If only

Chapter Twenty-Three

Settled at the table in Gabi’s kitchen, Sally tapped her fingers on her laptop. Side by side on another chair, Gabi’s two black cats watched her. Hamlet and Horatio. One sleek; one fluffy. The house was quiet since Master Marcus and Gabi had left to attend a karate tournament to cheer for some teenagers.

Sally had wanted to stay and do some thinking. Late last night, she’d had a long talk with Gabi and Marcus. They’d been wonderfully understanding.

And she’d reached a few decisions.

She’d been wrong to blame herself for what happened with her and the Feds. If she hadn’t been so ready to believe she was a selfish person—thanks, Father—she’d have demanded an explanation from them.

So, once this was all settled, she’d take Gabi’s advice and see about some counseling. The men had brought her a long way, but taking the next step—getting herself some help—was up to her.

And, dammit, she’d been wrong to blame the overprotective—gutless—men she loved. They were trying to keep her safe, and who knew, maybe she’d make the same decision if she were in their shoes.

Really, there was only one person to blame for messing up her relationship with her Doms. That arsonist.

He’d killed Tillman, the police, and that poor woman. His brother had shot Vance. The anger from that fed into her determination. She’d been content to promise to give up hacking since it seemed as if she’d done what she could. That the Association would be destroyed quickly enough.

She’d been almost right. But there was one left, and he was the reason she hadn’t woken up this morning snuggled between two muscular male bodies.

Since the bastard had ripped apart her relationship with the Feds, she thought it was perfectly logical that he’d also severed any promises she’d made to the Feds.

Logic is an excellent weapon when employed correctly.

She opened her laptop. Ever since she’d handed over her files to Galen and Vance, her hacking software had been calling her—Sally, Sally, Sally.

And now…she answered the summons. Mouth set in a straight line, she logged on.

In New York, Galen, being careful—might even call him a bit paranoid—had monitored as she deleted her computer worm program and Association files. And he’d even demanded she turn over the flash drives. She smirked as her fingers ran over the keyboard.

Wasn’t it a shame that he’d missed seeing the tiny tray icon denoting a continuous online backup? And that he hadn’t realized the e-mails came from an online mail program and weren’t deleted?

“I never cheated. Never checked the software or e-mails,” she told the cats virtuously. “I was a good girl.”

She looked around the room. Even checked under the table. “Well, hell, guys. I don’t see any good girls here today. Do you?”

Hamlet offered a tail flick of agreement.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.” She clicked onto the Internet and smiled as her files opened up like a cannon barrage. Target my Galen, will you?

Fuck that. If war was what the arsonist wanted, war was what he’d get.

Seated in front of his computer, Vance was drinking coffee, typing up a report, and trying to ignore how empty the house felt without Sally. The morning had passed with the speed of cold molasses.

Too antsy to sit, Galen had spent the last few hours working on the dungeon in the cabana before returning to the office and covering the center table with his weapons.

A timer went off with a quiet beep-beep-beep.

Vance glanced over his shoulder. “What’s that for?”

Galen frowned. His rifle and three automatic handguns were dismantled and scattered over the table on opened newspapers, ready for cleaning. It was his ritual as he prepared for action.

On the far side of the table, Glock supervised from a safe distance.

Everyone reacted to impending danger in different ways. Galen liked to clean his weapons; Vance lifted weights.

“The timer is for the backsplash in the cabana. The grout is set; it’s ready to be buffed and caulked.” Galen wiped his hands on a paper towel. “I’ll get that done and be back to finish up.” His brief smile didn’t get to his eyes. “Don’t let anyone burn the place down until I get my weapons reassembled.”

“Do my best.” Vance took a drink of his coffee. “Though I’d rather be in New York, taking that bastard down.”

Late last night, Drew Somerfeld’s credit card had popped onto the FBI radar. Apparently Ellis had booked himself onto a flight to Florida this afternoon. He’d probably lifted his brother’s ID and cards from the safe. Since he and Drew were twins, he’d pass well enough as his brother.

But the asshole would never make that flight. NYPD planned to nail his ass the minute he tried to check in. Only another half hour to wait.

If he wasn’t just playing them.

Didn’t matter. With two cops dead and Galen a target, the brass in Tampa wanted him and Galen to stay put. To keep them safe, sure, but also to serve as bait if needed. The only two ways to reach their property—the lakeshore drive and the lake itself—were being guarded.

Actually Vance had absolutely no problem with their caution.

“Not long to wait,” Galen said, glancing at the clock. “If he doesn’t get on that flight, then…hell.”

“The bastard’s definitely crazy as bug shit. It’d suck if he’s also smart.”

“True.” Galen scowled, moving his shoulders. “Maybe that’s why it feels wrong to be unarmed. Think I’ll finish up here first and—”

“Leave that shit on the tiles too long, and you’ll never get it off.”

“Fine. Be a good guard dog till I get back.” With a grunt of annoyance, Galen strode out of the office.

A couple of minutes later, Vance’s cell rang. “You got a beat-up red Toyota Camry coming in.” The call came from a special agent stationed half a mile away, watching the turnoff to the lakeshore drive. Pretty convenient that he and Galen lived on an isolated lake with only one access road. “Got a pretty brunette at the wheel. Looks like the one whose picture’s on your desk.”

“Got it. Thanks.” Sally was coming.

Damn, but he wanted to see her. Only, please God, don’t let her cry. Hell, he’d handled everything so poorly; she’d misinterpreted everything he’d said.

He’d hurt her.

