Shivering as a cold wind seeped into her makeshift prison, she clutched her battered hip. Cursing herself, she tumbled again, colliding with the opposite wall. She'd assisted in her own capture. Upset. Crying. MaryJo had barely been able to see the road in front of her, never mind the truck looming up unexpectedly behind her. Under normal circumstances, would she have sensed the attack—or like everything else in her life, would she have automatically assumed it was her fault? If she hadn't been sobbing—if she hadn't been devastated by Travis' ugly accusations, maybe she would have reacted defensively. Maybe—her father's training would have kicked in and she wouldn't be in the precarious situation she found herself in now.
The harsh roar of the engine drowned her ears to any other sounds. The heavy scent of diesel filled her nose, the exhaust beginning to suffocate her thoughts in swirling confusion as the truck carried her farther away. From home. From Sean—her family-
"From Travis-" He'd been so angry. She'd gone to him—knowing it would be bad. Knowing he would be furious, but confident that once he knew the truth—he would believe her.
And she'd been blindsided. "You were supposed to believe me." She blinked back tears. Together, they could have fixed the damage Patrice had wrought. She could have helped him contain the breach. She would have developed a protocol so strong, he would never face something like that again. In her version, Travis had listened. He'd acknowledged the terrible situation. He'd understood her inadvertent role—which would've meant he'd eventually forgive her. "You were supposed to love me." She sniffed back the onslaught of tears. "Stop crying," she ordered. "You don't have any tissue."
The truck took a hard right, sending her tumbling against the opposite wall. She moaned as her elbow took the brunt of it. Ignoring the shiver of fear that wanted to take hold, she shook off her confusion. "Focus, MaryJo." On a plan—to escape. She hadn't gone through the guardrail as she was surely meant to. But the driver had succeeded in damaging her vehicle enough to prevent her escape.
Releasing a deep breath to ease her panic, she took advantage of the stretch of straight road to run her hands down the wall. Her fingers brushed against a welded hook. Grasping it, she hauled herself a few feet down the wall. Seconds later, she discovered another. Each one allowed her to slither closer to the rear door.
"This is his Plan B," she muttered. She was supposed to have gone over the side. "So—what's the next move?" By the time she'd gotten her jammed door opened, the driver had been waiting, a Smith & Wesson Sigma pointed at her. He'd grabbed her, shoved her into the back of his truck, quickly rolling the panel down before she could scramble to her feet.
Patrice and her unerring eye for details. Getting rid of her was the perfect way to tie up all the loose ends. The notorious Tiberius hacker—hurtling through the guardrail . . . dying in a crash after eluding capture. Patrice had known Travis well enough to hit him where he was most vulnerable. His company. His software. There had been a time when MaryJo had imagined—foolishly—she might eventually become important, too. Her eyes filling with tears again, she brushed them with her free hand.
"Not now, Mariela." Lord, she was pathetic. She should be worrying about what would happen when the truck stopped. Her purse had taken flight—somewhere inside the truck—with her phone inside. Her phone. It was on—which meant it could be traced. Hell—assuming anyone even realized she was missing. "This is a backup plan," she reminded herself. "So, where is he taking me?"
She felt the swerve just before the driver went into the next curve and instinctively tightened her grip on the hook to prepare for the gravitational pull that would send her flying. Her shoulder wrenched with the effort not to tumble. As she thumped back against the wall, MaryJo groaned. On the plus side, she heard her purse slide the length of the truck before crashing into the door. If she could retrieve it, she would have light. And communication. Releasing her grip on the hook, she scrambled across the truck, covering the distance in seconds. Sobbing with relief when her fingers came into contact with the strap, she hauled it into her body.
Too late, the driver took another curve. Clutching the bag, MaryJo crashed to the floor, before being thrown to the back of the truck again. Ignoring the searing pain to her already bruised hip, she remained motionless on the floor. Her father's lecturing words returned to haunt her. You can't fall off the floor, MaryJo. Yanking the bag open, she fumbled through it, scrambling for the shape of her phone. "Please, God."
