Taming Alaska (So Not Prince Charming Book 1) Page 3

  “I can’t loosen your bindings,” I whisper, fighting the knotted rope.

  “Look at me, Cindy,” she says in a low shaky voice. “You need to run and get help. They’ll be back any second, and one of us needs to escape before they return.”

  Tears run tracks down my grimy face. “I can’t leave you.”

  “Do this for both of us. Go now.” She nods at the back window.

  With tears blurring my eyes, I hug her and say, “I’ll get the car and come back for you.”

  “No. Go to the car and call the police. You may not have a signal until you get to the main road or a town. Hurry.”

  I nod, though the thought of leaving her crushes my chest. I get up and climb out the back window, scraping and cutting my knee in the process. Their backs are toward me, so while they talk in the front by the door, I tiptoe past them, stumbling a few times in my bare feet. I sneak behind the truck before running as fast as I can to the Mercedes. The sharp rocks and hot sand bite my feet, but I ignore the pain.

  I reach over halfway to the car when I hear one of them shout, “She got away,” and the truck roars to life.

  As the truck barrels toward me, the Mercedes comes into sight. I’ll never make it. While I sprint to the car, the truck fishtails. I jump into the car and search for the keys between the seats, my hands trembling. After digging them out, I rev the engine and gun it. The truck rumbles right behind me, tapping my bumper. I press the pedal to the floor, chucking rocks that ping off the truck’s front bumper. I can barely breathe from the panic twisting my heart and lungs.

  Maybe Mom got away while they’re chasing me.

  When I reach the paved road, I drive up onto it, bottoming out the Mercedes and scraping the pavement, but now they’ll never catch me. I use the hands-free to call the police, but there’s no signal. Behind me, the truck stops, turns around, and races back down the dirt road.

  Please don’t hurt her. Please let her escape. Using the back of my bare arm, I wipe the tears tumbling onto the steering wheel.

  If they want money, Padre will gladly give it to them.

  The Mercedes pushes over a hundred while I continue dialing 911. Before I drive even ten miles, red and blue lights flash behind me. I pull off the road, jump out of the car, sobs clogging my throat, and run to the cruiser.

  “Mi madre,” I cry. “They kidnapped her.”

  “Did you steal that car, girl?” he says. “Did you and your mamá just hop across the border?”

  I stop crying. “What the hell?”

  That’s when he slaps the cuffs on my wrists and turns me over to INS, or maybe it’s border patrol.

  Chapter Three

  Shane

  After knocking on my door, my admin assistant pokes her head into my office in downtown Austin and interrupts me. “You have a collect call from the Alamogordo county jail in New Mexico.”

  “Who is it?” Who would call me from jail? That’s a stupid question. My half brother. Most of my friends. “I’ll take it in here.”

  I hit the line that’s blinking. “Shane O’Flannery, I’ll accept the charges.”

  “Oh Shane,” Cyn sobs into the phone.

  “Cyn, why are you calling me from jail? Where’s your mom?” Whatever it is cannot be good, so my heart constricts in my chest in preparation. Mrs. Diaz told me she was taking Cyn on a road trip. Where is her mom?

  “They’re holding me for border patrol,” she says, rushing through her words. “The stupid idiots think I hopped the border, and my mom…”

  “Cyn, Cyn, slow down.”

  “They kidnapped my mom, and nobody’s at home. I couldn’t get a hold of my dad. And…and…and.” She’s bawling, which is understandable. “I got your number from Mom’s phone. Please don’t be mad.”

  “I’m not.” I lean forward in my chair, rubbing my forehead.

  “Shit,” I mutter while the floor opens up and swallows me. Not Mrs. Diaz. She’s such a wonderful lady. She found me and helped my company get recognition from its inception. “It’ll take me two to three hours to get there.”

  “How can you get here so quickly?” The question strains in her voice.

  “I’ll rent a chopper. While you’re waiting for me, write down or record on your phone every detail, no matter how small, what your assailant was wearing, shoes, hats, what vehicle, where you were held. Anything you can remember.”

  “All right,” she says between hiccups.

  “Let me talk to the sheriff or whoever is holding you.”

