His to Take (7 page)

“Yeah. This picture was taken about three years before the Aslanovs died. A family
member in Russia provided it to authorities shortly after the murders. The little
one there . . . The shape of the eyes is the same as yours.”

True. Bailey wanted to argue that the hair color wasn’t the same, but hers had been
much lighter in the pictures her parents had taken of her as a young girl. It had
become progressively darker between about seven and puberty. She chewed on her lip.

“Does the toddler look familiar? Did your parents have any pictures of you at that
age?”

“No. Our house burned down when I was—”

“Five?” he asked with a knowing stare.

She opened her mouth to answer, then slowly closed it as she exhaled. “Yeah.”

“Convenient, don’t you think? All your baby pictures were mysteriously lost? They
didn’t ever send your snapshots to grandparents, aunts, uncles—anyone who could send
copies back?”

“My mother said that she was estranged from her family, so she considered herself
an orphan. My father was an only child whose own parents had passed away before I
was born.”

“Not saying it’s impossible, just asking you to entertain the idea that they might
not have been completely honest.” He stood and leaned over the photo, then pointed
to Aslanov’s wife. “You look a lot like her.”

She’d noticed that and hadn’t wanted to even think it.

“Same build. Same hair color. Same lush mouth.”

Joaquin had noticed her mouth? Bailey’s gaze bounced up from the picture to his face.
The hot stare was back. She licked her lips, and he followed her motion. He didn’t
move or change expression, but she sensed his every muscle tightening. Suddenly, she
had a hard time breathing.

God, she couldn’t be attracted to him, not after he’d taken her from her home without
her consent. Not when her life was so up in the air. Not when she didn’t know for
sure who she was.

Bailey jerked her stare back down to the woman. “What do you know about her?”

“Not much. I did some asking around this morning and got a few answers. Aleksandra
Aslanov had been a ballerina for the Bolshoi before the fall of the USSR. She was
lovely and lauded. She met Viktor after a performance. He was smitten. He came from
an influential family, and she’d barely danced her way out of poverty. They married
quickly. Based on timing, I’d say she was pregnant.

“Around the time the USSR collapsed, Aleksandra gave birth to a son and they left
the country. In the vacuum of power, Viktor had no more funding, and he knew there
was more money in the West. At first, the U.S. resisted letting him in because of
his controversial theories and experiments. He eventually convinced the U.S. government
that he’d only conducted his radical experiments at Soviet edict. Of course, everyone
discovered later that wasn’t true, but by then, he and his small family had moved
to that farm in rural Indiana—not too many people asked questions out in the middle
of nowhere—and they’d added two more children to their family.”

“So . . . he went to work for Callindra Howe’s father, trying to cure cancer. Aslanov
stumbled onto something that later got him killed. At least that’s what they said
on the news.” She frowned. “But why?”

“There are gaps in the story, yes. That’s another reason I’m here. Thorpe, whom you
met earlier, knows others who have more information. I just haven’t seen these people
yet.”

Bailey frowned. Maybe Joaquin was simply stalling or full of crap. Maybe he was trying
to lull her into a false sense of security.

Heaven forbid if he was telling the truth.

Panic crept through her system. She couldn’t imagine a scenario in which everything
she’d known had been a lie, everyone she’d loved had really begun as a stranger.

Gathering her knees up to her chest, she wrapped her arms around them and resisted
the urge to rock. “I can’t help you.”

Joaquin stood and leaned over her, dropping a big, dark hand on her shoulder. “Tatiana?”

She sent him an angry glare, shaking her head. Tears filled her eyes, stinging like
acid. “That’s
not
my name.”

He stroked her arm softly, and in a distant corner of her mind she marveled at how
tender such a big man could be. “If you don’t want me to call you that, I won’t. I
just want you to consider that if you’re not Tatiana Aslanov, there are an awful lot
of coincidences here.”

