Chapter 3

Three

I fight a wave of nausea as I wait, certain more words will appear. Either that or the voice will return. Or the black will fade into an image of the room where we'd been held. But there is nothing except a silence that seems to last an eternity.

By the clock it's not even been thirty seconds.

Then I hear a whimper. It's me. "Please." My voice is thick, the words slurred. "Don't hurt her."

"Strip, bitch." It's that familiar, filtered voice again. "Strip, or I'll play with the little girl instead."

I start to shake. I don't remember that . The voice is mine, but I don't remember the threat at all. My mouth has gone completely dry, and my hand is holding the phone with such intensity it's a wonder the damn thing doesn't shatter.

This is a nightmare. It can't be real. How can this be real?

But it is, and I don't understand what's going on, and when the sound finally dies and the screen flashes a new message, I cry out in a freakish mixture of horror and relief.

One hour. Scan again.

The words disappear, replaced by others, then still more after that.

No police. No law enforcement or private security. Disobey, and there will be consequences. Dire consequences.

I draw a tremulous breath.

This is our little secret, Brianna.

Set a timer and scan in one hour. Fail to do so, and you will know the full meaning of regret.

One second. Then another. I set the timer on my phone for fifty-nine minutes. Then I glance at the clock. Eight-seventeen. I make a mental note just in case the timer fails me. I have to do this right, have to follow the rules. Whatever they want, I must do it.

Then I just sit there, holding the phone, terrified it's going to ring. Equally afraid that an hour will pass, and I'll never hear from my tormentor again, and that horrible recording will one day be played for the world. And when it airs, there will be video, too.

Just the thought makes my stomach curdle.

I'm trying to control my breathing when the message fades, the white letters swallowed by blackness until I'm left staring at an inky black webpage.

It's over.

Except, of course, it's not. This is merely a break. A reprieve. And the only thing I'm truly certain of is that it's going to get a lot worse.

I don't even think of ignoring the command to scan the QR code again in an hour. And I'm sure as hell not going to the police. Not yet, anyway.

But I'm also not going to just sit here like a terrified victim, even if that's what I am.

Instead, I force myself to draw one breath, then another. I need to calm down. I need to stop my hands from shaking. A much harder task than it sounds, and it takes all my effort to force my trembling index finger to tap my phone screen so that it pops back to life. And then there I am, staring at that completely black page again.

Grimacing, I get on with my task, tapping to highlight the URL in the address bar at the bottom. I click copy, then drop the address into my Notes app, feeling just a little smug. I have no idea if that will help me at all, but at least I'm doing something.

Now, what else can I do?

Okay , I think. You can handle this. Step one: quit shaking. Step two: get home. Step three: scan the code again. Step four: focus. Who could be behind this? Who would do this to you when everyone involved in the kidnapping is dead?

At least, I think they are.

I don't have any answers. But I tell myself it must be a joke. Some horrible, vile, in-very-bad-taste joke.

Unfortunately, I don't believe that at all.

With great deliberation, I force myself to simply sit there and breathe and try to calm myself enough so that I get home before the hour is up. And without crashing my car in the process.

At the moment, confidence is low.

Somehow, I manage to keep my hand steady as I start the car. And in the exact moment when the engine turns over and my music blasts on, a hard rap lands on my window. A scream rips out of me as I thrust myself sideways, banging my ribs on the armrest.

Outside the window, I see a man's torso. Then he bends down, and I gasp with recognition as he speaks. "Oh, hell, Bree. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

Ashton Stone .

For a moment, I can only stare. This is the man I'd seriously—albeit secretly—crushed on when I first met him. A man who'd come to Los Angeles about two years ago with a plan to destroy his father, my boss.

A man with a famous temper and a reputation for facing down danger. For being reckless.

For being brilliant.

A man with the kind of mind that can make millions and the kind of face that dark angels envy. A chiseled face, framed by raven-dark hair, and highlighted by deep blue eyes that conjure thoughts of long, lazy days on a Caribbean beach.

There's something magnetic about him, and every time I'm near him, I feel that tug pulling me closer.

But he's not safe. Not for me. Maybe not for anyone. And the last time we bumped into each other, I'd run far and fast out of nothing more than an instinct for self-preservation. An act of cowardice on my part that undoubtedly pissed him off.

