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Wren was able to stretch, her legs sliding around against smooth sheets, touching nothing but the underside of the sheet that rested against the length of her body. She lifted her arms and felt the freedom of stretching her shoulders, her wrists, separating her arms with the freedom that came with a reality that didn’t include restraints.

Brad—one of her roommates—used to tell her how much fun he’d had with a lover who liked restraints. Wren couldn’t imagine ever enjoying that sensation.

She sat up and immediately knew she was somewhere different. This room was not one of the rooms in the house she’d explored. This room was brighter, filled with a warm light that could only come from big windows and natural sunlight.

She was dressed differently, too. Her yoga pants and cardigan were gone, the t-shirt she’d been wearing replaced with a thin undershirt like the kind men wear under a suit.

Where was she? Who’d changed her clothes? Why?

She climbed out of bed and rushed to the door, once again slightly surprised to find that it opened easily under her hand. In front of her were an open space and a narrow hall that led around to three more doors, presumably other bedrooms and a bathroom. And stairs led down into the abyss that opened in front of her, a brightly lit space that seemed to belong in a luxury home.

Were they moving up in the world? How many homes did this guy have? Was this one his, too?

She stumbled down the stairs, only partially aware of how exposed she was, both clothing-wise and safety-wise. If someone was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, she was pretty much screwed.

But no one was there.

The stairs opened into a small foyer, the living room on one side and the kitchen back behind it. She could hear sounds in the kitchen, so she charged that way, marching past lovely white furniture and stark white walls that were almost blinding in the sunlight streaming in through huge, floor-to-ceiling windows.

“What the hell did you do to me?” she demanded as she marched into the kitchen and found Cormac cooking—the man cooks?—humming under his breath to some pop song playing on an unseen radio.

He looked up, a slight smile on his full lips that quickly disappeared as he regarded her. She almost felt violated from the way his gaze moved over the length of her, touching her face, her throat, her shoulders, moving slowly down over her breasts to her belly to her legs, moving back up and resting for an instant on her breasts again before settling on her face.

“How are you feeling?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head, “we’re not playing this damn game again! I want some answers, and I want them right now, Cormac Delaney! Where the hell are we? What did you do to me? And how did I end up here?”

“We’re in Florida,” he said, almost conversationally. “We flew down last night. And this is the home of a friend who was kind enough to allow us to stay while he’s in Paris.”

“Florida?”

She was baffled, almost flabbergasted. How’d she get from Denver to Florida without being aware of any of it? The man could have flown her to London, and she wouldn’t have known.

That scared the shit out of her! What else had he done while she was unconscious?

“You drugged me.”

He picked up a canister of white pepper and shook some out into his hand before sprinkling it over whatever it was he was cooking. She had to admit it smelled damn good. Her stomach growled quite insistently, loud enough that she was sure even he heard it.

Once the pepper was added, he rubbed his hands together as he turned to regard her again.

“It was for your own good. I had to get you as far from her as possible.”

“Her who?”

One eyebrow rose, but he didn’t immediately respond. Instead, he went to the refrigerator and took out a container filled with freshly grated Parmesan cheese. She watched as he sprinkled that over the concoction in the pan, too, thinking he was the kind of cook her father could appreciate. He liked fresh ingredients. So did her dad.

“Like I’ve said before, it’s a very complicated situation. There are people in my life who don’t want my story—who can’t allow my story—to get out. And there are things I need to do before I can convince them that it’ll be okay, that we’ll all be safe.”

“What?” Wren shook her head. “You’re talking in riddles.”

“I’m asking you to trust me.”

She laughed, a humorless sound that just burst from between her lips. “Trust? You want me to trust you?” She laughed again. “You lied to me about who you are, refused to let me in on why you’ve been in witness protection since you were fifteen years old, and showed up at my house with a gunshot wound in your abdomen! And then you kidnap me, drug me, and drag me to Florida without any explanation…and you want me to trust you?”

He slowly nodded, clearly not impressed by her frustration or her anger. “Exactly.”

