“Who’s ‘them’?” she managed to choke out, not quite daring to ask what Cassie might have mailed, but hadn’t.
Armstrong glanced sidelong at her for just an instant, long enough for Jenna to read the pity in those cold grey eyes. “Your father’s business associates. One royal bastard in particular, who’s been paying off your father for years. And the goddamned terrorists they’re bringing into the country. Right past customs and immigration, diplomatic fucking immunity.”
Jenna didn’t want to hear anything more. She’d heard all the slurs, the innuendo, the nasty accusations in the press. She hadn’t believed any of it. Who would’ve believed such filth about her own father, for Chrissake, even a father as lousy as hers had been over the years? Jenna had learned early that politics was a dirty, nasty game, where rivals did their damnedest to smear enemies’ reputations with whichever reporters they’d paid off that week. It was one reason she’d chosen to pursue a career in film, following her aunt’s lead, despite her father’s furious opposition. Oh, God, Aunt Cassie . . . Carl. . . . Her eyes burned, wet and swollen, and she couldn’t get enough air down.
“Ever been time-touring, kid?” Armstrong asked abruptly.
“Wh-what?”
“Time-touring? Have you ever been?”
She blinked, tried to force her brain to function again. “No. But . . .” she had to swallow hard, “Carl and I, we were going to go . . . through TT-86, to London. Got the tickets and everything, used false ID to buy them, to keep it a secret . . .”