Taken, Page 4

  A sharply indrawn breath filled the air. Then . . . silence.

  “Don’t call this damn number again, you got it?” Asher barked.

  The line went dead.

  Bailey licked her lips. “It’s just a kid . . .” But had it sounded like a kid’s voice? The words had been whispered, so Bailey couldn’t be sure.

  The Death Angel had always whispered.

  Shit, no. She would not go there.

  “The call came just moments after you turned on the lights here.” His voice had gone low. Harsh. Deadly.

  And he’d pulled out his phone, too. As she watched him, Asher called someone, she had no idea who, and barely a second later he said, “Wade? Yeah, man, it’s Asher. I need a number and a phone tracked down right away.” Then he rattled off the number that had just called her.

  He was . . . tracing it? “It’s some kid,” Bailey whispered. That was what Deputy Wyatt Bliss had told her about the calls. Bad pranks. She was safe now. Some kid was messing with her, nothing more.

  Asher glanced up at her. His gaze appeared furious. “The call came way too soon after you got back here and turned on the lights. I don’t believe in coincidences like that.”

  If it wasn’t a coincidence then . . .

  Her phone started to ring again.

  “The asshole is calling again,” Asher snarled into his phone. “Trace the call, now, Wade. Triangulate the signal, get those techs to do whatever the hell they have to do—find that phone.” He put his phone down but kept hers. He answered it by saying, “Asshole, you don’t take a hint well, do you?” His finger tapped on the screen, turning on the speakerphone option once more.

  “She should be dead . . .”

  Asher’s expression altered. In a flash, it seemed as if a stranger were standing before her. A cold, deadly stranger. “Why don’t you walk up to the door, you son of a bitch,” Asher invited, “and tell that shit to my face?”

  Laughter. “A new lover? Come to play?”

  Bailey backed up a step. That didn’t sound like a kid, did it?

  “I’m coming for you,” Asher said softly. “This shit is stopping.”

  “Let’s see you try.”

  And, once more, the line went dead.

  But Asher just picked up his phone again. “You got the location?”

  Bailey wasn’t breathing. It was just a prank call. Just a prank. She got those, all the time. She got—

  Asher lunged for her front door.

  Okay, yes, that must mean he’d gotten the location from that Wade person. She ran after him. Asher jumped down the old wooden porch and he began running down the middle of the street. It was a dark street—her neighbors had long since gone to bed and no one else was out. Just her and Asher.

  She hurried after him. He was in the road.

  And . . .

  Near the corner of her street, bright lights suddenly flashed on. Car lights. Lights that blinded her for a moment. She staggered to a stop, but Asher didn’t. He kept running right for the vehicle.

  Only that car was now going straight for him, too. The tires squealed as that vehicle shot forward, heading in a path straight for him—and her. “Asher!” Bailey screamed as she ran to get out of the road. “Move!”

  And he did—with seconds to spare, he leapt out of the road and the car barreled past him. The scent of burning rubber filled Bailey’s nose because that car—

  It’s turning toward me. She was on the sidewalk, but the car was careening toward her. Aiming for her. For an instant, the street lamp glinted off the hood ornament—a horse. Mustang. She staggered back, and the front bumper missed her by inches. Freaking inches.

  She could feel the heat from the vehicle on her skin.

  “Bailey!”

  The car lurched and shot back down the road, its tires still squealing and its red taillights flashing.

  “Bailey!” Asher grabbed her arms. “Are you all right?”

  “He was outside,” she whispered. “Right outside my house.”

  “Yeah, Wade triangulated the asshole’s signal.” His hold tightened on her. “I knew he had to be close . . . he waited to call until you were home. He waited for you.”

  Outside.

  She just stared up at him. “That wasn’t some kid, prank calling.”

  “Hell, no.” He glared down the road. The car had vanished. “That was some sick asshole that I am going to find.”

  What if she’d come home alone? “We should call the sheriff’s office.” Right away. They needed to call and give the deputies a description of the car. Get them to put out an APB and find that jerk.

