After practically shoving his sister out the front door, Anthony quickly returned to his bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. He stared at the woman who looked like she was sleeping, but he knew better. She wasn't asleep. She hadn't regained consciousness. Her head was tilted to one side, and her hair was covering the bump on her forehead. He reached for her face to move it so he could assess the damage. She let out a long agonizing moan at the same moment he realized she was hot to the touch.

Her eyes fluttered open and she said, "Hurts."

"You have a nasty bump there, princess," Anthony told her. Her eyes were glassy and he couldn't tell if she recognized him.

"My head," she groaned, and then sat straight up. "I think I'm gonna be sick."

Anthony half-carried, half-dragged Christy to the master bath where he respectfully stepped out while she emptied the contents of her stomach. He could hear her retching and wondered if she'd somehow ended up with a concussion.

He could hear her cleaning up at the sink and when the bathroom door finally opened, instead of coming out, she leaned against the jamb weakly. Her head hung low, but she managed to look up at him and said, "You hit me."

"No, I didn't. I grabbed for you and you pulled away from me and face-planted into the edge of the door. I'll get you some ice." He didn't worry about leaving her alone. He didn't keep a telephone in his bedroom and there were bars on all the windows. If that wasn't enough to deter her, her poor health surely was.

He returned a few minutes later and found her slumped on the floor. Tossing the ice bag aside he kneeled beside her and picked her up. Cradling her in his arms he brought her face up to his and placed his cheek against hers. She wasn't hot. She was on fire. This wasn't from a bump to the head. She was sick with a fever.

He walked directly to the large tile shower and turned on the cold water. She flinched when it hit her, but it still didn't completely revive her. Mourning the ruin of his new boots, he stood holding her under the cool stream. He eventually leaned back against the tile wall and slowly lowered himself to the floor, making sure the water was spraying on her.

Christy was trapped in a nightmare from which she couldn’t awaken. A nightmare that made no sense. She was in her old home climbing the stairs but she couldn't get to the top. With each step she took, the stair crumbled beneath her feet. She looked behind her and saw Lester, the lawn man, smiling and winking at her. Behind him floated a dark and menacing presence. She couldn't make out a face or any features, but she knew it was a dangerous force and it was hovering behind her new friend. It frightened her and heightened the sense of panic she was already feeling. Her legs felt like lead. Litzy, who had been more of a mother to Christy than Vivian had ever been, stood on the top step, her arms outstretched and her warm eyes filled with tears.

"Come, child," she beckoned. "I'll save you," she pleaded in her thick Guatemalan accent.

"You already saved me," Christy answered. "You saved us both, but I let you down. I couldn't save her. When you needed me the most, I couldn't save her for you. I'm so sorry, Litzy."

Closing her eyes tightly, Christy attempted to lunge toward Litzy and instantly felt herself falling. She landed in a pool of freezing water, gasping for breath as she tried to recover from the icy shock and claw her way to the surface. She couldn't see it, but she knew the dark presence that had hovered behind Lester was keeping her from reaching the top. She realized then that she hadn't been moving up because her arms were stuck at her sides and she was pinned against a rock-hard surface, unable to move. She heard soothing words in a language she didn't understand. She couldn't see anything. She was surrounded by blackness, but the voice had a calming effect on her. She was no longer frightened or cold. In fact, she was feeling the opposite. She suddenly felt warm. And safe.

Her pounding headache was gone, replaced by a mild throb. Her throat felt parched and her forehead was sore. She remembered him. She remembered trying to pull away from him and hitting the door. She must be lying on Vivian's floor, but it didn't feel like a floor. It felt like a bed. A warm, comfortable bed. And the air didn't smell like moth balls either. It smelled like...like...chicken soup.

She cautiously cracked an eye open, discovering an unfamiliar room. She opened her other eye and quickly scanned her surroundings without moving her head. She was propped up slightly and could see an open bathroom door to her right. Directly in front of her was a triple dresser that housed a television on one side and what looked like a decorative art piece, a teepee made from metal, on the other. A large mirror was attached to the back of the dresser and in the mirror's reflection she could see a beautiful portrait of a forest scene. A snarling bear was standing on all fours. She could see its sharp teeth. Windows flanked both sides of the portrait, but the curtains were closed. She could also see what she guessed was the top of the headboard. She sat up a little bit and saw her face in the mirror.

