The memories come hard and fast now that I’ve opened the door, and I hug myself as I remember the shock of fear that had slammed through me the night they’d come to set me free. I’d been awakened roughly from sleep, torn away from the warmth and comfort of Dallas’s arms.

I’d cried for him as someone yanked me to my feet, then cuffed my hands behind my back. But he had just laid there, his eyes closed, his body eerily still. I’d screamed, terrified that he was dead, the sound of my cry cut short when the sharp sting of a palm landed against my cheek.

“He stays,” the Woman had said, her voice a low whisper behind a mask and veil. She moved toward me from where she’d been standing across the room in the shadows. “You’re going.”

I shook my head, denying the words. I wanted out—dear god, I wanted out so badly—but not like this. Not without Dallas.

“You tell them nothing.” The Jailer spoke from behind me, still clutching my bound wrists. His voice was low and mechanical, processed through a voice changer. I’d seen him only the day we’d been snatched, and the fact that he was here now terrified me all the more. “Nothing you think you know. Nothing you see as we leave. You keep your little mouth shut, and maybe he’ll go home one day, too. But you say a word, and we’ll know. You say a word, and he’s dead.”

They’d blindfolded me and taken me out. But the blindfold had slipped, and I’d been able to glimpse a few things. The texture of pavement. The color of a door. I’d heard the chime of a clock tower, the roar of an airplane. The thrum of construction equipment.

There’d been smells, too. The stench of rotten food. The tang of paint. The earthy scent of fresh dirt.

I felt the prick of a needle as they shoved me into a car, and the next thing I knew I was lying under a tree with a cellphone in my hand. I’d called my dad, my fingers shaking with each number I punched, and soon he and my mom and a four man team were at my side.

I’d crawled into my mother’s arms, crying hysterically, terrified for Dallas, guilty for being so relieved to be free when he was still trapped. And I’d kept quiet, just like my captors had warned me.

When Daddy asked what I remembered, I told him nothing. I lied and said that I’d gone to sleep in a small, gray room, then awakened under that tree. I said it because I had to. Because I had to keep Dallas safe.

But as the hours ticked by without him, I began to doubt. And the fear that I was wrong to keep the secret ate at me.

“Can you remember anything at all about the last three weeks?” my mother asked as she tucked me into bed that night. “Anything about where they kept you? Sounds? What they looked like?”

“They told me not to.” My voice was barely a whisper, but she heard me. And when I looked up, I saw hope in my mother’s eyes.

Within minutes, my father was in the room, too, along with the leader of the vigilante team Daddy had hired. I told them what my captors had said. About how it would be bad for Dallas if I told anything, and so I hadn’t.

But they said what I was already starting to believe—that the threat was meant to keep me silent. If I had any information that could help them rescue Dallas, I had to use it. Because for all we knew, they never planned to let Dallas go at all.

They had no leads except me. And I knew that if we wanted to rescue my brother—if I wanted to help the boy I loved—I had to tell the team what little I knew.

And so I did.

It took forty-eight hours and lots of forensic stuff I didn’t understand—everything from analyzing the dirt on my shoes to running some sort of diagnostics on the burner phone to pinpointing the location of airports in conjunction with clock towers.

They’d found it, though. My father’s money had bought the best, and his team soon determined that Dallas and I had been held in the basement of a semi-demolished building that had been abandoned after funds for a renovation had fallen short.

They’d set out before dawn. I wasn’t there, but I heard about it soon enough. How they’d approached silently. How they’d entered the building with the utmost care—and how they’d triggered explosives when they’d moved in.

Two of the four were killed instantly. Another lost an arm and an eye. The fourth had been unconscious for a week, but ultimately recovered.

The building itself had collapsed into rubble.

I felt as though I had, too.

He’d been in there—I knew it. Dallas had been in that basement, and because of me he’d been blown up. Or worse, buried alive.

I’d spent the next four weeks in tears, mourning a boy I was certain was dead. And hating myself for getting him killed.

But he wasn’t killed, and now he’s standing right before me in a cramped cabana, looking at me with so much compassion that I actually turn away.