Fuck. The knowledge ate at his gut. He’d tried to call her last night. Galen had as well. And texted her. No response. They’d left voice mails.

For God’s sake, Dan was supposed to have explained everything before he took her home with him. When they’d finally reached him this morning, they’d found that Sally had gone home with Marcus.

So she didn’t know…

But he knew the imp. Knew her strength. And intelligence. Even without Dan or Galen or Vance’s explanations, Sally would figure out what was going on. She’d either hack out the info or weasel it out of someone. By now, she’d know why they’d sent her away.

He’d thought she would call.

He should have known better. Being Sally, she’d want to yell at them in person. Fuck, he loved her.

His smile grew. Even though he’d still have to send her away for her own safety, anticipation hummed through his body. After he apologized his ass off—and maybe swatted her ass for risking her neck by coming here—he could have her sweet body in his arms for a few minutes. Listen to her bright voice, her laughter…or, more likely, her shouting.

Just don’t let her cry, please.

He walked out the front door and glanced around. Impenetrable growth lay on each side of their property—Florida’s version of a chain-link fence—which would take a machete and flamethrower to get through.

Her car pulled into the drive. And just in case Somerfeld had gotten to her, was hiding in her car, Vance had drawn his weapon.

But she slid out, slammed the door, and scowled at him with an expression that was easy to read. Her chin was up, her shoulders squared. She certainly wasn’t a terrified kidnapped victim.

She was prepared for battle. Damn, she made him proud. She’d argue, undoubtedly, that the chances of her being targeted were slim to none. That all the deaths had happened in New York. That she belonged with them.

But no. He holstered his weapon and stood where he was. Waiting.

As she walked toward him, her control slipped, and he grinned when she broke into a run.

She slammed into him and hugged him, holding him so tightly she shook with the effort.

Unable to help himself, he pulled her closer. Breathing in her clean, sweet scent was like unexpectedly finding almond cookies. So fucking sweet. “Shhh, sweetheart,” he murmured. “We’ll work this out somehow.”

“You told me to move out.” Her words were muffled by being said into his chest. “I’m really mad at you.” Her arms didn’t loosen in the least.

Don’t laugh. “I know.”

“I figured out why, but did you have to be so mean about it?”

Hell, exactly what they’d realized, far too late. “I should have explained.” He rubbed his chin on her silky hair. “Trouble is, we’d just seen the pictures of the other cops who were killed. And you called, and while you were on the phone, I saw photos of the woman he murdered. It was an ugly death, Sally.”

“Kari told me.”

“After seeing those, all we could think about was keeping you safe. If the bastard comes after Galen for revenge, we want you far, far away.”

The last bit of tension slid out of her body, and she leaned against him fully, all soft curves. “I don’t think sending me away is the right answer.”

And because of her spiteful father, sending her away would affect her more than most women. He frowned. What if the asshole didn’t get caught in the next hour? If this dragged on and on. “Maybe we can find a way to compromise.” Maybe all of them at a safe house? Maybe they could move. Or work from home. Or never leave Sally alone so she always had one guard. Teach her to shoot. Get a big dog—Raoul had found an excellent shepherd for his Kim, one from a company that specialized in protecting women. Move to Mexico. He huffed a laugh. Yes, he was losing his mind. She needed to leave. “Let me talk to Galen about it.”

“Not going to happen.”

“Sally, he won’t let you stay long enough to argue.”

She snorted. “Because he knows I’ll win an argument. If he’s in danger, this is where I want to be. I can help you stand guard. Three’s better than two, after all.”

Galen versus Sally. I should sell tickets. But he wouldn’t let her stay either. “We’ll figure something out. I’ll talk with—”

“Vance, I-I need to see him. If nothing else, to know he’s okay.” She tipped her head back to smile up at him. Her brown eyes had light golden flecks that sparkled in the sunlight. Stubborn and mischievous, a terrifying combination. “But I’m glad I saw you first. I needed to know you were all right too.”

That nurturing streak of hers was even stronger than he’d thought. Couldn’t say he didn’t prize that trait. In fact, he wanted, more and more, to give her a little one to mother.

He bent his head, taking himself another kiss. Her lips were sweet, soft, generous. Given the choice, he’d have hauled her straight up to his bed. “You sure you don’t want me to pave the way?”

“No.” When she straightened her shoulders, her full breasts strained against the bright red halter top she wore.

His mouth went dry. “Brought all your weapons to war, did you?”

“I’m a firm believer in outgunning a man—and kicking him once he’s down.” She fluffed her hair.

Although she grinned at him, he could still see lingering hurt in her big brown eyes, and he squeezed her shoulder. “I love you, Sally.”

She leaned against him for a moment. “Love you too—even if you are an idiot.”

He wanted to defend her, to at least accompany her back and take the brunt of Galen’s anger. But sometimes two people had to battle it out, and stepping between them would only get the peacemaker slaughtered by both. “He’s working in the cabana.”

VANCE STILL LOVES me. Sally followed Vance through the house, out the back, and across the patio. There he stopped, looking out toward the lake. In a boat just offshore, two men in a motorboat were fishing. He lifted his hand to them in a short wave before turning back to Sally. “Good luck, sweetie.”

After a final kiss, he gave her a slight push and remained where he was. Probably going to make sure she made it to the cabana before retreating out of hearing distance of the battle to come.

Smart guy. And actually, she was glad. When she and Galen argued, Vance tended to intervene, which wasn’t good if tempers got hot. She’d never forget the men’s fistfight…and all the bruises.

