by Karen Rose
His mouth fell open. “What?”
“Other escapees. Have you connected with them?”
It was like a sucker punch, leaving him breathless. He shook his head. “There weren’t any others. Only me, Mercy, and Eileen.”
She unfolded her legs from beneath her and came to sit next to him, putting her laptop on the coffee table. “I found two, both boys. Well, they’re young men now.”
He stared at her, openmouthed. “How? How did you find them?”
She gave him a serious side-eye. “I majored in journalism, Gideon. I know how to find stuff. This wasn’t even that complicated. Just time-consuming.”
“You’ve been awake for two hours.”
Her eyes softened. “And you’re an FBI agent who’s been free for seventeen years?”
“Well . . . yes.”
“Have you ever looked for other . . . escapees or survivors or whatever you want to call what you are?”
“Yes, many times. I searched online for tattoos like mine and lockets like my sister’s, but I never found anyone.”
“All right.” She covered his hand where it rested on his thigh. “I know you can’t share Mercy’s story, and I’m not asking that. But did she tell you how they explained your disappearance?”
“Yes.” It had been one of the few things she had told him. “Pastor told them that I’d attacked McPhearson and murdered him and they’d banished me as punishment.”
“What did that mean exactly?”
“That they took me into the wilderness, tied me to a tree, and left me there to die. Ostensibly I would have been attacked, mauled, and consumed by animals.”
Daisy gasped. “Dear God.”
He shrugged. “Pedophilia was apparently A-okay. Murder was not.”
“Was . . .” She hesitated. “Was your mother punished for getting you out?”
Yes. He had to bow his head against the sudden pain. I’m sorry, Mama. “How did you find the two escapees?” he asked, his voice hoarse and heavy.
Her eyes filled with sudden tears, because he’d answered the question without saying a word. “I searched newspapers in the Northern California area for teenagers with tattoos. Also a generic search for specific tattoos with olive trees and cross-referenced Eden.” She grimaced. “There are a lot of olive tree tattoos.”
“So you just searched manually . . . with your eyes.” He blew out a breath when she grinned at him.
“With my eyes?” she asked, chuckling.
He rolled his own. “I know I’m not making sense. I meant, do you have software to search picture files for details?” Because he had used software and had still found nothing.
“No to software, yes to eyes. I can focus on things faster than most people.”
“And for longer,” he murmured, thinking about the puzzle she’d zoned in on for hours the day before. He straightened abruptly, turning to see her laptop screen. “Show me the two you’ve found.”
“I haven’t actually tracked them down to a current location yet. One of them could have changed his name by now. I can e-mail these links to you.”
“Please,” he murmured, hoping like hell that there were really others. Every escapee was one more person who no longer lived in hell.
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 6:30 A.M.
Mutt gave a little shake when they came into the house, marched straight to his bed, and curled up with what sounded like an irritated grunt. He liked to walk, but maybe not this much. They’d done the path to Daisy’s house twice more.
She was home, because both of the last two times he’d walked by, there had been lights on in her apartment. But there had also been lights in the third-floor windows and he’d seen a man walking around up there. He hadn’t even attempted to approach the house. He had no interest in breaking and entering to grab Daisy Dawson, especially if a scream would draw the attention of whoever lived upstairs.
He’d been tempted to park his car near Daisy’s house and wait for her to come out, but the Neighborhood Watch kept a lookout for cars that didn’t belong to the residents. Dog walkers were kind of ubiquitous, but Mutt was tired.
So am I. He’d worked yesterday, brought Zandra home, and taken care of Trish Hart. Plus his evening with Sydney, he thought with a shudder. At least taking care of Trish had loosened up his mind. He could think clearly now.
