“Dallas Sykes is a goddamned bastard on toast,” I say, huffing a little as I try to catch my breath. We’ve just run three miles in Central Park and now we’re back at the Seventy-second Street exit, waiting to cross with the light.

Beside me, Brody jogs in place. “Because he went with some Argentine babe to a party?”

“Went to a party?” I repeat. “More like he practically fucked the bimbo on the dance floor.” I bend over and wheeze. I hate running—that runner’s high myth is a huge load of bullshit—but I force myself to do it, just like I force myself to weight train, practice at the firing range, and go to self-defense classes. I may never be attacked again, but if I am, I intend to do some damage before I race the fuck out of there.

“You saw the picture,” I remind him.

“How could I miss it? You shoved it in my face at least five times before we headed to the park.”

I scowl, because he’s right. I’d been nightmare-free last night, and I’d awakened in a good mood, enjoying a pleasant little Dallas hangover following our conversation. And then I’d turned on the computer, and the first thing in my feed was about eight hundred different pictures of the man I crave, up close and personal with yet another woman who isn’t me.

And suddenly my good day was shot all to hell.

I’d saved the picture on my phone and then proceeded to share my pain.

“First of all, I don’t think she’s a bimbo,” Brody says reasonably. “I looked her up on my phone before we started the run, and she’s an Oxford grad.”

This doesn’t make me feel better.

“And second—well, I think we both know what second is.”

“That I shouldn’t be jealous of who my brother sleeps with? Yeah, we both know.”

I sigh, because he’s right. Brody usually is. But somehow that doesn’t make the pang of jealousy—and of loss—any less painful. And the fact that Dallas and I don’t share a single drop of blood only makes it worse, not better. Because if it weren’t for those adoption orders, there’d be nothing keeping us apart. But there is. We’re siblings. And that makes it not only taboo but technically illegal.

Brody is the only person other than Dallas who knows my secrets. All of them. The kidnapping. What happened between Dallas and me. And all the rest. Because it wasn’t just that Dallas and I lost our virginity to each other. If it was just that, I think I could move on. I could—rightly—blame what happened on trauma. On fear. On the need for consolation and human contact.

But it wasn’t just that. In some weird way, our captivity was an excuse to physically consummate something that we’d emotionally sealed years before.

And it hurt all the more because once together, fate and circumstance and social mores had ripped us apart again.

Not that I’d told Brody any of that right off the bat. When I’d first met him, I’d just wanted to fuck him. Or, more exactly, I’d just wanted to get fucked. I’d been acting out. Acting stupid. Fast cars, faster sex, and lots of bad decisions.

I’d gone to a bar near Columbia and met him there. He wasn’t a student—he’d dropped out the previous semester to tend bar, and he’d made me laugh as I sipped house wine and ate spiced almonds. I’d sat there until closing, taken him home, and let him fuck my brains out.

To say I’d been something of a mess in those days would be an understatement. I’d gone from guy to guy to guy searching for something—someone—to make me whole. To fill the gap left by Dallas.

I didn’t find it in Brody, but I did find a friend, and he’s been a steadfast one for over ten years now.

“Your problem is that it pisses you off that two seconds after he tells you he wants you but knows he can’t have you, he’s on another woman’s arm, looking like he couldn’t care less that it’s her and not you.”

That is exactly my problem, and I scowl at him for stating it so succinctly. “You’re sounding a lot like a shrink this morning,” I say. “Trust me, I know. Over the last seventeen years, I think I’ve had a session with every therapist in the city.”

He laughs as we push against the flow of Sunday morning pedestrians flooding out of the Seventy-second Street subway station and heading into the park.

“That why you moved to LA?” he asks as we cross Central Park West, then turn left toward my block. “Fresh blood?”

“And a comedian, too. Who knew?”

“Yeah, well, I may not have a couch, but I’m pretty damn therapeutic for some of my clients.”

“That, I believe.” Brody’s a professional dom, and, yes, I’ve played the sub on a couple of occasions, thinking it would help. That it would soothe whatever it is inside me that has shifted off kilter.

