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ceremony. What's
yours?”
    “ Evelyn.”
    “ Evelyn what?”
    “ Evelyn Grant.”
    “ Nice. A grandmother's
name.”
    All her ill subdued humor
fled in favor of an inglorious, indignant snort. She drew her
posture straighter though it cost her in pain. “It's not a
grandmother's name. It's...”
    “ Dated. Overused. Brings
to mind gray
helmet hair and--”
    “ I do not have helmet
hair!”
    “ No, you have a rat's
nest,” he said, staring at her hair.
    Self conscious, she lifted
a hand and smoothed a palm over the disheveled mess. Dry, matted
blood covered the tender lump where the Knight had pistol whipped
her. If she was honest, helmet hair would have been an improvement.
Combined with her wrecked dress, grimy skin and multitude of
bruises, she knew she looked a fright.
    “ Ugh.” Using Alexandra's
inelegant grunt as dismissal of the subject, she stepped around him
and stalked deeper into the house. Evelyn knew, knew that if she turned around,
she'd find him grinning. He'd effectively turned the tables and
given her a taste of her own medicine.
    The hallway broke open into
a large, airy kitchen connected to an equally airy living room.
Enormous floor to ceiling windows lined the whole front wall;
beyond, the Mediterranean glittered where moonlight reflected off
the surface. She thought the view must be spectacular during the
daytime. Furniture, in shades of cocoa, cream and deep red, looked
new and clean.
    A broad staircase led up to
the second floor and, suddenly weary, she trudged up them. Each of
the four bedrooms had its own bathroom, large beds and simplistic
décor that complimented the classic design.
    Picking one with a baby
blue and cream theme, she examined the clothes in the closet,
finding a surprisingly large selection of sizes and styles. She
guessed they never knew whether they were bringing in men or women
or whole families and tried to supply something for everyone. There
were even two board games on the top shelf next to a doll and a
Nerf football.
    Something soft and gauzy in
a shade of barely-there pink drew her fingers to the hanger. The
dress reminded her of something Galiana might wear. Hot tears
spilled down her cheeks while she let the material slide over her
knuckles. Grief took up residence in her chest, a great monster of
emotion she was forced to subdue. If she allowed it to overwhelm
her, she wouldn't be able to function.
    Too nervous to linger long
in the shower, she washed away the grime of captivity with
strawberry scented soap and stepped out four minutes later feeling
like a new person. Considering her injuries and wounds, that was an
achievement.
    Finding an extra
wastebasket liner under the sink, she put the wad of ruined clothes
inside and tied off the top to keep the smell contained. Drawing on
a pair of jeans that almost fit and a cap sleeved shirt the color of plums,
she faced the foggy mirror and used the side of her hand to smudge
a swath to see by.
    Her face was an atrocious
mess. One side looked lumpy and purple. A split that felt as wide
as the grand canyon in her lower lip bled off and on around a scab.
She tongued it and winced. The ends of her fingers looked like raw
meat and burned even when she wasn't touching them. Red rings
circled her wrists from the scratchy rope and hand-print bruises
marched up her arms.
    Tomorrow there would be
notable improvements. She wondered how to hide them from Rhett.
Maybe she wouldn't be in his company then, and it wouldn't
matter.
    Drawing on a pair of tennis
shoes that were a little snug for her liking, she left the bedroom
and went downstairs.
     
     
    Rhett stood in front of the
tall windows, hand on his hip, a phone at his ear.
    What a strange situation
Evelyn found herself in. Did she stay? Go? It wasn't like he was
keeping her prisoner here. On the other hand, government agents
usually had connections and he might be able to get her and her
sisters—if they were still alive—out of the country faster if they
thought they