“Jane,” he says gently. “I didn’t die.”

“But I thought you had.” A tear snakes down my cheek and I wipe it away violently. “For four long weeks, I thought you had, and then they sent that damn ransom letter and it turned out they’d already moved you out of the building.” I draw a breath, remembering the wave of relief that had washed over me, coupled with the fear that it was all a cold, cruel joke.

“Jane.” He takes a step toward me, but I hold up a hand to stop him. I’m too raw, and I don’t think that I can protect myself right now if he offers me comfort.

He stops, his features tightening.

“I’m just making a point,” I say. “It was the ransom that got you out. The vigilante bullshit almost got you killed. The way it almost got the kids on the bus and the Darcy girls killed. And those kids in Nevada did die, Dallas. Two children, and that’s way too high a price.”

Now that I’ve shifted back to work, I’m starting to get steady again, thank goodness. “Anyway, that was the original core of the book I’m currently writing—Benson’s organization and how his idiotic vigilante mission endangered so many kids.”

“The original core?” he says. “That’s not what the book’s about now?”

“It is, yes. But I expanded my focus after Bill told me that there’s another organized vigilante group out there offering its services. The thesis is still the damage done by these groups, and why it’s so important to shut them down. But I’m examining two sides. The fallout and prosecution of Benson’s group on the one hand. And I’m juxtaposing that against WORR’s search for this other group that rescued the Darcy girls.”

“You’re saying it’s an active investigation?”

“One of their top priorities,” I confirm. “It has been ever since Bill talked with Elaine Darcy and became convinced that there really is a particular organized group out there that’s working for diplomats, millionaires, celebrities. People like Dad who don’t want the FBI or Interpol involved. And then Henry Darcy confirmed, and—”

Dallas raises a hand to cut me off. “Wait. You’re telling me that Henry Darcy admitted to hiring this vigilante group you’re talking about?”

“Sounds like something out of a movie, doesn’t it? But yeah, he did. According to Bill, Darcy doesn’t even know how to contact them. It was all very secret, with burner phones and passwords and complicated contact protocols. But he did hear one thing that he thinks he wasn’t supposed to. It’s how I got the title for the book, actually.” I smile, because the title is freaking awesome. “I’m calling it Code Name: Deliverance.”

His eyes widen almost imperceptibly, and he looks a little shell-shocked. I’m not surprised. He lived through what I did and more. Every day he’s known that he might have died in that raid. Maybe he almost did. Maybe he was unconscious. Maybe fighting for his life.

He knows that I’m the one who provided all the details for a raid that went horribly wrong. And I wonder for the billionth time why he doesn’t hate me.

Then again, maybe he does.

Just the thought rips me open, making all the wounds that I pretend are healed raw again. I don’t mean to, but I make a little whimpering sound, and Dallas steps forward, his hand out just a little, as if to comfort me. He stops, and I’m not sure if it’s because any caress between us is dangerous, or if it’s because he knows there’s no comfort to be had.

“So now you know why I write.” My voice is falsely cheerful. “I get to work out my demons and get paid for it.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Nice words,” I counter. “Too bad they’re not true.”

“Jane.” He walks the rest of the way to me, then kneels on the ground in front of where I’m sitting on the bed. This time he does touch me. He puts his hands on my knees, and I draw in a stuttering breath, only now realizing how much I’ve been wanting his touch. Needing that connection, if only for an instant.

We are face-to-face, and his eyes are full of regret. I can see he wants to say something—and I can also see that he hasn’t figured out how.

“It’s okay,” I say. “I deal. You deal. And pretty soon we’ll have some closure, right? I mean surely this Ortega guy will spill about who hired him. And then we’ll know why all this happened in the first place.”

I already know why, of course. Or at least I think I do. When you’re the son or daughter of a high profile billionaire, you’re a target. That’s just the way it is. And since our kidnappers had made a ransom demand on day one, then kept upping the price, we were probably taken by some militant group looking to finance a coup.

Too bad Kickstarter didn’t exist back then.

