Page 45 of Captive of Outlaws

Tuck looks at me, something in his gaze I can’t quite pinpoint.

“Well, that much isn’t true,” he says. “Not anymore.”

He reaches out and covers my grease-stained hand with his own. It’s warm, strong, comforting. I look up and meet his honey-colored eyes; they’re so sweet, so intense. It’s too much. I pull away my hand out of instinct, but I nod and smile because I don’t mean to be rude.

“Thank you,” I say.

Tuck nods back. “I mean it, Maren. You’ve...been through enough, it sounds like.” There’s a brief pause, and he gets up from his stool. “Anyway, I didn’t mean to disturb you. I just figured I’d say hi, since the other guys are out, and I didn’t want you thinking I’d left you in charge of the place.” He flashes me a grin. “Enjoy the rest of your sandwich.”

“Thanks,” I say.

As his footsteps recede. I pull out my new smartphone.

After a little Googling, I pull up a criminal record search and punch inRobin Locksley. A loading bar skims across the screen, and it says it’s found 16 results for Virginia.

My heart leaps to my throat, and I scroll frantically, only to be confronted with a credit card order screen.

“Dammit,” I mutter. Even if I had a credit card, I’m not sure I would want to pay $39.95 for this information. Feels like something that should be public. Like those alerts they send out about kidnapped children...

My blood goes cold. I’m over eighteen. I’m not a kid. But that doesn’t mean John couldn’t work some kind of loophole and have me marked down as a runaway. What’s it called when a child is missing? Amber Alert.

I type in “Amber Alert” plus my full name and hit go...

No results.

Nothing that matches me, anyway.

Relief cascades over me. So, there’s no public campaigngoing on to hunt down the sweet, disabled missing white girl. The public doesn’t even know.

But then the relief dries up as quickly as it came.

That doesn’t mean they’re not looking for me. It just means they want to do it in secret.

I put the smartphone down on the counter, face down, and shove it away for good measure, as if distancing myself from it will keep me safe from whatever scheme John and the sheriff must be cooking up.

Then I remember what Rob said about the tracking on it. Strangely, it makes me feel a little bit better to know that someone actually cares about where I am.

Even if it’s just because I’m a potential paycheck.

I take the phone back and tuck it into my pocket.

You probably want us to know where you are if you’re in trouble, Maren. The quicker, the better.

Chapter Twelve

I AM READY FOR BEDearly, which is probably for the best.

After I finish up in the kitchen, I skulk around a bit on the first floor of the house, the level with the walkout to the patio, poking around in the game room to see what else is there. Not much, unless I want to play pool by myself. In the library, there are tons of books, of course, but at that point, my eyelids are so heavy that I couldn’t read a single sentence without nodding off.

The guys are noticeably absent, presumably off on quote-unquote business.

So I take the liberty ofretiring to my quarters—because that’s basically what it feels like—and poke around through more of my new wardrobe.

I still feel a tingle of discontent when I think about how much money Rob must have spent on all of these. I really don’t need anything more than the basics. Don’t airlines put a cap on how much you can spend on their dime if they loseyour luggage? Something like 500 bucks max? That’s more like what I feel would have been appropriate. Not what I am unpacking now: box after box of designer denim, thick wool sweaters, blazers, and shoes for all occasions, including heels. I rip open one box to discover emerald-colored silk and various sequined things—party clothes. Like I need those. I don’t even go through the rest of that one.

Finally, I hit on what I am really looking for—pajamas. They are tasteful, although not unflattering: a dusty rose color with a short-sleeve button-down top and roomy, comfortable pants.

After another long session in my waterfall-like shower stall, I barely have the energy to throw some moisturizer on before I face-plant into the pillow.

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