At least, no matter how angry Galen got, he’d never physically fight with a woman. And he’d said once that he never administered punishments when he was angry. Her ass was safe for the moment—because she intended to piss him the heck off.

Veering to the right, she headed down the overgrown path to the hidden cabana.

As she stepped inside, she spotted Galen in the kitchen area, buffing newly placed tiles.

He saw her. For an instant, his eyes lightened with pleasure, and everything in her surged up with joy.

A second later, his carved face turned deadly cold. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Feeling as if she’d walked into an ice storm, she looked away as she regathered her courage. A new bondage table sat across the room. Pretty, all dark wood and leather padding. It was the one she’d seen in the catalog. Her jaw set at the thought of them using her equipment with other women. Never.

And Mr. Grumpy Pants wasn’t going to intimidate her. She set her hands on her hips. “Hiding out?” she asked, her tone frigid enough to match her insides.

He didn’t even blink. “You were told not to come here. I want you gone. Now.”

Don’t you just wish, buddy. “I came to talk with you.”

“No.” He moved toward her, and she had no doubt he’d grab her by the hair to haul her off to her car.

“Damn you,” she said, not exactly under her breath, and edged behind the bench. “If you won’t talk, you can listen.” You beloved asshole. “This is my home now. You and Vance insisted. Brought all my stuff here. Moved me in. And now, just because there’s danger, you kick me out.”

His fingers tightened on the buffing cloth as he stalked around the bench. “Because you could be killed.”

“You didn’t even have the courtesy to talk with me about it. Just—get out, Sally.” Her voice wavered as she remembered the hurt.

Under the thin white T-shirt, Galen’s powerful shoulders were rigid. His angular jaw was tight. “Vance wasn’t gentle with you, Sally, and I’m sorry for that.”

She had a moment of hope. “That’s all right, but—”

“Now that I’ve apologized, get your ass back to Gabi’s house.”

“No.” Hey, if he could use one-word sentences, so could she. Just to drive home the point, she added, “I live here. I’m going to my room.”

Even as she turned, his brows drew together into a straight black line.

She got two steps out the door before being yanked back into the cabana. “You will go back to Gabi’s.” His hands tightened on her shoulders, and he gave her a shake. “It’s not safe for you here.”

“It’s not safe for you either, Mr. Hotshot FBI Agent.” She realized her voice had risen. “I’m not going anywhere unless you do too.”

“This is my job.”

“No, dumb-ass, this is where you live!” From the startled look on his face, she must have shouted that. She waved her hand at the room. “Does this look like a downtown office? No, it does not.”

A muscle danced in his cheek, and his grip on her shoulders turned painful. “Sally, Somerfeld’s brother wants revenge. He’s killed two cops—and their families with them. He—”

“I know that, Galen. Six people total if you count the woman from the cabin.” She pursed her lips. “Actually, I think he did all the arson jobs. Even though the Association was countrywide, all the arson deaths were concentrated in the northeast area. If you look at the map I made, you’ll—”

“What map?”

“Oh, please, do you really think I can’t access any information I want?”

“Hell, I forgot who I was talking to.” His hands eased slightly. “Then you know—”

“I know he’s never left the northeast. He’s brilliant but crazier than a hoot owl. I know it’s still not one hundred percent safe.” She curled her fingers around his wrist. “I also know I love you. This is where I belong.”

“Fuck!” He stalked away from her and punched the wall.

Seriously? She thought that only happened in movies. He’d actually put a hole in the wall she’d spent so much time painting.

He punched another hole and turned. “I will not have another woman die because of me. Because of what I do.”

His anger threatened to flatten her like dry cornstalks in a gale wind. Her back hit the door.

“You will get your ass out of here, and you will stay away.”

“Forever?” she whispered. When grief darkened his eyes, she realized this mess had awakened his nightmares…and the idiot planned to push her all the way out of his life. “But you love me.”

“That. Is. Irrelevant.”

“That is not irrelevant.” She stomped forward, kicked his toolbox out of her way, and punched him in the chest with all her might. Took satisfaction in the grunt—though ow! Had she broken her thumb? “You’re just scared.”

He bit back an automatic denial—such a guy—and nodded. “I am. I couldn’t stand to see you hurt.”

“Instead you’ll rip my heart right out of my chest?” She punched him again and sucked in air against the flash of pain.

He grabbed her wrist and hauled her closer. “At least you’ll be alive.”

“If I’m alive, I want to live. I can’t live inside a cocoon, Galen.” She glared up into his eyes. “Do you think you’re the only person who worries about a lover dying? Who had someone they love die? Because of something they did?”

Shock spread over his face as he realized she was talking about her mother. “Sally…”

“You can stay inside your cocoon, all wrapped up tight until you shrivel down to nothing.” She opened her palm. “But I want to spread my wings—and love. You worked with me to be sure guilt didn’t rule my life. You need to help yourself now.”

His jaw stayed tight.

“I love you so much, you dumb-ass.” She took the last step—and, thanks to him, the words came easily. Yes, she could ask. “Let me stay. Please.”

“God fucking dammit,” he said under his breath and pulled her into his arms.

And it felt as if she’d come home.

After a minute, he said, “But would you just—”

“No.”

“Maybe for only—”

“No.”

“Vance and I spank submissives who say no to us,” he muttered.

“Okay.” Because in order to spank her, she had to be right there, within reach. And that was exactly where she intended to stay.

He pulled her up and kissed her neck before shaking his head. “I love you, but not even you can plant yourself in the middle of an FBI case. You’ll get us fired, pet.”

Oh. She hadn’t thought of that one. “Maybe getting you fired would be a good thing.” Jeez, maybe it was.