“You’re full of shit!” She slapped his arm because it felt like the only way to get his attention. “I’m covered in bruises. I have burns from being tased at least twice! And the drugs…how do I know you didn’t just fuck up my body, that there won’t be some lasting effects from the drugs you gave me?”

He glanced at her as he stirred his concoction. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“How do I know that? I don’t even know you!”

She slapped him again, needing him to concentrate on her instead of the food he was passionately catering to. She needed him to understand her frustration. She needed him to pay some damn attention!

She slapped him a third time, then pushed his shoulder.

“Stop, Wren,” he said, warning in his deep voice.

“You’re an asshole! You fucking kidnapped me! I’m here because of you, because you’re fucking insane!” She pushed him again. “How do I know you don’t plan to tie me up again? How do I know that you aren’t some sort of sadistic killer planning to emulate all those men you’ve been investigating? How do I know you don’t plan for me to be your first victim? How do I know I would even be the first?” She was babbling, just saying what came out, not thinking about it, pushing him with every other word. He moved sideways, away from the stove, not doing much more to protect himself. But there was a storm in his eyes.

“How do I know that you aren’t some sort of twisted serial killer fan, investigating all these murders so that you can see the beauty in them, see how they were done so you can do them the same way? How do I know you aren’t planning to do what Devin did, what my mother’s killer did?”

“Stop!”

“I think that’s it. I think you’re obsessed with all those murders you had in your other house, in your little study there, because you admire those men. You want to be like them!”

He suddenly turned on her, grabbing her upper arms in a fierce grip that told her she’d gone too far. He pushed her back, causing her to stumble, until she slammed against the wall, the air bursting from her lungs. He shook her once or twice as he stood there staring down at her, anger and other, more complicated emotions swirling in his eyes.

And then he kissed her.

She twisted her head, tried to move out of his grip, but he had her pinned to the wall with the force of his massive body, making her feel smaller than she’d ever felt in her entire life. Always taller than the other kids in her class, always the friend who could reach the top shelf, she’d never felt petite. But in Cormac’s arms, she felt smaller and more vulnerable than she was comfortable with.

She pushed at his chest, raised a knee but couldn’t quite connect with anything sensitive. She fought him, but his mouth was hard on hers, and his tongue was dancing, touching her in places no one else had ever touched. And then his grip on her arms loosened, and he lifted her up, his hands on her ass, molding to her ass with a warmth that filled an empty space she hadn’t even known had been empty.

When did she begin responding to him? When did she open up to him, when did her arms wrap themselves around his neck, when did her fingers bury themselves in his thick, wavy hair? When did she draw him against her body, moving her hips against his until he was pressed just perfectly against her?

It was insane. This man was insane. He’d kidnapped her, drugged her! What the hell was she doing?

Why did it feel so damn good?

His mouth moved down along her chin, sliding down to her throat. She leaned back, giving him access to anything and everything he wanted. Her chest heaved just at the thought of his mouth against her nipples. She wanted him with a fire she’d never known before, her body aching for him even as her mind screamed, warning her against it, against him. But her mind wasn’t in control at the moment.

His lips dragged against her throat, along her collarbone. She could feel the heat of his breath, could feel the moisture of his lips. She could feel everything about him, feel his muscles flexing, his heart pounding, his arousal pressed hard against her, the silkiness of his hair against her hands. She wanted to feel more, wanted his skin against hers, wanted his flesh against her flesh. She ached everywhere, a delicious ache that was filled with anticipation.

And then he rested his head against her shoulder, his breath, quick and hot, blowing through the material of her shirt.

“I’m sorry, Wren,” he moaned. “I…I never wanted any of this to happen.”

Her fevered mind wasn’t quite sure what it was he was talking about. Did he mean that he’d never meant to kiss her this way? Did he mean that he didn’t want her with the same driving need that was rushing through her? Or was he talking about the bigger happenings, the things her mind was screaming about, but her body was refusing to listen to?