Her fingers curling around it, MaryJo jabbed in her password despite the incessant swaying of the truck and dialed 9-1-1.
"NO." HIS HEART STOPPED. Nearly paralyzed with terror, Travis slammed on the brakes when he saw her car. MaryJo's car—mangled, caught up on the guardrail. He flung the door open and ran . . . his brain blank with fear. His body on automatic pilot, ice pumping through his veins as he jerked the driver's door open. Intent only on saving her. On pulling her from the wreckage. Because she couldn't die. She couldn't-
"MaryJo." His shout was met with silence. The pinging of her smoking engine. A brisk breeze carrying the scent of antifreeze. It took several seconds for his brain to register she wasn't there. Not on the floor. Not on the backseat. Her car was empty. Glass everywhere. Confusion swept him. Cupping his hands to his mouth, he shouted her name again. Was she walking? Had she fallen? Injured . . . had she staggered to the edge and-
With a shout of raw terror, he rounded the car, peering over the edge—desperate to find her, yet praying to God he wouldn't. She couldn't be gone. "Not like this," he muttered fervently. His last words to her couldn't be the awful things he'd said. "Please, God. I'm begging you." His last words would be of love. They would be sincere. Raw with emotion and nakedly truthful. He would bare his soul—he would confess all the ugliness inside him—if only to make her understand why she'd be so much better off without him. Please—let him have the opportunity. Just one last time.
The insistent ring of his phone pierced the haze of anguish. Groping for his phone, he couldn't bear to tear his gaze from the steep embankment. He swung a leg over the guardrail. She could be down there. Cold. Injured. God help him—dying.
"Travis? Lockwood—are you there?" A voice. Shouting. "Answer the goddamn phone."
Mullaney. It was Sean, returning his call. The old man didn't know yet. He couldn't know about MaryJo- "Yeah—I'm . . . I'm here." Broken, he sank down on the rail, his limbs suddenly weak. He would have to tell him. Tell a man his only daughter was . . . gone. Maybe injured. "Sean—MaryJo is . . . m-missing."
"No shit. She just called me," he bit out. "Some bastard rammed her car and kidnapped her." He paused for a breath. "She's in the back of a panel truck. The moron forgot to take her phone."
Sean's voice was deadly quiet—nearly devoid of emotion, but laden with intent. His tone sent a ripple of adrenaline surging through him. Travis was never more grateful to have someone like him on his side. "I—we've got to find her. I can't—I love her."
Mullaney paused , digesting the stark words of a man on the verge of losing it. "Cops are on the way. I'm getting her up on my GPS, but I'm a few hours away. That bastard better pray the cops find him before I do."
Nearly weak with relief, Travis staggered back to his car. "I'm closer. Tell me where to go."
MARYJO STRETCHED BEFORE thinking better of it. When pain forked across her battered ribs, she sucked in a breath before gingerly sliding down from the truck's tailgate. The police were still interrogating the driver of the panel truck. After briefly checking her, they'd tossed her a blanket and told her to wait. Tired of waiting on the EMTs, she hobbled to the side of the road. "They can find me over here." Glancing around, she shivered at the desolate, forested road. Awareness flared as she captured a vision of what Plan B had likely entailed.
Her father was on his way, but she'd likely beat him home before he arrived from wherever he'd been working. "It's just as well." She'd rather not face Sean tonight. His lecture—about all the ways she'd screwed things up. After the day she'd had, sh
e needed a hot bath and a sleeping pill. Maybe tomorrow, she'd wake up and discover it had all been a terrible nightmare.
Tears dangerously close to the surface, she forced them back. The image of an angry Travis still lingered stubbornly in the forefront of her memory. Would she ever forget the loathing in his eyes? Or would she be haunted forever? Sadly, his unceremonious dumping of her was likely the least of her problems.
A screech of tires followed by a flurry of movement had her cautiously twisting to her left. Maybe the ambulance had finally arrived. At this point, all she really wanted was a ride home. And that sleeping pill.
