His to Take (Wicked Lovers 9)

Suddenly, she made a frantic grab for the remote on the nightstand, stabbing her trembling thumb furiously against one of the buttons. Nothing happened on the first two tries.

“Damn it,” she muttered, staring down at the device in her hand, her body taut.

“My story has a happy ending,” Callie said on the screen. “But my mother’s didn’t. Every woman can live a longer, healthier life by having regular female exams. Pay attention to your body and report anything out of the ordinary to your doctor. If you can’t afford a regular exam, please contact the Cecilia Howe Foundation. Besides cancer research, we’re trying to help women with limited resources get the care they need.”

“That’s an admirable goal,” the announcer said in praise. “Contact information is on the screen, folks. But let’s talk about something very happy, Ms. Howe. You’re marrying Agent Mackenzie soon. What can you tell us about the wedding?”

Bailey jabbed at the remote again, and the TV finally went dark. Into the shadowed room, she emptied her lungs. That action seemed to deflate her whole body. She clutched her towel to her breasts, shaking, looking like she’d seen a ghost.

Maybe she had.

Because she was Tatiana Aslanov?

Right now, that likelihood seemed pretty promising. With one possibility dead, one missing, and the other in Africa, Bailey Benson was his last hope for uncovering the truth and stopping these ruthless savages from killing again. Even if she wasn’t the scientist’s daughter, this sweet little ballerina wasn’t equipped to deal with the danger about to knock on her door. Joaquin knew he had to be aggressive and act fast to keep her safe. Fuck the consequences.

* * *

RED splattered her once-pink shirt. She pressed her lips together to hold in a scream. If she couldn’t stay quiet, something bad would happen.

Terror made her heart thump in her chest, drum in her head. As she looked around the ransacked house, splashes of red marked the walls in nearly every room. She was afraid to look closer. Time to get out. But as she ran down the hall, she slid in more of the red stuff, nearly losing her balance. It lapped at her toes, warm and sludgy. Some scent she didn’t like tinged the air. Her stomach turned, but she kept running.

Finally, she made it to the door and reached for the knob. But her hands were covered in red. Horror assailed her.

The wind blew the back door open. With a silent screech, she darted outside. Cold. Snow had fallen recently. The ice bit into her feet, but she kept charging as fast as she could, until she couldn’t breathe, until the tears turned icy on her face. Until she came to another road.

She walked what seemed like forever, past animal pens and pastures and dormant trees. Her feet had long ago gone numb. Quiet smothered her. The absence of noise—even the call of a bird—somehow scared her more.

Where was she going? Where could she hide? She didn’t know. Would she walk forever and never see anyone again?

Then an old blue sedan pulled over. A woman with a kind face and brown hair opened the door and gave her a look that held both pity and horror.

“What’s your name, little girl?”

She didn’t know. She should, but all she knew now was that she felt cold and shivering and afraid.

The man dashed around the side of the car with a phone mashed against his ear. Concern creased his face as he held out a hand to her. She reached for him, praying he offered warmth and safety, but she caught sight of her hand again. The terrible red had seeped into her skin, dripped under her fingernails . . .

Bailey’s eyes flew open and she gripped the sheet. That damn nightmare. Again. Even in her warm nightshirt, she shivered.

Panting in the silence, she looked around the room frantically. The dream still flashed vivid images in her head, as it always did. She’d been having these same visions almost nightly for as long as she could remember. Her parents had told her repeatedly it was just a dream, assured her that no part of it was real. Even the psychologist they’d insisted she see as a kid had explained that the subconscious can confront a person with their greatest fears and make the dream-state experience seem very real, yadda, yadda, yadda. But everything about the nightmares sure felt as if she’d been through that hell.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Bailey tried to compartmentalize the fear, remind herself that it wasn’t genuine or rational. She lived alone in a little house close to downtown Houston, not in the middle of farmland somewhere snow fell thick and heavy. She’d never been covered in blood. For heaven’s sake, she’d grown up in suburban Houston with every advantage a kid with two attentive parents could have. Mom had homeschooled her until ninth grade. Dad had worked for a small company that believed in family, so he’d been home for dinner every night. She had been to every dance class they could afford, then attended a high school for the performing arts. Everything had been picture-perfect in life—except their deaths in a car crash shortly after high school graduation and these damn dreams.

Why did the visions plague her almost every night when she closed her eyes?

Whatever. She refused to let the fear drive her from bed again. She’d danced hard today and she had another round of grueling rehearsals tomorrow. No way she’d get through it without sleep.

Roll over. Cuddle up to your pillow. Think of something happy.