She clutched her knees tighter. He wasn’t saying anything she hadn’t already thought,
but somehow, hearing it out loud scared her more. “Even if I am her, I still can’t
help you. If that’s me, that whole part of my life . . . it isn’t even a memory. It’s
just blank. There’s nothing.”

Caressing his way back up her arm, he lifted her chin with a gentle finger. “I know
I’m asking for a lot. You would have been very young. But I don’t have anything else.
I’ll work with you the best I can, but I’ve got to press ahead. If I don’t, others
may die. You’ll be in danger. You’ll never have your life back. And I’d never forgive
myself if something happened to you. Can we agree to keep exploring who you might
be and what you might know?”

“I’m scared,” she whispered.

It was probably stupid to admit that to him, but she didn’t have anyone else now.
If she could believe Thorpe—he wasn’t necessarily in her corner, but he didn’t like
Joaquin’s methods. On the other hand, if her captor was being honest about trying
to stop these terrible murders, then . . . well, he wasn’t hurting her. Upsetting
her, yes. But were his actions really awful? She didn’t want women dying, especially
in such ghastly ways. Maybe he was actually kind of noble.

She did not just think that. No, she had. Damn it. Because she wanted to believe nothing
bad would happen to her? Or because she was actually identifying with her captor.
Both probably. She was sounding dangerously Stockholm syndromish. Fabulous.

“I know, baby girl.” His voice deepened, roughened.

That probably should have come across as patronizing. Instead, the words sounded like
an endearment sliding off his tongue. His timbre made her tremble.

“Come here.” He didn’t give her time to deliberate, just wrapped his arms around her
and lifted her against his chest.

Bailey’s first instinct was to struggle for escape. Then she realized that Joaquin
wasn’t holding her tightly. She could step away at any time she wanted.

Joaquin pressed her cheek against his chest, and she felt his big arms cross over
her back, heard his heartbeat thud in her ear. He surrounded her, strong, masculine,
and . . . seemingly so safe. What was wrong with her? She fought the feeling. Breathed
in, out, tried to clear her head.

But no, it was still there. Why? Because her instinct knew that Joaquin wasn’t dangerous?
Or because somewhere deep down she knew he was the first person in her life to give
her the truth?

“Look at me.” His voice turned deeper still.

Bailey heard the low, coaxing note, knew she should resist it. But she didn’t want
to.

Slowly, she lifted her head from his chest as he thrust his hands in her hair and
tugged just enough so that she had nowhere to look but into his eyes. Catching her
breath was suddenly hard, thinking even more difficult.

“Joaquin . . .” She wasn’t even sure what she was asking for.

He scanned her face, seeming to drink her in. His eyes went dark, hot. His grasp on
her hair tightened. “Right here.”

Then he began to lower his mouth to hers.

A
JANGLING at the bedroom door startled Bailey. She yanked away from Joaquin just before
his lips touched hers, then jerked her gaze to the knob as she dragged in a breath.
The door opened and Thorpe stood in the opening, staring at the two of them. His expression
told her that he knew exactly what he’d interrupted.

As heat climbed up her face, Bailey turned away, unable to look at either of them.
With the spell broken and Joaquin’s solid form and musky scent not clouding her thoughts,
she felt so vulnerable, stupid. Out of her element. If she wasn’t careful, she’d end
up being a victim of some kind—probably of a broken heart. Joaquin was way too good
at seduction.

“Sean and Callie are back. I’ve spoken with both of them. They’ll talk to you. For
the record, I’d rather leave Callie out of this, but Sean wants to exchange information.
I’ll show you where they are. If you’ll follow—”

“No need for that, Mitchell. We’re here,” said a feminine voice.

Mitchell. Mitchell . . . Thorpe? That name—she remembered where she’d heard it now.
He was Callindra Howe’s former boss. Which meant that Callie must be . . .