"Mariela-"
A shiver jolted through her aching limbs. Not Travis. Not here. God—not now. She couldn't take any more of his accusations today. Or her heart would fracture wide open, likely never able to be fixed again.
IT WAS HER. WRAPPED in a blanket, a haunted expression in her beautiful eyes as he approached. Pulling MaryJo against him, Travis couldn't seem to regulate his breathing. The danger was over—yet he still had the sensation of drowning. Of helplessness. Of being too late.
"Travis? Why are you here?"
Her husky voice exploded over his senses and he was suddenly afraid to speak. With all the things he had to say, he was afraid he would be unable to voice them.
"Are you okay?" She paused, waiting for him to say—something. "Travis—you're . . . sorta crushing me."
He forced himself to release her as the terrifying images holding him hostage slowly dissolved. Shaking it off, he glanced down at her. "Mariela—are you alright? Your car—Did he- You—are you hurt?"
Alarmed all over again, he ran his hands down her frame. Damn it, he should be more in control. At an accident scene, he was the consummate professional. Yet, he was barely holding himself together—because it was her.
"Travis—I'm okay. You need to slow down." Her voice, low, husky, reassuring—began to ease his panic. Finally seeing her—instead of the horrific visions he'd conjured in his head, he slowly began to settle.
Recognition flashed in her eyes that his expression had returned to something resembling normal. He should be helping her—comforting her . . . Instead, she was taking care of him. "Why don't we—sit over there?"
Nodding, she leaned against him as he half-carried her to the grassy spot. "You're limping," he acknowledged. "I hear the ambulance coming. I'll get them over here to examine you."
"I think I'm fine," she admitted. "I'm just beat up—between the car wreck and being tossed around that truck-"
He shuddered as he remembered the twisted, smoking wreckage hung up on the guardrail. "I saw your car-"
"He pushed me . . . several times. I couldn't—keep it on the road any longer." She hesitated, her voice trembling. "By the time I crashed—and then t-tried to get out of my car . . . he was standing there with a gun-"
Travis jerked violently. "A gun-" He prayed the police took care of Patrice before he found her. He would hunt her down. Make her suffer. His chest tightened all over again as he realized how dangerously close he'd come to losing her. "Are you—sure you're okay?"
"Everything hurts. I'm bruised and really sore," she admitted. "But nothing is broken. I just need to soak in the tub for a few hours."
She was in more pain than she let on. Tucking the blanket around her, Travis willed his warmth to her drawn face. "After the EMT clears you, I'll take you home and run a bath." Too afraid to read the expression in her eyes, he kept talking. "I want to take care of you, MaryJo. I want to—spend my life taking care of you," he added.
Raising a hand to cup her cheek, he froze when she flinched. Her expression held exhaustion. Fragility. Wariness—of him. Because he'd caused this. She studied him, as though no longer certain what to expect. As though he'd become a source of pain to her. "I'm so sorry, Mariela. All of this is—my fault."
She could have been killed. She'd been injured because of him. But he feared his words had hurt her more. His ugly accusations. Without the veneer, she'd discovered the monster within. He'd unleashed all of it. His decades-old misery, the insecurity that kept him awake at night. The haunting pain his old scars still inflicted- "I know . . . I've ruined everything." Unable to bear the sorrow in her eyes, he dropped his gaze. "I made you cry. I've hurt you . . . beyond repair."
Regret stabbing him, Travis vowed he would make it up to her. If he could have—just one more chance. "I'm so deeply sorry, MaryJo. For what I said today. For . . . doubting you. For blaming you . . . when it was entirely my fault."
"I can't do this-" Her voice clogged with tears, she glanced away. "I'm so tired, Travis."
Her small voice pleaded with him . . . an unspoken message. She'd given up on him. Maybe—couldn't love him anymore. And who could blame her? Travis absorbed the wave of self-loathing. He'd destroyed the most beautiful person he'd ever known. "Please, MaryJo? Let me take care of you," he begged. "Let me make it up to you. If . . . you still . . . hate me . . . I swear to you—I'll go." He would spend the next several years making it up to her. And he would never, ever hurt her again, he vowed. She'd forgiven him before. He could only hope she would once more.