Bailey sighed. That tactic hadn’t worked before. It probably wouldn’t work now.

Flinging her blanket aside, she opened her eyes, pondering what might be on TV. Maybe she’d just go into the kitchen and make some popcorn and watch a movie.

Suddenly, a shadow eclipsed her—one in the shape of a man. Before she could scream, his hand clamped over her mouth. She tried to scream around it, but the sound came out like a whimper. A thousand terrible possibilities pelted her brain at once. She remembered hearing on the news last week that there was a serial rapist in the area.

Oh, please God, no . . .

His other hand came closer. Would he rip her clothes? Defile her? Bailey tried to writhe and thrash. Escape—she had to. Somehow. She was an athlete. A fighter, damn it.

In the next instant, Bailey noticed something in his darkened hand. He brought it closer. Before she could fight or flee, she felt a prick in the side of her neck.

Shock jolted through her system. Then . . . nothing.

Chapter Three

BAILEY floated in and out, feeling hazy and in no hurry to wake up. Something nagged at her that she should. But rehearsal wasn’t until later in the day, right?

Toasty warmth and a heavy head dragged her back under. She couldn’t remember her bed ever being quite so comfortable. She still slept on her childhood mattress, which had always been too soft. But this felt firmer and a little bit perfect. She melted into it. Well, except her shoulders. Why were her hands above her head? It was making her nightshirt bunch around her hips. Something dug into her forearms. She never slept in this position. Weird . . .

She tugged to pull her arms down, but nothing. They were stuck. No, tethered. Restrained.

The realization jolted her eyes open, and she found herself staring at an unfamiliar room, unable to move. Her heart started thundering in her chest. She bit back a scream.

A black down comforter covered her. The walls were some shade of gray, as was the leather ottoman at the end of the bed. Everything else was a blend of woods. Floor-to-ceiling shutters in a cherry tone, a dresser in some rustic finish, the darker hardwood floors dominating the large space, even some of the art on the shelves. A nightstand with modern lines and a contemporary light fixture sat next to the bed. Nothing else. Not a personal picture or memento anywhere. Spartan. And totally alien.

Cold fear snaked through her system. The attacker in her house last night rushed through her memory, and the truth set in: She’d been taken.

Bailey couldn’t hold her terror in anymore. She screamed.

The door flew open, and a man busted in, slamming it behind him, then rushed to her side. No hint of warmth

softened his dark face or greenish eyes, though he appeared surprisingly concerned for a kidnapper. Looking more than a little rugged, the short, sharp cut of his black hair accentuated his severity. He stood tall, about six and a half feet. Muscles bulged everywhere under the tight black T-shirt seemingly painted over his chest. God, he was huge. Scary.

“Calm down, Bailey,” he rumbled in a low voice that incited a shiver of fear.

Hell no! “How do you know my name? Who are you?”

“I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.”

Said the spider to the fly . . . “Where am I? What do you want?”

“To save you.”

From what? Was he planning to kill her in order to “save” her from the cruel world or whatever? Terror made her tremble again.

“I was doing fine on my own. Let me go. Please! I won’t tell anyone about this.”

Compassion tempered his face for a moment. “Even if you didn’t, you’d be in far more danger. I know you’re scared. I’m sorry I had to get this drastic, but there’s a lot going on that you don’t know.”

“You have me mistaken for someone else.”

“I don’t. Just hear me out.” The man’s assurance rattled her even more. “We’ll start at the top. According to your records, you were born Bailey Katherine Benson. You came into the world twenty-one years ago on December fourth in Houston. But I don’t think that’s true.”

What? Obviously he was a few sandwiches shy of a picnic. “No, that’s exactly who I am. If you’re looking for someone else—”

“I’m pretty sure you’re not, but let me finish telling you my theory.”

“Let me the hell out of here!” she demanded, struggling against her restraints. But he didn’t budge—and neither did they. “You have to let me go. People are going to miss me.”

“Not the people you know as your parents. They’re ‘dead.’” He made air quotes.

“Yes, they are. Why are you doing this to me?”

“The identities of Jane and Bob Benson are dead, but I suspect the people behind them are very much alive. Didn’t you ever think those names were a little too simple?”

“For what, good parents?”

They’d been supportive of her academically, except her weird love of science. Her mother had called that unladylike. Artistically, they’d been in favor of dance. They hadn’t been the sort of parents to hug or tease her a lot, but at least one of them had dutifully attended every recital. Her dad had sometimes been preoccupied, wrapped up in his career, she supposed. Her mom had passed her time constantly gardening or sewing—neither of which had appealed to Bailey.