And, thinking clearly, he’d begun Operation Overthrow the Old Man. With Manilow crooning in the background, he sat on his bed, studying the photos and documents he’d been sorting between walks with Mutt. He’d been collecting proof of his old man’s dalliances for years. Years. But even more powerful was the evidence of the old man’s association with the drug cartels. He had pictures and letters and even a few taped conversations from the times he’d bugged Paul’s phone, all proving the old man had used his charter planes to transport drugs. He was confident that there was something among them that would give Paul pause. Something that would be enough to save his job.
But what he really wanted was for Paul to fulfill his promise—that if he worked hard, he’d someday own the place. The company should be mine.
He needed the salary. He needed the planes. Without flying, how would he keep his abductions under the radar? Nobody had noticed him. Nobody knew that he brought his guests home. His abductions, spread across time and numerous cities, hadn’t raised any flags, but if he was forced to hunt locally, he’d quickly establish a pattern for law enforcement to follow. And he’d likely be caught.
He tidied the piles of paper, putting each one into a Ziploc bag so he wouldn’t have to sort them again. Then he put the bags into a box and slid it under his bed. He needed to find out if the sale of the company had been finalized and, if not, when it would be. That would tell him how long he had to act.
He’d catch a few hours’ sleep before walking Mutt again. If he couldn’t catch her coming out of the house, he’d see her at the pet store later. However he did it, she needed to be silenced. She was the worst kind of loose end—vocal and articulate.
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 6:30 A.M.
Bracing his arm along the back of the sofa, Gideon leaned in to see Daisy’s laptop screen, his beard brushing against her cheek. Sitting with her in the quiet darkness was . . . intimate. He drew in her scent and let it settle his agitation as she clicked on a browser tab.
He squinted at the small picture of a bare-chested man showing off his new tattoos. “Expand it, please.” She did so and he slowly exhaled. “Oh my God. Judah.”
“You know him?”
He nodded. “He was younger than me by a few years. Closer to Mercy’s age.”
“I found this photo on the tattoo artist’s Instagram.” She pointed at the fire-breathing dragon on the younger man’s right pec. It was aiming its fire at the Eden tattoo. “We can contact the tattooist. This is a pretty unique tattoo setup and it was only a few months ago, so he’ll probably remember the tattoo itself. We can ask if he remembers the client.”
A few months ago. He hadn’t searched for tattoos like his in at least six months. “If he’s willing to talk to us.”
“That’s a big one,” she allowed. “He might not talk to you, but he might talk to me.”
“Why you?” He frowned, afraid he didn’t want to know the answer.
“You look like a cop, and I don’t. And I have an unfinished tattoo. I can ask about it.”
His brows shot up, as did something else he’d rather have stayed down. But the idea of a tattooed Daisy was hot as hell. “What and where?”
Her cheeks dimpled. “Brutus and none of your business. Focus, Gideon.” She clicked on the second photo. “I’m less sure of this one because the tattoo is not exactly the same.” She brought it up and enlarged it.
Focusing, Gideon shook his head at the young man�
�s photo. “Never seen him before. And you’re right, the tat is different.”
“This photo comes from an article on the swim team of a university in SoCal. His name is Lawton Malloy. He’s only nineteen, so if he did come from Eden, he would have been a toddler when you left and it makes sense that you wouldn’t have known him.” She zoomed in on the tattoo. “See, the praying children look different and the olive tree only has ten branches.”
“A copycat, then.” Gideon stared at the tat. From a distance it would look very close to the real thing. “But if so, he would have had to have gotten the idea from someone. Maybe he’ll tell us who.”
“I was thinking that.”
He frowned. “But . . . why wouldn’t these guys have spoken up?”
“Maybe they’re afraid. Or maybe they had the same bad experience that you did with abuse and it’s just as hard for them to talk about it. It’s hard enough for you and you’re trained as an investigator.”
“You could be right. I guess we’ll find out when we talk to them. Did you find any more?”
She shook her head. “Not yet. But I’ll keep looking.”
