blocks, all downhill with him picking up speed until he knew he’d end up in the
water if he and a car didn’t collide. The population of the street grew denser
and he was now sprinting and dodging left and right to avoid crashing into
another pedestrian.

Several annoyed shouts followed him as he ran through the
crowds, looking for a way out or a cell phone to grab. Finally he reached what
was clearly the tourist destination of the large French city. Café after café
lined the right side of the street, water splashed up against a retaining wall
on the left, which opened into a wide bay. The weather was cool, so the summer
crowds of diners at the restaurants was lacking, but there were enough people
to give him good pickings.

Xander slowed to a jog to make it look as though he were
simply a fitness buff out for exercise on the cool, fall night. His pursuer was
somewhere behind him, but had fallen back until he couldn’t hear his shouts or
feel him practically breathing on the back of his neck.

He veered to the right toward a cluster of red tabletop
umbrellas hovered together like a sea of red cloth turtles. Pairs of diners sat
at tables chatting, drinking or smoking. From the corner of his eye, the
familiar glint of a ubiquitous cell phone lay enticingly on the edge of an
outside table.

Candy from a baby, he thought as he ran by, picking up speed
and lowering a hand to swipe the phone as he ran past. The diners had no
reaction at first, and then vitriol burst forth like lava from a volcano.

“Hey! Our phone!”

“That dude stole our phone!”

Their accusations flew at him and bounced off his back as he
kept running, turning onto a side street so he could slow down and dial.

He was grateful for the English he’d heard from the true
owners of his acquisition. Americans. Which meant their calling plan would
include talk time stateside. He ducked into a doorway in a narrow alley and
leaned back as his trembling fingers dialed the number every Program soldier was
forced to memorize, but prayed they never had to use.

Shep answered on the first ring.

“It’s Xander. Get me home.”

Emma spooned some frozen yogurt into her mouth and grinned
around the table at the loud flock of her new friends. She didn’t know
everyone’s names yet, but if felt good to be back at the center of a group of
people her own age. Everyone at the Program was nice and did their best to make
her feel welcome, but she didn’t fully fit in there.

The residents on campus who were nearest to her in age were
soldiers busy with their training. She suspected they would’ve made time to
meet her, but the rumor of her being Xander’s match had circulated and with
Xander missing, not a single unmatched soldier would come near her. She guessed
she understood the respect, but it was lonely and disconcerting to have groups
of handsome young men nod at her and keep walking when they saw her.

Spending time with Kayla’s crowd on campus was balm to her
chafed soul. The boys here flirted with her, talked to her and appreciated her.
She needed it.

“What is the point of pretending you’re eating a healthy
snack if you’ve drowned your yogurt in chocolate?” one of the boys asked now,
practically poking a finger into her cup of creamy goodness.

“He doesn’t get it, does he?” she asked Kayla, who was also
spooning up her own concoction of chocolate yogurt, liberally sprinkled with
M&Ms.

“Nope. He doesn’t.” Kayla stood from the rounded bench that
curved around a circular table and struck a sexy pose. “Does it look like I
need to worry about my diet?”

The boys all looked on admiringly while the girls laughed,
likely with a twinge of jealousy. It was true Kayla seemed to eat whatever she
wanted all while maintaining her fabulous figure. Emma had never worried much
about her weight, but next to Kayla, she figured she could lose a few pounds or
hit the gym. God knew she had access to a good one.

“No tits,” a guy next to her said in a low voice.

“What?” She turned to him slightly open-mouthed he’d said
something like that about her friend.

“Nothing,” he muttered, a slight flush climbing his cheeks
to his light-blond hair. He was cute, in a baby-faced way. He almost looked
like her younger brother. What was his name again? Eric.

“No, I heard you,” Emma whispered back. “You think Kayla is
too skinny.”

He shifted on the round bench where they were squished
together to hold the nine people in a space designed for six. “I like curves
better is all.” He boldly looked from her face to her blouse.

She didn’t know whether to be flattered in a totally
harassed sort of way or push him off the bench onto the concrete below. She
settled for staring at him with a slightly curled upper lip, then taking a bite
of yogurt. She nearly flipped the spoon in her mouth to let him see every movement
of her tongue.

They held eye contact for another minute before a shout from
Kayla took their attention off each other. Eric was exactly the kind of guy she
should be dating. Close to her age with nothing more on his mind than a job
after college, and tits, apparently. But then, what guy didn’t have that on his
mind?

