His to Take (4 page)

Along with a cloud of perfumed steam, Bailey emerged. He caught a glimpse of her barely
covered in a yellow towel, little water droplets raining down her pale skin as she
scurried across the room.

She stopped right beside the bed, and a moment later the TV flipped on. She scanned
a few channels, then paused.

“Welcome to Callindra Howe,” said the male announcer with the buttery voice. “Thank
you for being with us. Your story of survival and courage has inspired many in the
face of adversity, and everyone is thrilled that your story has a happy ending.”

“Thank you for having me here.”

“In case you’ve been living under a rock . . .” The voice-over went into an explanation
of Callie’s history, surviving the murder of her entire family and repeated attempts
on her own life. The backstory included a description of Aslanov and his research,
along with a hint that this played a role in her tragic past. A little gasp escaped
Bailey.

Joaquin inched his gaze above the back of the chair. She stood stock-still and staring.
What had her so mesmerized? He cocked his head to see the TV. A picture of Viktor
Aslanov appeared on the screen. He whipped his stare to Bailey again. She looked spooked
and pale.

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.

B
AILEY 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?”

“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.