Bringing Benjy Home (Security Ops) by Kylie Brant

purposes to let the man believe that was true.
    But it was finished now. He could pack up Jaida and shuttle her off on yet another plane, one that would take her back to Arkansas and away from him. She’d be out of his life for good, and he could forget all about her, forget her liquid drawl, moon-glow hair and the strange reaction he could create just by touching her. He could forget about the woman who’d used his family’s tragedy for her personal gain, so that she could . . . what? What had Jaida hoped to gain by perpetuating this pathetic little hoax? Was she hoping to cash in from her “help” to a desperate family? Or did she just have a sick little side to her that needed to feel important?
    He shook his head impatiently as she approached him again. It didn’t matter to him what motivated Jaida West or others like her. His time for her was at an end, and he was more than ready to see the last of her.
    She walked to the motel room near him and inserted a key in the lock.
    “What are you up to now?” he demanded.
    “The woman in the office said we could look around for a few minutes,” she answered, not looking at him. Her palms suddenly slippery, she pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold. The barrage of sensation that bombarded her as she walked farther into the room wasn’t unexpected. She could feel the confusion and hopelessness thick in the air, and in the recesses of her mind a child cried. Benjy. He’d spent the night sobbing intermittently, crying for the comfort of his mother. She walked around the tiny, slightly seedy room, ignoring the chill creeping over her skin, the familiar pounding starting at her temples. Her gaze went to the window, with its view of the neon sign outside, the one that had fascinated the young child. Again her mind replayed Benjy slipping off the bed, toddling toward the window. Again she saw a hand grasp him by the back of his shirt and haul him back up on the bed. Closing her eyes, she focused fiercely on the fragment of mental replay. A man’s arm, she decided, seeing the large bones and the dark hair on the forearm. A thick gold watchband had encircled the wrist.
    “Jaida.” Trey had followed her, unnoticed, into the room. “Give it up. There’s no point, and you’re only making the situation worse.”
    “He slept over there.” Her voice trembled a bit as she indicated the opposite side of the room, beyond the lone sagging bed. She remained rooted where she was, victim to an intense physical exhaustion. She wrapped her arms around limbs that refused to warm.
    Trey moved over the matted shag carpeting that had long ago given up any pretense of identifiable color. He rounded the unmade bed and stopped short. There on the floor was a drawer, pulled from the cheap dresser on the opposite wall. A pillow taken from the bed lined the bottom.
    A muscle clenched in Trey’s jaw, and for a moment, just for a moment, his heart leaped foolishly. His gaze swung to Jaida, who stood motionless by the window, not even looking in his direction. “How did you . . .”
    Jaida released a sigh and, mobilized by his words, walked toward the door. She didn’t want to wait and hear him finish the sentence. Even someone with his suspicious nature would have to realize that she hadn’t had time to arrange that drawer before he’d followed her in here. She was too weary to provide him with explanations he was incapable of accepting. She needed to get out of this room, out of the swirling dervish of sensations that threatened to choke her with their intensity.
    “Wait a minute,” he commanded. “Where are you going?”
    “To get something to eat.” The incongruous words floated over her shoulder as she walked steadily away from him.
    Trey frowned and then discarded his immediate inclination to detain her. She couldn’t get far, not when he had the car keys. As determined as he was to send her packing, it would be on his terms, when he’d finished with her. She’d