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She cleared her throat. “Do you have something I could wear?”
“Sure. My stuff will likely be too big…”
“A T-shirt would be a good start.”
“I hung your wet clothes in the bathroom.” He gestured to a doorway on the other side of the room. “They should be dry later.” He stalked through a different doorway, and came back with a folded, white T-shirt. Clutching the blanket, Gemma headed for the bathroom. It was small and basic, but clean. She checked out the medicine cabinet. No drugs, just shaving gear all lined up with military precision. A light bulb went off. Military.
She’d bet her trust fund that Boone Hendrix had been in the military. She’d seen it in her father’s security detail—the same bearing, the watchful gazes.
She found her underwear and tried not to be embarrassed that Boone had held them. Her bra and panties were still damp, as were her leggings and T-shirt.
Glancing in the mirror, she noted her hair was a tangled mess, and she had a bruise on her temple. She probed it gently. Then she dropped the blanket and checked her body.
Oh, man. She was covered in quite a few bruises and scratches. Her feet and calves were the worst. She rubbed her left hip and saw a nasty, inflamed scratch. The damn thing was itchy, which she hoped meant it was healing.
They’ll all heal, Gemma. There was nothing life threatening.
She pulled Boone’s T-shirt on. It swamped her, but was soft and freshly laundered. Man, it wasn’t often she went without a bra. Her D cups needed support. But she’d have to make do.
She left the bathroom and found Boone pacing.
Another memory hit. “Wait? There was another man here.”
Boone turned. “You said no to going to the hospital, but you’d lost consciousness. Rex is a friend.” Boone cleared his throat. “He’s the local vet.”
“Vet?” A startled laugh slipped from her lips.
Boone’s lips twitched. “Atlas can vouch for Rex. Although the man’s bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired. He said you’d be fine. The drug was working its way out of your system. I cleaned the scratches on your feet.”
Gemma pressed her palms to her cheeks. She felt everything cave in on her. “God. I was abducted, drugged. My family must be frantic.”
Boone shoved his hands in his pockets. “There’s been nothing in the news about you on the TV or the Internet.”
She frowned. “Surely they’ll contact my father for ransom.”
“If this is about ransom.”
A cold shiver hit her, then she remembered. “My parents are away. They aren’t contactable.”
Boone frowned. “I’m sure your father has a satellite phone.”
“Oh, he owns a company that makes them, but they don’t work at the bottom of the ocean.”
Boone’s eyebrows rose.
“My parents are in a deep-water submarine, in the Mariana Trench in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. It’s a big trip for their anniversary. My father is a huge supporter of underwater research and marine conservation.”
“Okay. Still, surely whoever took you would have issued their demands. Your father’s security would have contacted the FBI.”
But that hadn’t happened. What the hell was going on? “What day is it?”
“Saturday.”
She swallowed. “None of my friends would check on me. I took a week off work. I’m supposed to be at a yoga and culinary retreat in Big Sur.”
“I’m guessing whoever took you timed it well.”
God. “I’m afraid.”
