She cocked an eyebrow at him that she hoped suggested she’d like his family jewels served on a silver platter.

He gave her a mildly amused look that added another black mark. “How about hot tea?”

“How about a shot of Jack Daniel’s?”

Both of his eyebrows lifted at that, but he called in the order to whomever was delivering.

He might have saved her twice, but kidnapping wiped out his brownie points. Before she could press him again, a twentyish woman with short black hair entered the cabin from the same forward door Hunter had used.

He must have hit another button hidden on his chair. The doors of the dark wood cabinet affixed to the wall between their chairs opened and a table with cup holders slid sideways and up into place at arm’s reach.

Abbie felt severely underdressed next to this woman’s black pantsuit, pristine makeup, and ruby-lipped smile. But the young lady-their flight attendant?-acted as though all Hunter’s guests wore filmy lingerie while traveling.

Maybe they did.

The flight attendant carried a sterling tray with an ice pack, a bottle of Jack, a glass with ice, and a white dish edged in gold filled with small sandwiches and crackers.

“Does she know you kidnapped me?” Abbie asked Hunter when the flight attendant served her drink.

The woman smiled at Hunter and walked away without a word, acting as though Abbie hadn’t spoken.

Hunter gave her an indulgent glance. “Want anything else?”

“Do you really expect me to sit here and act perfectly okay with all this? I don’t even know who you are.”

He sat back and draped his arms along the chair, studying her for a moment. “I recognized something about you.”

She hadn’t expected that. Did they really know each other? “What?”

“The small mole on the inside of your left thigh.”

That comment about the mole on her thigh shut Abbie up.

Hunter hoped he hadn’t terrified her. Surely she realized he hadn’t touched her. Well, other than carrying her from her apartment building to the car he’d parked down the street and putting the nightgown on her when he reached the jet. It was either the nightgown or put her in the bed half-naked. The only other clothes in the bedroom had been Todd’s, which Hunter wore.

No way to avoid catching sight of the tiny mole on her thigh while handling her, which kick-started images flipping through his mind. And the killer had called her Abigail.

Abbie was Abigail.

He might have realized who she was sooner if he’d spent more than a few hours with her that night six years ago in Chicago. She’d been skinnier back when they met as well.

An unhealthy thin. And her hair had been straight and blond, not curly chestnut brown.

Everywhere he went women wore their hair straight, miles of silken strands that fell like a rushing waterfall.

But curls were interesting. Different. Soft. Pretty.

“I don’t remember you.” She shook her head and winced in pain.

He unclipped his seat buckle, picked up the icepack, and handed it to her. “You going to be sick?”

“Not if you stop asking me that.” She snatched the pack and placed it against her forehead. “How do you know me, or are you just screwing with my mind?” She propped her elbow on the chair arm to support her head and closed her eyes.

“I’m not screwing with you. We met a long time ago.”

She squinted at him, taking in his face and shoulders, down to his boots.

He could see why she hadn’t recognized him either. He’d been at the end of a mission just outside of Chicago that required him to grow a beard and color it to match the dark brown dyed hair hanging to his shoulders.

A bloody mission that had resulted in losing a thread they were following on a string of “accidental” deaths of prominent citizens, one of which had close ties to the sitting president at that time. That was the first time BAD found one of the JC killer’s titanium baby spoons. With three carved-up bodies, one of them a child. Hunter had debriefed in a local safe house, then went looking for something else to think about, to whitewash the pictures in his mind.

Abbie had walked into the bar where he’d decided to drink away the night. She strutted in wearing just enough screaming red dress to prevent an indecent-exposure arrest and cut loose a laugh he’d never forgotten.

He’d needed her smile and the tinkle of feminine laughter. Needed to look into turquoise eyes that weren’t terrified of dying.

Those eyes were unforgettable, but he’d buried the memory somewhere safe, away from the hideous ones.

The more she drank that night, the funnier she got, even though he’d sensed something troubling her. She shielded her pain well, like now, when she tried to hide her trepidation and confusion. He didn’t think she had a concussion, but he’d shaken her awake several times while she slept just to be sure. She still looked too damn pale.

“I’m not up for games.” She took a sip of her drink, fixing him with a look of stubborn determination.

“Me either. I’ll answer your questions after you answer mine,” Hunter started. “How do you know Gwenyth Wentworth?”

“I don’t know her.”

“Then how did you end up in a private conversation with her when others wait three months to get on her calendar?”

“I told her I wanted to discuss the Kore Women’s Center.” Abbie took a longer drink of the whiskey. “What were you doing so close to her private patio when she got shot?”

“Not yet.”

“Then I’m through talking.” She lifted her legs and tucked them beneath her, looking like an abused fairy in all that iridescent material.

He’d have to come up with clothes before he handed her over to BAD. He couldn’t take her into a room full of male agents wearing that. “How’d the guy in your apartment know your name?”

“I have no idea. I didn’t recognize his voice and I didn’t know what he was talking about.”

Every move in her face, eyes, and body said she was telling the truth. Or was one hell of a liar. She’d been terrified at Gwen’s shooting and again in her apartment. Both had seemed like true responses. He’d give her the benefit of the doubt for now.

“You’re in some kind of trouble, Abbie. If you let me, I’ll help you. If not…” He opened his hands in a show of “what will be, will be.” The JC killer had made the comment twice about Abbie being helpful tonight, but she hadn’t acknowledged the statement. Hunter didn’t think she knew what the killer meant, but she played some role in this and had to explain.

“I have no idea who that man was tonight. I have no idea why anyone would shoot Gwen. And I have no idea who you are or why you kidnapped me. That pretty much sums up what I know about all of this.”

Hunter believed her on those points, but Abbie was still hiding why she’d met with Gwen. “Why did you threaten Gwen?”

Her eyes shifted away, looking past him at the floor and her glass, then she let the ice pack slide down to shield one eye. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She got the Worst Liar award.

Most women he knew had an inherent gift for reshaping the truth, but Abbie sucked at it.

He didn’t have much time before they reached Nashville and he still had to alert Joe that he was bringing someone into headquarters. When Hunter drove Abbie home, he’d sent Carlos a text saying he was following the woman who had been with Gwen during the shooting. Carlos sent back that he’d forwarded her identification information to Gotthard, who would research her.

Joe would be pissed at Hunter for not informing Carlos that he was of transporting Abbie to headquarters, but Carlos might have wanted to send another team member with Hunter. This was the only chance Hunter had to get information out of her. Handing her over to Joe when they landed might negate some of the backlash. That plus delivering the USB memory stick from Linette, which was supposed to explain the Fratelli network and details on tonight’s meeting. Hunter was to deliver the memory stick to headquarters by tomorrow morning, so arriving this far ahead of schedule would be a plus.