The truth is, kink has never satisfied me. It’s not that I didn’t like it—I actually did, although we never really pushed any boundaries. And we certainly never did bondage. I’d had my fill of being tied up in captivity, and I really, really couldn’t go there. Just the thought of it brought on a major panic attack.

But even doing the safe stuff, I could never manage to let myself go. Brody said it was because I have control issues, and suggested I top, at least until I felt more comfortable, but that wasn’t what I needed, either. It hadn’t felt wrong. Just off. As if I was trying out kink for all the wrong reasons, and with the wrong man.

But that was a long time ago in college. Before Bill. Before I started writing.

Now, I’m working out my issues through my words. Or, at least, I’m trying to.

We’ve reached Seventy-first Street, and as we turn toward my granite and brick townhouse, he eyes me sideways. “You know my door’s always open. Best friend discount.”

I give him a hug. “I know. Right now I’m good. Or, at least I’m doing okay.” The truth is, doing a scene with Brody really wouldn’t be torture. The guy is positively gorgeous with his olive complexion, dark eyes, and just a hint of beard at the cleft of his chin. He reminds me of a pirate, and when his shirt is off, I remember why he was Mr. November in a charity calendar some of the city’s sexiest bartenders put together back in the day.

Even so, I still wouldn’t ever go there again. Brody’s married now. And even though his wife is cool with what he does—which, honestly, impresses the hell out of me—that’s a line I just can’t cross.

I start to head up the stairs to my door, then pause when I realize he’s not following. “No coffee? I was going to make egg white omelets, too.”

“Can’t. Got a client coming in two hours. I need to get things ready. But you’re still coming over tonight, right?”

Brody’s wife, Stacey, started a book club about a year ago when she was going crazy after quitting her job as a specialty travel agent. The chemo had made her too sick to work, but despite the nausea and exhaustion, she’d been going stir crazy.

She’s in remission now and back at work part-time. Book club, however, still goes on. And although most everyone does the reading, the real purpose is to get together, eat, and gossip. Honestly, it’s fun.

“I’ll be there. And I’m bringing champagne instead of wine. I landed a spot on Evening Edge to talk about Code Name: Deliverance.”

“No shit? You’re not even done writing it.”

“I know.” I grin. “That’s what makes this appearance so amazing.” Evening Edge is a television news magazine with a huge viewership, and I could kiss my publicist for landing this gig. I’d told her I wanted to do as much media as possible. I may not have the kind of job Bill does, but I think I can make a difference. More than that, I need to. Because I know only too well what kind of damage vigilante involvement can do.

“And they just plucked you up?”

“Not exactly. Apparently Evening Edge is doing a segment with Bill. He’s coming to talk about WORR and how one of its objectives is to put an end to vigilante involvement in kidnappings. And one of the producers had read The Price of Ransom and saw a blurb about Code Name: Deliverance on my website.” I shrug. “Pretty cool, huh?”

“Cool? It’s amazing. When do I set the DVR?”

“The Saturday after Poppy’s party. At seven.” I do a little jig on my stairs. “I’m so totally psyched.”

“You should be. And you do not need to bring any champagne. We will provide all sparkling wine products. Cake may even be involved.”

“Sounds perfect. Now go get ready for your client. I’ll see you at five.” I toss him an air kiss, then head to my door as he starts the Harley he’s left parked in front of my building.

I love my house. I didn’t grow up here—my mom preferred the quieter life of the Hamptons—and so coming to the townhouse for weekends and holidays in the city felt like going on vacation. The place was built in the late 1800s for my great-great-grandfather. And over the course of the years, the family has seen it through two sets of museum-grade renovations. Truly, the place is as luxurious as any of the fancy hotels I’ve stayed in throughout my life.

It’s a huge house, honestly too much for me. But I couldn’t sell it, even if I wanted to, which I absolutely don’t. For that matter, Dallas can’t sell his Hamptons house, either. Both of the properties are ours to live in for our entire lives, but ultimately, they belong to a family trust.