Bailey whirled around to see faces she’d seen on TV at least a dozen times. Callindra
entered with a welcoming smile, her dark hair streaming over her shoulders, carrying
an Hermès handbag that probably cost as much as Bailey’s entire gross earnings last
year. She recognized the shoes as Chanel. Coupled with a gorgeous shimmery blue blouse,
bling jeans, and perfectly red lips, the heiress looked positively stunning.

Then another man sent her a sidelong glance that chastised as he stepped in front
of her. “Lovely, what did we talk about before Thorpe and I let you come in here?”

Sean Mackenzie, Callindra’s fiancé. Holy cow, the former FBI agent was every bit as
good-looking as he appeared on TV. But Bailey found herself truly drawn to the expression
Sean sent the other woman. Somehow, that one dominant look promised both hell and
hot sex—later. But under that his eyes danced with affection.

What would it be like to have any man look at her like that?

“Pet?” Thorpe drawled with a raised brow.

“You told me to stay out of the conversation until someone asked me a direct question.
I didn’t say anything to her. I just smiled. The poor girl looks nervous.”

“So much for you maintaining a low profile . . .” Sean sighed.

“C-Callindra Howe?” Bailey blinked. The woman was, like, a celebrity.

“Just Callie.” She peeked around Mackenzie’s broad shoulder. Then with an impish grin,
she looked Thorpe’s way.

“A minx, I tell you.” Mackenzie shook his head.

“Always,” Thorpe agreed, then sent Callie a disapproving stare. “What am I going to
do with you?”

Her grin broadened as she sent him a come-hither stare. “I have ideas.”

Bailey blinked and barely kept her mouth closed. Did Mackenzie realize his fiancée
was flirting with another guy, one who’d stated earlier that he had a girlfriend?

Sean turned and brushed a lingering kiss on Callie’s rosy lips, holding her close.
“So do I. Now greet Thorpe, then we’ll get started.”

She kissed her groom-to-be again, then headed over to Thorpe, who welcomed her with
open arms—and a scorching kiss. Bailey nearly gasped in shock.

“I have ideas, too, pet,” he muttered. “You may not like them, so be ready.”

“Mitchell, I haven’t seen you all day. I missed you,” she murmured in a pretty pout.
“But Sean and I finished the last of the wedding stuff. We’re ready for Saturday.”

“No surprise party for my birthday?” The question sounded more like a threat.

Callie’s pout deepened. “I wanted to, but Sean put his foot down.”

“Excellent.” He kissed her forehead. “Now turn around. There’s someone you should
meet.”

Tucking her hand in Thorpe’s, she reached for Sean’s, too. The three of them stood
linked. Together. Bailey suddenly understood that Callie was in love with them both.
It was all over her face. They loved her just as madly—and seemed to not only accept
that fact, but to share her.

A bolt of envy pierced Bailey. Other than her one short-lived romance as a senior
in high school that had resulted in a prom date and the loss of her virginity, she’d
never experienced much in the way of romance. Being cooped up in a dance studio with
a bunch of other aspiring ballerinas and a few guys who’d been mostly fighting the
urge to come out of the closet hadn’t been great for her love life.

Thorpe urged Callie forward. “This is Bailey Benson and Joaquin Muñoz. They arrived
early this morning from Houston. Logan sent them.”

“I’m Callie Howe.” The heiress held out her hand politely, and they both shook it.

“Soon to be Mackenzie.” Sean corrected with a grin, then shook their hands, too.

The gorgeous brunette cocked her head to one side, giving Thorpe a puzzled glance.
“New members?”

Of what?
Bailey wanted to ask.

Before she could, Joaquin shook his head. “Logan’s brother is married to my little
sister. I’m working on a case. The guys suggested that I talk to Mackenzie. And especially
to you, Callie.”

“Why don’t we all sit?” Thorpe suggested. “It’s not going to be a quick conversation.”

“Thanks. I appreciate this.” Joaquin pulled two chairs toward a window seat. He took
the one closest to the door.