  “Shane, can you track her?” The hint of hope in between sobs pains me to hear. I’ve recovered more dead bodies than live ones during search and rescue.

  I know now why she called me. “Yes, though the police will soon.”

  “I’ll get the lady watching me. Thank you, Shane. I owe you.” The breaking in her voice tears open my heart. I have to find her mother alive.

  Some woman picks up on the other end of the line, so I contain my anger. “You are detaining Cynthia Diaz, when you should be searching for her mother Grace Diaz, formerly Grace Hunt, Texas oil.”

  “Oh my God,” she says, gasping. “We had no idea.”

  “I’ll be there in a few hours to pick up Miss Diaz.”

  “We’ll get right on it, Sir.” I can’t leave her in New Mexico by herself, especially when I can get there sooner than anyone else.

  I hang up and tell my office I’ll be gone for the rest of day. It only takes me a few minutes to zip through traffic to a private airport/heliport on the outskirts of Austin in the car I borrowed from my mom because my Harley’s in the shop.

  It isn’t hard for me to rent a chopper in the spur of the moment, since I borrow small planes from my friends to fly to the coast on the weekends to fish. I’m in the chopper and taking off in no time.

  When I met Cyn last night, I thought she was older than me from the way she dressed, wore her makeup, her hair up in some…something. That dress gave me a hard-on last night—brilliant red, low cut back—no girl that young should look so damn nasty or wear a dress like that. I had her undressed the moment I saw her until she dropped a nuclear bomb.

  Fuck. Sixteen. That shot a painful arrow through my erection.

  I push the chopper hard, flying over the featureless desert, and reach the county jail in just under two hours. I land in the sheriff’s parking lot, which pisses off a few deputies. Ignoring their complaints, I stride into the building.

  “Where’s Cynthia Diaz?” I ask, shoving past the officers staring at the helicopter.

  Cyn sits just inside the lobby, her eyes bloodshot from crying. Poor kid. I walk toward the front desk to find out the status of the search.

  “They just reached the abandoned shack in the desert, and CSI is investigating,” the officer says at the front desk. “We had no idea who she was. Honest.” He looks me up and down. “Miss Diaz said you were her bodyguard.”

  “She did?” I hold back a laugh, impressed by this young girl’s smarts. “Thank you.” There’s no point in antagonizing the deputy. I gesture for Cyn to follow me. “Cyn, let’s go. Do you think you can find the place where you last saw your mom?”

  She nods, more tears tumbling down that precious face. I blow out a breath. Sixteen, I remind myself.

  Her shapely long legs stretch out before her, but her bare feet are bloodied. On some level, their captors were smart by removing their shoes. My admiration grows for Cyn’s spunk and courage and escaping.

  “You can’t go out to the crime scene,” the deputy says.

  “I’m sure they’d love to have someone trained in search and rescue assisting.”

  The deputy gives me an odd look. “Where?”

  “Wilderness SAR in Fairbanks.” I take Cyn’s hand, but instead, she nuzzles up against me and her spicy scent almost undoes me. I drape an arm around her, and she weeps against my chest. I have never wanted a woman—girl—this bad, but it’s not going to ever happen, and I need to focus on finding Mrs. Diaz.

  “Th
ey took your shoes?” I ask while her face is buried into my chest. “Never mind.” She’s too upset to talk, so I pick her up and carry her to the chopper.

  “You can’t take her,” another deputy yells at me. “You have to be a legal guardian.”

  “I need her, so I’m taking her, and I’m her bodyguard,” I say with a chuckle.

  “I’m going with him,” she says adamantly, locking onto my arm, which I wish she wouldn’t do. Given the way she’s holding on, I doubt any cop could break her away from me.

  Once in the chopper, I hand her a headset. “Put these on.”

  She nods and slips into the seat next to me. I lean over and strap her in. After today, I will stay the hell away from this young spitfire.

  “Where did you last see her?” I ask.

  She gives me the highway and the diner Jose’s that I actually know. Between the tears, she manages to tell me everything that happened. Within minutes, I land a hundred feet away from the crime scene so that I don’t disturb any tire or footprints.

  “Wait here for a moment,” I say to Cyn, getting out of the chopper.