“I’d rather it be my decision, thanks,” he said in a dry voice. “So, we’ll talk for a bit. But if NYPD hasn’t picked up Somerfeld in the next hour, you’re going back to safety.”

She eyed him. No, he wouldn’t give way on this, but the unreasonableness was gone. He wasn’t operating out of old fears, but logic. And she could live with that. “It’s a deal.”

FROM THE BACK door, Vance listened. He and Galen had installed excellent soundproofing in the cabana—he’d barely been able to hear the yelling.

And now nothing.

Hopefully, they were fucking up a storm. Makeup sex. He grinned as he started to harden. With luck they’d get a call in a minute or two that New York had Somerfeld in custody. If so, a victory fuck would be in order.

If NYPD didn’t call, the imp’s time would be up. He’d have to drag Sally out and stuff her in her car.

Meantime—he snorted—he was guard dog.

His cell chimed, reminding him to make the scheduled check-in call. Vance hit the number for the office. “Still alive. How are the guys doing out by the turnoff?”

“They’re just fine, Vance.” Hazel was around seventy and undoubtedly had won Mother of the Year when her children were young. “How is your back?”

“All healed. I’m going stir-crazy, being shut in.”

She sniffed, unimpressed, as if he’d whined about a snow day. “You just settle down. And tell that boy to be careful as well.”

Choking on a laugh, he assured her that he’d tell the boy. If Galen heard that… Then again, his partner adored the old woman. Fuck knew, she acted more like a mother than Galen’s real one.

A few minutes later, his cell rang. The stakeout team reported an elderly woman had taken the lakeshore drive. One of the neighbors.

To stave off the urge to go to Galen and Sally, he went out the front. They hadn’t checked the mail earlier. After pulling on a coat to cover his shoulder holster, he walked onto the front porch. Nothing. Couldn’t even see the neighbor’s houses through the dense surrounding growth. No cars. No people. All quiet.

He glanced at his watch. Somerfeld, do your airport check-in. I want this over.

His skin felt as if the air was filled with sand. Nerves.

It was a nice day; he should make an effort to enjoy it. As he ambled to the mailbox at the end of their U-shaped drive, he watched the brilliantly white puffy clouds float across the sky. No thunderclouds…yet. Chances were good they’d appear later in the day. The summer rainstorms had started up.

As he unlocked the metal mailbox, he grinned at the memory of Sally’s insults about paranoid Feds. He pulled out a nice haul of letters and flyers.

A car appeared, slowly moving down the road. The gray-haired driver gave him a wide smile. It was his nearest neighbor, Mrs. Childress.

He stepped over to the car and glanced in the backseat—just in case. “Ma’am, how are you today?”

“I’m fine, dear. I was going to call you later. How nice to see you in person. We’re having a small barbecue next week on Saturday. I hope you and Galen and Sally will come.” The elderly couple had met Sally when she was on the lake, fishing with Galen. Like everyone else, they’d fallen for the imp.

“We’d be delighted.” Somerfeld had damn well better be safely behind bars by then.

“Wonderful. Around four.” With a sweet smile, the old lady put her car in gear and continued down the road.

Vance strolled back to the house. Before he’d opened the front door more than a crack, Glock darted out onto the porch.

“Have a good day, buddy.” Must be pretty urgent feline business. Flipping through the junk mail, Vance stepped inside…and the world fell in on him.

Why was he lying on his side on the floor? Vance wondered. Hangover? Hell, his head felt like an overinflated balloon, ready to pop.

His jaw clenched as memories trickled back in a slow returning tide. Mailbox. Cat. Letter. Nothing. Something was really wrong.

His heart sped up, increasing the throbbing inside his skull. Swallowing, he fought nausea silently. Blocked his urge to call for help. Didn’t move, didn’t groan, didn’t touch his head. With his eyes opened only a slit, he tried to assess, even while cursing the slowness of his brain. His thoughts moved hopelessly slow, like bubbles fighting to rise through a thick swamp.

He recognized the game room flooring. God knew, he’d spent enough time putting it in.

He listened, hearing nothing except the painful roaring in his head.

Fingers felt numb. Ah, fuck, his wrists were cuffed behind him.

Dread burst inside him at the sight of the heavy iron shackles on his ankles. Shackles. The chain connecting the shackles was looped around a two-by-four—part of the built-out bar Galen was constructing in a corner of the room.

The ugly realization worked through the murk in Vance’s head. Jesus fuck, he’d screwed up.

Somerfeld wasn’t in New York; he was here. But how the fuck had he gotten past the stakeout teams?

Please, don’t fucking let Sally or Galen walk in unknowingly.

Footsteps. In his narrow field of vision, he spotted the legs entering the room. A five-gallon container of gasoline was set down. The bastard was consistent, wasn’t he?

Vance felt his stomach clench. Burning was dead last on his list of ways to die.

The man made another trip out and back into the room. After Somerfeld ran upstairs, Vance kicked the two-by-four holding him. And again. And again. The fucking chain kept him from exerting much force.

And Jesus, his head might split before the post did. Half-blind from the pain, he halted when he heard footsteps coming downstairs.

Somerfeld dropped bedding in a corner of the room and went back upstairs.

Kick. Kick. Kick.

This time, Somerfeld came down with a full laundry hamper. After tossing the clothing into another corner, he walked into the hall leading to the office.

Once Somerfeld disappeared, Vance slammed his foot into the post again. This time he felt a slight give in the screws holding the post in place. Or maybe it was his knee fracturing.

