Texas Takedown (7 page)

Dylan was right. She hadn't eaten a proper meal in the past week or had a decent night of sleep. As it was, her left hand could scarcely hold the fork, let alone fight off an attacker. As much as she didn't want to eat or go to bed, a full belly would make her stronger and her head needed to hit that pillow soon.

He rinsed out his bowl and placed it in the dishwasher before returning to her side. She could feel him, even if she closed her eyes, standing next to her because Dylan was just this massive presence, a noticeable energy.

“What's the plan?” She couldn't suppress a yawn.

“Bed.” He peered down at her bowl, removed the fork from her hand and swooped up the dish.

“There must be something else I can do to help.”

He'd already turned his back to her. He didn't turn around. “Sleep.”

“What will you do?”

“The same. I'll be no good to my daughter without grabbing a few hours of shut-eye. You need more than that.” He started moving toward the sink again.

She wanted to protest, to argue that she was just as strong as he was, but it would have been pointless. And although she had every intention of pulling her own weight, she couldn't debate her need for sleep.

How on earth she'd get it, she had no idea. Being alone with Dylan was already doing all kinds of crazy things to her pulse. Adrenaline from the day had long dissipated and she was left with a beating heart in an exhausted body.

“Go brush your teeth. There's an extra toothbrush in the cabinet.”

Under normal circumstances, she'd have been offended by the fact he'd resorted to using as few words as possible with her again. Except he was too much like her older brother Brent in that way. Brent would become laser focused and the little pleasantries went out the window. He'd said he didn't have time to fill his brain with nonsense when there was a serious task at hand. How many times had Brent come to the rescue in those early years after losing their mother? Too many.

She understood that, on some level, this was Dylan's way of coping.

And she couldn't find fault in that.

Before she could develop an argument for staying up, Dylan was at her side, urging her to stand.

“Lean on me,” he said gruffly.

She didn't realize she needed him until she tried to stand on her own. Her knees buckled and his strong arm around her waist kept her from falling flat on her back.

Tired
didn't begin to describe how she felt.

Brushing her teeth was the last thing she remembered doing.

* * *

T
HE
 
HOUSE
 
WAS
 
still as Samantha's eyes flew open. She blinked a few times to gain her bearings. She was on the pullout sofa in a spare bedroom. He'd insisted she take his bed, but it hadn't seemed right to take that away from him. He needed sleep as much as she did, and he had a much better chance of getting it under the sheets he was used to. Besides, she barely even remembered closing her eyes before she was out.

What time was it?

She glanced around for a clock, got up and found one on a side table. Two o'clock in the morning. She'd gotten at least four hours of rest. That was more sleep than she'd had in the past week in its entirety. She'd take whatever she could get at this point. It was the little wins that mattered most right now. Celebrate all the little wins, her big brother would've told her, and that will keep you going even through the toughest of times.

It also sounded like something Dylan would say. And that was pretty much where his similarities with her older brother ended. The two were nothing alike physically. Brent was barely five feet ten inches. He had their father's small frame and their mother's brains. Thinking back, she remembered that her mother had been very bright. She'd also been artistic and had always checked the light in a room to decide where she would paint. She'd never asked for much. She'd carve out a niche in the brightest room she could find and keep a small cabinet with her art supplies there. While her mother might not have taken up much room in life, she'd occupied so much of Samantha's heart. Losing her had been a crushing blow.

She stuffed the thought down deep as she eased down the hallway toward Dylan's room. She'd have to pass his daughter's room to get there, and a coil tightened in her belly with each forward step.

The door decorated with the name Maribel was open, waiting.

As Samantha passed by, something dark and big caught her attention. Her eyes were still adjusting to the darkness, but she could see clearly enough to realize it was Dylan.

There he was, this big hulk of a man who had fallen asleep sitting on the floor of his daughter's room, leaning against the wall, holding on to a stuffed rabbit that was no doubt his daughter's favorite.