There was a prominent purple bump right smack in the middle of her forehead. She had bruising under each eye. Her hair was plastered to her head. She raised her hand to touch it and realized it was damp. It was then that she was hit with a recognizable discomfort. She needed to empty her bladder and she needed to do it immediately. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she quickly realized she had tried to sit up a little too abruptly and was overcome with dizziness. Gripping the bed’s edge, she closed her eyes for a moment and when she opened them she was staring at a belly button. She slowly looked up, taking in the dark tan skin, the flat stomach with defined abs, the smooth hairless chest with a myriad of tattoos. When she got to his eyes, she didn't see anger, or aggravation or even concern. She saw...nothing. They were penetrating and unsettling. She started to shake.

She looked away then and said, "Bathroom," followed by a very weak, "please."

He lifted his hand to grab her arm and noticed her flinch. "I'm not going to hurt you," he told her. Taking her elbow, he helped her stand and walked her slowly to the bathroom door.

"Thank you," she said, without looking at him. "I have it from here."

Anthony watched Christy slowly shut the door behind her. He went to his dresser and pulled out a T-shirt, hastily pulling it over his head. He stared at himself in the mirror, his long hair still slightly damp from the shower he took earlier, and reflected on the woman who was using his bathroom. After feeling confident that the cold water helped reduce her fever, he stripped her out of her clothes and dried her off. He was a little surprised that his earlier observation of her breast implants had been wrong. It's not like he lingered while he was drying her, but he couldn't help but notice they were the real deal. He tried to deny the slight stirring he felt. I'd not be a man if they didn't cause some kind of reaction, he convinced himself. It's been too long since I’ve had a woman.

The bathroom door opened and she hesitantly walked out.

"Where are my clothes?" she asked, her voice sounding small.

"You had a fever and I had to get you in a cold shower. I couldn't put you back to bed soaking wet. You're wearing my T-shirt. Your clothes are in the dryer."

It took every ounce of strength she didn't have to stand there and have a civil conversation. She was in a strange man's house. In a strange man's clothes. And not just any strange man. She was in the Neanderthal's house. The Neanderthal's bed. She was at a serious disadvantage. She knew she wouldn't be able to talk her way out of this one. At least not in her current condition.

Fear gripped her with its piercing talons and she knew her only recourse was to play along until she felt better and could think clearly. She nodded, choosing not to mention the fact that she wasn't wearing any underwear. She already knew the shirt she wore had to be his because it fell below her knees. She also knew that he had to be the one who undressed and dried her. She could feel the humiliation as it started in her toes and slowly worked its way up to her cheeks. She wouldn't allow herself to acknowledge she found the smell of his shirt comforting. And safe. Where could that be coming from? Especially after it was obvious that he'd followed through on his plan to abduct her.

He noticed her blush and sneered, "Like I said at your house, you have nothing I want. Your virtue hasn't been compromised." He waited for her sarcastic rebuttal and was caught off guard when she replied, "Thank you," and after a short pause, "for taking care of me." Her voice was slightly shaky when she asked, "Would you happen to have an extra toothbrush and a comb or brush I could use?"

Her politeness surprised him. Then he remembered that she was ill. She would probably “please” and “thank” him to death until she was feeling better at which time she would return to her arrogant self. She was sick enough that maybe keeping her here until he worked things out with Van wouldn't be intolerable. X would have Nisha on a plane first thing in the morning freeing him up to stay here with Christy while Anthony took care of business at the camp and landscape office. It was probably best that Christy stay here instead of X's place anyway.

He walked past her and came out of the bathroom holding a hairbrush and a toothbrush still in its packaging. Tossing them both on the bed he said, "The toothbrush is new, but you'll have to lower yourself to sharing my brush."

She gave him an odd look and instead of retrieving the items, she hobbled to a corner and sat in a chair. "Where am I and how long have I been here?"

"You’re at my house and you've been here for a couple of hours. It'll be dark soon."

"I figured it was your house," she countered. "Where is it?"

"That's not important," he answered evenly.

She looked away from him and nodded to herself. She wouldn't challenge him. Yet. He could tell she was thinking. "Are you going to take me home or is this part of your plan to ransom me to Van?"

So, she remembered, he thought.

"You being at my place wasn't part of the plan, but like I said in your mother's bedroom, it can go down easy or it can go down not so easy. Either way I win." He waited for her reaction and not getting one he continued, "Besides, I don't think you're in any condition to be driving yourself anywhere right now."

She looked up at him quickly then and asked, "You have the 'Vette here?"

"Yes, and you're not getting the keys." After a beat, he asked, "Will anybody miss you? Somebody at home waiting for you? A roommate, a boyfriend?" He paused. "A manicurist?"