  She drags her knees to her chest, pulling her skirt over her legs, and says, “Okay.”

  “I’ll do my best to find her.” I push back the long silky black hair hiding her face.

  She thins her lips, fighting off more tears and probably a meltdown.

  I tug off my sneakers and give her my thick cotton socks. “I may need you.”

  “I’ll put them on.” She clutches my arm before I leave. “Don’t be gone long.”

  I peck her forehead, like I do for my younger sister, and brush a stray tear away. “I won’t.”

  Near the shack where Cyn and her mother were held, four cops and one fed are standing around and aren’t happy to see me. Before approaching them, I stop and study the tracks leading to the old building. There are multiple sets—some very deep but older and wind blown, possibly a few days ago.

  “Who the hell are you?” an obvious fed in a suit and tie says. I only wear jeans or shorts and usually flip-flops to work. What’s the point of not being comfortable?

  “This is a heavily traveled road.” I point away from the building. “From the deeply embedded tracks, you’ve probably either got human traffickers or drug runners using it.”

  “How the fuck do you know?” the fed says, smirking while extending his hand. “Special Agent Carson.”

  “Lots of tracks on a road that shouldn’t have much traffic,” I say, studying where the truck stopped in front of the shack. “These tracks have the same tread pattern.” I pick them out. “But these are much deeper—a few days old.”

  “Cyn?” I signal for her to join me. Wearing my socks that pool around her ankles, she climbs out of the chopper and trudges toward me, her arms visibly shaking.

  “Who is she?” the fed asks. “Damn, even dirty and grimy, that woman’s hot.”

  “Her mother was the one taken, and she’s sixteen.” Dickwad.

  “Hell, these young girls keep looking older and older.”

  It’s good that she is far enough away that she won’t hear. She comes over to stand next to me, so I fight off the gravitational pull she has on me.

  “Is this where your mom hit her head on the rock?” I ask. Sand has scattered over the trail of blood where they must’ve dragged her, and so far from the evidence and what Cyn told me, this isn’t looking good for Mrs. Diaz.

  Cyn nods, swiping tears from her smoky eyes. She needs to remember that she got away and her mom wanted her to survive.

  I pull her under my wing. “Don’t lose hope,” I say, although I already have.

  “I’ll be damned,” a cop says, gesturing CSI to come over and gather evidence, but the blood’s not what I’m after. I need to find her mother.

  I walk around the tire tracks and footprints until I notice recent, deeper tread marks leading away from the shack. A body was dragged from it toward the truck, then the kidnappers drove toward the mountains. From the brush marks over the tracks, the kidnappers tried to cover them.

  Nausea swirls in my gut. This doesn’t feel like a recovery. It’s like…

  “Stay here, Cyn,” I order.

  She’s shaking, bunching her lips together, and my heart pours out to this woman-child.

  I jog down the tracks, following the tread. The more the tire tracks dig into the dirt and swerve the more panic works into my heart. The kidnappers were in a hurry and not just because Cyn got away.

  Two cops and the fed chase after me because I’m running all out now until the tracks abruptly stop and then veer off in another direction. At this juncture, two sets of footprints walk away from the truck.

  The rocky terrain leads up to the base of the mountains. The two men were carrying something or someone, which forces me to swallow hard. I slow as I approach a rocky outcrop, breathing hard. A pair of bare feet sticks out from behind the clump of rocks.

  Before I even reach the body, Cyn lets out an ear-piercing scream. On the other side of the boulders, Mrs. Diaz’s headless body lies prone in the dirt.

  Jesus Fucking Christ.

  The sight is a gruesome reminder of finding my little brother whose guts were ripped open.

  I spin around where Cyn stands next to me. Young girls, just like women, never fucking listen. I pick her up.

  She kicks and screams. “I can’t leave her. I need to go to her,” she cries, reaching for her mom. She’s hysterical, fighting and clawing me, but I’ve dealt with much worse when it comes to women.

  Cyn is sobbing uncontrollably. “I should’ve never left her. This is all my fault.”

