Forbidden Captor

That had been his first thought, grab the keys. But, short of using brute force against the woman—which wasn’t his style—that wasn’t gonna happen.

That left convincing her to befriend him, to run a few errands for him. Of course, he had no idea whether or not he could trust that she’d bring back the truth. Skittish as she seemed, she might run straight to Boone Fowler and tell him what the monster had asked of her.

Yeah, that’d go over real big in the escape-and-bring-these-murdering-bastards-to-justice department.

That left charming the woman.

A nearly impossible feat.

Long days out in the hills of the Missouri Ozarks where he’d grown up—hunting, fishing, camping—and quiet evenings spent on the porch with the grandparents who’d raised him didn’t go a long way toward developing a man’s sweet-talkin’ ways.

Maybe one of the other bounty hunters, Aidan Campbell, Jacob Powell or Riley Watson—strike that, Craig O’Riley was the alias he’d been using when they were captured—were thinking along the same lines. They had the sweet words and the deceptive smiles and handsome faces he lacked. Hell, the way Powell ran his mouth sometimes, he could wear down a body’s resistance, make a woman happy to concede to his will. And O’Riley was the master of undercover work. He could don a persona and make anyone—man or woman—believe every word he said.

So how was a former army sergeant who knew more about weapons and explosives than he knew about conversation and seduction supposed to get close enough to Tasiya Belov to gain her trust and enlist her help?

He wasn’t.

He’d have to find another means of escape.

And he’d have to find it soon.

Bryce had been staring down the hallway long enough for the shadows to lighten and take shape. His cell was at the dead end of a passage that doubled back on itself. He knew that route led to a series of locked iron doors, one of which was the interrogation room—four stone walls that housed all the twisted toys of the Inquisition. From this vantage point, all he could see was an electrical wire and broken lightbulb tacked up between the stones.

But he could hear the enemy coming. Since they had the guns and he wore the chains, there was no need for stealth. Bryce backed up to the center of his cell and shook loose the muscles in his arms and legs, mentally bracing himself and prepping his body for the hours to come.

Marcus Smith and a pair of bully sidekicks lined up outside his door to pay him a visit.

“Ready to talk today, Sergeant?” Marcus spat his chaw through the bars on the floor next to Bryce’s bare foot.

Bryce didn’t shift his gaze from those icy blue eyes. Satisfying Smith’s power-hungry need to control him wasn’t on his to-do list. Smith was buttin’ heads with a man who’d already endured the worst the world had to offer. His boys and toys couldn’t break him.

Bryce’s only response was the silent promise he made.

Ready to get what’s coming to you? Because it will come. Maybe not today or tomorrow. But the days of the Montana Militia for a Free America are numbered.

Bryce and his fellow bounty hunters at Big Sky were damn well gonna see to it.

“DID YOU GET A LOAD of the big guy today?” Even with the buzz of other conversations in the room, Tasiya couldn’t tune out Marcus Smith’s booming voice. She couldn’t ignore the lecherous fascination of his eyes, either. His cold blue gaze followed her as she moved from one table to the next to pour more coffee. Thank God she was out of arm’s reach and he was busy regaling his men with stories. “Sits there and stares at you. Never says a word. Pisses me off.”

“At least he doesn’t get you off track with all his smart-ass remarks.” Steve Bristoe, the skinny blond man who didn’t seem to mind that Tasiya had replaced him in the kitchen, stuck a forkful of apple pie in his mouth and continued talking. “That Craig O’Riley is gonna say the wrong thing one of these days and I’m gonna really let him have it.”

Marcus held up his mug, indicating he wanted her to return to his table for a refill. “Maybe it’s time to execute another one of the soldiers. If physical force won’t turn them, we’ll have to find another way. We’ll put one innocent life on each of their heads until we have those Big Sky bozos eating out of our hand.”

Execution? Was that the kind of atrocity Dimitri Mostek and his unknown boss were financing here? Would he put a stop to the killing if she reported the militia’s activities? Or would he applaud their work?