Footsteps. Humming to himself, Somerfeld set a can of paint thinner on the floor and tossed crumpled paper against the walls. He was rigging enough flammables to ensure the building would burn completely. Wonderful.

The legs approached. Vance closed his eyes.

Pain burst in his low back; the bastard had kicked him.

“Wake up, asshole, or I’ll put a bullet in your leg.” The voice was raspy with a New York accent.

Not worth pretending. Vance groaned and blinked—and got backhanded across the face.

His head exploded with pain again, and lights danced in front of his eyes. Bad treatment if he had a concussion.

Hell, he probably wouldn’t live long enough to be diagnosed.

Meeting Somerfeld’s eyes set off the crazy bastard like Vance had lit a firecracker. “Fucking Fed. I should just—” A pistol barrel jammed against Vance’s cheekbone. “No. No, I want to hear you scream. And burn. Drew would want me to burn everything. Leave nothing behind.”

Somerfeld stepped back, and Vance released the breath he’d been holding. Looked like he’d live another minute or two. As his vision cleared, Vance stared at the arsonist. What the hell?

A long blonde wig curled over the man’s shoulders and down his back. He had on a frilly, long-sleeved top—something Sally might wear over her swimming suit. Nothing else was feminine.

His facial structure was like his twin’s, but thick white scarring ribboned down his face like a waterfall. One eyelid was shriveled, the lower part drooping.

“How’d you get in here?” Vance slowly sat up.

“Sailboat.”

But they’d had two agents fishing not far from the dock.

The scars twisted the bastard’s smile. “Your watchdogs let us come right up to their boat. All they saw was a pretty brunette in a bikini sailing with her pregnant blonde friend.” After patting his ruffle-covered gut, he pulled the wig off, revealing a shaved skull.

“Too slow to catch on.” Somerfeld mimicked shooting with his finger—one, two—and blew the smoke from the imaginary barrel.

Two women? One had been Somerfeld. “You have someone else here?”

Somerfeld jerked his thumb toward the corner behind Vance.

Gagged and hog-tied, a young woman lay on her side almost on a flammable pile. Her blank gaze showed she’d gone past terror into resignation. She knew she’d die today.

“Kouros is at work?” Somerfeld asked.

The bastard had been all over the house…but he probably hadn’t seen the isolated cabana. “Yeah.”

“Give me his phone number.”

Vance hesitated. Should he? Think, Buchanan. But his thoughts turned helpless circles as if lost in a forest.

Somerfeld turned the pistol toward the girl. “Wanna see her kneecapped?” A sickening hunger showed in his face.

“No.” God, no. But someone was going to die. Let it be me, not Galen. Not Sally. Could he manage to shout a warning or— “It’s 555-8023.”

“Good. When he answers, you tell him I’m here.” Somerfeld tossed the phone in the air and caught it. “Oh yeah, indeedy yeah.”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Galen cursed as his cell phone rang. Sally was in his lap. Her halter top was down around her waist, and he’d cupped a plump breast in his hand. All was right with his world and about to get better. Poor Vance, having to stay on guard.

Sally nipped his chin. “You better answer that.”

“Ayuh.” Shifting her over to sit beside him, he pulled his phone from his pocket and checked the display. The house phone? Maybe Vance had heard from the office. “You do realize I’m busy here,” he said into the phone as he ran his knuckles over the prettiest nipples in the world.

Sally made a hungry sound.

“Galen, I can’t join you at the field office. I’m still at home. I got jumped by Somerfeld. ” It was Vance’s voice. Thin and tight with pain and warning. “He has me shackled to the game-room bar, pistol to my head—when he isn’t pouring gasoline around the walls. Got his slave here too. Hog-tied.”

Christ. “Vance—”

He heard his partner give a low, painful grunt.

“God fucking dammit.” Galen stood, anchoring the phone to his ear. “Vance.”

“You killed my twin, asshole.” The grating whine of the unfamiliar voice sounded like a tile saw. “So I’m gonna kill your partner. I’m going to burn him.”

Galen took two steps toward the door and stopped. Don’t charge your ass into the kill zone. Need more information. “You’re at my house?”

Somerfeld’s voice had been controlled…barely. Now his laugh went over the edge into insanity.

Close enough to hear, Sally turned white.

“Buchanan’s got oh, about five more minutes before I leave and toss a match behind me. Yeah, by the time you get here, your good buddy will be black and crisp. And dead.”

The phone went silent.

Galen’s mind went blank as fear rushed through him, permeating every cell. God, Vance. No. And then his brain kicked in.

Sally had pulled her own phone out and tapped 91. Holding it up, she waited for his nod before punching in the final 1. A second later, she was talking fast. “I need the fire department and the police. An FBI agent is being held hostage by an arsonist.”

She had a good head in a crisis, Galen noted as he carefully cracked the door of the cabana. He heard her give Vance’s name and the house address as he checked outside. He saw only the thick growth of lakeshore plants.

Vance had provided the essential facts. One crazy man. Armed. In the game room. Two hostages. Vance wouldn’t be of any help. Gasoline. And less than five minutes? He punched in the number for the ones on the lake.

No answer. His jaw tightened over the grief. He’d known those men.

The lakeshore road took time to drive. The agents on the road stakeout wouldn’t make it in five minutes.

Think, Kouros.

Somerfeld thought Galen was at the field office in Tampa.

“No, sorry, but I can’t remain on the phone,” Sally said to the emergency dispatcher and swiped the display to hang up her cell. “What now?”

