His to Take (5 page)

“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. There’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 in 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 tiptoed behind him.

As soon as he unlocked the door and opened it, she rose up on her tiptoes and lifted
her arm soundlessly. Normally, she’d never be able to hit anyone. But this was life-or-death.

He whirled suddenly and gripped her wrist in his unyielding hold. She couldn’t move
as his eyes burned into hers.

“Sweetheart, I’ve worked as an undercover agent fighting some of the most dangerous
people in the world longer than you’ve been legal. Did you really think you were going
to surprise me?”

His mocking question made her feel small, helpless. She hated him for that. “Let me
go.”

He grabbed the wooden block from her hand, then released her. “Nice try. By the way,
the name your biological parents gave you when you were born was Tatiana. You were
Viktor Aslanov’s youngest daughter.”

Then he was gone, the door secured with a sturdy click behind him. Bailey stared,
gaped, rooted in place. Could any of what he claimed actually be true?

T
HE moment Joaquin let himself out the bedroom door, Mitchell Thorpe, Dominion’s owner,
stood, blocking the hall with one sharp brow raised. His stare censured. Despite the
man’s impeccable suit, Joaquin was pretty sure Thorpe could be a badass. Since he’d
had a really long few days without a lot of sleep—and no peace whatsoever—he didn’t
need the other man’s shit.

“I appreciate that you’re in a difficult position.” Thorpe adjusted a cuff link. “As
soon as I heard screaming coming from my bedroom, I called Logan. He explained your
situation a bit more in depth. I allowed you to come here because the Edgington brothers
vouched for you and I was given to understand that you were protecting the potential
target of a killer, not abducting a woman. Club Dominion maintains a strictly consensual
environment. You can’t keep that woman here against her will.”

Joaquin swallowed, fighting frustration and dread. “I get that you don’t want anyone
shining a light on this place or trying to shut you down, but—”

“I have enough of those problems already. Both the evangelists and the asexual lobbying
to end my club are apparently either not acquainted with orgasm or afraid of it, so . . .”

A hundred tactics ran through Joaquin’s head. He finally settled on the truth. “She’s
in shock. I’d hoped that once I jogged her memory a little, she’d remember the past.
Even though she admitted she has nightmares about the night her family was murdered,
she’s adamant that she’s not Tatiana Aslanov. I need time. If I let her loose now,
it won’t be long before whoever is doing the hideous work for these bastards will
catch her. Did Logan tell you how they’re torturing these women?”

“You want to keep her safe. It’s admirable. But I can’t have her here against her
will.” His stance softened slightly. “Are you sure she’s Aslanov’s daughter?”

“I’ve got the right woman. She even dreams about the house in the snow and the couple
who found her wandering the side of the road. I need a few days to convince her and
find out what she knows.” Thorpe still looked skeptical. “What if these bastards were
still after Callie?”

“Why does everyone use Callie against me?” Thorpe’s expression thundered with anger.
“Leave my submissive out of this.”

Joaquin tossed up his hands. “She was ass deep in this mess for nearly a decade. You
know just as well as I do that if they’d gotten their hands on her, they would have
tortured—”

“If you finish that sentence, you won’t have any teeth left.” Thorpe looked dead serious.
“Callie has suffered long enough. Sean and I are doing our best to make her happy
now. We will do whatever it takes to keep her as far away from this as possible.”

Time to step back. This tactic was simply pissing Thorpe off, and Joaquin needed the
man’s cooperation. “Fine. Sorry. If you’ll let me, I’d like to talk to both Sean and
Callie. I think they have information that could save Tatiana’s life.”

“I’ll ask Sean if he’ll talk to you. That’s up to him, and will depend, at least in
part, on what the FBI wants to keep strictly in-house. Callie . . . Sean and I will
have to decide that together. The TV interviews Callie gives are never in depth. They’re
a matter of survival, since they keep her too public for anyone to kill. But a direct
probe about who chased her and why might be too much for her. It’s barely been three
months. And with the stress of the wedding . . .”

“You agreed yesterday.”

“Before you added kidnapping into this mess.”

Joaquin didn’t like Thorpe’s answer, but he understood it. “I know she went through
years of hell. I wouldn’t ask her to tread this ground again unless I believed the
information could help save lives. You and Sean can be beside her every moment.”

“I’ll consider it. I’d like to talk to Tatiana.” Thorpe phrased it like a request,
but it wasn’t.

Joaquin hedged. “She’s probably showering now and she needs some food first.”

