Page 31 of Capture Me (Capture Me)

The owner of this paradise is going to torture and kill me.

My empty stomach clenches. I don’t want to give in to the fear, but I can’t help the dread that spreads through me as the car—a black SUV—stops in front of the plane.

The driver’s door opens, and a tall, broad-shouldered man steps out, the sun glinting off his short, light-colored hair.

I stop breathing, my eyes glued to his hard features.

Lucas Kent.

He’s alive.

His pale eyes lock on mine, and the world around me recedes, blurring out of focus. I forget all about my hunger and discomfort, about the cuffs restraining me and my fear of the future.

All I’m cognizant of is the stark, irrational joy that Lucas is alive.

He starts walking toward me, and I force myself to breathe again. He’s even bigger than I remembered, his shoulders wide and thick with muscle. Dressed in a sleeveless camo shirt and ripped jeans, with an assault rifle slung across his torso, he looks exactly like what he is: a ruthless mercenary working for a crime lord.

“I’ll handle it from here, Diego,” he says, approaching me, and I begin to shake as he reaches for me, his gaze sliding away from mine. Diego hands me over without a word, and my shaking intensifies as I feel Lucas’s hands on me again, his touch burning me even through the rough material of my prison jumpsuit.

Stepping back, he turns and begins carrying me to the car, holding me flush against his chest. He evidences no disgust at my unwashed state, and a shudder ripples through me as I feel the heat of his body seeping into me, melting some of the residual chill inside. I should be terrified, but instead I feel that awareness again—that irrational attraction I’ve only experienced with him. At the same time, a pressure gathers behind my temples, and my eyes prickle, as though I’m about to cry.

Alive. He’s alive.

It doesn’t seem real. None of this seems real. My reality is a gray, smelly cell in a Russian prison. It’s Igor’s greasy hands and Buschekov’s mirrored interrogation room. It’s hunger, thirst, and longing—longing for the life I lost when my parents’ car slid on black ice, for the brother I only saw in pictures, and for the man I’d known just one day.

For the man I thought I’d killed—the one holding me right now.

Could all of this be a dream? A fantasy concocted in my exhausted, sleep-deprived mind? Could I even now be passed out at the interrogation table, with that screeching alarm about to jerk me back to consciousness?

Lucas’s face blurs in front of my eyes, and I realize Iamcrying, fat, ugly tears welling up and spilling down my cheeks. Embarrassed, I automatically try to wipe them away, but my hands, still cuffed to my ankles, can’t reach that far. The motion ends up being jerky and awkward, and I see Lucas’s face turn to stone as he glances down at me.

“You fucking bitch,” he says so softly that I can barely hear him. “You think you can manipulate me with your tears?” His grip on me tightens, turning hard and punishing as he stops in front of the SUV and glares down at me, as if waiting for a response. When I don’t give him one, his features harden further. “You’re going to pay for what you did,” he promises, his voice filled with quiet fury. “You’re going to pay for everything.”

And with that, he jerks open the car door and throws me onto the back seat. As my back hits the cushioned leather, I know that I was wrong.

This is not a dream.

It’s a nightmare.

The ride takes onlya few minutes. Lucas drives silently, not saying anything else to me, and I use the time to compose myself. Strangely, thinking of his threat helps me control my tears, my stunned joy turning into cold fear as I process the fact that Lucas Kent is alive—and that he will indeed be the one to make me pay.

Does that mean the plane crash happened after all? If so, how did he and Esguerra survive? I want to ask Lucas that, but I can’t bring myself to break the silence, not when I feel his rage pulsing in the air like a malevolent force waiting to be unleashed. He took off his weapon, setting it on the front seat next to him, but that doesn’t lessen the threat emanating from him.

He can kill me with his bare hands if he’s so inclined.

As the car leaves the heavily wooded area, I see a big white house in the distance. It’s surrounded by manicured green lawns that form a contrast to the untamed jungle behind us. Farther back, I see guard towers spaced a few dozen meters apart. The sight doesn’t surprise me; Esguerra’s file said that his Colombian estate is heavily fortified despite its remote location on the edge of the Amazon rainforest.

We don’t go to the big house; instead, we turn and drive along the jungle to a cluster of smaller houses and boxy, one-story buildings. It must be where the guards and others on the Esguerra compound live, I realize as I see armed men—and an occasional woman—going in and out of the dwellings.

The car stops in front of one of the individual houses, the one with a front porch, and Lucas exits, leaving the gun in the car. He slams the door behind him, and I flinch, trying not to give in to the anxiety choking me from within. The fear is thick and bitter in my throat. It’s worse somehow that it’s Lucas who’ll do those terrible things to me, that he’ll be the one to rip out my fingernails or cut me open piece by piece.

It’s worse because there were times in that Moscow prison when I used to imagine I was with him, when I fantasized that he was holding me and I was safe in his strong embrace.

Lucas walks around the car and opens the back door. Reaching in, he grabs me and drags me out, still not saying a word as he lifts me against his chest and slams the door closed with his foot. His hold on me is again harsh and punishing, and I know it’s only the start.

My fantasies are about to shatter under the weight of reality.

He carries me up the porch stairs, walking as easily as if I weigh nothing. His strength is tremendous, only there’s no safety in it. Not for me, at least. Maybe for some woman in the future, someone he’ll care about and want to protect.

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