“My weapons are in the office. Can’t get to them—can’t cross the dining room without being spotted. Windows are locked. Vance can’t help.” Galen rubbed his face, thinking bitterly of the handcuffs in his pocket. Wishing for anything else. Pepper spray even. “Give Somerfeld time to react, and he’ll light the place up. I need a diversion.”

“Well, that’s me.” Her fingers fumbled as she retied her halter top.

“No.”

“We don’t have a choice.” She ran to the cupboard, pulled out her collar, and buckled it around her neck. “He’s obviously into slaves. He won’t shoot me.”

“Then he’ll have three hostages.”

“It’ll buy us a minute or two—and, um”—she gave him a half-guilty look—“I messed with the wiring. If I can flip on the switch in the game room, I can make it sound as if someone is trapped upstairs. Another woman.”

He stared. A software prankster. Yes, she could do that. And he couldn’t let her. “No.”

“Galen, yes,” she whispered.

She made sense. By God, she made sense, and Galen wanted to shake her for it. He wanted to shove her in a safe room somewhere, lock the door, and let her out once it was all over.

But look at her. Facing him. Arms folded over her chest. Willing to die. He loved her more than life, and the thought of seeing her die… “I can’t.” Memories of Ursula. Beaten to death. With each beat of his heart, more ice spread into his bloodstream. “I can’t risk you.”

Her stubborn little chin lowered as sympathy filled her eyes. “I’m not your wife.” She hugged him, intending comfort, but he could feel her shivering. “If I go in, there’s a chance. If I don’t, Vance and that woman will die.”

“You might die.” He lifted her chin and saw both terror and resolve combined. She knew. She was willing to take the chance.

“God didn’t promise us safety. Just a chance to live. To love.” She put her palm on his cheek and whispered in his ear, “You know better than to bind someone too tightly. Loosen the restraints, Sir.”

His mouth tasted of bitterness and sorrow, of ash and doom. To lose both Sally and Vance was his own version of hell. But she had the right to decide. He forced out the words. “All right.”

She pulled in a breath and gave him a firm nod, despite the way her fingers trembled against his face.

For himself, he took a quick kiss, her lips as sweet as anything he’d ever tasted. “If you die on me, I swear—” He couldn’t think of anything nasty enough.

“I won’t.” She kissed the side of his jaw. “And if you get hurt, Sir, I’m going to kick your ass.” As she slid out the door, Sally mouthed, I love you, one second before she ran up the dirt path toward the house.

He closed his eyes for a moment, praying he’d see her again so he could give the words back. Praying the brother of his heart would survive.

Then he called the stakeout on the road. “Somerfeld is here. Hostage situation. Place is set to burn.” Without waiting for an answer, he set his phone to silent, leaving the connection open. If they arrived in time, they’d have an idea of what was going down.

After grabbing a hammer from the toolbox, Galen followed Sally up the path.

Don’t look scared. Look lover-like. Happy.

As Sally stepped through the back door, she tried to call out.

Voice didn’t work. Slow breath.

She saw Galen run across the patio and step to one side of the door. Out of sight. Didn’t it just figure that he wouldn’t have his weapon? What kind of an FBI agent did his carpentry unarmed?

Slow breath. She cleared her throat and reminded herself to smile. I’m a happy, horny girl. “Oh Vaaance. Are you home, sweetheart?” She walked across the kitchen, unable to hear anything but the pounding of her heart. It took an eternity to get to the dining room.

Would Somerfeld just shoot her? Her insides cringed as if trying to flee the impact of a bullet. No. We’re going to save Vance. “Hoooney, I want to do a scene. You promised to spank me for being bad, Master.”

She walked into the game room and saw Vance.

Arms restrained behind his back, he sat, one shoulder propping him up against the wall. His ankles were fastened to a post with heavy iron cuffs. Blood ran down the side of his face, and his eyes were glassy.

“Vance.” Where was Somerfeld?

At a sound, she spun. He was right behind her.

The man slapped her across the face, knocking her backward. Pain exploded in her cheek. Tears filled her eyes and blurred her vision as she stared at him. Dear God.

His skull was shaved. One eye was bigger than the other because of the scars running past it and down that side of his face to distort his mouth. The girlie swimsuit cover-up he wore was bizarrely wrong.

As the pistol pointed at her, he smiled. His muddy hazel eyes lingered on her breasts, making her skin crawl. “I didn’t hear a car. Where’d you come from, slut?”

Her face still burned with pain. She swallowed. “The lake. In a canoe.”

He grunted his acceptance of her answer. “Sit over there.” And motioned with his pistol toward Vance.

She ran across the room toward her Dom…and toward the light switch. Can’t kneel—need to stay on my feet. Need to be mobile. Get to the door. “Oh, look at you, Master.” As she spun and glared at Somerfeld, she edged two steps toward the door to the foyer. “What did you do to him? Who are you anyway?”

The scarring—and insanity—twisted his smile to something horrible. “I’m the man who’s going to listen to you burn, slut. To your flesh crisping and your screams.”

The ghastly rush of fear turned her body cold. No. Move. She backed up farther toward the door. “But why? I don’t even know you!” Another step. Almost there.

He motioned with the black barrel of his pistol, and her mouth went dry. He’d shoot her. “Get over there,” he said.

“No. I don’t want to.” All her years of defiance served her well, and the words came out without her forcing them.

Even as he aimed the pistol at her, she backed into the wall. The light switches poked her shoulder, and she nudged the far one up. “Okay, okay, I’m moving.” She hurried back toward Vance.

“Too late.” He turned the pistol and shot Vance.