His head was slouched forward; he almost looked as if he was crying or praying. If she left him there like that, his neck would hurt in the morning. The least she could do was help him into a more comfortable position.

Samantha tiptoed inside and tried to ease the furry animal out of his hands.

In the next second, she was splayed out on her back and he was spread over top of her with a sharp object to her throat, his weight pressing her into the bamboo floor.

She'd scarcely seen the glimmer of metal before it was against her bare skin.

“Stop. It's me.” She stared into dead eyes, a permanent sneer fixed on his face. Then it occurred to her. He was still asleep. One wrong move and he'd slit her throat before he woke. She kept her body very still. “Dylan. It's Samantha. Wake up. Please.”

He snapped his head from side to side and then focused on her. “Dammit. That's a good way to get yourself killed.”

He shifted his weight onto his right side and his groin pressed against her naked thigh. A volt of electricity trilled through her. She didn't want to feel that certain pull between them that made her remember that he smelled spicy and warm and windswept, and yet she couldn't deny its presence.

The anger and adrenaline coursed through her, igniting the sexual chemistry between them into passion and fire. He dipped his head and stopped when his lips barely touched hers.

Was he waiting for a sign that she wanted this to happen, too?

The knife hit the floor and she could hear it being pushed away, sliding across the bamboo.

“Samantha?” When he spoke, his lips brushed against hers and she could feel his breath, still minty from toothpaste.

“Yes” was all she could manage with him this close, with his body flush with hers and the material of his cargo pants against her thighs. That strong chest she'd been holding on to earlier moved up and down faster now, matching the rapid pace of her pulse.

“I've been thinking a lot about that kiss yesterday.”

A dozen thoughts rushed her mind. She'd been thinking about it, too. More than she knew was good for her. She didn't want to like Dylan as more than a friend. Not now. Maybe never. This was all too complicated.

His soft lips pressed down on hers. Her hands came up and circled around his neck. He tasted so good.

He was propped up on one elbow and his free hand started roaming as he deepened the kiss. He was touching, feeling, connecting, and all she could think was
more
.

And then it dawned on her.

He was searching for comfort. It could have been any woman underneath him right then. The two of them were friends. Period.

She broke the kiss and slid out from underneath him. He didn't immediately move, as though he needed a few seconds to process her actions.

“I was out of line there.”

“No. I wanted it to happen, too. But that's not good for either one of us.” She started to say
right now
but stopped herself. The truth was there might never be a right time for the two of them, and she had no intention of confusing a friendship for something else again.

“You're right.” Those two words stung. Had she been hoping he'd argue?

“Won't happen again.” He pushed up onto his knees, then stood. “You want a glass of water?”

She shook her head, embarrassed. She'd let things between them go too far, and now it would be awkward. Dylan wasn't reaching out to her because he liked her; it was because of the tension he was under. He needed a release. Sex with Dylan would blow her mind, she was sure. But then what?

It would get weird between them, just as it had in college when she'd been a shoulder to cry on for the crush she picked up during Freshman Lit. Jude Evers had been busy working his way through college, a single dad with two young kids. He'd caught his fiancée in bed with his best friend. He and Samantha had bonded over the really crappy espressos at the student union that were like mud in a cup. The two had become friends, then lovers, and she'd put her heart on the line with him. Hadn't that turned out to be a mistake? She'd babysat his kids so he could go to the student union to study, or so she'd thought. Boredom had gotten the best of her after she'd put his kids to bed, so she'd logged on to social media.

There he was, caught on camera kissing another girl from class, no less. He was shirtless, and the reason why was pretty obvious. They'd just made love.

Samantha had never felt so used.

When she'd confronted him that night, he'd said he thought they had an understanding—that the two of them were friends with benefits.

Embarrassment had threatened to consume her. If it hadn't been too late to drop the class, she would have been first in line. Instead, she'd had to sit through ten weeks of analyzing prose with him and the other woman.

The worst part had been saying goodbye to the kids she'd grown to love.