Thorpe settled on one end of the bench under the shuttered glass, Sean on the other.
With a happy smile, Callie settled herself in the middle. Sean wrapped an arm around
her shoulders, and she rested her head against him. Thorpe dropped his hand on her
thigh possessively, making her smile widen just a bit more.

The trio’s openness about their relationship surprised Bailey, but they looked utterly
at peace. Meant to be. They’d probably known it at first sight and just fallen madly
in love. Callie had obviously been much smarter in her romantic life, and Bailey chastised
herself again for letting Joaquin nearly kiss her. He wanted to protect her—if he
was telling the truth. Big if. But he hadn’t sought her out looking for eternal love.
She shouldn’t be stupid enough to allow herself to feel any emotion for a man capable
of abducting a woman and possessing frightening information about a string of mutilated
bodies.

“So if Logan sent you to talk to me, this must have something to do with whoever killed
my family,” Callie murmured, her smile dimming. “Are those two dirtbags from LOSS
back from Mexico and on my tail again?”

“LOSS?” Joaquin leaned forward in the chair beside her.

Nice to know she wasn’t the only one already confused.

Sean sighed. “The League of Secessionist Soldiers. We’ve managed to keep this paramilitary
separatist group’s involvement in this case out of the news, so they probably sound
unfamiliar.”

“They must be the well-funded fuck-all-crazies Logan mentioned.” Joaquin sighed.

“They are,” Thorpe confirmed. “Convinced the country needs to be dissolved so that
we can all form our own sects based on blood, race, and religion—the purer the better.”

“Bigots, in other words,” Joaquin spat.

“The gun-toting kind.” Thorpe’s lips lifted in a smile, but it wasn’t a pleasant expression.

“Precisely. As you’re probably aware, Callie’s father paid a Russian scientist for
his research.”

“Viktor Aslanov. I know,” Joaquin cut in, looking tense, anxious.

Bailey tensed. Did she really want to know all this?

“When Daniel Howe discovered that his money had funded research he never intended,
he demanded Aslanov turn it all over to him. But the Russian—”

“Had already sold it to LOSS. But why would a separatist group want Aslanov’s research?”

“Well,” Sean drawled. “To defeat a military with the size and sophistication of the
U.S. forces, they need a leg up. They’re never going to outspend or out-train Uncle
Sam. So why not genetically alter your own soldiers to make them stronger, faster,
and smarter?”

“That’s insane.” Bailey stared at them all. “That won’t work . . . will it?”

Thorpe shrugged. “Since we’ve never seen the actual research, we don’t know what exactly
Aslanov sold them. We’ve read guesstimates and heard rumors. We can speculate, but . . .”

“We tend to think that they found whatever work Aslanov had already given them valuable
because they’d purchased another phase of research from him.” Mackenzie paused. “When
Aslanov didn’t deliver, they wiped him and most of his family out, then came after
Callie’s father after they pieced it all together a few years later. But Howe had
burned everything the scientist gave him. So the radical idiots shot him and Callie’s
younger sister.”

Bailey sucked in a breath. The people Joaquin swore were after her had killed a man
and a child in cold blood, as well as tortured multiple women to death. They wouldn’t
have any compunction about killing her brutally, too. Maybe she was better off here . . .
with Joaquin.

“Daniel Howe left notes about the documents he received from Aslanov, but I’m not
sure we’ll ever know the exact contents of the research,” Sean finished. “For nearly
a decade, they came after Callie. We assume they hoped she knew something. Or maybe
they simply wanted the last witness to her family’s murder out of the way. Luckily,
Callie was resourceful and she eluded them.”

When he flashed a smile at Callie, the woman’s stare caressed him with total devotion.
Thorpe’s hand tightened on her, and she glanced back at her former boss with a secretive
smile, fingering a gorgeous aquamarine circled by diamonds nestled in the hollow of
her throat.

