He remembered again the moment in the back room of the bookstore. The victory was so tangible, so important, he could do nothing but take her in his arms. Yes, they’d gotten comfortable in the last two days, playing with ease the role of a married couple.
Until they returned to the room. At that point she’d pulled back, instantly cooler, which was exactly what she was supposed to do. Still, for those few minutes in that quiet bookstore back room, the two of them had shared something real. Very real.
Jack took another drink of his coffee. She’s an informant, he told himself. Don’t think about her. But he couldn’t help himself. And he could never let her see the truth—that he was falling for her. She really was a victim, after all. Anything beyond friendship was forbidden.
And what about him? He had joined the FBI because he never wanted love, never wanted a family. God had taken the three people he loved most, so there was no reason to ever love again. Better to be an island. Fight hard, rescue people, put away bad guys, and stay on mission. Until one day a bullet pierced not just his shoulder… but his heart. His head.
Deep breath, he told himself. What about Eliza, God? She doesn’t even know what love is. A part of him wanted to show her, to stop pretending and let her know how much he cared for her, the child he had rescued that long-ago day. He could tell her about that life-altering event and how he was the one who had saved her. They could at least be friends, then.
The possibility dissolved. None of it could happen. They had more work today, and in a few sunsets they’d be back in San Antonio. Where he’d be thankful that he’d stuck to the job, and that he hadn’t let himself really fall for her.
Thankful that moments like the one in the back of the bookstore were few and far between.
* * *
THE ACTION ON the beach was about to pick up, that’s what Eliza had told him. Jack spread a blanket down on the sand and the two sat side by side, leaning back on their hands, shoulders touching. It was only ten in the morning, but they wanted to be here early. So they wouldn’t miss a thing.
So no other child was taken into captivity before Jack and Eliza had the chance to help.
There were only a few couples on the beach. Eliza wore a straw sunhat and a white lace cover-up over her bathing suit. He wore the navy swim trunks he’d worn in Belize and no shirt. The only way traffickers would believe he was a tourist on his honeymoon and not an agent.
Jack breathed in the sweet salty air. He wrapped his little finger around hers. “I got sad news today.” She was an informant now. She might as well know something of his work. Especially when it came to Belize.
“You did?” Eliza leaned her shoulder into his. “One of the agents?”
“No.” He breathed in the scent of her hair, her suntan lotion. It’s a job, Jack. Put her out of your mind. “On the day I met you, earlier that morning, I went to a Mennonite village called Lower Barton Creek.”
“You did?” She sat straight up and faced him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It wasn’t about you.” He sat up and faced her. “I met with the town’s old historian. A man who I hoped would give me information about the disappearance of a different little Mennonite girl.”
“Oh.” She was wearing her sunglasses again, but he could still see her confusion. “I hope he helped you.”
“He did. But I just got word… he passed away.” Jack slid closer to her and eased her back against his chest. They both faced the water, and their conversation was easy. Gone was the snappy tone she’d used when they first landed in Nassau. “He told me that an American woman showed up one day with gifts and promises to host his granddaughter and her children at their beach house.”
Again Eliza sat up. This time she got up on her knees and faced him. “What… was the man’s name?”
“Ike. Ike Armstrong.”
Eliza gasped and she was suddenly on her feet. “Walk with me. Please.”
Jack had no idea what nerve he’d struck, but he did as she asked. He grabbed his backpack, his go-bag if something went terribly wrong during their time here today. With his free hand, he took hold of hers. “Eliza.” There was no one in earshot, so he used her real name. “What is it?”
She wanted to run, he could feel it in the way she gripped his hand. But she kept her pace even with his. When they were a long way down the beach, she stopped and faced him. Like a lover unable to keep her eyes from his, she framed his face with her hands. She was shaking. “Jack… Ike Armstrong… he’s my great-grandfather.”