Moving through the kitchen, Galen heard the gunshot followed by Sally’s high scream, “Noooooo!”

Vance. He’d shot Vance. Galen’s throat tightened as he stopped just inside the dining room door. He’d have to cross that area to reach the game room. Do the diversion, Sally. Do it.

All he could hear was sobbing…and the splashing sound of gasoline.

Fuck.

He’d give her one minute and charge, no matter what.

A second later, he realized the cursing he heard was from Vance. The son of a bitch was alive.

His vision blurred for a second.

“Jesus, fuck.” Vance gritted the words out over the searing pain in his thigh. Nice hole in the outside muscle. Bleeding like a river but not spurting. Hadn’t hit an artery or even the bone. Hurt like hell.

Beside him, Sally dropped like a rag doll, her knees impacting the hardwood floor with a nasty thump.

Vance twisted to try to help. Couldn’t.

Somerfeld’s laughter sounded like the rough whine of a chainsaw. Out of control and revoltingly gleeful as he watched Vance bleed. He grinned at Sally. “See what you made me do, slut?”

“Wake up, Mommy.” The imp’s whisper held no reason, no knowledge as she rocked back and forth on her knees, arms limp at her sides. Her gaze had fixed on the blood creeping across the floor, dark red against the light wood. “Mommy. Wake up. Wake up.”

“Crazier’n’ me now. Oh yeah, indeedy yeah.” Somerfeld licked his lips. “Nice tits. Could use a new slut.”

Unable to help himself, Vance growled.

“Like her, huh?” Somerfeld nudged him with a foot. “Tell you what, I’ll play the recording of your screaming when I fuck her.” He rubbed his groin, cock half-erect. “Be sure you’re not forgotten.”

Vance’s gut twisted with his revulsion. No. It wouldn’t happen. He couldn’t let that happen.

Humming again, Somerfeld picked up the half-full can of gasoline. Pistol in one hand, he carelessly splashed the liquid against the walls, splattering everything in the area.

“Sally,” Vance said quietly. His partner must have sent her in here for a reason. If she needed to do something, she’d better be about it, or Galen would end up with a bullet in his gut.

She didn’t even look at him.

Vance lowered his voice to that of command. “Sally.”

BLOOD EVERYWHERE. “WAKE up, Mommy.” Dripping down the windshield, on her face, her clothes. On Mommy. “No no no.” She tried to turn, to get to her mother, but her arm wouldn’t move. She pulled and yanked. Pain tore through her. Nothing moved except the pouring blood. Red, so very red against the snow outside the car. “Mommy.”

“Sally. Look at me.” The steel in the dark male voice sliced through her nightmare and pulled at her. Her body obeyed, not under her control at all. Turned her away from the red, turned her toward the sound.

“That’s a girl. Eyes on me. Now.”

Her head lifted, her gaze met blue fire, and the anger—and love—in Vance’s eyes burned away the past. My Vance. Her skin felt clammy, and cold sweat ran down her face. What…happened?

As the stench of gasoline hit her, she was suddenly, completely in the present. Somerfeld. Burning. Vance had been shot.

He was bleeding. Shocked, she pressed her hands to the horrible wound. He groaned. How long had she been…elsewhere?

God, she was supposed to create the diversion.

“Ready to go. Indeedy yeah.” Somerfeld tossed the container aside.

Get it together, Sally. The receiver for the voice-activated program was very sensitive. She didn’t have to talk loudly. Sally tried to speak. A horrible sound emerged. Get the tone right, girl. A long breath. She turned to Ellis, holding up her hands in a pleading position. “Please, please, please, don’t hurt me. I’m sorry I brought her here.”

The dickwad stared at her. “You talking to me, slut?”

Vance stared at her. “Brought who?” he whispered. His face was pale, jaw tight from pain.

I love you, my Vance. Her hand closed over his. Please, please, please, let this work.

A high scream came from upstairs. “Master, help me. Master.” Another long wail.

“Fuck!” Somerfeld ran up three steps, turned to glare at her, and pointed the pistol at Vance. “You leave, slut, and I’ll shoot his balls off. You’ll hear him scream no matter how far you run.” He dashed up the stairs toward the sound of the woman sobbing.

“Run,” Vance gritted out. “Whoever that is up there, Sally, I want you to run.”

He didn’t recognize the voice? Of course, Gabi had been pretty drunk the night they’d made the recording. “Not leaving without you, dummy.”

“Goddamn it.” He lifted his uninjured leg and kicked the post, grunting at the impact. On his other leg, the jeans were drenched with blood.

She pushed her hands down on the wound, holding it as he slammed his boot into the post, over and over. Hurry, Galen.

Yelling came from upstairs as Somerfeld searched for the illusive woman. Screw you, bastard. She spotted a mallet in the pile of construction tools.

Yes! She grabbed it and hit the post holding Vance as hard as she could. But it made so much—too much—noise.

Hit again.

The post moved.

Before she could swing again, Vance kicked. With a crack, the screws tore loose.

Galen slid into the room with a quick check of Vance and Sally. Alive and alive. Although the amount of blood wasn’t good. A hog-tied woman lay in the corner. Gagged. Alive.

A woman’s crying and screaming sounded on the second floor—was that Gabi?—along with the thud of heavy boots.

Galen moved behind and under the stairs. Crappy hiding place, but the room held no conveniently concealing furniture.

Upstairs, Somerfeld yelled, “You fucking slut. Think you’d trick me? Huh?” From the worry on Sally’s face, the bastard had discovered he’d been searching for a recording.

Boots pounded down the stairs. Once Somerfeld reached the bottom, Galen could jump him from behind.

