It’s a brutal lie, and I hate myself for telling it.

But I hate even more the fact that I have to. Because it has to be true. I can’t want this man. Forget reality. Forget desire.

Forget the fact that I still dream of him after so much time. That I still remember the way his beard stubble scratched the soft skin of my inner thighs. That I wake up imagining him inside me, his face soft with love and wonder.

Forget that he has never failed to make me laugh. Never failed to understand me.

But we’re star-crossed, he and I. Like a living, breathing Shakespeare play. And what I want, I can’t have.

But I don’t seem to have it in me to truly want anything else.

I’m broken, and I have been for years. It’s my reality now, and I’m learning to live with it. To turn the angst and the loss around and make it work for me.

It’s not easy, though, and it’s worse when we’re together, which is why we’re together so rarely. Which is why I shouldn’t have come.

I sigh, already dreading my great-grandfather’s upcoming hundredth birthday celebration—a party for which my mother is going all out since this may well be Poppy’s last.

We’re having it on Barclay Isle, a private island in the Outer Banks that has been in the Sykes family for generations. It’s a big island, but Dallas is coming as well, which means even if it were the size of Greenland, it wouldn’t be big enough.

Family gatherings are the worst for me. Seeing him. Feeling the tingle in the air from nothing more than his proximity. I attend, of course. Our family isn’t that big, and I would be missed. But I go with an escape plan and I stay only as long as I can endure the tension and fight my building need.

One time our fingers brushed at the dinner table from nothing more erotic than the passing of a bread basket, and I’d been rocked by an unexpected frisson of sensual awareness so powerful I actually gasped.

Fortunately, I also knocked over my wine, which not only camouflaged my reaction but allowed me to escape to the restroom, ostensibly to wash out the stain on my dress. But I hadn’t cared a whit about my outfit. All I’d wanted was privacy so that I could stroke myself and relieve the hot, thrumming pressure that was pounding between my legs.

Even now, the memory is wild and vibrant, and I feel that growing, needful ache. Don’t go there, I think. Just do not go there.

Easier said than done, but I focus on blocking the past and simply getting the hell out of the house.

I’ve descended the wide wooden steps to the first floor, and I pause to look back over my shoulder to see if Dallas is following me. But the door to the private hallway is still shut, and there’s no sign of the man on the landing.

Honestly, I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed.

I continue across the room, pushing past dozens upon dozens of partygoers who have meandered inside, entering through the three massive French doors that line the east-facing wall. The throng makes me tense—I don’t know these people, and I don’t like crowds. I keep looking over my shoulder to check my six the way Liam and all my self-defense instructors have taught me, even though I know it’s stupid. No one at Dallas’s party is going to hurt me. But knowing and believing are two different things, and I’ve gotten used to constant vigilance.

I look around the room, finding comfort in noticing the details. The usual furniture has been moved out so as to turn this room into a dance floor with a DJ in the corner and small round tables set up around the perimeter. Hired waitstaff move through the crowd with trays of drinks, and I see dessert stations set up in all four corners of the massive room where my friends and I used to practice our middle and high school cheers.

The dessert tables are themed, and I make a beeline for the chocolate station, cutting across the dance floor and moving nimbly to avoid arms and legs and dips and shimmies. I also avoid the stares I’m getting from more than one guest. I’m quite certain it’s not because they recognize me as Jane Sykes, now Jane Martin, the daughter of Eli and Lisa Sykes. The sister of Dallas Sykes. And a bit of a celebrity in her own right, what with the buzz my book has been getting lately.

No, I’m getting stares not because of who I am, but because of how I look. Everyone here looks like they walked straight off a Fashion Week runway, and my jeans, canvas sneakers, and tank top are hardly blending in, even with the designer blouse I’d pulled on at the last minute. Not because I’d been trying to dress up, but because I hadn’t wanted to face Dallas in such a skimpy top.