She looked away, swallowing over a sudden lump in her
throat. She was a horrible person. She was considering flirting with another
boy while her match was a prisoner. Not to mention she was playing a dangerous
game. Poor Eric had no idea where she lived and that she was matched to one of
the Program soldiers featured in the news almost daily now, thanks to their
Congressional hearings. If Xander knew she was flirting with another boy, he’d
go ballistic.

With a sudden frown, she remembered she hadn’t checked her
phone in a while. Leaving her yogurt cup on the table, she dug a gentle elbow
into her seat partners and reached to the ground below to grab her phone out of
her bag. There was a new text.

Xander is safe. Come home.

“Emma, are you okay?”

She blinked and looked from her phone’s tiny screen to the
circle of faces staring at her, looking concerned. “Emma?” Kayla’s voice
reached out again.

She stood, maneuvering her way out of the tight group. “I
have to go.” Without a backward glance, she started for the parking garage. She
heard some goodbyes called behind her and footsteps coming closer, but her
brain was only focused on one thing. They’d found Xander. He was safe.

“Emma. Slow down,” Kayla called from behind. “I’ll walk you
to your car.”

Unwillingly, she forced her legs to stop their pace into a
stroll to let Kayla catch up. “I’m fine,” she said to her friend. “Go back to
everyone else.”

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Kayla said. Her eyes
narrowed. “I’ve heard that expression a million times before, but now I
understand what it really looks like. You.”

“I’m fine,” she said again. There was nothing else to say
without explaining everything.

“Does this have something to do with your mysterious life?”

“What are you talking about?” The shadow of a large tree on
campus threw them into a cold spot and she tightened her light sweater, wishing
she’d worn an autumn coat.

“Your mysterious life,” Kayla repeated. “Like why the caller
ID from your cell is always unknown. Or why we can never visit your apartment
and you’re vague about how far off campus it is.”

Emma took a step back from her friend, who stood looking at
her curiously. She didn’t have time for explanations. She needed to get back to
campus. She glanced again at her phone and saw the text had come in five
minutes ago. She had no time to explain to Kayla, but Lord knew she needed a
friend at this moment. Loren was good and all, but she was engaged to Xander’s
best friend. Not exactly a neutral ear. She needed someone who had her back.
Maybe Kayla could be that person.

Hooking her arm into Kayla’s, she headed toward the parking
structure, trying to determine where to start.

“Emma?” Kayla walked next to her, waiting.

“Hold on, I’m trying to organize my thoughts. It’s
complicated.” She took a moment, glancing back at the hub of the nearby
university campus where fellow students wandered in pairs or groups with
backpacks in tow. Finally she turned to face Kayla. “I’m kind of
with
someone.”

Kayla scrunched her nose and a furrow appeared between her
eyes. “Why is having a boyfriend a big secret? Is he not a student here?”

She shook her head. “He’s a soldier.”

Kayla brightened. “Oh that’s not such a big deal.”

She put a restraining hand on Kayla’s forearm. “Xander isn’t
a regular soldier. He’s a member of the Program.” She paused, waiting for her
meaning to register with Kayla. She knew the moment it did, for her friend’s
eyes grew round and Kayla’s hand gripped hers.

“Oh my God. Is that why you were upset in class that day?
Were you uncomfortable we were talking about them like they were lab rats?”

“No, I was sad. Because Xander…” She took another breath,
willing the tears down. “Xander went missing during an operation a few weeks
ago. They finally found him. That’s the text I got.”

Kayla leaned forward. “His name is Xander? Your boyf—no,
your match, isn’t that what they’re calling it?”

She nodded. “He’s my match, but we’re not really together.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a long story, and I don’t really understand it all.
But even if we’re not together, I have to get back to the campus because he
might need me.”

“And you’re worried about him,” Kayla said with a flash of
understanding. “You love him.”

“No!” She pulled her hand out of Kayla’s grasp and sped up
her pace. “No, I don’t really know him very well.” Her words sounded as if they
were weak denials, even to her ears.

Emma paused her rapid steps for a moment. “Look, I really
have to go. I promise I’ll call you later if I can, but I have to go. Please
don’t tell anyone. I’ll tell them later but I’m not ready to have everyone
looking at me like I’m a freak.”

Kayla nodded at her, apparently trying to process all she’d
learned about her new friend. Emma practically started to sprint toward her
car, torn in knots she’d shared the truth about her situation, but already
feeling lighter knowing she wouldn’t have to lie anymore.

Fifteen minutes later, as she sped into the underground
garage of the Program, she heard a text beep on her phone.

Ur not a freak. Hope X is OK. -K

She smiled at the text, trusting Kayla to keep her secret,
then raced out of the car and off to find her match.