The kitchen is at the back and I head in that direction, thinking I’ll make a carafe of coffee, then take my laptop and go work on the rooftop terrace. I hear the radio, and assume that Ellen, my housekeeper, is working in there despite it being her day off. But when I get there, it’s not her trim figure I see at the table by the garden window but a slender man with salt-and-pepper hair.

“Colin?”

He puts down the newspaper and smiles at me, a broad smile that I know has the potential to not only make deals happen, but to get him in trouble.

“I know I say it every time, but I still wish you’d call me Dad.”

I pause at the refrigerator on my way to him and top off my water bottle. “I used to.” I keep my voice light and teasing, but every word is serious. “You blew it. And I have another dad now.”

“I’m still your birth father, little girl.”

I sigh and drop into the seat across from him. I’ve gone from adoring this man to being scared of him to needing him to actually respecting him. He’s done a pretty stellar job of pulling himself out of the quagmire of indictments and felonies, bad choices and debt. At least I thought he had until Mom mentioned this new IRS investigation.

Most of all, he was there for me after the kidnapping when I really needed to just get away.

“You are,” I say begrudgingly. “But let’s not get into it. I’m not in the mood to play the game where we examine how completely screwed up my family tree is. And for the record, I’m not going to ask why IRS agents are calling Mom about you.”

He waves a hand. “Routine,” he says. “I promise. I’m on their radar now. That’s all. Don’t you worry about me.”

“I’m not. I’ve got plenty to worry about without adding you to the mix.”

“I’m sorry, kiddo. Of course you do.” He leans back in his chair and takes a long sip of his coffee. “You went and saw him? After you talked to me?”

Him, of course, is Dallas.

“Well, yeah. He had a right to know that WORR has Ortega in custody. Just like you did.”

“And you’re okay?”

I take a sip of my water. “ ‘Okay’ is a relative term.”

“I know it’s hard seeing him. You two went through something no one should have to, and those memories will haunt you. Being near him makes it worse, but being away is like abandoning a friend. Am I right?”

I nod. Of course he’s right.

His mouth curves into a sad smile. “I still remember the day you gave him your stuffed rabbit. What was he called?”

“Mr. Fluffles.” I smile, too. “I wonder what happened to him.”

“You can talk to Adele if you need to,” he continues, shifting back to our original topic. “We might be divorced, but we’re still close. She’s an excellent therapist, and it’s a short train ride to Westchester. There’s no shame if this news about Ortega has sideswiped you.”

“It has. But I don’t need to talk to Adele. And honestly, it would be too weird.”

Maybe legally she’s no relation anymore, but from a pragmatic standpoint, the woman was my stepmother. I just can’t go there.

“Well, the offer is always open. And, sweetheart, don’t get your hopes up.”

I frown. “Don’t get my hopes up? All I have left is hope.” God, I want to wallow in hope, but here Colin is telling me to hold back, and there Dallas was, pissed that it was Bill who caught the bad guy instead of some anonymous federal agent.

“I don’t mean it like that.” He’s been calm through this conversation but now he looks a little flustered, like he’s afraid of upsetting me. Frankly, it’s probably a legitimate fear.

He starts again. “I’m just saying that while it really is an incredible thing that Ortega is in custody, it’s been seventeen years. Even if he does have solid information for the authorities, it might not lead anywhere. You have to come to terms with the fact that you may never know who did that to you and your brother.”

For a moment I think he’s going to say something else, but all he does is swallow the rest of his coffee and then stand. He heads to the coffeemaker and reaches for the carafe, but he doesn’t pour.

“Colin? What is it?”

“You should never have been there in the first place.” His head is tilted down and his voice is soft, so that I can barely make out the words. I watch his shoulders rise and fall as he takes a deep breath. “If Eli hadn’t taken you to London . . . if you hadn’t snuck away to visit . . .”

“But I did,” I whisper. Does he think I haven’t thought of that before, a million times already?

“I don’t like it. I don’t like knowing that you’ll probably never know who or why. And somehow it just makes it all worse because it should never have been you.”

He lifts his head to look at me. His eyes are red and his voice is thick. “My poor, sweet baby girl. Oh, god, it should never have happened to you.”

