Page 8 of Saving Jennifer
The question hung between them, heavier than it should have for two strangers meeting for the first time. Noah found himself at a crossroads—maintain the emotional distance he’d cultivated for three years or acknowledge the truth of what brought him here.
“Yes,” he said finally. “I know what it costs. And what it’s worth.”
She nodded once, something like relief crossing her features. “Then we have a starting point, Noah Temple.” She extended her hand across the desk. “Two weeks. We work together. We both stay alive. And maybe—just maybe—we bring down the Amirs in the process.”
Her hand was surprisingly calloused for an interior decorator, her grip firm. Noah found himself returning the handshake with a sense of committing to something far more complex than a simple protection detail.
“Two weeks,” he agreed, knowing even as he said it that nothing about this assignment would be simple—not with the enigma who was Jennifer Baptiste, not with the Amirs’ resources, and certainly not with the unwelcome sense that for the first time in three years, he was exactly where he needed to be.
CHAPTER THREE
Jennifer traced herfingers along the ornate molding, the chair railing that encircled the living room of the Garden District shotgun house. Despite its relatively modest size compared to the mansions that dominated the area, the safe house still breathed old money and Southern elegance—from the polished cypress floors to the tall windows which during the daylight hours flooded with sunshine, filtered by lace curtains.
Three days in this beautiful prison, and she was ready to climb the walls.
“How much longer?” She asked, not turning to face Noah. She’d known the instant he’d stepped into the opening of the doorway, watching her, just like he did every day. Always studying her, like a shadow with storm-gray eyes.
“Gator’s on his way over,” he replied, his drawl barely perceptible beneath years of careful neutralizing. Though she knew his family was originally from Louisiana, he now made his home in Tennessee. At least that’s what Gator had told her. She admitted a bit of curiosity about why he’d moved to the mountains. If she had to choose, she’d prefer to live by the sea.
“Why?”
“Says we need to talk strategy.”
Jennifer nodded before moving to the window where sunlight dappled through the branches of the massive oak tree that sheltered the front yard. The house was beautiful, secure, and entirely too isolated. Here in this quiet, expensive neighborhood, strangers stood out. A fact that cut both ways.
“I feel like a sitting duck,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.
Noah crossed the room, coming to stand beside her—close enough she could feel his presence but not so close as to crowd her. It was a consideration she’d noticed since he’d started protecting her. He always seemed aware of her need for space.
“That’s why we’re moving,” he said quietly.
Surprise rippled through her, and she sighed. “Again? Where to this time?”
“The Quarter.” Noah’s expression remained professional, but his eyes held something gentler. “Gator secured an apartment above one of the local jazz clubs. Tourists everywhere, locals who mind their business, and enough exits to give us options if we need to make a hasty exit.”
“A hasty exit?” Jennifer asked, though she knew the answer.
“If we need to run, it’ll be easier to get lost in the crowds on Bourbon Street.” No sugar-coating, no reassurances. It was one of the things she’d come to appreciate about Noah Temple. Unlike her half-brother Tarik, whose lies had been wrapped in silken, sugared words delivered with a smile, Noah dealt in unvarnished truth.
The front door opened, then closed, with a decisive click. Jennifer tensed instinctively before Gator’s familiar voice called out, “Just me.”
The aging ex-CIA operative appeared in the doorway, looking more bartender than law enforcement in his rumpled linen shirt and faded jeans. But Jennifer had learned that deceptive appearances were Gator’s specialty—looking harmless—until he wasn’t. A small shudder ran through her. She had to admit, she was glad he was on her side.
“Trial date’s been moved up,” he announced without preamble. “Prosecution’s worried about jury tampering. District attorney is going to make a motion to have a bench trial. Can’t have jury tampering if there is one.”
Jennifer felt her stomach tighten. “When?”
“Ten days from now.”
A strangled sound escaped her before she could stop it. Ten days. Ten days until she would be forced to face Tarik’s mother and brother across a courtroom. Ten days until she would have to recount how she had unwittingly helped them track Salem Hudson. Ten days until she would publicly turn against the only family connection she had left in the world—other than her mother—however toxic that familial connection might be. Family that had declined to acknowledge her, had refused to admit they shared a biological connection.
Noah’s hand found her elbow, steadying her.
“That’s why we’re moving you tonight,” Gator continued, lowering himself into an armchair with a groan. “The Amirs’ lawyer filed a motion this morning to exclude your testimony. Judge shut it down hard. They’re getting desperate.”
“We know they’ve got people scouring the city looking for Jennifer. Samuel knows of at least a dozen private investigators who are actively trying to locate her. Makes sense to relocate again, even though we’ve only been here three days. We’ll be harder to find in the Quarter,” Noah added. “Especially with the start of Jazz Fest this weekend. City will be flooded with tourists.”
Jennifer nodded mechanically, trying to process everything. “When do we leave?”