His to Take (Wicked Lovers 9)

“And what? I’m just supposed to believe you?” She gaped at him. “If you’re such a stand-up guy, why are you drugging an innocent woman—you did drug me, right?”

“Sedated. It wasn’t like I spiked your drink at a bar to take advantage of you.”

No, he’d just injected her with some unknown substance that left her unconscious for half a day. Because that was so much more virtuous. “What exactly do you want from me, Mr. . . . What’s your name?”

“Not relevant. The only thing that matters is that my goal is to prevent you from winding up like this.” He shoved the screen of an iPhone in her face, and from corner to corner it was filled with one of the most gruesome images she’d ever seen.

Bailey screamed. “Oh . . . What the hell?”

Someone had punctured a young woman’s rib cage multiple times with something that made symmetrical, seeping holes. They’d cut off her ears, ripped out teeth, snipped off toes. God, she couldn’t look anymore. Why would anyone do that to another human being?

“She’s not the first victim. In fact, she’s the fifth. They should find number six soon, sadly. I was just hours too late to save her, but you . . .” He swallowed as he pocketed the phone again. “I refuse to let that happen to you.”

“Why would you think anyone would want to hurt me? How do I know that’s not your handiwork?”

“You mean besides the fact that I’ve already told you I’m busting my ass to save you? If I wanted to torture you to a slow death, why would I show you my intentions first so you’d fight me more?”

“I don’t know! If you’re a deranged killer, you’re not exactly logical.”

He shook his head, looking as if he were grappling for patience. “Let’s just say that I work for a government agency and that I’m the one wearing the white hat in this scenario. I generally try to avoid bodies, unless they belong to bad guys. Ballerinas don’t usually fall into the ‘most wanted’ category.”

“Then explain this to me. You drugged me—”

“Sedated,” he corrected.

“Whatever. You take me from my house and life without first uttering a word to me. If you’re the good guy here, why didn’t you just try to talk to me and explain the situation?”

“Let’s role-play this scenario. I walk up to your door and knock. You answer like I’m a pesky salesman or someone trying to change your religion. You ignore me. I doubt highly you invite me into your house so we can have an in-depth conversation about dead bodies.”

Okay, he had a point. “So you just abducted me? You didn’t even try the logical approach.”

He sighed. “We’ll continue the scenario. After you slam the door in my face, then the real killer either breaks in or draws you out, and next thing I know, I’m looking at another gruesome crime scene photo. You don’t like my methods. I get that. But I’m not going to apologize for wanting you alive.”

“What’s the rationale for trying to convince me I’m someone other than who I am?”

“A little thing called the truth.” He sighed and shook his head. “Sorry. I know you’re confused. This situation is difficult and stressful. It doesn’t bring out the best in either of us. I’m not trying to be harsh or behave like an ass. We’re up against someone sick, and time isn’t on our side. So when you challenge me, I get flippant and sarcastic. This isn’t how I wanted our discussion to go. I know I’m asking you for a lot of trust. I wish this was easier and we had more time to debate, but we don’t.”

The apology disarmed her, and Bailey wasn’t sure what to make of him. Yeah, he’d behaved a little like an ass, but what if anything he said was true? What if someone was coming for her?

“If I listen to you and I can prove that I’m who I claim to be, will you let me go?”

“As soon as I can figure out who’s responsible for all the bodies and stop them, sure.”

“Why are you doing this? Why aren’t the police involved?”

“The bodies aren’t in any one town or area. And when it involves something that’s a potential threat to national security, it’s way beyond local police.”

“National security?” Now she knew he had to be off-kilter. “How do you think I can possibly threaten the country?”

“Not you, others. I can’t say more now. I’m still waiting to confirm who’s behind all this.”

“That’s convenient,” she drawled.

“Look, I’ve been chasing these people from D.C. to Miami. The latest body today was in Mobile. We’ll hear about one in Oklahoma shortly.”

Whoever he was, he really believed what he was saying. In fact, he was downright passionate about it. That didn’t make him less crazy, but if her only avenue out of here so far was to prove that she was Bailey Benson and no one else, then she’d do that.

“I don’t know exactly what proof you need that I am who I claim to be. I have a birth certificate and a Social Security—”

“You do, and they were all courtesy of your adoption and Uncle Sam.”

“No, you’re wrong. I—”

“Well, the woman I’m looking for isn’t any of the girls already dead. If the bastards responsible for these murders had found who they’re seeking, they wouldn’t still be looking. By the way, all the victims were your age, give or take a few months. They were all adopted somewhere around December 1998. They—”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I wasn’t adopted.”

