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Chills raced through her. The poor woman. Treven clearly thought he was above every law. Hattie was terrified of him, and he didn’t even know where she was.
She swallowed and managed, “I’m so sorry. That poor lady.”
Jensen nodded. He opened his mouth, but whatever he was going to say got lost by his phone buzzing. He pulled it out and then nodded to her. “Steffan’s driving to the rendezvous now.”
“Showtime.” She slid out of bed. Maybe the Tylenol, food, and water had kicked in, or maybe it was having a purpose and two men willing to help her, but her head and stomach felt a little more settled.
Jensen took her elbow and escorted her out of the room. He lifted his free hand to Melanie and directed Hattie back down the hallway she’d tried to escape from an hour ago. They eased down the stairs, out the door at the bottom, and then across the hospital entry. It was quiet, and Jensen murmured, “After eight, the receptionist goes home, they lock the doors, and you have to get buzzed in by security.”
That made sense. It was after eight? Where had the day gone? It was early July, so the sun hadn’t set. They walked down the sidewalk and into a parking lot, climbing into a Volvo XC90.
“Even our police chiefs don’t drive a luxury SUV,” she told Jensen as he climbed in, put sunglasses on, and put the vehicle into drive.
“There are a lot of perks working for a royal family and a country that’s in the black,” he said with a smirk.
“Must be nice.”
He only laughed.
They cruised along city streets. Traffic wasn’t bad and the city itself was gorgeous. She remembered the old-world architecture with the gray stone buildings and dark red roofs and the lovely river running through the city. The Riverwalk park brought back ugly memories. They approached the cemetery, and that made her smile. She loved cemeteries, especially the ones she’d seen in Europe. Usually, the plots were above ground, with a low fence and their own private flower garden bursting from each grave. The one in Traverse was no exception, a riot of color and flowers and greenery.
Driving into the vast city park, Jensen slowed his speed. Hattie looked around at couples pushing strollers, families on bikes, kids kicking a soccer ball, and teenagers tossing a frisbee. All so normal and fun and perfect for a July evening. And she was escaping from a murder charge.
They pulled into a large parking lot. In the back corner, a silver Aston Martin DB11 waited. She climbed out of the Volvo and Jensen walked her around to the passenger side of the beautiful vehicle.
“Not exactly incognito, but he is a prince,” Jensen teased.
Hattie smiled. She had her own garage full of luxury vehicles, even a clone to Steffan’s car. Her Aston Martin DB11 was candy apple red and three years older as it had been her dad’s. She hadn’t sold her parents’ home in Barton Creek near Austin. She had a climate-controlled shop where she’d saved her favorite vehicles of her dad’s and added a few of her own.
Jensen opened the door, and she eased into the seat, looking over at Steffan wearing a Dodgers cap, a gray T-shirt, black joggers, and sunglasses. He looked casual and good—really good. He handed over another Dodgers cap. Their fingers brushed, and she shivered from the brief contact.
“I can’t wear this,” she teased. “I’d like to see your Texas Rangers selection of caps, please.”
He smiled. “Sorry, I loaned them all out.”
“Hopefully not to an amnesiac beaut … I mean, beat-up patient.”
“Yes. You wouldn’t believe how many of those come through my esteemed hospital.”
She was enthralled with his accent and with him. She wanted to slide his sunglasses off and gaze into those blue, blue eyes.
“Okay, you two.” Jensen squatted down outside her door and leaned in. He brushed against her leg. It didn’t affect her at all, whereas one brush of Steffan’s fingers and she was quivering.
“Can you put the hat on?” Jensen asked.
“If I must.” She plunked it on. No one should recognize her with no makeup, her dark hair covered, and her clothes ripped.
“The plan is sadly simple.” Jensen shook his head morosely. “Steffan will drive you to Bad Ragaz. You remember your hotel and room?”
“The Grand Resort, penthouse.”
“Of course.” Jensen smiled and rolled his eyes. “Can you talk the front desk into giving you a room key?”
“Of course.” She rolled her eyes back at him.
Steffan chuckled.
“All your things should still be there. I’m betting even the failed paraglide instructor—Franz, was it?”