I actually smile at the thought, and start to tell Dallas, figuring he can use a grin as well. But something in his expression stops me. “What?”

“I really fucked you over.” His voice is low and full of pain.

I shake my head, both in denial and in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“All of it. It’s haunting you.”

I can’t deny it. “It’s haunting both of us.”

His hands slide up my legs as he pushes himself up to his feet. Just a few inches, but it feels like a caress. And when he pulls his hands away and steps back from the bed, I mourn the loss of contact.

“They came to the school—they came for me. Don’t you get it? It’s my fault you were taken. My fault we were held captive, hungry and scared and cold.”

“No—” I begin, but he won’t let me finish.

“It’s my fault that this is your life now, that you’re stuck in the past, searching for answers in someone else’s kidnapping. It’s my fault, and I can’t make it better. And now Bill is the one who’s going to end it for you. Who has Ortega and who’s going to find out who’s behind this. Who’s going to give you closure.”

I shake my head. “That’s not true.”

“It is. God help me, it is.”

“Dallas . . .” I stand and face him. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to argue. I don’t know what to do, and I feel as helpless as I did those weeks when I was fifteen. As lost as I’d been back then when it was Dallas who had soothed me. And me who had soothed Dallas.

“Do you have any idea how much I want to touch you?” His voice is low, as if he’s talking to himself more than me. I can smell the alcohol on his breath, and wonder how much he’s had, and how far he might go. “Can you even imagine the things I want to do with you?”

I make a whimpering noise and he moves closer to me, his green eyes like emerald fire. “Being together came close to destroying both of us once already,” he says. “But I don’t fucking care. You are the memory that gets me through my days, and the fantasy that saves me in the night.”

My breath catches in my throat as he reaches for me, then very gently raises his hand to brush a strand of hair off my face. “I know it can never happen—for so many goddamn reasons. I know it’s wrong. But I want to taste you again, once more, even if it really is the last time.”

My heart is pounding, and I feel prickles of sweat at the back of my neck. My mouth is dry. I feel trapped.

I feel alive.

“Let me, Jane.” His voice is rough, and he inches closer. And then—dear god, yes—he brushes the pad of his thumb along my jaw, sending a riot of sparks all through me. “Let me have just one little taste.”

I know I should run away. Slap him. Mention our parents. Do something to shut him down.

But I don’t.

Instead I just look him in the eyes and say, very slowly and very evenly, “What’s to stop you from taking more?”

“You are,” he says, as he cups my cheek and I close my eyes, fighting the urge to tilt my head sideways into his palm. “I hope to hell you are. Because I don’t have the strength to fight it anymore.”

“What if I don’t have the strength, either?”

“Then God help us both.”

I open my eyes as he leans in. As his lips brush mine.

The kiss is soft. Gentle.

But there’s nothing gentle about my reaction. It’s as if he has slammed me back against the wall. As if his entire body is pressed against mine. As if his hands are all over me, and I’m opening to him like a flower. Despite everything, I want him. Need him.

He’s addictive, this man.

He’s dangerous.

And he’s right when he says this will destroy us both.

But, damn me, I don’t care. It’s not a taste of him that I want. Instead, I want to devour him.

I reach up and slide my fingers into his hair as I cup the back of his head and open my mouth, wanting to taste him. To consume him. I don’t care if it’s wrong. I don’t care if it’s shameful. Right now, I just want this. I’m like a woman lost in the desert who is suddenly given water, but still can’t quell my thirst even though I drink and drink and drink.

But it’s only me drinking. Dallas hasn’t released me, but he hasn’t claimed me, either. He is letting me take, but he has yet to truly taste me.

He is hard against me, and I can feel the timpani of his heart, the beat thrumming through both of us. I shift my hips and brush against his cock, now straining inside the denim of his jeans. The pressure there at the juncture of my thighs sends pleasure spiraling through me, and I grind against him, releasing a little moan right on the heels of his name.

“Dallas.”

I don’t know if it was his name or my moan of pleasure or the insistence of his cock, but his indecision disappears as he pulls me tighter against him. As he devours my mouth in a kiss so wild I go light-headed. For a moment, I even think that I am flying, but I realize that I am falling backward onto the bed.