I tell myself I don’t care. After all, the women who stare as I pass and whisper snide comments about my uncoiffed hair don’t really belong here. I do. I grew up here. I lived here. This is my place, part of my identity.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Because here I am in a house that I love, and all I feel is lost. All I feel is alone.

I draw in a breath and focus on the platters piled high with cupcakes and brownies. I grab a cupcake with chocolate frosting and colored sprinkles, and then take a big, glorious bite. As I do, I notice that I’m the only female who seems to be eating anything not from the alcohol or vegetable food groups.

This doesn’t surprise me. I got sucked into the low cal–low carb diet obsession about the time I turned thirteen, but all that ended after the kidnapping. When some sick fuck with a god complex decides to feed you only cat food and water for days on end, your perspective tends to shift.

I’m not a glutton, but I don’t deny myself food. Not if I want it. Not ever. For that matter, there are very few pleasures that I deny myself these days, with Dallas being the only notable exception.

With a sigh, I tear myself away from the chocolate station and go through the open French doors. I step onto the flagstone pool deck and into a wonderland of decadent extravagance. Everything from the Grammy Award–winning pop star performing on a newly constructed stage just beyond the decking to the prone naked models who are doubling as sushi platters. Seriously?

There are just as many people out here, but the crowd is thinner with more space to spread out. All the guests are dressed to the nines, though many of them sport designer swimwear paired with designer wraps and set off by designer shoes. I’ve never understood why someone would want to wear heels with a bikini, but if the women currently splayed out on the chaise longues or talking in dark corners with well-suited men are any indication, I’m in a small minority.

I pass the bar on one side and the waterfall end of the pool on the other. The lights are on, set to rotate in a pattern of vibrant colors that not only illuminate the floating nudes but also cast a colorful, shimmering glow over the east side of the house. I watch the dancing lights for a moment, my gaze drifting upward to the last window on the third floor—Dallas’s room.

I wonder if he’s still in there, or if he’s gone to the helicopter already, leaving his two guests alone to engage in their own little orgy of fun.

I roll my eyes at myself, irritated at the direction of my thoughts and the extent of my jealousy.

The truth is, I handled this whole evening poorly. As soon as I realized he was having a party, I should have turned away.

Then again, when isn’t Dallas Sykes having a party? According to the tabloids, it seems to be a daily event. And, yes, that simple truth makes me a little surly. Because I miss what we used to have, I really do. And I can’t help but wonder if he does, too. He practically said as much to me just now, but was it the truth or just a line? Am I now only one of the many women in his life?

I don’t really believe that, and yet I wish I could. I think it would make me hate him.

It would be easier if I hated him.

The far side of the pool is lined with cabanas, and I sit on the teak bench outside the first one and watch the show in front of me. Socialites and wannabes mingling and flirting. Women in huddles with secret smiles—and I know that they’re all talking about Dallas.

I glimpse a flash of red hair and see the woman who was in Dallas’s bed earlier step through the French doors and onto the patio. Her expression is smug, and from the faces that are now turning in her direction, it’s no secret where she’s been, and what she’s been doing.

There are so many stories about Dallas’s escapades. So many rumors, so much gossip. I hadn’t wanted to believe they were true, but the more I see, the more I believe.

I want to be disgusted—I am disgusted—but I can’t escape the uncomfortable truth: I want it to be me.

Except I don’t—not really. Because the man I crave doesn’t exist anymore, and I don’t want the man who goes through women at the same pace he goes through scotch.

Somehow, though, I can’t quite believe that the boy I loved turned into the man I see.

Finally, I can’t take being there anymore, and so I rise to my feet, planning to head back the way I came, back through the house and out the front door to where I left my car with the valet.

I don’t make it.

He’s right there, standing just past the edge of the cabana. The women nearby have their eyes on him, but he doesn’t even seem aware. Instead, he is looking only at me. And as he starts to walk toward me, my chest starts to hurt, and I realize that I am holding my breath.

I exhale, feeling childish and stupid, and force myself to stand up straight, breathe normally, and not look like I’m cornered and trapped.