“Please do. I’ll call this in to my boss.” He needed to tell her about the second wedding photo anyway. “This will be enough to increase staffing. She can have a search run using recognition software—for lockets and tattoos.”
They sat in silence for a long moment that seemed to grow even quieter with each beat of his heart. Her scent filled his head and his body abruptly kicked into overdrive, his erection throbbing to the point of being painful. He needed to do something or he was going to combust. Stay or go? Move away or closer?
If she turned her head the smallest bit, their lips would brush, but she sat staring at her laptop, so still that he wondered if she was holding her breath. He needed to know what she was thinking. What she wanted.
“Daisy,” he whispered. “Look at me.”
She turned her head then and, just as he’d thought, their mouths were just a breath apart. She looked up at him and he saw the same thing in her eyes that he was sure filled his own. Desire. Need. And a yearning for something more.
If he kissed Daisy Dawson, it was with the full awareness that it would be more than one kiss. It would mean more than a quick hookup. He knew without asking that she’d want it to last longer than one night.
So did he.
Slowly he lowered his head to hers, giving her time to pull away. But she didn’t. Her eyes closed as she leaned in, and then he was kissing her, softly and far more sweetly than he wanted. What he wanted was to drag her against him, to lay her down on the sofa and plunder. He wanted to touch her soft skin all over. Wanted to know if she smelled so good everywhere. Wanted to see her eyes go dark with lust and heavy with satisfaction. He wanted to mark her so that pricks like that reporter would know she was his.
But she’s not yours. Not yet. So he kept his touch gentle, his kiss chaste, even though his body vibrated from the effort of holding back.
She smiled against his lips. “I won’t break, Gideon,” she whispered, shattering his self-control. He shoved his hands into her hair and yanked her closer, the kiss becoming instantly hot, rough, and hard. Her arms circled his neck and she hung on, humming against his mouth, opening to him when he licked at her lips.
Yes. This. This was what he’d wanted, what he’d longed for, what he’d dreamed about as he’d slept on the sofa. Her. Just like this.
Blindly he put her laptop on the coffee table next to his gun and pulled her onto his lap so that she straddled his thighs. He sank back into the cushions, carrying her with him, not breaking the kiss.
Her mouth was soft, her curves lush under his hands as he slowly caressed from her hips up her sides. She whimpered in the back of her throat and he had to grip her sweater in both fists to keep from taking what he wanted, because at some point in the two hours that she’d been awake, she’d taken off her bra. The only thing between him and skin was a thin layer of soft cashmere.
She ripped her mouth away from his, breathing hard. “Yes,” she whispered. “Please.”
Please. Delivered in that husky voice, it was like an engraved invitation to everything he wanted. But he needed her to be perfectly clear. He wanted no mistake. “Please what?” he asked hoarsely.
“Touch me.” Reaching behind her back, she tugged his fists free from her sweater and brought each one to her lips, kissing his fingers, then opening his fists to kiss his palms. First one, then the other. Holding his gaze, she placed his palms on her breasts. “Please.”
His heart was thundering in his chest as he cupped her breasts, testing their weight, the way they filled his hands just right. Even with the sweater in his way, she was perfect.
“You’re perfect.” The words came out as a growl.
Her shiver was impossible to miss. “I watched you sleep,” she confessed, flattening her hands against his chest. “I wanted to touch you like this.”
“Anytime,” he managed, wanting her hands on his bare skin, but he didn’t want to let go of her breasts long enough to take his shirt off. She fixed that for him, her nimble fingers pulling the buttons free and yanking the shirt from his pants until she’d bared his chest.
For a few seconds she simply stared while he wanted to shout for her to touch him, goddammit. Then her hands were back, gliding over his skin, gentle and almost reverent. It felt so good. She felt so good.
“Gideon,” she whispered. “Look at you.”
He’d rather look at her, at her face as she explored his chest. Her fingers were tracing the phoenix tattoo on his chest—the tat that covered the Eden tattoo. “Beautiful.”