"Travis, please. I don't want to talk about it."
"I promise—with everything I have-" His voice broke. "I'm going to make it up to you." Sitting next to her—not touching her, his heart icing over with fear, Travis vowed to change. To—get help. To do whatever it would take so he would never feel this way again. "MaryJo-"
When her hand slipped into his, a tremor shot through him. He stared at their entwined fingers. "Thank God." His hand shaking, he raised her fingers to his lips. Held them there. "Thank you."
Tears leaking from her eyes, she nodded. "Maybe—we can talk later."
LATER TURNED OUT TO be ten o'clock that evening. While Travis may have been useless in the early stages, he'd rallied in a big way. MaryJo hid her smile when he entered her bedroom for the tenth time that hour. He'd carried her into the house, depositing her on the couch as though she might shatter like glass. With a tenderness she'd never seen before, he'd stripped her from her torn jeans and helped her into a warm, scented bath.
There was a—nuance to their interactions that hadn't been there before. A layer of depth he'd never willingly revealed. He'd always been thoughtful. He'd always expressed interest in learning what was important to her. Yet, she'd sensed him holding back. Even when he admitted he loved her—she’d known the fear it caused. The vulnerability he felt. As though she’d ripped the covers off with no warning. As though he'd wandered into new territory and couldn't find his way safely back. While it had been fascinating—as he took steps forward with her, before inevitably retreating, the exercise had also grown frustrating. She'd wondered whether Travis could ever be capable of more. And what that limitation meant to her.
"MaryJo—can I get you anything? You didn't eat much."
"I'm not hungry." Standing at the foot of the bed, Travis' expression was one of hope and misery. He'd accused her of terrible things. He'd had the right to be angry. Yet, she'd hoped he would at least listen. She’d prayed he’d learned to trust her enough to want her explanation. That he cared enough to question the facts he'd been presented. It had been devastating to confirm he hadn't.
"Your dad stopped by while you were sleeping. He wanted to tell you that Patrice is in custody." Travis' voice held a thread of anger. "And the driver—Sean found him. Personally."
Her distracted thoughts interrupted, she nodded. "That's—good." It mattered, she guessed, forcing herself to care. She could only imagine what her father had done to the man who'd held a gun on his daughter . . . But tonight, with her life in ruins, she found it hard to summon any interest in Patrice.
"How about some tea?"
"I'm good for now," she lied, staring into his beautiful, worried eyes. I love you so much. But, it would never be enough. She could never undo the damage his mother had inflicted. No one could. Not even Travis. Yet—he was the one who had to move past it. Who had to want to move
past it. But, how did a person realize the life they'd always known—operating from a position of distrust. . . could only improve by doing the thing he most feared? Trusting her might be beyond his ability. If Travis' default method of handling his feelings was to assume the worst until she proved otherwise. . .
I can't do it again. She couldn't be the one who cared more. Who loved more. She could delude herself for a few months—that Travis might eventually come around—that her love would be enough for both of them. That he would eventually realize she could never hurt him- MaryJo released a gusting breath. Or, she could end the heartbreak now.
A personal breakthrough. One that saddened her. Yet, empowered her, too. She was worth more. She was worth being loved like crazy. She was worth being cherished. And she would hold out for it—no matter how long it took.
"MaryJo-"
The torment in his eyes was her undoing. Travis wanted to apologize . . . and she wanted to accept it. If only so they could both begin the process of moving on. Making him wait, simply because she was exhausted, served no useful purpose. "You mentioned you wanted to talk. Is now a good time?"
His beautiful eyes flared with hope. "Yes—if you feel up to it. I don't want you to overdo it."
Patting the space on the bed next to her, MaryJo watched his cautious approach. His weight against her legs was surprisingly comforting. If he ever managed to get past his fear and open his heart, Travis would be damn close to the perfect man.
"MaryJo—I'm so sorry for the way I spoke to you today. I should have trusted you. I-I thought I did." His fingers fumbled nervously with the quilt.
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