He straddles me at the waist, his arms at either side with his hands twined in mine. He bends forward and captures my mouth, then starts to kiss his way down my neck. I’m breathing too hard, my pulse is beating too fast. My skin is on fire and my jeans are far too constricting.

I can manage only one word—please. But even then, I’m not sure that I have spoken, especially since he doesn’t react, but instead continues his trail of kisses down to the swell of my breast.

He licks the skin that is exposed at the bodice of my tank top, and I gasp and squirm from the wild impact of the sparks that are now ricocheting through me, all zinging between my legs to make me wet and needy and terribly, wonderfully desperate.

Even as the pressure builds, some buried part of me knows that this is wrong—that it’s a mistake. I should sit up. I should push him away. I should stop this.

But all it takes to erase those thoughts is for Dallas to straighten up just a bit. For him to slide one hand along my arm and then over my breast. He finds my nipple through the material and teases it, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing so tight that it skirts the line between pain and pleasure, and lands somewhere close to exquisite.

I hear myself make little gasping noises and don’t even recognize that it’s me. I’m not sure who I am anymore, and all I can think when he violently yanks down the top so that my breasts pop free is that I want to be taken. I want it to be wild.

And, dammit, I want it to be now.

But now that we are doing this—now that I am half naked and throbbing—he is in no hurry. His eyes meet mine as he dips his head to my breast, and I recognize the heat from our youth. It’s the light of exploration. Of conquest.

He knows that he has conquered me, all right. And he is enjoying the spoils of his victory.

As if in punctuation of my thought, his mouth closes over one breast while his hand closes over the other, fingers teasing one nipple as his tongue teases the other.

His other hand is still holding mine, but he releases his grip, and slowly trails his fingers along the sensitive skin on the back of my wrist, and then follows the path to my torso. He eases my tank up from the bottom, until the entire thing is like a band beneath my breasts.

I can barely wrap my head around any one sensation as he sucks and bites lightly on my nipple even as his fingers drift lower and lower, along the bare skin of my belly.

I am panting, needing oxygen in defense against the wild onslaught as his hand reaches my jeans and a finger slips under teasingly. I want this—oh, dear god, how I want this.

I arch up, instinctively seeking more. “Fuck me,” I whisper, shocked at my boldness. At how quickly all my defenses have fallen away.

For years I have wanted him—this—and yet I’ve fought. He’s fought. But tonight, with Ortega in custody, with all the memories rushing back, of the dark, of his hands, of his comfort . . . maybe I just need to get lost. Maybe this is the way to move on.

Maybe I just need the man.

“Please,” I beg—and that’s when everything shatters. Instead of tugging down my jeans and taking me hard and fast, he lurches up, releasing my breast, his hands up in the air as if he’s pleading innocent to the police. He’s back against the wall and he’s breathing hard and he’s shaking his head.

And it’s over.

It’s just . . . over.

I hear myself whimper, wanting more. Everything. Dallas.

“Please,” I repeat, and though I’m still lost in a sensual haze, I am aware enough to see the change in his expression. I don’t understand what has happened, but I watch as the heat drains from his eyes.

Suddenly it’s not desire I feel, but mortification, and I pull my knees up, then tug my shirt back over my breasts, trying not to see the regret all over his face.

God, I’m an idiot.

“I can’t,” he says, and I don’t think I have ever heard more pain in a man’s voice. “I’m sorry. I’m so goddamn sorry. I should never have—I should never have started that. I should never have put it on you to say no. But I’ve wanted you for so long. Dreamed of touching you for so damn long.”

I relax a bit. There’s nothing false about his words or the depth of emotion that underscores them. “Then take me,” I say before I can remind myself that it’s wrong. That we’ll both regret it.

He turns his face from me, and I see the way his jaw tightens as his shoulders stiffen. When he turns back, the desire is still there, but it’s masked by a fierce determination.

“We can’t. I shouldn’t have pushed. I should know better than to taste forbidden fruit. And dammit, Jane, so should you. You shouldn’t have pushed, either. You shouldn’t even fucking want me.”

