“They get rid of the case, and then it will look like any other smartphone. I’m the only one who can be sure.”
He looked at her in frustration. They’d been able to download most of the intel from the phone the night before, but the information still remained intact on the device itself. They couldn’t allow it to get into the wrong hands.
“I don’t trust you not to hurt Soledad.” Her voice was barely audible, blurred as it was with tears and hatred.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’d only hold me back.”
“If you want Soledad and the phone you’ll need me with you. I’m the only one who can recognize his phone—it’ll look like a hundred others to you. Besides, you’re not going to do a thing to save Soledad unless I make you.”
“Who says she needs saving?”
“I do. And I’m not going to let my brother be sentenced to execution without anyone speaking for him.”
“And you’re such a great judge of character,” he said, sarcastic. “Believe it or not I don’t shoot everyone who gets in my way. Your brother can rot in jail, just as he deserves. They don’t treat child molesters very well in prison, and your brother’s one step lower. He’s a child pimp, and he deserves everything he gets.” He headed for the door. “You can lie there and feel sorry for yourself for half an hour and no more. I could have done a lot worse. In a couple of days you’ll be fine.” Physically, it would be sooner than that—he knew exactly how much pressure to exert. Emotionally, it could take her a lot longer.
She slowly began to uncurl, and she was pulling herself back together, he realized with amazement. There was nothing she could do about her tear-streaked face, but the expression on it was cold and furious. “I won’t help you destroy my brother.”
“Your brother destroyed himself and you know it. And this isn’t a democracy. If you want to come with me to find Soledad, then I won’t stop you, but you’re in for a rude awakening. Soledad’s as dirty as your brother, and you’re just too naïve to see it.”
“She isn’t!”
“I’ll let you come because you’re right—only you can identify the cell phone. You’re the one who believes so strongly in Soledad’s innocence—if it were up to me she could rot in Calliveria.”
“You think that’s where she is?”
“I have no doubt, but I’ll have proof within the hour. If you’re coming with me, then you have half an hour to get ready or I’ll knock you out and carry you on board the plane. Don’t make me do that—I don’t happen to like hurting you.”
Her derisive laugh wasn’t quite tear-free, but it was impressive anyway. “Don’t you think the flight attendants might notice?”
“Who says we’re going on a commercial flight?” He shut the door quietly behind him. He could give her privacy to pull herself together—that was about all he could offer her. He could tell himself she’d survived the abuse a lot better than he would have guessed—she was already fighting back. It didn’t help.
He headed down the stairs, refusing to glance at his reflection in a huge mirror on the landing. There were times when you couldn’t look yourself in the eye, Ryder thought, and this was definitely one of them.
Jenny was freezing. She sat up on the bed, cradling her left arm with her right, trying to fight back the tears as her body shook. He’d kept telling her she was in shock yesterday. This was a lot closer to it.
How could he . . . No, she wasn’t going to think about it. If she took slow, deep breaths, the lingering pain was bearable, and while her throat hurt from his grip, she wasn’t going to give in. She needed to get out of here, away from him, away from a man who could do such a thing, could hurt her, could hurt someone he’d just kissed the night before. The sick bastard probably enjoyed it.
But then memory flooded her. He hadn’t enjoyed it sexually—there’d been no hint of arousal in his flat, dark eyes or his body. He’d hurt her because he’d told himself he had to do it. And if he ever came near her again she would kill him with her bare hands.
She drew her knees up and pressed her forehead against them, letting the shudders wrack through her body. No one had hit her in over twenty years, when her mother put a stop to her father’s lessons in corporal punishment. Her father’s belt was probably worse than what Ryder had just done to her, she thought, trying to lift her arm. Pain seared through it, and she dropped it back down. Maybe not. Maybe he was even more of a monster than her father was. He was certainly more dangerous.
Would she have told him the truth any other way? Probably not. It didn’t matter—he’d forced her to betray the one member of her family she still cared for. Her two older brothers were so deeply involved in their criminal lifestyle that they were practically strangers—they had no interest or time for the honest changeling in the Gauthier family, just as she had no interest in them. The less she knew about them, the better.
But her father had sent her to save Billy, and everything had gone to hell since then.
She took a deep, shaky breath, letting out the stress and tension, and realized in some small, dark way she was almost relieved that it was out in the open. She wasn’t made for lying, and now she wouldn’t have to worry about a slip of the tongue.
No, all she had to worry about was Matthew Ryder putting a bullet between Billy’s eyes if he should find him.
But if they were going to Calliveria, he’d be safe. Billy didn’t do third-world countries, and right now he’d be in Paris or Barcelona, conveniently forgetting everything he’d done or that his foolish sister had done for him.
Slowly she dragged herself off the bed, then glanced down at her arm. She was still wearing one of his flannel shirts, and she yanked it off her like it was made with poisoned nettles, dumping it on the floor.
She wasn’t a redhead, despite what Ryder had said a lifetime ago, but she had pale skin, golden freckles around her brown eyes, and the tendency to bruise if someone even looked at her hard. The marks were starting to show on her arm, and she was tempted to walk around flashing those bruises, just to make him feel guilty. But Matthew Ryder wouldn’t feel guilt—he did what he had to do, and the last thing she wanted was for other people to know what he’d done to her, alone in his bedroom.
He was a monster, and she hated him with the fiery passion of a thousand suns. Somehow, some way, she would pay him back for hurting her. He would have done the same with poor Soledad if he’d had the excuse, and Soledad had already been through too much brutality. At least Jenny was able to survive such punishment without turning into a basket case.
There was a mirror in the bathroom, and she walked in, checking out her reflection. The stain of tears was still on her face, so she splashed it with cold water, then looked back. A grim, satisfied smile curved her mouth. A few minutes ago she’d felt defeated, lost, shocked. Now she looked pissed as well. Her eyes were defiant, swimming with tears, her mouth stubborn, and if Matthew Ryder had any sense at all he’d be extremely wary around her. One thing was certain—he was never laying a finger on her again.