Page 46 of Protecting You

“Ooh, my favorite kind.” Frannie eyed one of the chairs in their seating area, clearly waiting to be invited to join them.

Alyssa was trying to figure out how to get rid of her when her phone rang.

She pulled it from her coat pocket. She didn’t recognize the number but figured she’d better answer anyway. Maybe Frannie would get the hint. “Alyssa Wright.”

“This is your driver,” a man said. “I am in the lobby whenever you’re ready.”

She gripped Callan’s arm and squeezed. “We’re on our way.”

His pleased expression faded.

Alyssa ended the call. “That’s our ride, Frannie. But it was good to see you.” She gave her a quick hug while Callan tossed their trash in a can near the door.

Frannie was talking, alllet’s get togetherandit was so good to catch up.

Not that Alyssa was eager to walk into a terrorist’s lair, but at least she could escape this torture.

Finally, Callan pulled their suitcases back into the corridor, and she walked side by side with him toward the lobby.

“He’s early,” Alyssa said.

Callan nodded.

“We didn’t cover how we met or?—”

“Shh.” He wrapped the same arm around her waist again, whispering. “Your friend is ten paces behind us.”

Alyssa stifled the urge to look. How did he know? He hadn’t turned around.

“We met at a business event in the city,” Callan whispered. “Caleb went to community college. If they start to ask questions, get annoyed. Our past is none of Charles’s business. Tell him you’re busy. Tell him you don’t have time to chitchat, that you’re on a deadline.”

She could do that.

They turned the corner and crossed the lobby toward the registrations and concierge desks.

A man stood near the window that looked out at the courtyard, hands fisted, eyes tracking them. He’d been watching, and he didn’t mind them knowing it.

He had blond hair and hazel eyes and a protruding jaw. His biceps looked thicker than her thighs. He wore an ill-fitting suit that didn’t suit him at all. He looked nothing like his slight and unassuming boss. Of course, Ghazi—Charles—wasn’t what he seemed. Not even close.

The driver stepped toward them. “Ms. Wright?”

“That’s me.”

He sent a glare at Callan.

Caleb. Not Callan.

“This way.” He turned and led them to the doors and outside.

It was happening too fast, and she wasn’t ready.

Before she could panic, the driver had stowed their bags and was demanding their phones. “Mr. Sanders insisted. He would prefer that his location remain secret.”

Callan protested, but when the man told him his choices—give me your phone or stay here—he relented.

Alyssa was too afraid to refuse, handing her cell over without a word of complaint.

They slid into the backseat of a black Mercedes parked at the curb.

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