“No,” I acknowledge. “I shouldn’t. But we both know that I do.”

He exhales, as if I’m the one being frustrating. “Look around you, for Christ’s sake. You know what I am.”

“That isn’t you.” I taste salt, and realize I’m crying. “That can’t be you.”

“You knew a boy, Jane. And he grew into a fucked-up man. You more than anyone should know why. This is me, sweetheart,” he says simply. “You’re looking right at me.”

But I don’t want to believe what my own eyes show me. Maybe it’s my own stubbornness. More likely my refusal to believe stems from guilt. Because Dallas spent four weeks in the dark after I was released. And I know that whatever happened to him after I left him all alone in there must have shaped and molded him, even if he can’t consciously remember any of it.

So he’s wrong—I don’t know why he’s the man he is. I can guess, though. In the days before my release the Woman had taken him from me more and more frequently. And when he came back, he’d been tense. Closed off. As if he was pushing fear and anger inside himself.

I don’t know what happened when she took him away, but the possibilities that go through my head both scare and sicken me. And I can only believe it got worse after I was gone.

Yet I know this man. I’ve known him since he was a boy. And I have to believe that there is more to the man. But whether that’s because it’s true or because I can’t live with the guilt if it’s not, I really don’t know.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “We can’t do this. You know it. I know it.” He looks at me, and his eyes are as hard as stone. “You said in the house that you didn’t want me. Dammit, Jane, you need to mean it. You need to believe it. I’m not the man for you. We both know I can’t be the man for you.”

He’s harsh. And he’s right. I think about what our parents would say if they found out. I know our father would disinherit us both, but that’s not even the worst of it. It’s the way they’d look at us, so full of disappointment and regret.

I glance down, every reason that we’ve stayed apart coming back to me as I struggle to adjust my clothes and look anywhere but at him. A single tear streaks down my cheek, and out of the corner of my eye, I see him take a tentative step toward me.

“Jane.”

His voice is so low and gentle that I think I might be imagining it. But I know that I’m not, and mortification spreads over me, heating my skin, stinging my eyes. Sitting like a heavy, horrible weight in my stomach.

“Go,” I whisper.

“It’s not that I don’t want—”

“Please,” I snap. I can’t let him finish that sentence. It’s too damn painful to hear. “Just leave.”

For a moment, I hear nothing and know that he is standing perfectly still. I clench my hands into fists, my shoulders stiff, my jaw tight. Go, I say in my head. Go, I want to scream.

Finally, I hear the rustle of his clothes as he moves away, then the scrape of the door as he slides it open. I count to ten before I turn around, and when I do, I’m alone.

I close my eyes again, and this time it’s to hold back my tears.

I stay on the daybed for at least fifteen minutes. Just sitting. Not even really thinking, because right now I don’t want to think. I don’t want to do anything. If I could, I’d gladly disappear, and I’m incredibly frustrated with myself for losing control. If he hadn’t stopped us, I’d be naked on this daybed right now, with his cock deep inside me, and—

I let out a little moan as I think about all the possibilities that go with “and.”

The King of Fuck, indeed.

I stand, determined to get myself and my errant thoughts under control. I take a deep breath, run a hand over my clothes to smooth them, and then head out of the cabana.

No one even looks my way. Why would they? I’m his sister, after all, as he so conveniently announced so that everyone in the vicinity could look past my drab clothes and recognize me from the frequent media shots and TV talk show appearances.

If I’d been any other female, all eyes would be on me. Looking for clothing askew. For smudged lipstick.

There would have been winks and nudges, and probably even a secret handshake to mark my entry into the already massive Fucked by Dallas Club.

I should be grateful not to have the attention.

But I’m not grateful at all. Instead I’m frustrated. And I’m pissed. And that reaction just pisses me off more. Because I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t want to be part of that club.

I don’t want to be a pastime. I don’t want to be a casual fuck. Just one more woman in a never-ending stream.

Not that it matters.

Because when you’re in love with your brother, how many women he screws is really the least of your problems.