  Outside. She hadn’t been safe. Someone had been right outside of her home, waiting for her. Someone who’d said that she should have died.

  Why did they take you out of that hole?

  Dear God, the nightmare would never, ever end.

  “We will take care of this situation,” the deputy said, nodding as he stood in Bailey’s doorway. “I’ve got an APB out now. You can rest assured we’ll find the troublemaker.”

  “Troublemaker?” Asher snapped because no damn way had the guy just said that shit. “You’re looking for a criminal. An asshole who called, and threatened Bailey, and then tried to run us both down.”

  The deputy—a guy who appeared close to Asher’s own age—narrowed his brown eyes. “How do you know the perp called her?” His blond hair was cut in a short military style.

  “Because I got the phone signal triangulated. That’s the reason I ran out after the guy. I realized he was right outside, watching Bailey.” Asher’s gaze cut to the right, where Bailey sat huddled on her couch. “That woman has been through hell, and she doesn’t need to be jerked around by some new bastard.”

  “No,” the deputy said softly, his eyes narrowing. “She doesn’t.” His head tilted as he studied Asher. “How about you take a walk outside with me?”

  How about you do your damn job? But Asher gave a grim nod and followed the fellow onto the porch. He glanced back at Bailey, but she didn’t seem to even notice they were stepping out.

  The deputy—Deputy Wyatt Bliss—pulled the door shut behind him. “What are you to Bailey?”

  “What?”

  “I got your name.” Wyatt made a show of looking down at his little notebook.

  Yeah, you got my name because I gave it to you when I called to report that freak who was outside.

  “Asher Young,” Wyatt said. “But you’re not a local, and I’ve never seen you with Bailey until this night. The same night that some—according to you—asshole appears and tries to run you both down.”

  Asher fisted his hands. “She’s my client. I work for an organization called LOST. We—”

  Wyatt’s chin jerked up. “I’ve heard of LOST.”

  Yes, well, their group gained more and more attention with every solved case. The fact that in addition to solving cold cases they had helped to bring down serial killers? That had sure played well in the media.

  “What I don’t get,” Wyatt continued, “is why Bailey would need you. I found her.”

  I found her. Had the deputy been aware of that possessive tone that he just took?

  “She was in that hole,” Wyatt continued darkly, “curled up into a ball. My light hit her, I got her out.”

  Definitely possessive. Was there something going on between the deputy and Bailey that Asher needed to know about?

  “So why the hell . . .” Wyatt continued, “would she need you?”

  The street was quiet. Another deputy had been there earlier, but Wyatt had sent him out, hopefully, to find the troublemaking asshole. He wanted more than trouble.

  “She needs me,” Asher said, aware that his voice had gone tight and hard, “because Bailey said there was another victim out there.”

  Even before Asher finished the sentence, Wyatt was already shaking his head.

  “Bailey said the victim was a dark-haired woman who was also held by the Death Angel.” With an effort, he kept his voice f
lat. “Bailey wants me to help find her. She wants LOST to find that victim.”

  Wyatt kept shaking his head. That shit is annoying me.

  “You are wasting your time,” Wyatt said. “There was no other woman.” Frustration flashed on his face. “Don’t you think I looked? I mean, hell, do you really believe I’d leave some poor woman out in the mountains? I looked. My whole team searched. Deputies from three counties searched! She wasn’t there. There was no trace of her . . . because Bailey just made her up.”

  Bailey’s front door opened and she stood there, the light from the house spilling down behind her. Making her look almost like an angel.

  One who had fallen hard to hell.

  She was dead silent, and Asher knew she had overheard the deputy’s words.

  Wyatt swore. “Bailey, you should go back inside. Obviously, tonight has strained you. We’ll find the—”

  “Troublemaker?” Asher supplied grimly. His hands had clenched into fists. Bailey was hurting because of that guy’s words, and her pain pissed him off.

  Women shouldn’t hurt. Women shouldn’t fear. He tended to overreact where women were concerned. He knew it, a fucking by-product of his own screwed-to-hell past. But there was no changing who he was.