The man halted most of the way down. “You fucking cunt!”

A trigger clicked. “Hell!” Galen stepped out from the stairs and threw his hammer. The tool struck Somerfeld’s shoulder and knocked him a step sideways. The pistol fired.

Galen grabbed the railing and swung himself up and over, and hit Somerfeld in a half-assed tackle. The bastard lost his balance; Galen never found his.

Tangled together, they rolled down the stairs.

Galen’s back, leg, head banged against the steps with bursts of pain. He landed badly but rolled to hands and knees, Somerfeld beside him, groaning.

Galen tried to stand. His leg gave out. His hip and shoulder hit the floor, knocking the air out of him.

Growling, Somerfeld made a grab for the pistol he’d dropped.

Twisting, Galen kicked the weapon toward Vance and rammed his knee into Somerfeld’s chin. Pain knifed through his leg with the impact.

The bastard spat blood and managed to stand.

GALEN WAS DOWN. Somerfeld up. Vance had yanked the chain free from under the splintered wood post and tried again—and again—to get to his feet. Succeeded.

He tried to run and tripped on the two-foot chain between his shackled ankles. “Jesus, fuck!” Handicapped, he half hopped, half lunged across the room toward the fight.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Sally darting the other way, going for the pistol, which had skidded into a pile of bedding.

“Somerfeld,” Vance yelled.

The bastard didn’t hear him.

Galen was on hands and knees, trying to stand. Somerfeld kicked him in the gut so violently that Galen was flipped sideways, retching and gasping for air.

“You asshole!” Sally pointed the pistol at Somerfeld, the weapon shaking so hard she’d probably shoot Galen.

Somerfeld involuntarily retreated, and into that moment of silence came the wailing of sirens. Approaching the house.

The bastard’s eyes went wide, fearful, then furious. Insane. “Burn it. Burn it all.” He pulled a match from his pocket, flicked it with his thumbnail, and it lit.

Jesus fuck, Vance thought, if Sally shoots him… Gasoline everywhere.

Galen yelled, “Sally, hold!”

But Somerfeld was crazy enough to burn the place with himself in it. No way to win.

Fuck that. Vance dived at the bastard, rammed into him—chest to chest—knocking him back. Glass shattered as they slammed into the bay window—and out.

Somerfeld hit the ground with a grunt of pain.

Vance landed beside him, the impact yanking at his cuffed arms. The pain that ripped through his wounded leg took his breath away. Sent his brain spinning.

He groaned, opened his eyes, and saw fire. His shirt. On fire.

“Fuck!” Unable to use his hands, Vance rolled frantically, smothering the flame in the damp grass.

Panting, hurting everywhere, he rolled back over, trying to sit up. And froze.

Somerfeld’s gasoline-splattered clothing had also ignited. And burst into a conflagration. He shrieked, slapping at the fire before he ran, straight down the drive. Flaming.

“Drop and roll, roll!” Vance shouted, trying to get to his feet. The chain clanked, reminding him he was hobbled. Could never catch the poor bastard in time.

The sirens on the approaching emergency vehicles didn’t drown out the screaming. Somerfeld fell, finally fell, directly in front of the police car, the first vehicle down the lane.

From the following fire engine, firefighters jumped out. They surrounded Somerfeld, spraying him down.

More vehicles. Cops and FBI agents raced toward the house.

A knife of pain ripped through Vance’s leg. Shit! He jerked around. “What the—”

Galen was tying a makeshift bandage around his thigh. “Nice tackle, bro. Still got some skill there.”

As Vance hauled in a breath, he started to shake. Too fucking close. “Nice battle plan given the short notice, bro,” he returned.

Galen switched his attention to unlocking the handcuffs around Vance’s wrists, swearing under his breath at the torn skin.

As Vance pulled his arms around to the front, his shoulder joints hurt almost as much as the returning circulation in his hands. “I’m too fucking old for this,” he muttered, wanting to scream like a little girl. Jesus, he hurt.

“Tell me about it.” Galen turned.

Vance followed his gaze. The paramedics were loading Somerfeld into the ambulance with an IV. He must still be alive.

“Halt!” a cop shouted from the driveway.

What now?

Sally, halfway around the house, skidded to a sudden stop. She lifted her hands and obviously realized she still held the pistol. “Shit! Hey, I’m the good guy. Girl. Whatever,” she yelled. She carefully set the weapon on the sidewalk.

As the cop approached her, one of the FBI agents trotted toward the front door.

“There’s another woman inside,” Vance called. “And be careful. It’s set up to burn.” He nodded approval when a fireman yanked the FBI special agents back and went in first.

Glancing at Galen, Vance asked, “How’d you get here before Sally?”

“Came through the window.”

Vance saw the streaks of blood where shattered glass had ripped clothing and the flesh beneath. If Somerfeld hadn’t gone out the window first, Vance would probably be as ripped up. “You must’ve missed the hole we left.”

“Forgot to aim.”

“Vance!”

He looked up in time to be attacked by a hysterical whirlwind who plastered his face with kisses and “I love you; I love you; I love you” before she spun away to smother Galen with the same.

When she slowed, Galen grabbed her and kissed her hard enough to silence her. Whatever he murmured in her ear made her tear up. Then he handed her back to Vance.

Vance pulled her into his arms. Warm woman filled with love. Risked her life to save him. Kept her head. He ignored the pain in his leg as the paramedics tried to cut away his jeans. He held her, kissed her hair, cupped her chin, and knew exactly what his partner had said.

“I love you, Sally.”