Crap, crap, crap.
I forced myself to slow down, take a breath, and pay attention to the room. No one here had the ruffled, excited air of someone witnessing a possible abduction or a girl fainting for unknown reasons and someone carrying her off. All I could see was boredom, irritation, and possibly the need for the bathroom from a couple people unwilling to give up their place in line, even as they shifted from foot to foot.
So probably I’d missed something. That was all.
With that in mind, I started looking again. And this time, on a second, more thorough search, weaving in and out of people, I caught a glimpse of pale hair, that unique shade that belonged exclusively to her and, well, Ford and Carter, through the shelves of muffins and bagels on the bakery rack marked “to go” in the ordering area.
My heart leaped with relief. Thank God.
I squeezed through the line, ducking carefully around the rack, and found a small seating area. Three tables were pushed against the rear wall, well out of the traffic pattern and visible only to those entering from the skyscraper lobby rather than the street. In other words, it was as private as you could get in a situation like this.
Which was probably why Justine had picked it. She sat facing me at the second table, wearing another of her soccer mom outfits, a Mustangs sweatshirt. Her expression was strangely strained, her cheeks flushed and her eyes wide with surprise…or alarm. A paper cup lay tipped over on its side, coffee slowly leaking out of the plastic top, forming a steaming puddle on the table while she made no move to address the issue.
Ariane stood at the edge of the table, partially turned away. I could see only her profile, but that was enough for me to recognize the forbidding set of her features. Oh boy, I’d seen that look before. She was not happy about something. I couldn’t read her thoughts or Justine’s at the moment, but I didn’t need to. Waves of tension emanated from both of them.
Then I noticed Justine’s hand locked on Ariane’s arm, her fingers in claw mode around Ariane’s wrist.
Oh, shit.
THIS IS A MISTAKE. This is a mistake.
The words ran over and over in my head, my logical side lecturing me again. You know this is a mistake.
Yeah, I did know that, and yet my feet kept moving, following the directions Zane had given me. They were taking orders from the emotional part of me that was still, insanely, harboring hope.
Hope for what, I had no idea. The smartest, safest thing I could have done for Zane was to stay away. To let his plan, whatever it was, fall apart while I hunted down the target and incapacitated Ford in whatever way necessary. I needed to win this thing, now more than ever.
But here I was, heading away from the tourist locations, where I would most likely be able to catch up with the target, and heading instead deeper into the business district to meet with Zane.
I shook my head. Ridiculous. I had no way of knowing if he was even capable of taking care of the tracking issue, except that he said that he could, and I believed him.
I wanted to believe him. And that was incredibly dangerous. No matter how fiercely he proclaimed otherwise, he had changed. He’d been seconds away from attacking Ford, a cry for help at best and a suicide attempt at worst.
I didn’t know what to make of that, but I needed to find out.
Plus, as grateful as I was to find Zane alive, there had to be a reason for what St. John had done beyond compassion. And I couldn’t figure out what that would be. Whatever it was, I did not want it to bite me in the ass when I was least expecting it.
Hole in One was exactly where Zane said it would be, though on the opposite side of the street. I darted through a gap in the traffic and slipped inside, gritting my teeth against the brush of so many bodies in close proximity.
Zane was nowhere in evidence at the front of the restaurant, as far as I could determine, and his height usually made him fairly easy to find, so I wormed my way in deeper.
It was possible that I’d arrived ahead of him, in which case it seemed wise to stake out some small piece of real estate where we could talk in relative privacy. A crowd would certainly help hide us, but it also made having a conversation without being overheard trickier.
Then again, anyone bored enough to eavesdrop on us today would likely assume we were (a) crazy or (b) working a bizarre creative writing project.
Ha. I wished.
In the far corner, I found a small, secluded seating area: a single row of three tables with chairs instead of the more prominent booths in the front by the windows.