  What he was.

  I’m trying to do the right thing at LOST. I can be more than just a trained killer.

  Wyatt edged closer to Bailey. “Maybe it was just a reporter.”

  “Uh, yeah. In my experience,” Asher said, “reporters don’t usually threaten victims and then try to run people off the road. Not trying to tell you how to do your job or anything . . .” Yeah, actually, he was. “But you need to find that bastard and lock him up.” Before I find him for you.

  “The reporters keep hounding Bailey,” Wyatt snapped back. “I had to drag two off her property just last week. Always snapping pictures, demanding interviews. Freaking predators.”

  Bailey hadn’t mentioned that reporters had been hounding her that badly. Asher’s brows lowered.

  “Lock your doors,” Wyatt said, his voice softer as his fingers brushed down Bailey’s arm.

  Asher’s narrowed gaze noted that touch.

  “If anything happens to scare you, just remember, I’m only a few minutes away. Call me, and I’ll come right over.”

  Bailey didn’t look overly reassured, and, in that moment, Asher made a swift decision. “Don’t worry, Deputy,” he told him, voice still tight because the deputy was pissing him off. Go out there. Find the damn perp! Stop touching Bailey. “Part of the whole LOST service includes protection while I’m on the case.” He paused. “I’ll be staying with Bailey.”

  He had to give Bailey credit. Her expression didn’t change and she didn’t so much as flinch at that little bombshell. In fact, some of the tension seemed to leave her delicate shoulders.

  “You . . . are?” Wyatt asked, his voice a bit strangled.

  “Damn straight.” He smiled. “So do call and update us when you catch that perp, will you? I’d sure like to have a little one-on-one chat with him.” Asher would like ten minutes alone with him so he could teach the asshole some much-needed life lessons, but . . .

  Wyatt’s jaw hardened. “I’ll be sure to keep you both updated on the case.” He gave a tight nod to Bailey. “And I’ll still be close.” His voice softened a bit as he told her that.

  Then the deputy turned and headed down her steps.

  “I didn’t make her up.” Bailey’s voice was low, but firm.

  Wyatt froze on the second step.

  “I know you think I did. I know the shrink thinks I did, but you’re wrong. You weren’t there. I was. I heard her screams. I. Saw. Her.”

  Wyatt glanced back at her.

  Asher didn’t say a word.

  “Asher believes me. He’s the first person in a long time who does.”

  Take that, Deputy.

  “And we are going to find her. Because I am sick of hearing her screams every time that I close my eyes.”

  “Bailey . . .” Wyatt began.

  Asher stepped between them. “Do keep us updated, Deputy,” he told him briskly. “And we’ll do the same for you.”

  Wyatt looked as if he wanted to say something else, but Asher figured enough had already been spoken. The guy’s careless words had hurt Bailey, and that shit wasn’t going to happen again. Asher kept his body between them, his legs braced apart, his hands loose at his sides, and after a tense moment, the deputy headed back to his patrol car.

  Silence reigned on that porch until Wyatt drove away. Then . . .

  “Since when are you staying here?”

  Ah, it figured that would be the first thing she asked. Asher faced her. “If you want me to leave, say the word.” Her call. Always. “But after what happened tonight, I would just feel better being close to you.”

  “And I’d feel better not being alone.” She’d wrapped her arms around her waist again. He’d noticed that she did that—when she was afraid. Most people did it. A way of comforting themselves.

  I can comfort her.

  Shit. He needed to get a grip. Pronto. He knew how to be professional, despite the way he was reacting to her.

  There was just something about her . . . something that made him want. Made him need.

  Desire. Yes—hell, yes.

  He needed to tread very carefully with her.

  “So why don’t you come back inside?” Bailey murmured. “You can use the guest room.”

  “I’ll just get my bag.” He headed to his motorcycle, grabbed his belongings from the saddlebags there, and followed Bailey back into the house. He watched her as she carefully set the alarm, and Asher noted the faint tremble in her fingertips. “You didn’t tell me that reporters were harassing you.”