Swallowing hard, he skimmed his thumbs over her nipples, cursing the soft wool that stood between his fingers and her flesh. She sucked in a breath, her eyes closing as her head fell back, her hands stilled, and her hips began a slow, subtle grind against his groin that was driving him out of his mind.
And then her hands were moving again, now mimicking his, her thumbs teasing his nipples. He groaned, his hips bucking up in a reflexive move that had her breasts bouncing in front of his face.
“Daisy.” His voice was hoarse. Ripped up.
“Mmm?” She didn’t open her eyes, her hips maintaining their slow rocking, adding in an occasional shimmy, like she was dancing. On his cock. God.
“I want to touch you.”
She opened her eyes. “Yes.” Then leaned in to kiss him again and his brain detonated. Crunching forward, he came off the sofa and rolled them until they were horizontal, and he was yanking the sweater up and over her head. She grabbed his shoulders as her hands came free of the sleeves, and then his mouth was on her breast, sucking a stiff nipple into his mouth.
A low cry escaped her throat and she arched against him, her hands in his hair, holding him close. “God . . . That feels . . . Don’t stop, Gideon. Not yet.”
Stop? He would in a heartbeat if she asked, but until then he had no intention of stopping. Ever? How far are you going to let this go?
As far as she’ll let me. She was sweet and hot, her body undulating against him, and for this moment she was his. And he couldn’t get enough. His hips rocked against her and her legs parted, letting him settle between them. He released her breast and took her mouth in another blistering kiss.
He lifted his head enough to mutter “I want you” against her lips.
She moaned again, deep and husky, and he shivered, head to toe. “Same,” she whispered. “But I don’t have anything.”
Anything? The word finally permeated his sex-hazed brain, bringing with it a hard hammer of disappointment. “Me either.”
Her fingers gentled in his hair. “Fuck,” she cursed, disgruntled.
He stiffened, then buried his face in her neck, snorting a surprised laugh. “Not this morning, apparently.”
She laughed, too. “Bad choice of
words.” Her chest lifted and fell as she sighed, continuing to play with his hair. “Thank you.”
He lifted his head, looking down at her with a smile. “For what?”
“Making me feel good.”
“I think it was pretty mutual.”
Her cheeks pinked up. “I . . . I don’t do this very often.”
He kissed her forehead. “Neither do I. It’s been a while for me. Even if I’d had a condom in my wallet, it would probably have been expired by now.”
She smiled. “Is it horrible of me to be happy about that?”
“Not at all.” He lowered his head to her shoulder, kissing her chin. He traced lazy circles on her breast, simply because he could. He was still hard as a rock, but it wouldn’t kill him. Probably. “When do we have to leave for your event?”
“I have to be there at nine to get things set up, and you wanted to go early. To . . . scope it out or whatever. It’s after seven now, so we should leave in an hour or so. If you let me up, I can make you some breakfast before I take my shower.”
He groaned. “Stop saying that.”
“Breakfast?” she asked cheekily.
“Smartass,” he grumbled. “What if I don’t want to let you up?”
“I become hangry and possibly homicidal,” she said solemnly. “It’s not pretty.”
He nuzzled against her skin. “Five more minutes then.”
She kissed the top of his head. “Okay.”
“Daisy?”
“Hmm?”
He hesitated. Because he was nervous. He hated feeling nervous. “When anyone asks today who I am to you, what do you plan to say?”
Her fingers faltered, lying still in his hair. “What do you want me to say?”
He opened his mouth to speak, but the words were stuck in his throat. Dammit. He hated this. He wanted to say Never mind, but she’d gone abruptly stiff, like she was on her guard, too.
Way to fuck this up, he growled at himself. He’d managed to fuck it up without actually fucking.
It wouldn’t have been fucking. And dammit, the little voice in his head was right. There would have been nothing hurried or rushed or . . . temporary about sex with Daisy.