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Joaquin?” She couldn’t resist taunting him a little.
He did a double take, then frowned. “So Thorpe told you my name? Fine.”
After jerking something from his pocket, he flipped open a little leather case to reveal a badge of sorts and an ID that stated his name was Joaquin Muñoz and he worked for the NSA. Bailey stared. Even though he could have forged it, the document looked pretty official. Maybe it shouldn’t have, but seeing his credentials made her believe that he probably wasn’t a completely crazed weirdo—just mostly.
She glanced again at him. Manly. A little exotic. Interesting. And there she went into stupid-ass territory again.
“You get enough to eat?” He gestured toward her half-empty tray.
Bailey nodded, glad to have a reason to look anywhere but at him. “I don’t know where Thorpe got the food, but it was good.”
“He told me he was the master of takeout.” Joaquin grinned.
She smiled in return, then caught herself. Wiping the expression off her face, she crossed her arms over her chest. “I need to call Blane and tell him I won’t be home tonight. He’ll be worried.”
“Thorpe told me you two talked about this. I agree with him. You disappearing will throw this killer off guard. Maybe he’ll slip up. Maybe he’ll act out. I need to find some way to figure out who’s responsible and be able to prove it. Blane will be safer if he knows nothing.”
Before she could respond, the phone in his pocket buzzed. He pulled it free and read. For a moment, Bailey considered grabbing it from his hand and calling 911, but he’d take it from her before she could get the call out. He’d even dismantled the lock on the bathroom door—she’d checked—so she couldn’t hope to outrun him there and keep emergency dispatchers on the phone long enough to trace the signal.
Holding in a sigh, she decided to wait for a better opportunity. At least he didn’t seem menacing anymore. In fact, he almost looked . . . friendly. Because Thorpe had duped her into trusting them? Bailey didn’t want to be stupid, but what if someone really was after her? What if she truly was safer here?
Suddenly, Joaquin cursed, a low, ugly growl. Then he stared at the ceiling as if grasping for patience. When he looked her way again, his expression had gone bleak.
“What is it?” The words slipped out. She shouldn’t be concerned about him, but he looked genuinely upset. It simply wasn’t in her nature to stand back and watch people suffer.
“Remember the missing girl in Oklahoma I told you about?” When she nodded, Joaquin shoved his phone under her face. “Here she is.”
Bailey stole a quick glance, then looked away. The photo was every bit as stomach-turning as the last one he’d shown her—maybe more. The woman wasn’t a brunette this time, but a blonde. She’d bled more before she died. Her face looked permanently contorted in pain.
Everything about the sight made Bailey’s stomach recoil and fear zip through her. Maybe she’d been too trusting? How did she really know Joaquin was telling the truth about the who, where, and when or this victim?
“Is there a news item about this murder? Anything to read?”
He sent her a crafty stare as if he saw right through her question, then gave her a decisive nod. “I’m sure there is. I’ll find it. Because then you’ll know that I was here with you and couldn’t possibly have committed this murder.”
Bailey wanted proof and waited while he flipped through his phone until he came to a local news station from Oklahoma City. The grisly discovery was front page news.
She scanned the story. The coroner estimated the time of death somewhere between nine and eleven that morning. If authorities could have found this girl just a bit sooner . . . But given the picture Joaquin had shown her, this killer had been working his personal brand of gross on her for hours.
Since Bailey wasn’t sure if she was still in Houston or elsewhere, she couldn’t state absolutely that Joaquin hadn’t driven to Oklahoma City, committed this crime, then come back to her. On the other hand, even if he had moved her somewhere near the scene of the crime, he would still have had to come back here, clean up, have a conversation with Thorpe, and appear in front of her looking perfectly calm. It seemed unlikely. She also didn’t buy that Joaquin would abduct her, bring her somewhere pretty swanky, feed and promise to protect her if all he intended to do was slice and dice her.
“It’s terrible,” she murmured.
“I didn’t do this.” His tone looked every bit as adamant as his expression.
“Trust me. I’d prefer to believe you.”
“There’s no way I could have killed this girl by even nine a.m., driven the three hours from Norman to Dallas, showered, and appeared here beside you before noon. It’s not physically possible.”
“So we’re in Dallas?” She latched onto the little fact with hope. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
“Yeah.”
“How do I know that’s not just a story to make me trust you?”
“Are you kidding?”
Was he? “I didn’t know you yesterday at this time, and the first time we met, it’s because you abducted me. And I’m supposed to simply trust you? Really?”
“I don’t know whether to applaud or paddle you.”
“Paddle?” She shot him an incredulous stare. “Like I’m a bad little girl and you’re going to put me in my place?”