  I shake her hard until she sees me and not her mother’s lifeless body. “She made you leave, and you should be thankful.” My eyes narrow, taking on a serious expression, so Cyn understands the love her mother had for her. “There is nothing worse than watching a parent cradling his dying child. She wanted you to live, so you do just that. Goddammit.”

  “How can I?” Cyn buries her face into my shirt, soaking my chest.

  I have more to do here, and Cyn cannot stay where her mother lies dead. I hand Cyn’s broken and beaten body to an officer. “Take her back.”

  I momentarily draw her into me. “I’ll be there shortly, Cyn.”

  She drags her feet back to the chopper alongside the officer.

  Agent Carson fists his hips, shaking his head. “Why kill her? Her family would have paid handsomely for her safe return.”

  After Cyn is out of earshot, I kneel by Mrs. Diaz while pain stabs at my chest. “I think her death may have been accidental.”

  “Why is that?” a cop asks.

  “Not much blood anywhere when they sawed off her head. Cyn said a guy knocked her mom out then she was kicked out of the truck and hit her head again. Cyn also told me her mother threw up and seemed out of it. I bet it was blunt-force trauma that killed her.”

  “Why hack off the head?” the fed asks.

  I shake my head, biting my lip. Just last night I was enjoying Mrs. Diaz’s company. The shock hasn’t even really hit me yet. “That’s for you to figure out along with what they did with her head.”

  I hand the fed my business card. “I should take Cyn home.”

  He examines my card then says, “We could use a guy like you.”

  “I do well at what I’m doing, but thanks.” In a few years, I can probably sell my company.

  I hurry back to Cyn because she needs a familiar face, even if we don’t know each other well.

  Next to the chopper, she sits on her haunches, looking broken and fragile and vulnerable. I pick her up, slide her into the jump seat, and harness her in. She doesn’t talk but leans her head against the door after I secure it shut.

  “Let’s get you home,” I say, adjusting the headset onto her soft hair.

  On the flight back to the airport, she cries herself to sleep. I understand grief all too well. I practically raised my younger brother Skyler and my little sister Julie, and losing Sky has nev
er left me.

  I carry Cyn from the chopper. Her nose nuzzles into my chest against my nipple that treacherously responds to her teasing touch. After many slow breaths, I tuck her into the passenger side of my Mom’s boyfriend’s BMW.

  Cyn stirs. “Are we home yet?” Her innocent eyes question mine.

  “Soon.” I buckle her into the seat.

  Cyn’s beautiful eyes smolder like burning embers. “Thank you.”

  Unexpectedly, she grabs me by the collar, yanking me off balance and right against those temptingly sweet lips. Our foreheads butt, and she lets out a seductive moan as her tongue flicks across my teeth to torment me with her delectable mouth. An erection comes on strong now.

  If I were sixteen, I’d fuck her senseless, but I’m not. It’s how I got over losing my brother. Poor Lindsey, my first girlfriend, walked funny for a few days. That wild girl never once complained, but that crazy bitch also took a blade to my throat while I was sleeping. I still bear a nasty scar along my jawline.

  While testing the waters of heaven with this underage siren, my soul plunges into the burning heat of hell’s smokehouse. My brow nervously twitches, reminding me of my first time when Lindsey popped my proverbial cherry at fifteen, but Cyn’s taste is so much more enticing. God, at this moment, I wish I were sixteen.

  What I’m doing is dead wrong, but I can’t help myself. I want this strong, courageous woman-child in the most carnal, animalistic way. In a moment of weakness, I draw her nearer to indulge in the kiss, stopping myself short from dragging her into the backseat to fulfill my wildest fantasies.

  I cannot let this flame of a girl further lure me into the murky depths, her siren song dragging me down so deep I’ll drown. I find her almost impossible to resist, but the threat of sexual predator looming over my head wakes me up.

  “Don’t stop,” she says, “You don’t have to worry. It’s consensual.”

  Reality of her age slams into my chest, holding me back and softening my cock. “Given our age difference, it does matter.”

  Her pretty face scrunches up. “It’s Fay. Isn’t it?”

  A smile creases my lips that were just pressed against hers. “No. It’s not.” I lift Cyn’s chin. “You have a fire that burns so bright no real man cannot help but notice you.”