Samantha pushed up off the floor. At least she could try to get a few more hours of sleep. Although with Dylan's bedroom two doors down, she doubted she'd be able to completely relax.

He appeared in the doorway as she took a step toward it, and she gasped. That man could be stealthy when he needed to be.

“Sorry about a few minutes ago,” he said, and his voice was still gravelly. “I got carried away in the moment, but I'm good now. It was a boundary that shouldn't have been crossed.”

This was
supposed
to be exactly what she wanted to hear...so what was up with the stinging feeling in her chest?

Chapter Six

Dylan had been resting his eyes in his daughter's room for a good half hour before Samantha had caught him off guard. Kissing her the first time had been a mistake. The second had been sloppy. Sure, he felt an attraction sizzle every time she walked into a room. The only thing that proved was that he was still a man aware of a beautiful woman.

He'd had just enough of a power nap to fuel him for the day ahead and get his head on straight. Being a full-time father to Maribel was the greatest job he'd ever had and he wouldn't trade a minute of it. Caring for his little angel 24/7 left little time for anything else in his life. There were no regrets. Being her father was the best thing that had ever happened to him. But there was no time for detours, or
anyone
else in his life.

Besides, Samantha was a friend. Sure, she gave him signals. And they had chemistry. Again, it was down to man and woman, primal urges and all that. He'd been seeking proof of life and so had she. They'd been through hell together, so hormones had gotten out of control.

They most likely wouldn't go away anytime soon, either. So he'd have to work a little harder to keep them under wraps.

Besides, Dylan Jacobs didn't “do” relationships. He also didn't engage in flings, not since he'd screwed his head on straight a few years back, and especially not since Maribel had shown up.

His feelings for Samantha were nothing more than a snag he could deal with. The last thing he needed right now was another complication in his life. His hands were full with the serious situation he found himself in. And it would take all his energy to remain focused on the jerk who'd taken his baby girl. Once he got her back, his days would be filled with work and play and preschool.

Besides, there were about three females he trusted, and one of them was three feet tall. The other two had been carefully screened during the interviewing process: his housekeeper and the preschool headmaster.

Dylan shook off his emotions as he moved to the bathroom for a cold shower.

Fifteen minutes later, he walked into the kitchen. As soon as it was daylight, he needed to swing by the sheriff's office and see what kind of leads they were following through on. More than anything else, he needed to come up with his own plan to find Maribel.

At the moment, all he had to go on was the name Thomas Kramer. A dead man couldn't kidnap a child. Whoever it was had to have enough money and connections to fund the recent attacks. That led Dylan to believe there could be some sort of crime ring involved. Seemed as though there was a story in the national news at least once a week about child abduction rings, and it would take serious money to pull off having a crew in Austin and in Mason Ridge to pursue them. Kramer might've been involved in a bigger organization.

On a related topic, there was the matter of finding Samantha's father.
 
Involving her more than Dylan needed to was a bad idea for more reasons than just his growing feelings toward her. His best chance to find her father rested on her, though, so there was no choice but to keep her close and in the loop. For now.

If the man behind all this had gotten to her father, he wouldn't have taken Maribel. His daughter wouldn't be harmed as long as Mr. Turner was on the run.

Other than that, he had precious little to go on and no way to find his baby. Dylan refused to think about how scared she must be right now. Or that this was the first night she'd spent away from home since she'd come to live with him a year ago. His hands fisted as he checked the clock. Nearly two hours had passed since the incident with Samantha. Time was not his friend.

He ignored how empty the house felt without Maribel in it. Instead of focusing on the negative, he booted up his laptop, located a pen and paper in the kitchen and then wrote the name Thomas Kramer in the center.

The next name he wrote was Samantha's father's, Henry Turner. He circled both names and drew a line connecting them. What did her father know? He put Samantha's name on top and then his own across from hers. From his, he drew a dotted line downward and then scribbled his daughter's name.

The sheriff's office didn't know about the link to Mr. Turner, at least not yet.