All of which begs the question of why I now want to throw open my door and launch myself into his arms. To tell him the horror story that this fairy tale night has morphed into.

But I can't.

I don't truly know him.

I can't really trust him.

And I damn sure can't break the rules for him.

And as my fingers remain tight around my phone, I can't help but wonder what he's doing right here. Right now.

His brow furrows as the corners of his mouth curve down. "Bree?" He taps lightly on the glass again. "Brianna, are you okay?"

Shit .

I sit up straight, then I do the hardest thing I've ever had to do. I roll down the window and smile at Ashton Stone. "I'm fine. I was just…lost in another world."

I try to swallow, but my throat's too dry. What is he doing here? Surely, he's not the one who ? —

"No." I say the word with such force in my head that it actually comes out of my mouth.

Immediately, his eyes darken. "What is it? What's wrong?"

A wave of confusion rushes over me, then I realize that he thinks I was answering his question. "I—no. I meant to say that I'm fine. Nothing's wrong."

As if to prove that all the press about him being a genius is true, he cocks his head and says, "You sure about that? Because I'm not convinced. What can I do?"

"Nothing. It's just a fight with my boyfriend." That's a lie, but I'm hoping he'll not only drop the subject, but that the fact that I have a—very fictional—boyfriend will ensure he doesn't set his sights on me again.

He says nothing. Just makes a low noise like, mmmm.

I wait for him to say goodbye and head into the coffee shop. Instead, he continues to stand there.

I clear my throat, then glance at the clock. I still have time to get home before the deadline to scan the code, but I want a very big window. I can't miss that scan, and the idea of getting the next message in another parking lot doesn't sit well at all.

I aim a perkier fake smile at him. "Listen, it's wild seeing you here, but I really should get going." I shift Maisy into reverse but keep my foot on the brake.

"You sure you're okay?"

"I told you I am," I snap.

He still doesn't move. And my irritation level climbs as he keeps standing with his hand on the door so that I can't raise the window without coming off as a total freak. There's something dark in his demeanor. Something that makes me shiver. It's not fear, though. Not that tight, cloying coldness I'd felt watching the video.

Instead, it's a quiet wariness. The worry that, despite my better judgment, I might give in and succumb to whatever he asks. After all, that's happened before.

Or, at least, it almost happened.

I feel my cheeks heat, and I cut my eyes away to focus my hands, now clenched on the steering wheel as if it's a life preserver.

"I was hoping we could go inside," he says. "Talk over a couple of coffees."

I'm tempted to do that very thing. To sit close together at a table in the back and tell him everything I just saw. To beg him to help me.

Because I know that he would do exactly that.

Instead, I hold up my cup. "I've already got one."

"Then we're halfway there. Join me inside. Or invite me into your car and we can hit the drive-through." He flashes a little half-smile that's sexy as hell… and makes me wish I could teleport out of there. "I figured we could commiserate. We're both walking into the lion's den tomorrow. It's going to seem like old times."

The lion he's referring to must be Maggie Bridge, a reporter who had interviewed us both about four months ago as part of a feature on Damien Stark. As far as I'm concerned, Maggie is the spawn of Satan. "She's doing an interview with you, too?"

He nods. "Apparently she's fascinated with the INX-20."

"Well, who wouldn't be?" I force a smile, pretending I know what he's talking about. Since this is Ash, I assume he's referring to a race car or an engine or something else related to really fast cars. But since I need him to be gone, I don't ask for clarification. For that matter, I don't say anything at all.

My silence doesn't seem to bother him in the least. He just flashes his trademark half-smile. The one that's slow and sexy and full of temptation. "Maggie mentioned she was interviewing us back-to-back, and I figured it would be easier if we endure her questions together."

"Together?" It takes me a moment to process, then I sit up straighter. "Wait, what? She's interviewing us at the same time?"

His brows rise. "I thought it was one of my more brilliant ideas. Don't tell me you were looking forward to facing Maggie alone?"

God no. But I'm also not sure I want to face you, either.

I don't have the nerve to say that aloud. Instead, I say, "But what do the INX-whatever and fantasy romance have to do with each other?"