Later, I am leaning back in the cushioned outdoor rocker and read the social worker’s dialogue I just wrote. My intent is for the filmmaker to overlay her voice on top of scenes showing the children trapped and scared in the hot warehouse into which the kidnappers had driven the bus. So while the social worker is giving the parents hollow comfort, the children are terrified.

The trauma of a kidnapping is like the death of a child. It will always be with you. It will haunt you at the oddest times, and there is no defense against the rush of fear, of grief. And, sometimes, of guilt.

I’m not sure if I’ve got it right on the page of the screenplay, but in my mind, the scene is perfectly clear. The terror. The uncertainty. The cold even in the warmest room, because there is no way to soothe the icy fear that fills your veins and makes you shiver.

I don’t know how those kids found comfort, but I survived only because of Dallas. His strength and, yes, his touch.

I sigh, then put my laptop aside and stand. I need to focus on the work. My memories can help me, but I can’t let them take over.

I cross to the edge of the terrace and look out over my neighborhood at the stunning townhouses filled with people and their secrets. In a weird way, it’s comforting to know that they all have secrets. They all have things they regret, things they want, things they lost. Some have probably suffered more than I have.

I barely know these people, but I know I’m not alone, and it’s a nice feeling. I breathe in, wondering if my social worker should say something like that to the parents. Maybe in act two, when—

I catch a glimpse of the outdoor clock and curse. It’s already close to four and I’m not showered or dressed. Damn.

I hurry back inside and then down the stairs to my bedroom. I know Brody will forgive me if I’m late, but it will drive me crazy. I start stripping off my clothes the moment I’m through my door, and by the time I’ve crossed to my bathroom, I’m naked.

I get the shower going, and step in. I tilt my head back, and as I let the water wash over my face, I’m still thinking of Dallas. Still thinking of the dark and the terror. There’d been the Jailer, who came to me only once, his face hidden and his voice altered. And the Woman, who brought us food. She always wore a loose, flowing gown like a caftan, so shapeless it was impossible to tell if she was thin or curvy. She kept her hair hidden beneath a hood, and she wore a carnival-style black mask.

After the initial horror of cat food and starvation, she came somewhat regularly, leaving overcooked slabs of meat or cold cans of vegetables on the floor. There were no knives, no forks. And only one bottle of water at a time.

But mostly she stayed away, and in the gray light, Dallas and I lost ourselves in each other.

The first time had been sweet and tender and wonderful despite the hell of our situations and surroundings. It had been an escape. A release.

Hell, sex had been a sanctuary into which we disappeared as often as we could, losing ourselves in each other. Comforting. Soothing. Making silent promises that we would always be there for the other. That somehow, together, we were strong enough to survive.

We weren’t always together, though. Sometimes the Woman came to separate us. To take me away to a dark room where I’d be tied to a cement table. Bound and left there for hours, terrified that this was the end. That the bitch would simply leave me there to die.

As bad as that was, it was worse when she took Dallas from me. The not knowing was like torture to me—and, honestly, I think that torture is exactly what they did to Dallas during those long, lonely hours. Because each time they brought him back he would pull away from me. Not forever, but at first. As if he was afraid to touch me. As if each moment they kept us apart was a brick in a wall dividing us, and with each return we had to break through that wall and find each other again.

We did though. We always did. And each time he pulled me close and thrust hard inside me, it had been both a victory and a tragedy. We were alive, yes. But we knew damn well that we might never touch each other again.

Nothing was taboo between us, nothing shameful. We loved each other. And so help us, we were trying to cram a lifetime into those dark days that might be our last. We never thought about the consequences, and in retrospect we were lucky I didn’t get pregnant. I don’t know why—maybe I’m not fertile. Or maybe I was so thin from near-starvation that there was no way it could happen.

Even if we’d thought about it, though, we wouldn’t have stopped. As far as we knew, we’d be dead before the sun came up. But more than that, we needed each other. Hell, we saved each other.

And each time Dallas kissed me—each time he held me close and moved inside me—each time he made me explode so that for at least that moment I was free—I knew that I would always need him. Would always love him.

And somehow, I would always find my way back to him.

Now, in the real world with our past haunting us, I just have to figure out how.