“I thought you had to catch a ride,” I say, because I don’t want him to have the first word.

“I do.”

I lift a brow. “Then why are you here?”

He glances around, and for the first time seems to realize that we are being watched. “In here,” he says, taking my arm even as he pushes aside the curtain that marks the entrance to the cabana.

There’s a daybed inside, and a couple sprawled on top of it. They’re fully clothed, but their kiss is deep and passionate, and she is straddling his leg and grinding against him in a sensual rhythm.

I feel my own body heat in response, and I make it a point of looking anywhere but directly at them. Or Dallas.

He clears his throat. “Sorry, folks. I need the room. I’ve got to talk to my sister.”

Sister.

And just like that, the heat that had been spreading through me turns to ice, and I stand there frozen as the couple leaves, clothing askew and not looking the tiniest bit embarrassed.

The cabana has a sliding door that provides more privacy than the curtain, and Dallas closes it now, then leans against it as he looks at me.

“All right,” I say, trying to sound casual as I sit on the edge of the daybed. “What do you need to talk about?”

“The Darcy twins,” he says, which is about as far as you can get from what I was expecting. I must look as confused as I feel because he presses on. “Why is WORR investigating a resolved kidnapping?”

There are so many ways I could answer that, but I go with the most obvious one. “Why the hell do you care?”

I see a flicker of irritation in his eyes. He’s not used to being questioned. That’s okay. I’m not, either.

“I’m friends with Henry Darcy,” he says. “I was there for him when the girls were taken. And I listened as he talked through his decision to keep the authorities out of it and hire a private team to recover the girls. Just like Dad did,” he adds, and I can’t help but scoff.

“And that worked out so well.”

“The team knew the risk,” he counters. “And they were trying to rescue kidnapped children.”

“Have you lost your mind?” I don’t mean to snap, but I can’t help it. “Two of the men Daddy hired ended up dead.”

And it was my fault. I should never have said anything. Never told my father and his security team what little I knew.

I’d been warned, hadn’t I?

But once I was back in my parents’ arms, I’d felt safe again. Safe, yes, but so damn scared for Dallas. They’d convinced me that I had to tell. That I had to give the security team every tidbit of information if we were going to recover Dallas.

So I had. And based on a terrified fifteen-year-old’s shredded memories, the team had isolated the target and moved in—and I’d suffered for four long weeks believing that Dallas died in that raid, too.

“That’s not the point,” he says, as if the fact that I got two men killed doesn’t matter. As if it was no big deal that he was tortured and traumatized and starved for another month. “I want to know about WORR. Because I’m damn sure Henry didn’t give your ex a call and start chatting.”

I almost tell him that it’s none of his business, but the fight has gone out of me. I feel numb, and the memories of those long, cold days are too close. I want to finish this conversation. I want to get the hell out of here.

“So you know what happened, obviously. The girls went to Mexico with some friends to celebrate their eighteenth birthdays, and they were snatched. Sold into white slavery to some rich asshole in Mexico City. It’s pretty impressive that Henry’s hired guns found them,” I admit.

“It is,” he agrees. “After the first seventy-two hours, the odds of getting those trafficked girls back was slim to none.”

“You know the stats,” I say.

He eyes me levelly. “I pay attention. Like you, I’m interested in the subject.”

I say nothing. The truth is, I’ve made a career researching and writing about kidnappers and their victims. Dallas ostensibly runs several divisions of the family business. In reality, he spends money, drives fast, and fucks hard. I know why I do what I do. Him, I don’t understand.

“So tell me the rest,” he urges.

“The asshole who bought them got his neck slashed in the raid,” I say flatly. “But the team got the girls home safely. Henry told you he wanted to keep the FBI and Interpol out of it. That’s what you said, right?” He nods, and I press on. “Well, that decision got the perp killed instead of punished, and Elaine Darcy is pissed.”

“Henry’s mother,” Dallas says flatly.

