“That’s not acceptable.”

Chandler Fitzwilliam Carrington the Third speaks in a cool, detached tone. It’s the only one I’ve ever heard him use. I wonder if he’s ever shown emotion in his life.

I’m huddled on a silk damask settee in a lavishly appointed salon. Sophie clings to me, tense and frightened, and there’s nothing I can do to comfort her. I haven’t let her out of my arms since the moment Weems -- the PI -- grabbed me.

It’s late in the evening of my abduction. Technically, early the next morning. I’ve been awake for the better part of twenty-four hours, and I can’t allow myself to fall asleep.

The Carringtons might not be willing to kill me outright. But they wouldn’t hesitate to dump my unconscious body outside their property and refuse to let me back in. So I’m clinging to wakefulness, no matter how exhaustion drags at me.

I know my abductor’s surname only from hearing Mr. Carrington talking to him. He was taking no chances with me getting away from him again, so he had another car waiting, all the doors stripped except the driver’s, like the one he shoved me into. All he had to do was drive like an absolute maniac — which he did — and buy himself time to make the transfer.

That got us out of town and to a small regional airport, where a plane was waiting. The Carringtons’ money took care of everything, no questions asked, and a few hours later I found myself in this palatial home.

Since then, Chandler the Third and his wife, Morgana, have been trying to persuade me to leave Sophie with them. First they tried threats. Then they tried money.

No matter what they offer, they get the same response: I will never leave my daughter. She and I are a package deal. If they want Sophie to live with them, they have to let me live here, too.

For all their wealth and power, they’re not entirely bright. They seem incapable of understanding a mother’s love. That some things, some people, can’t be bought.

They’re baffled by my steadfast refusal to see things their way.

“You have only to name your price.” Mrs. Carrington sounds snobbishly peeved, as if it’s beneath her to feel actual anger. “Our terms are very generous.”

I don’t bother meeting her eyes. “For what does it profit a man if he gains the whole world, but loses his soul?”

She stares at me. “What on earth are you on about?”

“Just some ancient wisdom.” I shift a little, tucking Sophie more closely against me. The Carringtons keep their house chilly, and we’re both cold.

I don’t mind; the discomfort helps me stay awake. Much more of this, though, and my daughter’s apt to catch a cold.

My clothes — Gina’s clothes — give me a thread of hope. Even now, there must be people searching for me. Regardless of his motives, Dante wants me back.

The problem is that the Carringtons, as wealthy people do, own multiple homes. It will take time to check them all, ascertain which one I’m in, and figure out a way of freeing me.

Time I don’t have. I’ve accepted sips of water for Sophie, but no food or drink for myself. Of course they’d drug me.

How I’ll face Dante again, I don’t know. Thinking about him shreds my heart with a brutal combination of pain and longing, warmth and confusion and fear. So I try not to think about him.

My eyelids start to droop, and I shake my head sharply. Morgana watches me shrewdly, her eyes icy. She and her husband know I can’t last forever.

But they have no idea how strong my will is. That I’ll do anything to keep my daughter safe.

“We can easily use the legal system to gain custody,” Mr. Carrington says. “We’re offering you other alternatives out of the goodness of our hearts. It’s very selfish of you to sacrifice Sophie’s welfare for your own.”

A few days ago, that kind of talk might have worked on me. I had enough cracks in my self-esteem to think that Sophie deserved better than I could give her.

Now I know that what’s good for me is good for my daughter. That the best thing I can give her is a mom who’s happy and healthy and whole.

For that, I will always be grateful to Dante.

As if I’ve summoned him with my thoughts, I have the sudden conviction that he’s here with me. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and the shadows in the dimly-lit room seem to come alive.

“Do you really think—” Mrs. Carrington starts, and then the room is full of black-clad men.

They seemed to materialize out of nowhere. They have us completely surrounded, and the weapons they’re carrying look very, very real.

Then two forms separate themselves from the others. Carlo, looking like a total badass, and at his side, Dante.

Carlo holds the center of the room, putting himself between me and the Carringtons. Dante comes right to us, crouching down next to the settee. “Tontay,” Sophie whispers in a tiny, scared voice that breaks my heart.

“Hi, baby girl.” I can see it in his eyes, that he’d like to do all kinds of violence and mayhem here, but he keeps it out of his voice. “Ready to go home?”

She nods and goes into his arms, and Dante stands and holds out a hand to me. I take it, and he pulls me to my feet and puts his arm around me, tucking me close against his side.

When we start across the room, Morgana says, “I don’t know who you are, but that is our grandchild. You have no right—”

“Shut up.” Carlo’s voice is sub-Arctic. “After they’re out of here, I’ll tell you how this is gonna go.”

“Our son is dead.” There’s a quaver in her voice, and for a moment I almost feel sorry for her. “We’ll never have another grandchild.”

Dante stops. “There was a right way to go about this,” he tells her. “You chose the wrong way.”

Neither of the Carringtons has any response. We go on, out of the room and then the house. There’s an SUV waiting in the driveway that takes us to the airport, where another private plane is waiting.

“You have a jet?” I ask when we board. “Or is it Carlo’s?”

“Tonio’s.”

“Who?”

“Another cousin. Married to Caitlin. You haven’t met him yet.”

“Oh.” I shiver as we sit down, and Dante wraps a heavy throw around me, then grabs another one for Sophie. He’s still holding her, which is good. His body is so much hotter than mine, and she needs the warmth.

Dante takes my hand, and I’m too tired and too thankful to fight it. I lace my fingers with his and lay my head on his shoulder. Ten seconds after the plane takes off, I’m fast asleep.

Much later, I’m vaguely aware of the plane landing, other people boarding, murmured words, someone carrying me. I don’t think it’s Dante; his scent is different. Then we’re in another vehicle and I drop back into oblivion.