Ignoring his sarcasm and without making eye contact, she quietly answered. "No. There's no one." She then clutched her stomach. "Excuse me," she said as she jumped up and headed for the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

An hour later, Anthony glanced in his room and saw Christy resting comfortably in his bed. After bowing to the porcelain god three more times, she brushed her teeth and fell back to sleep. He'd taken the time to rifle through her car and was surprised that it wasn't full of girlie stuff. No lip gloss or cosmetics in the console. No beach towels or sun hats in the trunk. Going through the glove box he saw that the car was registered to Bobbi Bowen's Luxury Autos of the Gulf Coast. Of course, the car wouldn't be in Christy's name. She probably got a brand-new one every month from the dealership. He grabbed the bag she'd been carrying and brought it in the house with him. Dumping its contents on his desk, he sifted through her things. There wasn't much.

He opened a brown envelope that held receipts made out to Van Chapman from an accountant in Miami. Dauber & Nicks charged exorbitant fees, but then again, Chapman would've been able to afford them. He returned the receipts with outrageous purchases to the envelope and laid it down.

He then looked through Christy's wallet. He found a Florida driver’s license. He already knew she had blonde hair and blue eyes and that she stood about five foot one. What he didn't know was that Christine Roberta Chapman was twenty years old, an organ donor and weighed 135 pounds. He thought she felt lighter than that, but what did he know? He never once remembered carrying a woman. She had two hundred dollars in cash and one credit card. He also found two ballpoint pens, a hair clip, a large purple comb, a set of house keys and a small address book. He flipped through the book and didn't recognize any names. Tossing it aside, he reached for the last item. A beeper. He scrolled through the numbers in the pager and noticed that some were odd and didn’t appear to be phone numbers. This must've been the special coded message Lester had sent Christy letting her know there was nobody home at the Chapmans’. There were two phone numbers after that one. They must be new. He dialed the first one. After two rings he heard a woman's sobbing voice: "Christy?" A sniffle. Was this Vivian? he wondered. He then heard what sounded like a baby crying in the background. He instinctively knew this wasn't Christy’s mother. He almost hung up but something stopped him. It seemed rude.

"Sorry. Wrong number," he lied.

"Oh, okay," came her sad reply. She hung up.

He dialed the second number. "It's a great day at Bobbi Bowen's Luxury Autos of the Gulf Coast. You've reached the service department. This is Vicky. How can I assist you today?" the woman asked a little too enthusiastically.

Vicky must really like her job, he thought as he hung up.

He put the items he’d found back into Christy's bag and headed to the kitchen to get something to eat.

The second Christy woke up in her captor's bed it occurred to her that she didn't even know his name. Thankfully, other than his crude attitude he hadn't made any attempt to hurt her. She didn't think the Neanderthal had a kind bone in his body, but based on the way he'd treated her after bringing her to his home she couldn't complain. And what had he said in Vivian's bedroom? You'll be comfortable and safe. You don't seem to like Van anyway so think of it as having a little time away at his expense.

If she hadn't felt like death warmed over she had no doubt she'd be fighting him tooth and nail. But as it was, she was too weak to get herself from the bathroom to the bed without her knees shaking. She was comfortable, she was clean and he'd explained more than once that it wasn't his intention to harm her. Although, she did wonder what he would do if she antagonized him. He couldn't talk to her without a scowl. She couldn't imagine what she'd done to him. Maybe she wronged him in a past life or something. Or, maybe she was just bearing the brunt of his hatred for Van.

She wasn't surprised that he was going after Van. He certainly wouldn't be the first. She was shocked it was over a money issue. That was new. She'd expected more than one angry husband or father would’ve given Van a bullet to the brain by now. It was no secret that Van Chapman slept with as many women as he could behind his wife's back. And unfortunately, he never concerned himself with their age. If they emitted estrogen, they were prey. Christy couldn't imagine who he owned in law enforcement that kept burying his indiscretions before official charges were made. Van had to be paying off every family that accused him of sexual improprieties with their underage daughters so it was likely that police statements were being shredded before they were entered in the system.

She sighed loudly when she thought of how disappointed her kidnapper was going to be when Van wouldn't pay a ransom for her return. If anything, he was doing Van a favor. And Vivian was so out of it, Van could tell her that he'd sent Christy on a year-long sabbatical to Tibet and not only would she believe it, if she didn't, she wouldn't care.

Yes, Christy would use this time to recuperate and get her strength back, but she would still have to figure out a way to escape. How hard could it be? He obviously didn't have a problem leaving her alone. She glanced around the masculine bedroom and didn't see a phone. Surely there was one in the house. And if not, she could probably get to the front door and run to a neighbor's house. After all, there was no telling what her captor would do when Van refused to pay. She started to shiver again, and her last conscious thought before sleep reclaimed her was her trying to discern if the ice that crept through her bones was from her illness or fear of her nameless captor and his bottomless black eyes.