“Are you sure? That’s why I asked about your earliest memory.”

“And I told you.”

“You don’t remember anything at all before losing that tooth? Anything?”

Not anything real. “Do you?”

“I don’t have a nut job or two hunting me, so what I remember is irrelevant.”

“How do you know this isn’t the work of some serial killer?”

“Whoever this handiwork belongs to, I’ll bet he trained once with the CIA or some other government agency. He knows what he’s doing, but he leaves telltale marks. Same guy, same M.O. And he always tears apart the vic’s residence, as if he’s looking for something. That’s not common behavior for a serial killer. So let’s get back to your earliest memory. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

His questioning made Bailey feel as if he was trying to lead her to a specific answer. In the interest of saving time and frustration, she cut to the chase. “What is it I’m supposed to remember?”

He peered at her, those hazel-green eyes studying her, as if trying to pry her brain open and see all the thoughts inside. “Let’s try this on for size. Do you have any memory of a really cold day in the middle of farmland? Of walking the side of the road in the snow, covered in blood? Of being spotted by a couple in a blue sedan driving down the road?”

Bailey’s heart stopped. He’d described a snippet of her dreams, but . . . they were just a product of her imagination. Her mother had assured her of that over and over. Her father had been adamant about it, in fact. She’d stopped mentioning the dreams to anyone years ago.

So how did this stranger know?

“What is it? You went pale. You’re remembering an event?”

She shook her head automatically. It had to be a coincidence. A good guess. Something that made sense. This didn’t.

“Yeah, you’re remembering. Try to focus. Jesus, I’ve been looking for you.” He leaned closer again, his face anxious. “Keep going. What next?”

In her dream, nothing. She never made it past the sedan and the couple stopping for her. “This can’t be . . . It’s just a dream I’ve had a time or two.” More like a thousand times or two.

“What if it’s not a dream, but a memory?”

“No. Then I would remember it. It doesn’t snow in Houston. I’ve never been to a farm like that. I’ve never seen that couple in my life.”

“Really think about it. If it’s a dream, and you’ve remembered it even after you woke, it had an impact on you. A big one. Th

ere’s a reason for that.”

He leaned in even more, and his male scent curled in her nose again. Bailey wished she could say that he came across as creepy or stalkerish. But no, he just looked hot. Older than her, yes, maybe by eight or ten years, but when she looked at him, she realized that all the guys she’d been dating and eyeing were boys. This one? He was a man.

That sounded all kinds of stupid and wrong, but seriously . . . He had a rugged appeal that was impossible not to notice.

Bailey frowned. How long did it take for a girl to fall in lust with her captor? Should she be checking her sanity, her IQ, or both?

“Do you remember anything in the dream before the couple in the car? Before you left those red footprints in the snow?”

She frowned. “How do you know there’s anything in the dream before that?”

“Because I know the history of this event. I know what really happened before that little girl fled that house and walked down the side of the road in shock until Good Samaritans found her and took her to the local sheriff. Tell me what’s in your dream. We’ll see if they match up.”

And give him anything that he could use to claim that he was right? That she was this missing girl? “Why don’t you tell me what you think happened?”

“The murder of four people. Here.” He turned away and grabbed a file she hadn’t noticed sitting on a nearby dresser. He thumbed through some of the contents until he came to what he wanted. Photos. He took a few in hand and prowled back in her direction. “Any of these look familiar?”

When he shoved the first picture under her gaze, she looked at the little white house, all alone in a big pasture, and a jolt of shock sizzled through her. It was the house in her nightmares. It wasn’t dusted with snow in this photo, as it was in her dream. But the same slightly dingy façade. Same white door with the brass knob. Same two windows on either side of the door. Same little detached garage behind the house and a bit to the left.

Bailey felt the blood drain from her face.

“You see that in your dream?”

“I-I . . .” How was that possible? “Maybe it’s a coincidence or I’m psychic or I saw it on the news. I don’t remember a murder. I would have recalled something that horrifying.”

“Maybe not. If you’re the girl who lived there and survived the massacre—and I think you are—you were barely five when it happened. You may have blocked it out. It’s not uncommon for the human mind to ‘forget’ things that are too traumatic to process.”

She heard what he was saying, and in his shoes she’d probably think that she was the missing girl, too. But it just didn’t compute. She had a good memory. How could she possibly have let a quadruple homicide slip her mind? Her parents had been insistent that the dreams were simply products of her imagination and that she’d never been in danger. Even her psychologist had comforted her with the idea that her nightmares were probably nothing more than a representation of her fears. Which made sense to her. Every time she had the dream, she woke in a terrified shudder and often stayed up for hours. She even had a collection of comedies queued up on Netflix to help her forget.