“She’s right up there with Dad as far as old money goes,” I confirm. “And with a former US Attorney in her family, not to mention congressmen and judges, she wasn’t too happy that her son decided to go the vigilante route.” I shrug. “So she got WORR involved. She wanted to know who else was responsible—that’s how they tracked down Ortega.”

He runs his fingers through his hair. “Christ.”

“I know,” I say, nodding. “Henry completely screwed up. Those girls could have been killed in the raid, too. But more than that, she wants to find this vigilante group and shut it down. That’s one of WORR’s mission statements, you know. To try to stop that kind of rogue activity. And it’s why I knew about the investigation even before they had Ortega in custody. And then when Bill told me about the connection to us, it just blew me away.”

He looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “You knew about the vigilante team and the Darcy twins first? Before Bill told you about Ortega? How?”

“I told you earlier. It’s my next book.” I shift on the mattress and pull my feet under me, more comfortable now that we’re talking about my work. “It’s a broader book than The Price of Ransom. That focused solely on the one case, but even as I was writing it, I knew I wanted to explore the dangers of vigilante justice. I mean, the Darcy girls could have died. Just like those kids in that school bus almost died because one of the parents hired that asshole Lionel Benson and his team of arrogant mercenaries.”

“You’re writing about Benson and his team?” Dallas asks, his voice tight.

I nod. Lionel Benson is a dishonorably discharged ex-Army colonel who funneled his particular talents into the lucrative world of vigilante justice. Unfortunately, he was more interested in earning a buck than he was in making sure that the kids he was supposedly rescuing were safe. When he and his team burst into that warehouse to try to rescue the children that had been in the bus, they focused entirely on the one child whose parents had hired them, and in doing so put the other kids at risk.

The supposed rescuers were battled back by the kidnappers, who ultimately received the ransom payment and released the children. Thankfully, the kidnappers were later apprehended by a team of international agents working with WORR.

At the time I wrote The Price of Ransom, no one knew the identity of the vigilante team that almost got those children killed. But about a month ago, after two kids in Nevada died in another purported rescue, Benson’s team came to light. One of the team was injured during that raid, and when the FBI moved in—thankfully rescuing the surviving children—they also captured the injured vigilante.

Although Benson’s arrest was publicly announced, most of the details from the investigation are still confidential. Even so, Bill told me that the captured man is cooperating in exchange for leniency, and that his testimony led to Benson’s capture. The witness also told the investigators that Benson’s priority during each and every raid was his bank account first, the safety of the child he’d been hired to rescue second. As far as Benson was concerned, any children without a dollar amount attached were collateral damage.

Fucking bastard.

I hug myself as I think about the similarities between Benson and my father, who’d sent in a team rather than contact the authorities because he was more concerned about making sure the press didn’t learn about the kidnapping than Dallas’s safety. Benson may have been all about the money, but wasn’t my dad just as selfish?

Just thinking about it makes my chest tighten, and I have to breathe deep to fight off what I know is a rising panic attack. Finally, I swallow, then look up to meet Dallas’s eyes firmly. I’m calmer, but my voice still hitches as I add softly, “You could have died in that botched raid.”

“I’m alive, Jane. I’m standing right here.” His words are gentle, but they don’t soothe.

“No thanks to Dad and his team, though. You weren’t rescued. Worse, whoever took us kept you for four more weeks after they let me go. A month, Dallas. And god only knows what they did to you during that time when you were alone.”

I expect him to say something, and when he doesn’t, I run my hands nervously over my thighs. I know he doesn’t remember what happened after I was freed. Over and over he’s told us that it is a blank. A gaping black maw in his memory.

The doctors don’t know if that’s the result of drugs or trauma-induced amnesia. But the bottom line is that he remembers nothing from the time he woke up without me to the day he was finally released in a London tube station. Sometimes, I think that’s for the best.

I remember those weeks, though. I remember every minute. Mostly, I remember the fear that Dallas was dead.