“Two of the members of LOSS chased her until Callie went public. Then her profile
was too high for them to kill. We received intelligence that they slinked across the
border into Mexico to hide out. That’s all we know. We’re digging deeper into their
organization now.”

“Do we know of any other people or groups who sought Aslanov’s genetic voodoo?” Joaquin
asked, clearly mulling over everything they’d heard.

Sean shook his head. “As far as we can tell, no one else knew of the scientist’s work.
We’re not even entirely sure how Aslanov and LOSS hooked up. We do know that with
the first round of research LOSS bought, they conducted some human tests.”

“Somewhere in South America?” Joaquin ventured.

“We think in Peru or western Brazil, but that’s not confirmed.”

“Between some other coincidences and the fact that they’re clearly willing to kill
entire families,” Joaquin began, “I’m starting to believe we’re dealing with the same
bad guys. And one thing I can tell you: They haven’t given up.”

“I didn’t imagine they had.” But Sean had hoped. Bailey saw that at a glance.

“Thorpe introduced her as Bailey Benson.” Joaquin gestured her way. “That’s how the
world knows her. I think she’s actually Tatiana Aslanov.”

Callie’s eyes bulged. She cast a glance at Sean, who gripped her hand. Thorpe set
a bracing palm at her back.

“The Russian’s youngest daughter, the one who disappeared?” Sean asked.

“It’s his theory. I have no memory of that at all,” Bailey rushed to clarify.

“But she would have been awfully young. She knows Russian and isn’t sure why,” Joaquin
pointed out. “She had a visceral reaction to seeing Viktor Aslanov’s face on television.
She’s a ballerina like her mother, but has a deep aptitude for science like her father.
Most telling, she has dreams about the house where the murders took place and the
exact scene in which Tatiana was found, right down to the details.”

“It could be a coincidence,” Bailey argued, but even to her own ears, that sounded
unlikely.

“You were adopted at the age of five, just like Tatiana,” he argued. “And you have
her eyes.”

“Blue eyes are common, and my parents never said I was adopted.”

“Did they say you weren’t?” he countered.

Bailey couldn’t stop fighting for herself, her identity. The situation was frustrating
and bizarre. Worse, Joaquin had uncovered more coincidences that made her uncomfortable.
But she still couldn’t imagine how she could truly be someone other than the person
she’d known herself to be for the last twenty-one years. She couldn’t wrap her head
around that.

Sean leaned forward, his eyes gentle. “I know this must be hard to accept.”

“Impossible.” Bailey shook her head. “Accepting that your whole life has been a lie—”

“Not your whole life,” Joaquin cut in, taking her by the chin and turning her to face
him. “You’re still the same girl who danced her first pointe at twelve. The girl who
won the science fair in seventh grade. You’re still the same person who grew up, made
friends, had crushes, experienced life and loss and love. Just because your name might
be different, that doesn’t change who you are.”

Oddly, his words made her cry. Or maybe the mountain of fear and confusion had finally
collapsed in on her. She heard his logic and knew that a name shouldn’t wipe out who
she was or what she’d experienced and achieved. But it felt like more than a name.
His beliefs called her whole identity into question.

“That’s easy to say because it’s not
you
,” she tossed back. “J-just go on with your story.”

Joaquin locked his jaw. In frustration, yes. But Bailey couldn’t fail to see concern
before he turned to the others.

Her stomach flipped over as she listened to Joaquin explain the bodies of women cropping
up across the country, explained their similarities—age, background, coloring. As
she listened again, Bailey closed her eyes, wondering how this could be happening.
Less than twenty-four hours ago, she’d been a just another Houston woman prepping
for an audition and vaguely contemplating where her life would lead.

Now she was in Dallas with a dark, dangerous man she barely knew, wondering exactly
who she was and if she’d make it out of this ordeal alive.

“So they’re after you?” Sean concluded at the end of Joaquin’s story, leveling a heavy
stare at her. The affectionate fiancé had been replaced by a cold agent.