“You have to know that it wasn’t me who hurt you. I didn’t attack you in that hotel room. By the time I figured out what had happened, it was too late to stop what had already begun. All I could do—”

“Who was it, then?”

He was quiet for a long moment, still breathing slightly heavily against her shoulder. “It’s complicated.”

She groaned, her mind once again in full control. She pushed at his shoulders, shoved at him to release her tangled limbs from his body. He wouldn’t budge, refusing to step back far enough for her to even stand on her own.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, moving to look her in the eye, one hand brushing against the side of her face, moving her hair to one side. “It was all a damn misunderstanding! You weren’t supposed to be in that room, and when you found that bag under the bed…she misunderstood your intentions.”

“Someone tased me, Cormac! Someone took me from that room and tied me up in a cold basement! I still have marks on my body, still have bruises and these…” She pulled her arm around so he could see the abrasions on her wrist. “Someone hurt me!”

A deep sadness filled his eyes. He took her wrist and pulled it to his mouth. She tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t allow it, tugging until she relented. He kissed the abrasion, ran his lips over the sore, broken skin, his touch reigniting a fire that was still—and would likely forever be—burning inside her. Tears filled her eyes, burning the back of her throat, as she watched.

“You have to understand, my life was never about white picket fences and the American Dream. I live in a dark world, a world you can only understand when you work your mother’s case.”

“Then tell me,” she said, tears beginning to spill down her cheeks. “Tell me who you are. Tell me what happened to you.”

His eyes came up to hers, dark with things she couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

“I brought you to Florida because there is a man we need to talk to. But you have to know that if you’re done with this, if you’re done with me, you’re free to go. I can arrange for you to be on a plane back to California in just a few minutes.”

He stepped back then, letting her fall back onto her own feet. She had to lean against the wall because her knees were weak, not sure they could hold her up. He pulled his pan off the burner, running his spoon through it like there’d only been a momentary break in his culinary chores. She watched him, this sense of the surreal rushing over her.

“You’re changing the damn subject again. Do you realize that?”

He glanced at her. “I do. Yes.”

“We’re back at square one. You’re refusing to tell me anything, but you want me to follow you around blindly. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

“I told you, you’re not a prisoner here. You’re free to go whenever you wish.”

“And if I choose to go?”

“You’ll never see me again.”

As much as she hated to admit it, that idea hit her in the center of her chest like a physical blow. The idea of never setting eyes on him again, of never feeling his touch again, of never tasting his kiss again…it was probably more insane than he could ever be, but her entire body rebelled at the idea.

“You realize the people at Mastiff will begin to miss me soon enough.”

“I know.”

“They’ll come looking for me.”

“They probably will.”

“You let me go, I could go to the police, tell them what happened to me.”

He nodded, reaching up into a cabinet to retrieve a couple of dinner plates, her stomach once again groaning in anticipation of food. She couldn’t remember the last time she had had a decent meal. She knew it’d been at least four—or five?—days.

“You don’t know who held you. You don’t know where she held you. You don’t even know what state we were in when I took you out of that basement.”

“You tased me in that basement.”

“To protect you. To keep her from knowing I was trying to rescue you.”

“What would she have done if she’d known?”

He rolled his shoulders. “I didn’t want to find out.”

His words were casual, but there was something in the undertone that drove a shiver down her spine. She thought about the evidence she’d seen in his hotel room, the evidence stacked in that garage room in the last house he’d taken her to. She thought of the things a killer could do to a human body. She thought about her own mother, of the gruesome things her killer had done to her.

Would that have been her if he hadn’t interfered?

Or was he just trying to make himself seem like the hero when, in truth, he was behind it all?

“Sit down and eat,” he said, carrying two plates he’d filled with his wonderful-smelling concoction to the small table pushed off to one side of the kitchen. “It’ll be easier to think on a full stomach.”

She followed him, curling up in a chair like a cat getting comfortable on a soft blanket. She watched him, waited for him to take a bite before she even dared, not willing to be unwittingly drugged again. Once he took a bite, though, she eagerly dug in, starving.

