Assassination by local terrorists. The Rubistans definitely wanted the heat off them for that one, something that wouldn't happen if they didn't get their underground factions in control. The war on terrorism might be different from any other in history but the Rubistans knew they were skirting dangerous territory with the U.S.
"Do he and his wife have other children? What a full load that would be to take on the two young brothers, as well."
"No. They don't have any other kids." And never would due to his wife's medical condition, but that was more information than Miss Nosey needed. "Why are you so curious?"
"Just making conversation."
Chitchat? Well, hell. If her sister could try, so would she. Besides, she'd lose her mind in the next three hours, anyway, if she didn't stay occupied. For once the pesky little sister in front of her actually posed a welcome disturbance since she needed watching, anyway.
Monica waved a hand. "Follow me."
"Why?"
"I can't help you with the bra situation, but I've got some extra toiletries if you're short."
Her sister's shock almost made Monica laugh— if it wasn't so sad since she and Sydney shared everything.
"Come on," Monica ordered, bossy-big-sister authority coming in handy for once.
Up the stairs and two rooms down, Monica stopped in front of her quarters all the while trying to keep her eyes off Jack's door a few steps farther. Yasmine stood to the side, ill-disguised suspicion stamped on her brow. Monica swung the door open. "Come on in. I'm not going to put green dye in your shampoo."
Yasmine inched inside the room. Monica brushed past to her bag while her baby sister stood in the middle of the room, so still except for the slow move of her head as she looked around the converted office.
Riffling through her stacks of clothes, Monica snagged the empty Ziploc left over from sealing up her conditioner and carried it with her. She stuffed a handful of cotton balls and a tube of cherry Chap Stick inside. Digging for an extra pair of socks, her fingers brushed a box.
Of condoms.
Hell. No real need to pack them, but being the responsible one in the family was tough to shake. Given the way Yasmine was chasing Colonel Cullen, a few of those square packets might be wise. The last thing she needed was a pregnant sister on her hands.
Monica slid a handful inside before crossing into the cubicle bathroom. From the counter she plucked duplicate minibottles and dropped them into the bag.
Yasmine hovered in the open bathroom doorway. "This is very nice of you."
"It's a tube of Crest and some travel shampoo. No big deal."
"I mean nice that you thought of it." Yasmine leaned on the doorframe.
Monica's hands hesitated over an extra travel toothbrush. She always brought two in case she forgot one in the packing and unpacking from various stopovers.
Of course she never forgot.
She dropped the toothbrush inside. "You can return the favor for somebody else one day."
Monica reached for an extra comb, her eyes meeting Yasmine's in the mirror, the two sister faces framed together like the annual sibling photos their mother insisted on.
But with one face painfully absent.
For three silent seconds Monica considered confronting Yasmine, demanding to know whether she had any clue about their sister's kidnapping. Or even to try a few subtle questions...
The temptation was strong to reassure herself that Yasmine was being honest. Logic was stronger. She couldn't afford to risk tipping Yasmine off about the rescue effort just because of a personal need for reassurance her baby sister wasn't a monster.
Yasmine cocked her head to the side. "Our mother always kept a school picture of yours," she said, her mind obviously traveling the same path. "Mother would place a new one in the frame each year. My father did not like that much. But she insisted. Just as with the visits every year."
And she was supposed to be grateful for this?
Monica pinched the Ziploc closed airtight on the first try, one of the many skills she'd picked up early keeping house on her own so people wouldn't talk about those poor motherless Hyatt girls and their trampy mother who'd run off with an oil sheik. "My relationship—" or lack thereof "—with my mother isn't your concern. In fact, it's a moot point now, anyway."
Her sister stared back silently without wincing, then continued as if Monica hadn't even spoken. "She especially liked that photo of you in the pageant. She showed everyone her beautiful daughter."