So far, they thought they were looking for a lost girl, not a kidnapping case. No matter how desperate he was to get his daughter back, he couldn't risk involving the law yet.

There had to be another way, a connection he was missing.

Talking to Samantha's father was a top priority. Finding him would be the challenging part. His house would most likely be a dead end. He'd know better than to stay there. Where else did he like to go?

How about the hardware store that he owned? Mr. Turner wouldn't likely be there, because it was too obvious, but Dylan wanted to know what the hours were so he could drop by and ask a few questions to Mr. Turner's employees. Dylan located his cell and called the number.

The recording said the place didn't open for another five hours.

Dylan ended the call and then jotted down the time. Surely Mr. Turner wouldn't be stupid enough to walk in the front door of his shop. He'd have to get someone to open for him, though, or people would get suspicious.

Where else had Samantha said her father liked to go?

He was a fisherman, so he would know all the area lakes. There were dozens of good spots in North Texas alone, depending on what he liked to fish. She'd already mentioned catfish. Dylan wrote down the words
fishing cabin
with a question mark. Mr. Turner might have a few secret hiding spots that only his daughter would know about. Dylan would ask Samantha as soon as she stirred.

In the meantime, he could send a few emails to his buddies with an update. His inbox was already loaded with concerned friends reaching out to him. Samantha had given out his number to her father, whom the kidnappers might already have found. Again, Dylan guessed they hadn't.

There were twenty messages in his spam folder. Every once in a while there was something useful in there, so he opened the folder. He scanned the usual scam emails.

Midway down the list, his eye stopped on one. It was an invitation of some sort.

Knowing he might regret his actions when a new virus blacked out his screen or some other irreversible nonsense occurred to his laptop, he took a chance and opened it anyway. It had arrived in his inbox within an hour of Maribel's kidnapping.

The heading read Want to Trade?

Red-hot fury licked through his veins, burning his skin from the inside out.

Dylan clicked on the message.

There was a meet-up spot. 1212 Whistle Bend Road, Mason Ridge, Texas. And a request to bring the
Brave
Barbie doll from the second shelf in his daughter's room. He pushed off the counter and made a beeline to Maribel's room.

Had that bastard been inside Dylan's house? In his daughter's room?

Anger roared through him as he stalked to her bookshelf. She never played with her
Brave
doll. Maribel kept it on her bookshelf as a reminder to be strong.

Had they taken more of Maribel's things? Dylan hadn't thought of that before. He began checking her drawers. Whoever had been in the house had been careful not to leave a trace. There wouldn't likely be fingerprints, either. This guy was good at covering his tracks. Should this situation go south, he'd make sure the son of a bitch paid dearly.

Her favorite pajamas were missing, along with a couple outfits. Someone had gone to great lengths to make sure she had supplies.

When he really looked around, he saw that a few other things were gone, too. Several of her toys had disappeared. Dylan scooped her favorite bunny, Rofurt, off the floor.

He held the stuffed animal as he moved to the laptop. Someone who went to the pains to take the child's personal items couldn't intend to harm her. Could they? His first real sense of hope bloomed. He was cautious not to be too optimistic, understanding he wanted her back so badly that his mind would look for any positive sign to latch on to, real or imagined. He didn't want to kid himself.

He immediately pulled up the address on Google Maps and switched to Earth mode. There was a semiwooded lot with nothing on the front of the property but a mailbox. Anyone could stay hidden in the nearby tree line, watching.

Dylan's next call was to Jorge. He was the only person Dylan figured he wouldn't be disturbing in the middle of the night.

Jorge picked up on the second ring. “What can I do for you, my man?”

“I need you to track down an IP address. I got an email.”

“On it.” The sound of Jorge's fingers tapping on the keyboard came through the line. He already had been given access to Dylan's accounts when they'd first started working together.

“Also, I need information on the location.”

“Name it.” The staccato sound stopped.

“I want to know who owns that piece of property. Can you expedite that for me?”