They ate in silence for a while, Cormac taking her plate twice to refill it. By the time she finished that last little bit, she was bloated and filled to overflowing. But it was satisfying in a way she couldn’t quite describe. And she was already thinking how great it would be to have a nice steak for dinner.

“What were the boards back at the other house? The ones that were labeled?”

He sopped up the last of his sauce with a piece of bread and popped it into his mouth before he sat back to regard her. “The results of my investigations. Cases I’ve successfully ruled out, cases I’ve successfully assigned to a specific suspect, and those cases that are still under investigation.”

“Like my mother’s case.”

“Yes.”

“You think you know who her killer is.”

He tried to look away before she saw the answer in his eyes, but it was too late. She could see it, knew she was right.

“You’re trying to prove a specific killer killed all these women.”

He lowered his head slightly.

“Why?”

“Because he’s never been caught.”

The memory of that one photo, the one that had clearly been handled often, slipped through her mind. “You know someone he killed?”

Again, he refused to answer, but there was something about the way he held his head, his body, that told her she was on the right track. “You think the man who killed this woman close to you also killed my mother?”

“It’s a possibility.”

She sat back, considering that. “Why was he never caught? Who is this guy?” She shook her head, remembering some of the pictures on that board. “My mother was killed twenty-eight years ago, but some of those pictures were more modern. Almost recent.”

“The most recent case I’ve been able to connect to him was committed in 2005.”

“That’s a long time for a serial killer to work. Especially one who’s never come under suspicion or been caught.”

“He’s smart.”

Cormac picked up their plates and walked to the sink. She waited, her thoughts spinning.

“How long have you been hunting him?”

Cormac made a sound, almost a snort. “Since I was fifteen.”

“You sound like you know him personally.”

There was a heavy silence for a long few minutes, only broken when he turned on the faucet to rinse the dishes. She turned, watching the muscles in his back flex as he put the dirty dishes into the dishwasher, bending low, then straightening, tension so tight in his shoulders that the movement almost looked painful, even to her.

“I was supposed to testify against him twenty years ago. Things…it went wrong, and I didn’t. If I had…maybe…”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do know. If I’d testified, some of those women wouldn’t be dead now.”

“If you had, his lawyer might have gotten him off anyway, and he still would have killed those women.” She got up, moved behind him without touching him. “You and I were both in law enforcement. We’ve both seen cases that should have been airtight fall apart for one reason or another, usually for things that were out of our hands. You don’t know what would have happened.”

“I do know.” He looked at her, a storm in his eyes. “I know.”

She reached for him, wanted to touch his face, to make the storm go away. He grabbed her wrist and yanked her up against him, pain forcing a small moan from between her lips. He held her hard against him for a long moment, fear giving her something of a rush as she found herself focusing on his mouth, on the pleasure she knew it could offer her. He was holding her wrist hard enough to break the bones, but she still wanted him.

What the hell was wrong with her?

“Go get dressed. We need to go talk to this guy.”

“What guy?”

“Your mother’s husband.”

He couldn’t have shocked her more if he’d poured a bucket of ice water over her.

“You found him?”

“He’s here, in Florida. He’ll be home from work in twenty minutes.” He let go of her wrist. “Go get dressed.”

She nodded, walking away in something of a daze. She’d lost control somewhere in the last few days. Or maybe it was on the day she met Cormac Delaney. She wasn’t following her own path anymore. She was following him, a loyal servant without a thought in her own head. He could kidnap her, drug her, beat her, and she’d still follow him.

Maybe her father’s bohemian ways had had more of an effect on her than she’d ever imagined. Or maybe it was just the feminine side of her finally coming out, bowing down to a man she desired. How humiliating was that?

But, deep inside, she knew that he was going to be the one to give her what she’d always wanted: answers about her mother. She’d always said she’d do anything to find out what really happened to her mother. Maybe this was just her proving that statement.

There could be worse things she could do.