Free In the Enemy's Arms by Marilyn Pappano Page A

for flights. Her muscles taut, her stomach acidic, she stood to stretch her legs, walking back and forth the length of the room. She wasn’t used to being cooped up. At work she spent most of her shift on her feet, and with more people than she had ever wanted to see in a twelve-hour span.
    She wasn’t used to being scared, either. She was accustomed to worrying about Trent, though she’d gotten out of the habit since he’d met Susanna.
    Since Justin had introduced him to Susanna.
    “All right, we’re on the 11:00 a.m. flight for tomorrow. You have anything in particular in mind for this?”
    She turned to give him her friendliest smile and thickened her accent until it was heavy and sweet as honey. “‘Hey there. My husband and I have just moved in down the street, and the neighbor said you have a daughter the same age as our little Lily, so I just wanted to come by and introduce myself and see if we could set up a play date. It’s so hard for her, moving to a new neighborhood, you know.’”
    Justin grinned and—who would have believed it?—it was charming. “Lily, huh?”
    “‘It’s an old name in his family. I’m just grateful it wasn’t Zinnia or Peony.’” She dropped the accent and picked up a bottle of water from the tray, twisting the cap off. “I assume the files are with Garcia.” She also assumed Garcia was a woman. Justin just wasn’t the type to say I love you to a male buddy. He and Trent had been best friends for years, and moron was about the fondest thing either of them said to the other. So when he called her a buddy, what exactly did that mean? Girlfriend, wannabe girlfriend, potential girlfriend, ex-girlfriend?
    It didn’t matter.
    “Yeah, we’ll swing by her place to pick up the flash drive in case we need it to try to make a trade.”
    It really didn’t matter.
    “Where is her place?”
    “Jackson, Mississippi.”
    Cate could picture her: tall, willowy, blond—that was Justin’s type. It had also been Trent’s type before and after—and apparently even while he was with—her. She’d often wondered on lonely nights when Trent was elsewhere if coloring her hair would help keep him home more often. If she should work out enough to at least build muscles if she couldn’t have curves. If she should dress better, wear more makeup, dumb down her conversation. But no matter what she did on the outside, she would never be tall, willowy or blond on the inside, so she’d stayed the drab little mouse and Trent had strayed further and further until their marriage was nothing but a sad joke.
    Deliberately, she turned her thoughts to planning as she paced. Once they reached Atlanta, she would have to be the one to approach the parents. Justin was drop-dead gorgeous and prince of a powerful Southern family—just a tad memorable. She, on the other hand, was as everyday normal as they came. Ten minutes after talking to her, a stranger would have trouble recalling what color her hair was or whether she’d had an accent.
    A queasy knot began forming in her gut. It always preceded major events—exams, the first time she’d ever examined a patient under the watchful eyes of her most difficult attending, the first emergency she’d handled, every true emergency, when the patient’s life depended on her skills, calm and experience.
    Her personal life wasn’t exempt, either. She’d found no enjoyment in the ultra-fabulous dinner at the wedding rehearsal because of the elephants dancing in her stomach, and Justin’s comment hadn’t helped. The wedding was a blur of emotional highs underscored by dread. She didn’t know if anyone else had seen it, but in their wedding portraits, there was a distinct hint of panic in her eyes.
    Panic that was gaining a foothold in her stomach now.
    “I have a couple of friends in Copper Lake who are cops.” She hardly recognized her own voice for the breathiness. “And one of Trent’s cousins is a GBI agent. We could talk to them, ask them to help,