He grins and holds my eyes a second too long before saying, "Not a damn thing. Guess Maggie'll have her work cut out for her."

I manage to hold back a laugh, surprised to realize that despite whatever horrible prank some asshat is pulling on me, I'm enjoying this strange back-and-forth. "You're an idiot, Ashton Stone. You know that, right?"

The insult doesn't faze him at all. "Most people have an entirely different assessment."

"Then most people are idiots, too. She's not going to alternate questions about my book with questions about your latest automotive innovation. She's going to talk about you personally. And she's going to pump me to talk about Nikki and Damien and about…"

I trail off with a shudder, then shake my head. He knows about the kidnapping. And he must know I have no desire to open up to Maggie Bridge about it.

"We'll keep her in line," he says.

"How?"

"Trust me."

I roll my eyes.

He chuckles. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Don't kid yourself. There are no parameters where that woman is concerned."

"There will be," he assures me with so much confidence that I'm glad he's hijacking the interview, even though I always sound like a tongue-tied fool when I'm around him.

"I thought you and I could stay behind after the interview," he adds. "Have a coffee. Catch up."

My insides go cold, because I know perfectly well that catch up really means finally hear why you ghosted me when everything seemed to be going so well.

To be honest, I'd pretty much decided that he'd let that go. It's been months since I bailed on him at the airport Hilton, and while it's true that he hasn't been around much, when we have crossed paths, he hasn't cornered me for an explanation.

Apparently, times are changing.

That, however, is the least of my problems.

"Bree?"

Once again, I tighten my hands around the steering wheel, but manage to tilt my head so I'm looking right at him. "It's a moot point," I say. "This whole conversation. I won't be at the interview tomorrow. I have to cancel."

"Do you?"

I smile, all sunshine and innocence. "One of those last-minute conflicts."

"Lucky you." His eyes linger on mine a second too long. "But too bad for me."

I shrug, making a mental note to call and leave a message about canceling as soon I get to the house. Because even without adding Ash to the mix, after today's unexpected dose of hell, there is no way I'm sitting down with that viper again.

I look pointedly to where his hands are still on my open window frame. "I need to get going."

"I still think we should grab a coffee. After all, you owe me."

I stiffen. "Owe you?" There's an edge to my voice. If he's talking about the hotel….

"Leaving me to face that woman alone? Yeah. I mean, I thought we were friends."

My entire body relaxes. Apparently, he's not going to press me about standing him up. Not now, anyway.

"It's a huge debt," he continues, "but I'd be willing to negotiate down to one coffee and half an hour."

The tiny smile that touches my lips feels pretty good, and that's almost enough to make me agree. Because right then I want to be with someone who can make me laugh. Who can make me forget the nightmare I've tumbled into.

Except I can't forget it.

Not ever.

And I sure as hell can't tell Ashton Stone—Anne's uncle—anything about what's going on.

"Bree?"

"I really have to go." I don't quite meet his eyes. "I'm meeting someone." Since Aria's probably home by now, that's technically not a lie.

He studies my face with an intensity that makes me fear he can read my thoughts. Then his expression seems to clear, and he lifts one shoulder. "Right. Well, Okay."

He looks so dejected, I almost change my mind. It's not an expression I expect on the face of a guy like Ash. He—like his father—is a certified Master of the Universe. The kind of guy who knows what he wants, goes after it, and succeeds. The kind of guy who always comes out on top.

Always.

Except with me.

I sit up a little straighter. Suddenly, I'm not so worried about his dejected expression. Maybe it makes me small, but considering all the shit that's happened to me in the last hour, I'm feeling pretty good about having the upper hand.

His brow furrows as he studies my face. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"What the hell?" I snap, done in by the gentleness of his voice. "I don't want to have coffee with you, and that must mean my world is off kilter? I'm in a hurry. Just like I told you. I don't owe you a dissertation on my life."

I don't mean to, but as I speak, I meet his eyes.

And that's when I realize what it is, this unexpected sensation that is coursing through me, firing my senses, igniting that fight or flight response.

It's not confusion or fear or irritation, though I wish it were.

Instead, it's anticipation. And, so help me, it's desire.