“I grant you the coincidences are really weird, but me being that girl . . . it doesn’t add up.”

Because it scares you.

“Of course it does,” Bailey answered automatically.

Then she gasped. What the hell had just happened? He hadn’t spoken in English. In fact, she didn’t remember ever having heard that language. Yet . . . she knew exactly what he’d said.

“Because you know I’m right. And you understand Russian.” His smile turned savage.

“Lucky guess.” She felt herself paling, struggling to comprehend.

“Bullshit. You’re the woman I’ve been looking for. Do you want to know your real name?”

This could not be happening. “Bailey Benson. I have no idea how you figured out what was in my dreams. I can’t imagine why you chose me to taunt or mess with or whatever. But I am not going to believe the mad ravings of some guy who—call it what you want—drugged me, dragged me from my bed, and tied me to his. And now you’re telling me that the parents who gave birth to me aren’t my parents at all and that I survived a massacre. No.”

“Why would I lie? Why would I risk going to fucking prison to save you if I didn’t absolutely believe what I’m saying?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know you. I don’t understand any of this. I need to get out of here.”

“Do you remember the picture on my phone? You want to look like that?” he challenged, pulling his mobile from his pocket. “If you don’t remember how grisly it was, I can show you again.”

No. God, no. Bailey shut her eyes. “I don’t need to see it.”

“Maybe you do if you’re going to try to bury your head in the sand and pretend that I’m some random loon.”

He had to be. She didn’t have a better explanation, but abducting a woman from her bed proved that he couldn’t be dipping both oars, right? Believing she was some other woman who knew Russian and had totally different parents until they were butchered when she was five . . . Hell no.

He sighed and sat on the edge of the bed again. When he lifted a hand to her, Bailey flinched, tried to shrink back, but he only pushed the hair from her face and cupped her cheek.

“Don’t touch me,” she spit out, her heart pounding.

Immediately, he eased back. “I’m not trying to scare you, just give you comfort.”

“You want to comfort me? Leave me the hell alone. Let me go.”

A long moment passed. He hesitated, seeming to ponder the situation and giving her another one of those piercing stares that made her shiver. Finally, he stood.

“I can give you half of what you want. I’ll leave you for a bit and give you some time to think. But I can’t let you go. You’re here until I can figure out how to keep you safe. Too many people have died for this cause already, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let them add you to the list. You hungry?”

Honestly, she was. And her stubborn pride wanted to refuse to take food from him. The other part of her knew that if she wanted to have the strength later to escape, she couldn’t cut off her nose to spite her face.

“Yes.”

“Your medical records say you’re allergic to peanuts. Anything else? Foods you don’t like.”

How had he learned that? Bailey didn’t want to ask. She just shook her head.

“Fine. I’ll have someone bring you something shortly.”

So they weren’t alone? Maybe someone else would show up and take pity on her, realize that she didn’t belong here and—

“I see the wheels turning in that pretty head. No one here will help you. They all know the stakes and won’t let you escape. There’s no way out of here anyhow.” He stalked over to the big floor-to-ceiling windows and opened the shutters. Sunlight streamed in . . . and bars covered the windows.

She wasn’t escaping easily.

Her captor fished in his pocket and extracted a key. He leaned over her, their faces too close as he braced his hands on the headboard and peered into her eyes. Breathing turned difficult. Her heart thumped hard against her chest.

“I know you think I’m crazy,” he whispered. “Give me time to change your mind.”

When he reached out and uncuffed her wrists, Bailey didn’t dare refute him. Slowly, he helped her lower her arms to her sides, massaging as the blood rushed back. His touch zipped through her, hot and electric. Powerfully frightening. God, what was wrong with her?

Bailey recoiled. She’d always had bad taste in men, but she refused to stoop so low as to admit her attraction to him. “I got it. Don’t—” She tried to scramble away from him. “Don’t touch me.”

He lifted his hands up in a gesture of surrender and stepped up, off the bed. “I only meant to help, but . . . The bathroom is through that door.” He pointed somewhere behind her and to her left. “Before you get excited, the window i

n there is covered by bars, too. Otherwise, you’re free to roam this room. I’ll bring you some books and magazines in a bit.”

With a pivot, he turned his back to her. She couldn’t stay here and wait for him to convince her of his lunacy.

Instinct kicked in. This might be her best chance to escape.

Bailey eased off the bed and crept to one of the shelves near the window, grabbed a heavy wooden statue from its shelf, then