  “They’ll stop,” she said, her back to him and her gaze on the alarm panel. “Eventually. The Death Angel just grabbed all the headlines. I mean, when women start vanishing from the mountains and pictures of them . . . with new tattoos are sent to the police . . .”

  That had been the thing about the Death Angel. He’d wanted the cops to know he had victims. So his MO had been very distinct. He’d take a victim, then . . . mark her.

  He’d tattoo small, black wings onto her shoulder.

  That was where the name Death Angel had come from. Some reporter—it was always the reporters—had taken one look at the wings and thought of an angel. But because the wings were black and the women were dying . . .

  Death Angel.

  “That’s another reason why no one believes me.” Now she did turn toward him. “My picture was the last one sent to the authorities. Me, with the tattoo on my shoulder. The woman I saw—the dark-haired woman who screamed—no one ever got a picture of her. So Wyatt said that was further proof that she was never taken.”

  “Or maybe the Death Angel just didn’t have a chance to mark her.” Made sense to him.

  Bailey nodded. “That’s . . . that’s what I thought, too. Or if he had marked her, he just hadn’t sent the photo out yet.”

  There were questions he wanted to ask her—plenty damn more—but she looked so tired. Everything else he needed to say could wait until the morning.

  Bailey slid by him and went into the guest room. The top of her head barely came to his chin. Her scent swept out to him.

  Asher swallowed.

  Then she was pulling back the covers on the guest bed. Turning on the lamp there. Plumping up the pillows—

  He dropped his bag near the door and caught her hands. “Stop. You don’t need to do anything else for me.”

  Her eyes were so wide and so green. He’d seen that color of green once before, during a brief stay in Ireland. The grass had been that color—a brilliant green that was nearly unreal. “You’re helping me,” Bailey said. “I want to—”

  “You don’t need to fix a bed for me.” And her just being that close to him and a bed . . . Hell. Control. Get it. Use it. Asher looked down at her hands. Her sleeves had fallen back and his finger
s were just above her wrists.

  Her scarred wrists.

  Bailey gave a quick gasp and tried to pull her hands free of his. Asher tightened his hold on her.

  “Stop. Let go—”

  At that whisper of stop, he immediately freed her.

  Bailey jerked down those sleeves, hiding her scars once more.

  “Not from a knife.” The scars had been too jagged to come from a knife’s sharp blade. “The ropes?” he guessed. The scars were wide, and they looked as if the cuts had gone deep.

  “Y-yes.”

  “You kept twisting your wrists against the rope until you got free.” Asher nodded, seeing it all too clearly in his mind. Her blood would have actually made it easier for her to escape. The blood would have made the bindings slippery.

  “They were too tight.” Her words were hollow. “I twisted and twisted but couldn’t get free . . . not until I found the nail sticking up in the floor. I sawed the ropes with it until they broke.”

  And now she hid her scars. Like they were something she should be ashamed of. Wrong. “You’re a fighter. You shouldn’t hide the scars. They just show how strong you are.”

  Her head sagged forward. Her hair slid down, covering her face. “People see the scars and they whisper about them. I hate it when people talk about me.”

  Yeah, he hated asshole people, too. His hand lifted toward her, and he pushed a lock of her hair behind her ear. She tensed at his touch and her head slowly rose. “Other people can screw off,” he told her bluntly. “What they say and do—that doesn’t matter. The scars you carry show how strong you are. They show that you are a fighter. You didn’t let him win. You’re alive. You made it.”

  Her gaze searched his.

  “You don’t need to hide those scars from me. You don’t need to hide anything from me.”

  He heard the slight catch of her breath. And he realized that he was caressing her cheek. Dammit. She is a client, and I am about to cross a fucking line. Asher forced himself to step back. “Thanks for the use of the guest room.”

  She hurried for the door. Then stopped, hesitating. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  So am I, sweetheart. But . . . “Bailey.”

  Her head turned toward him.