Tasiya swallowed the lump of dread in her throat and wiped all emotion from her face before stepping into Marcus’s personal space. In fewer than forty-eight hours she’d already learned that Marcus Smith, with his yellow teeth and dirty hands, didn’t think the no-touch rule applied to him. Unless Boone Fowler was around, of course. And since the militia leader preferred to take his meals in the privacy of his office instead of in the mess hall with his men…

A large, meaty palm attached itself to her backside. Tasiya nearly stumbled as Marcus pulled her even closer. “That’s it, sugar,” he said, as though his hand on her butt provided some sort of assistance in her duties. “Fill it all the way up.”

Even when his words were seemingly innocent, or didn’t quite make sense in her translation, his tone always made her feel dirty. The same way Dimitri had made her feel. This is what she’d sentenced herself to by agreeing to Dimitri’s plan. A life in which she jumped at the touch of a man’s hand, a life in which she turned off her emotions so as not to draw attention to herself and her discomfort, a life in which she would never know a man’s kindness or love.

But, for her father, she would do this. He was all she’d ever had. For Anton Belov she would do anything.

“Thanks, sugar.”

With the slightest of nods, Tasiya turned out of his grasp, unable to stop herself from wiping at the warm spot he’d left on the back of her jeans.

“Whoa, pretty thing, where you runnin’ off to so fast?” His hand at her elbow stopped her escape.

“I have work to do in the kitchen.”

This time, Steve Bristoe paused midchew to take note of the grubby hand on her sweater, then looked up at Marcus with a question in his eyes. He wanted to know how Marcus could get away with this infraction. But the black-haired giant was meaner and tougher than Bristoe could ever aspire to be. He was clearly the most feared man in this room. One look from Marcus, and Bristoe quickly turned his attention back to his dessert. With Marcus staking such a proprietary claim on her, there was no one in the room who would come to her defense.

Tasiya twisted against his grip, making an effort to defend herself. “There is food in the oven I must see to.”

“Now you hold on a minute, sugar.” The instant she saw how her struggles amused him, Tasiya forced herself to relax. Her quick concession to his will wiped away his grin. “I’m trying to pay you a compliment. I want you to clear these things from the table and bring me another piece of that delicious pie.”

“There is no more pie.”

His grip tightened, demanding she look at him. “I don’t like that answer.”

“It is the truth. You have eaten everything I prepared.”

“Then prepare some more.”

Tasiya shook her head. “But the time…” She pointed to the open kitchen door. “The bread I have baked for the prisoners will burn.”

Marcus stood up. Towering over her, he bellowed his fetid breath in her face. “Who the hell cares about them?”

His commander did.

“Mr. Fowler’s instructions were to feed them every night. To help them keep their strength—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know all that. He wants them alive, but they don’t have to be healthy. You take care of all our needs first. And then you can feed whatever the hell you want to those traitors.” He pinched her arm. “Are we clear on that?”

Tasiya bowed her head. “Yes.”

He released her and threw his hands up in the air as if reprimanding her had taxed his patience. “Now get this mess cleaned up and don’t defy me again.”

For a moment Tasiya couldn’t stem her temper or find her courage. She opened her mouth, but the right words wouldn’t come.

It was a moment long enough for Marcus to shove his plate into her empty hand and swat her rump to speed her toward the kitchen. “Tomorrow night, know that I’m expecting two desserts.”

She stumbled over her own feet in her hurry to put as much distance between her and Marcus Smith as possible. Temporarily beyond the sight of that big baboon, she dumped the dishes into the sink and ran cool water over a towel. Angry beyond words, feeling frustrated and helpless, she could do nothing more but silently curse Marcus and Dimitri Mostek. She was trapped by her love for her father in a completely horrible mess in which she had no one to rely on but herself.

Patting the towel across her flushed face and holding it against her nape beneath the French knot of her hair was the only comfort she could give herself, the only outlet for the feelings she couldn’t express. She allowed herself five minutes of relative privacy. Time enough to shut off the ovens and let her temper cool along with the loaves of bread. Time enough to fix her emotionless mask back into place, pick up a plastic tub and return to the dining room to begin clearing the tables.

The smells of tobacco and liquor stung her nose as some of the men lit cigarettes and doctored their coffee from flasks in their pockets. A few headed out into the breezeway or checked the pistols at their sides and returned to their posts. Those remaining went back to trading stories, plotting strategies and ignoring her as she worked.