Donna Sterling - Wife By Deception

After latching the purse closed, he tossed it behind the seats, where they’d stored her luggage. Kate gave silent thanks that he hadn’t examined her identification cards and unmasked her as an imposter. He probably would have dropped her off on the side of the road, leaving her no means of tracking Arianne. Unless, of course, she caught the license-plate number of the van—a feat she hadn’t managed when he’d hurried her into the vehicle. But even a tag number didn’t assure success of tracking down a determined person. For all she knew, the van could be stolen, or rented under a false name.

She made a mental note, though, to check the tag number at the first chance, as well as dispose of her identification cards, if those opportunities ever arose.

Her captor leaned forward and folded down the seat in front of them into a low bench. He then lounged back in his seat, extended his long legs across the bench and rested his arm along the back of her seat. The pose brought him even closer to her, while his vivid green gaze locked with hers. “So, tell me…why did you run with Arianne? And what have you been doing since you left? I’d like to know what kind of life my daughter has been leading.”

Although he spoke softly, there was no mistaking his anger. Would something she’d say provoke him to violence? Her fear intensified. She was afraid to answer, yet afraid to remain silent.

Her drumming pulse and sweating palms brought back memories of childhood terror: late-night visits at the girls’ dorm from a staff member in the children’s home who talked gently, then lashed out with his belt…brutally, repeatedly, in a frenzied rage. He’d been fired when the girls had built up the collective nerve to report him—and he’d never applied that horrifying strap to Kate or Camryn—but the fear itself had scarred them both.

Kate would always be wary of quiet-talking, angry men.

“Well?” His tawny brows drew together in an impatient frown. “What have you been doing with Arianne?”

The very depth of her fear tripped some internal switch of Kate’s. Imprisoned though she was, she wouldn’t give in to the terror. She had to fight as she always had—by keeping in mind who she was and where she intended to go in life. She was no longer a helpless, parentless child in a world controlled by strangers, but a respected member of her community, a well-esteemed educator, whose word in court would carry considerable weight. She would fight her fear by keeping her wits about her, by using those wits against her captor until she knew enough about him to be sure of finding Arianne.

Straightening her spine, she gazed at him in her most quelling manner, the one that set wayward students to stuttering. “First you tell me…where have you sent Arianne?”

He stared at her in some surprise. Had he frightened Camryn so badly that she’d stopped talking back to him? Afraid that it might be so, Kate braced herself for a physical blow.

“You don’t need to know where she is,” he finally replied, his tone curt now rather than soft.

“Then you don’t need to know where she’s been.”

A muscle flexed in his lean jaw, but he remained exactly as he’d been, in a deceptively casual pose with his arm resting on the back of her seat. The silence spun out into a long, tense standoff.

“If you really care about her, though,” Kate added, “you do need to be aware of her dietary requirements.”

“Dietary requirements?” he repeated in blank amazement, as if he’d never heard the term but found it fascinating.

“It means there are certain foods she can’t—”

“I know what it means. I’m just surprised you do.” His eyes had narrowed on her in a searching look that told her he hadn’t meant the retort as an insult; he clearly was surprised that she’d used the term.

She saw then what she’d missed before—the keen intelligence in his eyes. Its magnitude startled her. She’d assumed that he, like the other men in Camryn’s life, had more brawn than brains.

He was absolutely right. Camryn wouldn’t have worded the concept quite that way. In fact, she probably wouldn’t have given the subject itself more than a passing thought.

Kate compressed her lips in self-annoyance. To succeed in this impersonation, she’d have to stay in character. “I’m just telling you what the doctor said. Arianne has digestive prob—uh, stomachaches when she eats the wrong foods. It took a while, but we figured out the ones she can and can’t eat.”

“Like what?”

At least he’d bought the explanation, it seemed. Which had, after all, been true. Now she had to concentrate on finding clues to who was keeping the baby. Anxiety over Arianne’s welfare clawed at her insides. “I’d rather talk to whoever is taking care of her.”

“You’ll speak to me. No one else.”

She shrugged, glanced away and adopted Camryn’s most vacuous look. She hoped he couldn’t detect the concern radiating from her heart like solar power.

“What can’t she eat, Camryn?” Annoyance resounded in his deep, gruff voice.

She pursed her lips in the provocative way Camryn would to signify a secret she was keeping.

His jaw shifted; his gaze hardened. Perhaps he did care about Arianne, in his own twisted way. He probably viewed her as a prized possession—a trophy in his war with Camryn.

Kate wondered if he would resort to violence now. She’d sensed his temper rising.

After a long, disgruntled stare, though, he drew a cell phone from his pocket and punched in a number. His tone, when he spoke, was brusque. “How is she?”

Kate watched as he listened, her heart picking up speed. She desperately wanted to know the answer to that question. His rugged, angular face gave nothing away. She envisioned gangsterlike characters dealing with her sweet, frightened baby. She prayed that they’d be gentle. Caring. Competent…please, God…

“Have you fed her yet?” he asked into the phone.

Kate strained to hear the reply. She thought she heard peals of distress. Like a baby crying…Mama-Mama!

Her restraint broke, and she turned to Mitch imploringly. “Please bring her to me! She won’t understand why I’m not there. Seeing only strangers will scare her.”

“You’re not getting your hands on her again.”

“You don’t really care about her at all, do you? If she’s given milk-based formula, she’ll get sick. She’ll be in misery all night.”

“Don’t give her milk,” he uttered into the phone.

“Soy-based formula,” she stressed, and emphatically named a particular brand. “And no baby foods with spices, preservatives or added sugar. I feed her only fresh fruits and vegetables that I puree myself.” Her throat cramped; her eyes misted. “She likes sweet potatoes, and…c-carrots.” Turning her face away from him, she croaked in a half whisper, “And pears.”

Determinedly she fought against the tears. She would not cry in front of him.

“Sweet potatoes, carrots and pears,” he repeated into the phone. “And fix ’em yourself. You know—with a blender.” After a moment, he continued, “Of course you’ll have to wait till you get home to do that. Until then, give her soy formula and, uh, crackers or something. Without salt or preservatives. I’m counting on you, Joey.”

Joey. Mitch’s accomplice was named Joey. Whoever he was, she couldn’t imagine him caring for the baby with the same nurturing tenderness that she herself would. She hated to imagine anything less. Anguished, she stared out the window at the blur of roadside forest whizzing by.

After he’d ended his conversation with the mysterious Joey, Mitch muttered, “Now you know how I felt for six whole months.”

She refused to believe him. He had no heart.