The whole time she spoke, he punched something into his phone. Into the silence afterward, he didn’t say a word. Finally, he lifted his head. “No, like you’re a stubborn woman who I wish would see reason, and if softening up your ass would do that . . .” He shrugged. “It would be my pleasure.”
Bailey blushed. The idea of him spanking her made her both furious and a bit shivery, which was strange. Then again, everything right now was.
“Not happening.”
He gave her a smug smile that said they’d see what happened, before he held his phone under her gaze again. “Here.”
She looked down at his screen. It was an app that located an iPhone. He’d used it to trace his own. The map showed them smack in the middle of Dallas.
“Do you believe me now?”
Bailey didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. He confronted her, confounded her. He’d taken her, threatened her. And yet . . . everything he said about the murders, their location—it all seemed to be true. It could be a hoax, yes. At this point, it would be a really elaborate one. Why would anyone bother?
But that didn’t mean he was right about everything. She wasn’t a dead Russian scientist’s daughter.
“If you didn’t come here to show me a picture of another body, why did you come?”
“To check on you. To bring you those clothes Thorpe promised.” He stalked across the room and retrieved the bag he’d brought when he first entered, then he thrust it into her hands. “To see if you needed any goddamn comfort.”
Bailey took the bag and peeked inside. Clothes, just like he’d claimed. The frustration in his tone made her feel a little guilty, which was probably stupid. But if he was right and someone else might mistake her for Tatiana Aslanov and kill her, then he’d risked his ass to help her. She bit her lip.
“Thanks,” she muttered.
“Go see if that fits. If not, I’ll find something else.”
Would he try to attack her while she was in the bathroom changing or was she just sounding paranoid? If he hadn’t violated her while she’d been tied up and passed out, why would he try to assault her now?
“Sure.”
With a last glance over her shoulder at him, she peered up into his craggy face. God, he really was so masculine. She’d never been one of those girls who got off on having a guy who was a lot bigger than her. She’d always wrinkled her nose at bodybuilder types. Sure, she didn’t mind tilting her head back a bit to kiss a guy, but . . . She shook her head. So she was thinking of kissing Joaquin now? After she’d just worried he might attack her? Where the hell was her h
ead?
She sighed and eased into the bathroom, shutting the door even though it no longer locked. She tore into the sack. A new pair of panties with the tags on them. They were a little big, but not bad. Same with the jeans. The bra, however, was a joke. Thorpe’s girlfriend had clearly been more gifted in the boob department than she was. If she wore it, that bit of lace would only bunch under the T-shirt he’d included. She shoved the pretty white undergarment back in the sack and donned the blue cotton shirt. Like everything else, it was a little big, but hey, it would conceal the fact she wasn’t wearing a bra.
Shoving her nightshirt in the sack as well, she opened the door and found Joaquin waiting. His stare fell on her, intent, evaluating. Heat transformed his green eyes and sucked her in. Their gazes locked. Under the too-big shirt, she felt her nipples bead.
She swallowed. “Everything fits well enough.”
No way was she going to tell him about the bra.
Slowly, he nodded, scanning her body. “Your feet cold? You need socks?”
If he was a murderous freak, would he care? “Please.”
“I’ll hunt you up some.” He inched closer, as if he feared spooking her. Then he stretched out his hand. “Come sit with me. Can we talk about what’s going on again? I’ll bark less.”
Bailey really didn’t want to. But if this truly was happening to her, it looked serious. And the only way she would be able to leave Joaquin’s captivity was to listen and do her best to cooperate.
Sucking in a breath, she hesitated, then put her hand in his. Electricity pinged up her arm. She wouldn’t have thought it possible, but he focused even more intently on her. Her heart stuttered. The connection was surprisingly intense. Her head spun as he led her to the bed.
When he wrapped his hands around her waist and lifted her to the mattress, she stiffened.
Before she could protest, he turned away to grab the chair from the desk and drag it in front of her. He plopped down and hoisted one foot on the bed frame, his big legs spread. “Tell me about the rest of your dream. Where does it start for you?”
She jerked her stare away from the faded denim between his thighs. “Always the same. I look down and find that my pink shirt is red for some weird reason. I know I need to leave the house. I’m not sure why but I’m convinced that I must be quiet. There’s something all over the walls. Paint . . . or blood. I don’t know. Anyway, I walk into the hall and head toward the door at the end, but the red stuff is around my feet, and I almost slip on it. It’s warm. Then when I reach the door, I realize it’s all over my hands. I start to panic. The wind blows the door open, then I’m outside.” She shrugged. “You know the rest.”
“You don’t see anyone else?”
“No.”
“Dead or alive?”
“No,” she reiterated.
