The moment she opened the shower door, her phone rang.
Sally groaned. Two in the fucking morning! It wasn’t unusual for her to receive calls at odd hours. But once a story was filed, there was usually a lull until her research began again. On this last story, some of the calls had been harrowing. Broken men, sobbing down the line to her as they recalled childhood abuse. Detachment was the one part of the journalist’s job that Sally had never been able to master. That, and an ability to ignore a ringing phone.
Wrapping a towel around herself—Why? Nobody’s here?—she s
taggered back into the hallway and picked up.
“Sally Faiers.”
“Hello, gorgeous.”
Sally’s heart dropped to the pit of her stomach. It was a bad line, but she’d know that voice anywhere, the deep, masculine, American voice that was part drawl, part growl.
“Hunter.” Just saying his name was painful. “You’re alive, then.”
“No need to sound so happy about it.”
“I’m not happy about it. You’re a fucking arsehole.”
“Now, that’s not kind. You know the only way I got through the last year was by imagining you naked, with those perfect legs of yours wrapped around my waist. Remember Stockholm?”
“No,” said Sally. “The only way I got through the last year was by imagining you chained to a wall in some godforsaken Group 99 hideout with a pair of electrodes glued to your bollocks.”
Hunter laughed. “I missed you.”
“They let you go, then?”
“Actually I escaped.”
Now it was Sally’s turn to laugh. “Bullshit! You have about as many survival skills as a hedgehog trying to shuffle across the M40.”
“I’ve improved.” Hunter sounded wounded. “I did have a little help from my fellow countrymen. At the beginning.”
Through her drunken haze, Sally read through the lines. “You mean, you were there? In the Bratislava camp?”
“I was there,” Hunter confirmed.
“And they left you behind?” she asked, incredulous.
“Not exactly,” Hunter admitted. “I made a run for it.”
Sally slid down the wall and sat on the floor. “What? Why?”
“It’s a long story.”
A torrent of emotions rushed through her. The strongest was relief that Hunter was alive. He’d broken her heart into a million tiny pieces when he left her for that slut Fiona at the New York Times. But even Sally didn’t want to see pieces of his skull flying through the air like poor Bob Daley’s.
Hot on the heels of relief was excitement. The whole world was out there looking for Hunter Drexel and speculating about his fate. And she, Sally Faiers, was on the phone with him, listening to him tell her that he’d run from his American rescuers—that President Havers’s statement had been an out-and-out lie! Talk about a scoop!
Reaching up, she grabbed a pencil and pad from the hall table.
“Where are you?”
“Sorry,” said Hunter, sounding nothing of the sort. “Can’t tell you that.”
“Give me a clue at least.”
“And you can’t tell anyone about this phone call either.”