He didn’t understand the protective instinct that suddenly filled him. No, it wasn’t
quite something protective that nagged at him. Instead, it was almost . . . possessive.
That made even less sense. From everything he’d heard, Thorpe was devoted to Callie,
so he wasn’t likely to proposition anyone else. Besides, Joaquin barely knew Aslanov’s
daughter. She was just someone he had to keep alive, nothing more.

But he enjoyed the thought of covering her fragile body with his own and filling her
with his cock. In fact, parts south stiffened and rose at the idea. He held in a curse.

Thorpe paused. “I’ll make sure she gets food. While she’s eating, she and I will chat.
I’ll keep it friendly.”

Despite those assurances, Joaquin still wanted to say no. But Thorpe held him by the
balls. If he wanted to keep Tatiana someplace secure and talk to the people who could
tell him about the group responsible for these murders and their motive, then he had
to play by the club owner’s rules. It fucking grated on him.

“She’s afraid.”

“I’m sure.” Thorpe looked at him like he was an idiot for stating the obvious.

Despite all the praise the Edgington brothers had heaped on Dominion’s owner, Joaquin
wasn’t sure he liked Thorpe at all.

“You took her from her bed and brought her in here unconscious,” the club owner pointed
out. “I don’t approve.”

I wasn’t asking for your opinion, Mr. Stick Up Your Ass.
“I didn’t have better options.”

“Well, now you have forty-eight hours to make your . . . guest consent to being here
or I’ll take matters into my own hands.”

Joaquin gritted his teeth and watched Thorpe walk away. He stalked down the hall in
the opposite direction.

Now what the fuck was he supposed to do? He could study the evidence again, but he’d
done that a thousand times. Without fresh eyes or clues, he was no closer to knowing
exactly who had killed Nate or why. Small mercy they hadn’t tortured him terribly.
And if he didn’t want to see the woman in Thorpe’s room reduced to a bleeding heap
of flesh, he needed to bite his tongue. He also needed to figure out how the hell
he was going to convince Tatiana to consent to being here in the next two days. He’d
given her his evidence. He didn’t have a lot of other avenues left.

So he found the bar instead. With the club closed, he didn’t see anyone except a muscle-bound
guy with a square face, a cleft chin, and a fuck-off attitude. The guy took up the
space behind the bar on a step stool, looking at a security camera behind a plastic
dome in the ceiling.

“You work here, man?”

The big guy didn’t look at him, just directed a screwdriver at the camera’s protective
bubble. “Yep. I’m Axel, head of security. If I’d gotten a vote, I wouldn’t have let
you come in here with an unconscious woman who hadn’t consented to be here with you.”

Get in line
. “You’ll be happy to know that Thorpe doesn’t approve either.”

“I have zero tolerance for bullies and even less for rapists.”

“Whoa, I’m a federal agent protecting someone who hasn’t figured out she’s in danger
yet.” And why was he explaining himself to this guy? Because Axel kept this place
safe.
Damn it.
“Is it possible to get a beer around here?”

“We don’t serve much booze. Things like restraints, wax, and fire play don’t mix well
with intoxication.”

Joaquin’s temper ignited. He rattled Axel’s step stool. “I’m trying to save a woman’s
life. Not rape her. Not get drunk. Why the fuck am I the enemy?”

Finally, Axel looked his way, his blue eyes sharp. “Why should I give a shit about
your little feelings? You’re a stranger to her, restraining her to a bed against her
will. Not only that, if this place gets shut down, I don’t have a job and fet folk
in Dallas won’t have a safe place to play.”

He didn’t know much about the fet community or their tribulations in finding a protected
environment. He didn’t want to put anyone out, but he couldn’t sacrifice Tatiana’s
safety, either. “I’m going to convince her that she wants to be here, okay?”

“Make it fast.” And with that, Axel was done talking.

Whatever. Maybe a beer wasn’t a great idea anyway.

But without something to drink or anything to do except wait, he was going to climb
the damn walls. Back down the hall he stalked. How the hell could he become someone
Tatiana trusted in the next two days? The only two possibilities he saw: He had to
become her friend . . . or her lover.

Joaquin wrestled with his conscience, then buried it. If she wouldn’t see reason,
he’d have to influence her in whatever way he could. He wasn’t out to break her heart,
just make sure she lived. And if he got to touch her . . . The situation seemed like
a win-win to him.

He smiled and started to plan.

*   *   *

BAILEY looked up to find an imposing man striding through the door to the bedroom,
carrying a tray. He wasn’t the same one who’d tried to convince her that she was the
Russian scientist’s daughter. This one was more refined, a bit older, but he still
had an edge of danger that made her take a half step back.

