Page 7 of Capturing You

Forget that he’d just saved her life. Forget that she’d likely be dead if not for him. Apparently, that wasn’t enough to garner her trust.

“If you’d rather”—he kept his tone even despite his annoyance—“I can go in and open the front door for you. But then you’d be out here alone, and if anybody happened by…” He shrugged, letting the implication hang between them. “You decide.”

CHAPTERTHREE

Brooklynn had never understood the expression about people’s hearts being in their throats, until now.

Hers was trying to thump right out of her body.

The comfort she’d felt in this man’s arms was long gone, chased away by the cold reality of a pitch-black cave.

And a man who looked like he was sorry he’d wasted his time on her.

If this guy was a madman who’d lured her here to chain her up in his basement, then refusing to climb down those scary steps would only turn his suggestion into a demand.

But really, what were the chances?

Nobody had known she’d be in the cove on this property at dawn. She’d only just had the idea the evening before.

She’d witnessed something she still didn’t understand—a bunch of smugglers, she assumed, who also happened to be there at the same time as her.

A strange coincidence.

Being rescued by a lock-women-in-the-basement killer, who happened to be right where she needed him and knew about a secret cave?

That felt like one coincidence too many.

He probably wasn’t a murderer.

And the people who’d chased her were still out there.

It wasn’t as if she had a whole bunch of choices.

Sometimes, she wished she had Alyssa’s analytical mind. Brooklynn’s thoughts were taking her in circles.

Ford—were madmen ever namedFord?—raised his eyebrows.

“It’s fine.” Her voice was high and squeaky. She swallowed and tried again. “Lead the way.”

He stepped through the door and pulled a string that hung from an overhead light fixture.

The bare bulb was blinding, and she paused until her eyes adjusted, then followed him down six steps into a basement.

Concrete floors and walls, bare rafters overhead with ducts and pipes snaking through them. A washer and dryer against one wall beneath a rough shelf that held detergent and fabric softener. That explained thescent of laundry.

Old furniture and stacks of boxes. Tools and discarded household items, including an old Westinghouse roaster that looked like it dated back to the fifties.

A wicker couch and love seat with floral cushions that belonged in the sunshine—in 1987.

A slightly newer-looking wrought iron café table and chairs.

No chains bolted to the walls. No handcuffs lying about. Even so, she trembled with terror.

The man crossed to the base of a wooden staircase with a rusty metal railing. “Go on up. The door at the top is unlocked.”

She tried to move slowly, but fear fed fresh adrenaline into her veins, and she ran, practically hurtling to the top.

She burst through the door.