* * * * *

Well, that was new. Xander blinked at his stolen cell phone
for a minute, wondering about Shep’s orders. Things sure had changed in the
weeks since he’d been kidnapped. Shep had told him to head to the American
consulate. Christ, what a summer. In June, no one in the world knew about the
Program. By fall, they were working openly with the diplomatic system.

Shaking his head, he keyed in
Place Varian Fry
to the
phone and studied the resulting map and the red dot of where he was now.
Memorizing the shortest distance there, he placed the stolen cell phone on the
narrow step of the doorway where he stood in the alley.

No doubt the American couple he’d stolen it from had already
gone to the gendarmes and were tracing the phone now. They’d easily track where
he was heading based on his search history, which meant he likely had a
fifteen-minute jog to accomplish in what, according to the mapping system,
should take twenty.

Damn, he wished he’d taken the time to get his boots back on
his feet. Without medication and a proper diet, he hadn’t fully healed from his
torture and his soles were starting to protest the hardness of Marseille’s
rough ancient streets.

Swallowing a groan and ignoring his father’s voice in his
head that said complaining was for losers, he forced his legs back into a
semblance of a jog toward the embassy. The sun had fully set at this point and
the streets were shutting down for the evening. Lights in the storefronts at
street level were off and the glow of televisions or lamps shone through the
windows on the higher floors.

Every step he took jolted the bruises on the bottom of his
feet, sending pain up his calves. He tried to ignore the sting, but soon his
jog had slowed to a brisk walk. A walk he could handle as it caused less of a
jarring impact on his feet, protected only by socks.

Man, he’d gone soft since he’d been out from under his
father’s thumb for the past few weeks. When he was a kid, his father would’ve
hammered nails in his feet and made him run a marathon to prep him for this
situation. Luckily the idea had never occurred to Dad.

He passed one street, scanning the corners of buildings for
the names. What was with European cities and their lack of proper street signs?
He’d give anything for a reflective green sign firmly affixed to a metal pole
about now. He doubled back and made a right turn on the proper street and
estimated he had another mile or two to go. He hiked up a few more streets,
feeling the incline away from the water, so he knew he was moving in the right
direction.

As he walked a misting rain started to fall. At first it
felt great. He hadn’t had a shower in weeks, but soon the fall chill combined
with the dampness penetrated his thin shirt.

He wrapped his arms around his torso and cursed as he eyed a
black-and-white sign on the corner of an ancient-looking building, checking if
this was
Cours Pierre Puget.
Given the sudden widening of the street and
the upscale shift in architecture, he knew he was heading in the right
direction. Off in the distance, he could see what looked like a Metro station.
His heart beat faster as he picked up speed, knowing he was close.

He turned by a large round stone fountain and headed up the
thickly tree-lined street, which helped keep the rain off him.

And then suddenly he was there. He turned left at the small
concrete courtyard setting the consulate off the street and rang the buzzer at
the black wrought-iron gate with signs in both English and French.

He didn’t have long to wait. A rotund gentleman in his
fifties holding a large black umbrella overhead came to the gate and unlocked
it with a key.

“Mr. Bristack? We’ve been expecting you.” The gate swung open
and Xander remained planted outside it, not sure he could trust a government
representative.

“Come in. Come in,” the man said and gestured impatiently
with his free hand. “I got a call from some very senior people during a dinner
party and was told to come here straight away, don’t waste my time now.”

Impatience and annoyance, he understood. He stepped onto the
official compound, feeling the echo of the gate clanging shut in his bones. For
better or worse, he was officially found now. Let the fun and games begin.

* * * * *

“Where is he?” Emma burst into the main office’s conference
room and scanned the room, half expecting Xander to be in his usual corner with
his arms crossed around his chest. He wasn’t.

Shep and a few other soldiers looked up as she filled the
space in front of the doorway. They were huddled around a laptop and Shep had a
phone handset to his ear. He held the speaker side to his chest. “He’s en
route, Emma. It’s a waiting game now.”

“But he’s all right?” She stepped farther into the room and
placed a hand on the back of one of the rolling chairs circled around the large
laminate table.

Shep put the receiver back to his ear and pointed from Adam
to her, which she guessed meant Adam was supposed to give her information. Or
kick her out of the room. Adam obviously understood Shep’s silent signals, for
he stood and came around the table to talk.

She tried not to shrug off his large hand when he gently
placed it on her shoulder as he explained Xander had freed himself and was
already flying home from France on a private government plane heading to New
York. Shep was on the phone organizing his flight from New York down to
Baltimore.