Abbie’s throat ached when she swallowed.

But not as much as the stabbing pain in her head.

She didn’t want to wake up yet, hadn’t rested well with the interruptions. Who had kept bothering her?

No chance of sleeping longer with this aching… When she reached up to touch her head her fingers bumped something cold. She pushed an ice pack aside and felt carefully, finding a lump.

What happened to her?

Blinking her eyes open in the dark, she looked around. Where was she? Recall came slowly, but the pieces began to link up, offering splattered images of how she got hurt. The last thing she remembered was being held in her apartment by a maniac with a gun and Hunter-also with a gun-showing up to rescue her.

For the second time in one night.

Who the hell was that Hunter?

When her eyes adjusted, pale blue lights glowing along the baseboards of the room offered enough visibility to make out the bedroom’s boundaries. A small space, but nice. She pushed up on her elbows and had to swallow against nausea from the sudden dizziness.

Take a deep breath, exhale, and focus.

Her gaze strayed beyond the queen-size bed she was on to a lacquered-aluminum four-drawer chest on the wall opposite the foot of the bed. On the right of the chest a door opened into a bathroom-one positive discovery-and the short hall to the left of the chest ended with another door.

The exit?

She glanced up without moving her head. The low ceiling was curved from the baseboard on one side to the other across the top of the bed. No windows.

Everything smelled pristine or new, as if unused. The linens felt crisp. What kind of place was she in and who had her?

The crazy guy in her apartment. Who else?

What had he done to Hunter? Her heart squeezed. She’d reconciled herself to fighting the bastard, but knowing deep in her heart she’d lose the battle and suffer a hideous foreplay to death.

Then Hunter had appeared like an avenging angel.

Nothing in that picture made sense.

A rich guy who chauffeured people and handled a gun like James-Freaking-Bond.

Had she hallucinated the whole thing?

A gentle vibration seeped through the mattress. Listening closely, she detected the soft hum of a motor.

That felt too real to be hallucinating.

Abbie sat up and swung her legs out of bed. The room lurched along with her stomach. She clamped her teeth together and breathed through her nose until the possibility of throwing up passed. When had she hit her head? The intruder had held her by her hair, then let go… then a flash exploded… and something hit her head.

Probably the butt of his gun.

She hoped the thing backfired and blew his head off the next time he tried to shoot it.

Pushing the white coverlet aside, she got to her feet… and realized she had on a filmy iridescent nightgown. She still wore her bra and panties. Nothing felt different physically, other than her headache and raw throat. She scanned the bed and found a matching robe had been draped across the other side. Donning the robe, she made her way to the bathroom, where the toilet flushed so loud she expected someone to rush in and catch her, but no one came.

She took a quick look in the mirror before leaving. Even the subtle lighting meant to enhance one’s appearance didn’t improve the angry red welt on her head. Her hair had been up for the party but now fell in stormy curls past her shoulders.

Party. Had Gwen lived?

Staying in here wasn’t answering questions. Abbie padded out of the bathroom and over to the other door. When she reached for the handle the room moved.

“Dammit.” Another movement like that and someone would have a mess to clean up. Was she on an airplane?

She opened the door to a badass-looking private ride.

Not like any small jet she’d ever flown in. The area beyond the bedroom resembled a long living room with bone-colored leather couches on the right and two captain’s-seat-type reclining chairs on the left. Luxury scented the air. The aircraft moved forward along a tarmac strip she believed belonged to Chicago’s Midway Airport.

She stood still, taking in slow breaths to fight off the panic attack rising from her abdomen.

Where were they taking her?

Her gaze skipped ahead to what appeared to be a meeting or dining space, where two mauve-and-tan thick-cushioned chairs anchored each end of a white-lacquered table.

Was this how killers traveled?

Screaming for help seemed stupid considering whoever had kidnapped her controlled the pilot. She couldn’t jump out at this speed even if she figured out how to open the emergency door before they lifted off.

How had she gotten into this much trouble?

Where were they taking her?

Who were “they”?

As if in answer to her last question, the door at the opposite end of the cabin opened and… Hunter appeared. He’d changed from his tux into jeans and a navy sweater.

He frowned briefly at the sight of her and walked toward her. “What are you doing up?”

“What am I doing… are you serious?” She charged toward him, but he met her before she took three steps. Her head punished her for the quick movement. She clamped her hands on her head to stop her brain from sloshing.

He caught her by the waist, hands holding her carefully, as if she were an irritated egg. “You should lie back down.”

Good advice, since her body trembled with fatigue and her stomach was making plans to decorate anything within projectile range. “What’s… going on?” she demanded quietly.

The airplane started moving faster.

Hunter pulled her against his chest, holding her steady, his hand cupping her head. “You need to get strapped in. Think you’re going to get sick?”

She pushed a hand up and made a puny attempt at shoving him back. “Stop this plane.”

“No.”

“I’ll scream.”

“That won’t stop the plane and might make you throw up.” Hunter heaved a labored sigh. “You’ve got ten seconds to move to that chair.” He pointed to the side of him. “Or I’ll put you there.”

She didn’t move.

“Five seconds.”

“Oh, all right, dammit.” She pushed away from him. Between the movement of the airplane and her wavering equilibrium she stumbled sideways.

He caught her around the waist again and pulled her back to his chest. She groped at his arms, clutching for balance and furious at the weak-kneed feeling she fought.

“Shhh.” Hunter stood unmoving as a steel beam, rubbing his hand up and down her arm. He held her steady and soothed her with whispered words when she wanted to rail at him.

When he asked, “Ready to sit down?” she gave in. For now.

She hated to feel meek. Had never been meek in her life, but she’d never been attacked and kidnapped either. Or shot at, even though she technically hadn’t been the target.

So far.

Hunter carefully turned her around and lowered her into one of the recliners facing the sofa. He snapped her seat belt into place and flipped a lever that turned the chair to face forward. “This is the best position for takeoff.”

She wanted to ignore his consideration, but the recliner supported her head, which liked being stable.

Not quite as nice as being held in Hunter’s arms, but the next best thing.

Nice if not for that whole kidnapping part.

He dropped into the other recliner, but instead of spinning it forward he turned to face her and strapped in, then rested his elbow on the chair arm. He leaned his head over, supporting it with two fingers, his eyes taking her in with clinical interest.

Once the airplane lifted off and leveled out, she said, “Okay, now I want answers.”

“That makes two of us. But I want ice on your head first.” Hunter pressed a button on the side of his chair arm, then spoke into some hidden microphone. “Bring the ice pack and…” He paused to look at Abbie. “Anything else?”