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A chuckle rolled across the room. Nathan reclined in the chair, arms crossed over his chest. Then his smile retreated, replaced with a watchful mien. “You wanted a word.”

Jay bowed his head and looked toward the closet, toward his purpose. “Tell me about Roy Oxford.”

29

Charlee lingered in the doorway of the closet, calling to mind a history lesson in her short high school career. The lecture on the Thirteenth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution hadn’t meant much to her then. She’d been too young and naive to appreciate the abolishment of slavery. Yet, the conversation circulating around her was laden with references to a runaway slave, indentured servitude, and ownership. Nathan and Jay didn’t use those terms, but the connotations were there, forever haunting her waking and sleeping existence.

Hiding her story from Noah had been a detrimental mistake, one she wouldn’t make again. When Jay’s questions dug in, she nodded at Nathan to field them. She tuned out most of it as he unfolded the ugliest details. Craig Grosky, Noah’s death, the maiming of Roy’s henchmen, the stockroom, the surveillance, and Henry Munt, who was Nathan’s client and Roy’s blackmailer.

The whites of Jay’s eyes glowed out his taut crimson face. “How did Roy Oxford find you in St. Louis?”

She looked at Nathan. “We think the man who issued my fake identity documents connected me to Roy, or maybe Roy tracked him down. Either way, he sold Roy my Sarah Teves identity.” She shrugged. “Nathan hasn’t been able to locate him.”

He turned to Nathan, his anger whipping around him. “How did you kill off Sarah Teves after she went missing?”

“I leveraged Noah’s connections on the force. I was at the crime scene and my employees were involved in every step of the investigation, flubbing paperwork along the way. I knew who had Charlee and closing the case on her alias prevented government red tape from slowing down her rescue.”

Jay prowled along the windows, back and forth, his nostrils flaring tension through the room. “Is that why the FBI isn’t involved?”

“The bureau isn’t involved for the same reason they’re not patrolling his arms trafficking activities.” Nathan kicked a foot over his bent knee. “He owns too many inside.”

“There can’t be that many corrupt public officials. How do you know this?”

She stepped in his path. “Roy has been in and out of my life for nine years. I spent every minute with him from age sixteen to eighteen during my first captivity. I ran for four years after that…until the night I met you.” Her voice rasped. “Three years ago.”

The red around his eyes mirrored her grief over the long separation.

She cleared her throat. “Roy was more lax with me before my first escape, careless with his conversations. I don’t know names and doubt they would be authentic anyway, but his connections are deep. He owns a lot of people, Jay.”

“Stop using that word. He doesn’t own you. He never will.”

Her chest tightened under the weight of his assertion, but her voice remained light. “This isn’t your problem.”

He went deadly still. She couldn’t see it or hear it, but she could feel it bump over her skin and raise the hairs on her neck. A storm was coming, and she needed to calm it. “What are you doing today?”

“Whatever you’re doing.” He glared at her.

Crazy obsessive man. His unwavering focus should’ve been choking her oxygen. Instead, it enveloped her in a warm blanket. There was well-meant intention beneath his brand of crazy, the kind she would survive and possibly even savor. “I’ve got a tattoo to do.”

The storm rotated around him and settled on his face, swishing in his eyes and parting his lips. “Mytattoo.”

She grinned. “It’s three years overdue.”

He fisted her hair and covered her mouth with his. She could feel his excitement in the hard pushes of his tongue. She captured it, responded to it with rolling thrusts in his mouth, and felt her own excitement curling her fingers. What would it be like to grab his ass and pull him closer? She dug her nails into her thighs.

The door snicked with Nathan’s retreat and reminded her that she was wobbling on unsteady ground. She broke the kiss with a lick of his upper lip and smiled up at him. “Wow. I didn’t want that to stop.”

He stroked a thumb over her lips, his own puffy and wet. “Then why did you?”

Because her emotions were running loose and entangling dangerously with those of a world-touring rock star. Because she didn’t know if he still meant to keep her at his side, and she didn’t know how she felt about that. “Because Laz said you were heading back to L.A. tonight, so we should get started on your ink.” Her face began to fall at the thought of him leaving, but she tried to keep it blank.

“Why are these here?” He traced the vertical lines between her eyebrows.

Her heart thumped as she looked at him. His beautiful talented lips turned down at the corners. The canvas of his body called to her artist’s fingers. And within all that tanned skin contained an artist too, a brilliant musician and singer. “I’m feeling a little clingy. It’s embarrassing. I don’t want you to go yet.”

He grinned, popping a dimple through the shadow of his whiskers, and turned toward the door. “Clingy is perfect because you’re coming home with me.”

So he meant what he said. She ran to catch up with him. “I can’t just—”