“I’ll bet they were FBI agents with aliases whose mission it was to raise and protect you, but I’ll check on that.”

“No.” The denial slipped out automatically.

Still, his words echoed in her head. She hadn’t looked like either of her parents—not even a little. She hadn’t shared any interests with them, either. As she’d gotten older, they had insisted she learn to defend herself, to fire a gun, to hunt and cook her own game, to box. She hadn’t taken much of it seriously. Instead, she’d been hurt, assuming that her dad had wanted a son, and when he hadn’t fathered one, he’d tried to morph her into one instead. But federal agents?

No, they’d been her parents. Maybe they hadn’t been perfect, but they’d been hers. She wasn’t going to let this psycho tell her otherwise.

“I’m not having this conversation with you.”

He sat on the edge of the bed and leaned close, his face looming just above hers. “You are. You’re cuffed, remember? I swear I won’t hurt you, but you’re not going anywhere until I let you. It’s for your own good.”

She bit her lip. He might have her in a bind—literally—but that didn’t mean she had to share any part of herself with him. “Fuck off, creep.”

He grabbed her chin in a firm but not painful grip. That surprised her. If he wanted to cause her pain, he could do it easily. She had no way to stop him, and he was certainly big enough. Then again, maybe he was toying with her or biding his time until he got whatever he wanted from her.

“Are you forgetting who has the upper hand?”

Like that was possible. “Why don’t you tell me what you want so we can get this over with and I can go home?”

His big fingers left her face. He dragged them up her arms and curled a hot path around her manacled wrists, pinning her deeper into the mattress. A manly spice wafted from him. Cataloging it momentarily distracted Bailey. The fact that Mr. Tall, Dark, and Menacing smelled good just seemed wrong.

He scanned her face. Trying to decide how to proceed? “What’s your earliest memory?”

Disturbing dreams. “Memories? I thought you’d want money. I don’t have much, by the way. Let’s not play this stupid game.”

“You don’t want to answer me? All right. I can wait. I’ve got all afternoon. How about you?”

“Afternoon?” She blinked at him, then cut her stare over to the long windows on the other side of the room. Sure enough, behind the closed shutters, golden sunlight seeped in between the slats and under the frame.

“It’s almost noon,” he provided, easing back and releasing her wrists.

How had she lost nearly twelve hours? Horror spread through her, cold and thick. “Please let me go. I have a rehearsal at two. I have to be there. Next week, I’m supposed to audition for a part in Dallas for one of Texas Ballet Theater’s upcoming shows.”

“Then I suggest you talk fast,” he growled. “Your earliest memory?”

Bailey couldn’t believe that he’d abducted her to ask the first thing she could remember. Did he know how crazy he sounded? But if it would satisfy his weird curiosity so he’d release her . . . “Falling on the playground and losing a tooth.”

“How old were you?”

“Five, I think. What does this have to do with anything?”

“Who was with you?”

Why did it matter? “I don’t remember.”

He stared at her with eyes narrowed, dissecting her. She didn’t think he believed her.

“Look,” she began. “I hope you find whoever you’re looking for, but I’m not her. I really am Bailey Benson from Houston, just like the records state. I’m preparing nonstop for the biggest audition of my career. I’m also expecting company tonight, and he’s really special, so—”

“Blane?”

When he ground out her friend’s name, she froze. “How did you know that?”

“I was in your house for a few hours last night. You really should lock your doors and windows better.” As she gaped at him, he sent her a little smirk. “By the way, I secured your house as much as I could before we left. You need better locks and a security system going forward.”

Bailey wanted to ask why he even mentioned it, but that wasn’t the most important question of the day. “So you were the one in my room, hovering over me in the dark?”

She remembered that heavy presence, just before she’d felt the prick of a needle in her neck.

“Yes. Why did you have a reaction to Viktor Aslanov’s picture on TV?”

“Who?”

“The infamous scientist. He was murdered. They showed his photo in the montage during Callindra Howe’s interview.”

Bailey couldn’t answer her captor’s question. She’d seen Aslanov’s image before. Every time, it upset her in a way she couldn’t explain. “I don’t know. Why did you take me from my house in the middle of the night?” Another terrible thought occurred to her. “Are you going to rape me?”

The big man reared back. “The idea of forcing a woman makes my skin crawl. Besides, I was mostly raised by a single mother and I have two sisters. They’d all have my balls if I even tried.”

“A-are you going to kill me?”

He tossed his hands in the air. “Were you listening earlier when I mentioned that I’m trying to save you from winding up six feet under?