“Sit.” With a jerk of his head, he gestured toward a desk against the far wall.

It looked more decorative than anything. She’d already tried searching inside it for
anything useful, especially a way to reach the outside world. She’d settle for Morse
code at this point. But she could find nothing. The drawers were locked, and twelve
years of ballet and a penchant for science hadn’t given her the skills of a petty
thief.

Since this man gave off an air that warned her against messing with him, she did as
he bid. Besides, Bailey could smell food even across the room, and she was starved.

As soon as she sat, he set the tray in front of her and disappeared through the bathroom.

“That’s roast chicken with fingerling potatoes and asparagus,” he called across the
room, then emerged a moment later carrying a robe. “You can wear this for now if you’re
cold.”

She hadn’t been earlier, but after her shower, she’d been unable to find a hair dryer
and the strands of her wet hair now brushed all over her back, wetting her nightshirt.
She didn’t have any other clothes with her. But no complaints. She hadn’t expected
to find a new toothbrush, a razor, a comb, scented body lotion—a whole array of toiletries.

“Thank you.” She didn’t take her eyes off the man as he pulled up a nearby chair and
regarded her with concerned eyes an unusual shade of gray.

“You’re welcome. My girlfriend isn’t exactly your size, but she’s far closer than
anything I could offer you.”

He was nearly as tall as the last man who had walked through that door and not any
less built. Anything of his, she’d swim in.

“So . . .” he went on. “I’ll bring you something of hers shortly. I wanted to feed
you first.” He looked at her untouched plate and frowned. “Go ahead.”

Bailey picked up her fork. The man seemed imposing, but not menacing. Still . . .

“Who are you? No offense, but I don’t trust you or your weirdo of a buddy.”

“I’m Thorpe.”

His name sounded familiar. She wasn’t sure exactly why. Then again, everything with
her right now was off-kilter. Maybe she was hallucinating.

He wore a ghost of a smile. “And that weirdo isn’t exactly my buddy. Joaquin is a
friend of a friend, more like. I don’t know him well, so I can’t precisely set you
at ease there. I’ve already told him that I don’t like you being here against your
will. That aside, our mutual friends are very highly decorated soldiers and the best
men. If they say you’re in danger, then you are, and I would caution you against making
yourself an easy target for killers.”

She didn’t have any reason to believe him. For all she knew, Thorpe and Joaquin—the
name fit his rugged, macho kind of vibe—had a good cop/bad cop thing going on. It
might all be an act, and the pair of them might be playing her. But her gut told her
no.

Spearing some asparagus, she popped it in her mouth. She had to believe that they
wouldn’t talk until her ears bled about keeping her alive, only to then poison her.
“I’m not eager to be an easy target. But Joaquin didn’t say a word to me before shoving
a needle in my neck and dragging me here.”

Thorpe’s lips pursed in disapproval. “We’ve exchanged words about his methods. He
knows I’m not happy. This place is mine, and I made it clear that while he’s under
my roof, he’ll be playing by my rules. I’ll make you a promise, too. Nothing will
happen to you that you don’t want.”

“I don’t want to be here at all.”

“I understand. Give him two days to work this case and see if he can solve the problem
so you can walk out of here without a threat hanging over your head.”

“I can’t put my life on hold for two days.”

“I’m sorry. I know this is difficult.”

But Thorpe wasn’t going to change his mind or help her escape. “I have a rehearsal
today. I never miss them. Then my friend Blane is coming over tonight, and I’ll need
to let him know I won’t be there.”

“That’s not my decision. I’ll speculate that Joaquin won’t give you a phone so you
can tell the world where to find you, but you’re welcome to ask him.”

“How could I tell anyone where I am when I don’t even know?” she pointed out. “How
do I make you understand? Blane will report me missing if I don’t show up or tell
him I’m somewhere safe.”

“And maybe that’s for the best.” Thorpe stood. “These killers are watching. If you
disappear, maybe they’ll hesitate or make a mistake. You don’t want to give them any
reason to pay Blane a visit and try to extract information from him, do you?”

After that photo Joaquin had shown her on his phone? “No!”

“That’s what I thought. Now I’ll leave you in peace.”

She recoiled from the urbane man. As
GQ
as he looked, she sensed there was far more under his surface and that she’d just
been manipulated.

“Wait!” Bailey bit her lip until he turned to face her with an inquiring brow. She
got the distinct impression he wasn’t used to taking orders from anyone. “Why should
I trust you?”