“You know I'd do anything. Does this have to do with...?”

Dylan was relieved Jorge didn't finish the question. Jorge would've seen the Amber Alert and known Maribel was missing. He didn't need to hear those words from anyone. “Yeah.”

“I'm on it right now. Call you back in a minute?”

“I'll keep the phone in my hand.”

The call ended and Dylan stared at the piece of paper with the names. What was he missing? What possible connection could any of these people have to each other?

* * *

S
AMANTHA
 
TOSSED
 
AND
 
TURNED
. Again. Sleep was about as close as New York to Texas, and neither had a fast track to the other. She peeled off the sheet and tiptoed to her door.

If Dylan was awake, he was quiet.

She pushed thoughts of his body pressed to hers out of her head as she opened the door and walked into the hallway. She heard typing noises coming from the kitchen area. He had to be up.

The promise of freshly brewed coffee kept her feet moving toward the scent. She didn't want to surprise him, so she relaxed into a normal pace and cleared her throat.

Turning the corner, she immediately noticed his tense posture. He was leaned over his laptop, intensely studying the screen. She wasn't sure he'd heard her walk into the room.

“That coffee I smell?” she asked softly. The only light came from the glow of his screen.

His gaze didn't waver. “Help yourself.”

What could have possibly happened in the middle of the night?

Samantha easily located a mug and then poured a cup. She took a sip, enjoying the burn on her throat, the taste of the dark roast.

Tension sat thickly in the air, and she hoped it wasn't because of what had happened between them earlier. She wouldn't get through any of this without Dylan.

“Can I pour you another cup while I'm in here?” she asked as a peace offering.

He grunted something that sounded like an affirmation.

As she returned with a full mug, his head snapped up and his gaze focused on her. He spun the laptop around so that she could read the screen.

Fear exploded through her as she read the email.

Next, Dylan produced a list of everyone they knew. She recognized all the names of their friends and the half dozen or so older boys.

“You think one of our friends could be involved?”

He steepled his fingers. “It's possible, or they might have seen something that could help us figure out who else is.”

“At least we have a direction now,” she said. She nodded toward the laptop, knowing he was grasping at straws. “When do they want to make the exchange?”

“Midnight tomorrow.”

“I wonder why they're giving us so much time.”

“My guess is that they're hoping to find your father first. Maybe they think they're close.”

“This doesn't give us enough time to prepare.” She took another sip of fresh coffee.

Samantha planned to personally see to it that Maribel returned home safe. The question was whether or not she should split up from Dylan to make it happen. The thought of doing any of this without him made her shoulders tense.

“Hungry?” She moved to the kitchen, needing something to do with her hands or she'd go crazy.

He made a move to get up. She held her hand up to stop him.

“No. I got this.” She opened the fridge. “Let's see what we have to work with in here.”

* * *

D
YLAN
 
WANTED
 
TO
 
talk to Samantha about more than just food. He wanted to tell her that everything would work out and that they'd be fine. The words fell dead on his tongue. Putting much thought into doing anything besides getting Maribel back was near impossible.

They also needed to find her dad before the other guys did. The sun would be up in an hour or so. He figured they could leave before first light.

If Dylan was a betting man, he'd put his money on the fact that the property would be near one of the sheds where Rebecca and her brother had been held when they'd been kidnapped fifteen years ago. Everyone knew Brody had torn one of them down. Hell, Dylan had been right there alongside his buddy, shredding the cursed building.

“Where should we start looking for my father?” Samantha pulled out what looked like the fixin's to make a country-style omelet.

“At the beginning,” he said, trying to analyze how they'd get through the woods and to the shed area unseen to scope out the place.

“What are we missing? We know Kramer's name is being thrown out there to distract us. Right?” she asked.

“Whoever's doing this is twisted. Maybe Kramer wasn't even the bloody fool who'd taken Rebecca and Shane in the first place. We might have it all wrong.”

“Whoever is behind this must have some money or connections.”