He crossed his arms over his chest, stared at her for an unnerving moment, then rose and left the room. Bailey stared at the closed door with a frown. What had she said or done? Was he coming back?
Why was the thought that he might not upsetting?
Before she could puzzle that out, he returned with the folder of photos he’d brought earlier. He rifled through it until he came to one. Instead of simply sitting and handing it to her, Joaquin approached with caution. With care.
“I want you to look at this and tell me if anyone in this photo looks familiar to you.”
“If it will help . . .” She nodded.
Joaquin turned the photo in her direction and put it in her hands. When she looked down at the family, her immediate response felt like a punch to the gut. She couldn’t breathe. Felt faint. “Who are these people?”
As soon as the words left her mouth, she recognized Viktor Aslanov. The slight woman beside him with the graceful hands must be his wife. Bailey felt as if she’d seen that face before. On the news, maybe? Three children surrounded them. The oldest, a boy with dark hair. He looked about six. Beside him, a little girl with light brown hair smiled, flashing a row of straight baby teeth. In front sat a toddler who looked maybe two. She had a shock of platinum hair and something in common with her father—bright blue eyes.
“Are you trying to tell me you think the youngest one is me?” she asked Joaquin, surprised to find that her voice shook.
“Yeah. This picture was taken about three years before the Aslanovs died. A family member in Russia provided it to authorities shortly after the murders. The little one there . . . The shape of the eyes is the same as yours.”
True. Bailey wanted to argue that the hair color wasn’t the same, but hers had been much lighter in the pictures her parents had taken of her as a young girl. It had become progressively darker between about seven and puberty. She chewed on her lip.
“Does the toddler look familiar? Did your parents have any pictures of you at that age?”
“No. Our house burned down when I was—”
“Five?” he asked with a knowing stare.
She opened her mouth to answer, then slowly closed it as she exhaled. “Yeah.”
“Convenient, don’t you think? All your baby pictures were mysteriously lost? They didn’t ever send your snapshots to grandparents, aunts, uncles—anyone who could send copies back?”
“My mother said that she was estranged from her family, so she considered herself an orphan. My father was an only child whose own parents had passed away before I was born.”
“Not saying it’s impossible, just asking you to entertain the idea that they might not have been completely honest.” He stood and leaned over the photo, then pointed to Aslanov’s wife. “You look a lot like her.”
She’d noticed that and hadn’t wanted to even think it.
“Same build. Same hair color. Same lush mouth.”
Joaquin had noticed her mouth? Bailey’s gaze bounced up from the picture to his face. The hot stare was back. She licked her lips, and he followed her motion. He didn’t move or change expression, but she sensed his every muscle tightening. Suddenly, she had a hard time breathing.
God, she couldn’t be attracted to him, not after he’d taken her from her home without her consent. Not when her life was so up in the air. Not when she didn’t know for sure who she was.
Bailey jerked her stare back down to the woman. “What do you know about her?”
“Not much. I did some asking around this morning and got a few answers. Aleksandra Aslanov had been a ballerina for the Bolshoi before the fall of the USSR. She was lovely and lauded. She met Viktor after a performance. He was smitten. He came from an influential family, and she’d barely danced her way out of poverty. They married quickly. Based on timing, I’d say she was pregnant.
“Around the time the USSR collapsed, Aleksandra gave birth to a son and they left the country. In the vacuum of power, Viktor had no more funding, and he knew there was more money in the West. At first, the U.S. resisted letting him in because of his controversial theories and experiments. He eventually convinced the U.S. government that he’d only conducted his radical experiments at Soviet edict. Of course, everyone discovered later that wasn’t true, but by then, he and his small family had moved to that farm in rural Indiana—not too many people asked questions out in the middle of nowhere—and they’d added two more children to their family.”
“So . . . he went to work for Callindra Howe’s father, trying to cure cancer. Aslanov stumbled onto something that later got him killed. At least that’s what they said on the news.” She frowned. “But why?”
“There are gaps in the story, yes. That’s another reason I’m here. Thorpe, whom you met earlier, knows others who have more information. I just haven’t seen these people yet.”
Bailey frowned. Maybe Joaquin was simply stalling or full of crap. Maybe he was trying to lull her into a false sense of security.
Heaven forbid if he was telling the truth.
Panic crept through her system. She couldn’t imagine a scenario in which everything she’d known had bee
n a lie, everyone she’d loved had really begun as a stranger.
Gathering her knees up to her chest, she wrapped her arms around them and resisted the urge to rock. “I can’t help you.”
Joaquin stood and leaned over her, dropping a big, dark hand on her shoulder. “Tatiana?”
She sent him an angry glare, shaking her head. Tears filled her eyes, stinging like acid. “That’s not my name.”
He stroked her arm softly, and in a distant corner of her
