She studied him as if trying to figure out what he wasn't saying. "Are you still pissed he sent you over here? I mean, boarding school is one thing, but he shipped you halfway around the world."
He shook his head. "If you tell him this, I'll deny it, but no. I was fucked up back home. All that shit I was into. And--"
He cut himself off, then shoved his hands in his pockets. He'd been about to say, "You." And he really didn't want to go there.
She came to a stop, taking his hand and making him halt beside her. "Am I making it worse? Should I not have come?"
"God no." The words came out too fast, revealed too much. He looked down at their joined hands, then back up at her. "Maybe," he whispered.
Their eyes met, and even though it was a cliche, he felt it. The power. The heat. Right there between them, and so much stronger than them both.
"Dallas." That was all she said, and he didn't know if she spoke in protest or invitation.
He wasn't about to wait to find out.
In one motion, he leaned in, his palm cupping the back of her neck as his mouth closed over hers. She tasted like honey. She tasted like home. And when she gasped, the sound opening her mouth just a bit more, he took advantage, exploring with his tongue. Tasting, taking, deepening the kiss until there was nothing separating them. Not air, not skin, not the goddamn world that said they shouldn't be doing this. That it was crazy.
That it was wrong.
Breathless, he drew away, suddenly afraid that he'd taken too much. That he'd pushed too hard.
Terrified that when she opened her eyes he'd see fear. Or, worse, regret.
But her face was soft, her pale skin almost angelic in the moonlight, and when she opened her eyes and looked at him, he saw his own desire reflected right back at him in her wide, brown eyes.
"We shouldn't," he whispered.
"I know."
Neither one of them moved. They stood there, only inches apart, and he could feel her breath on his face, minty and tantalizing. He thought he could hear her heart beat; he was certain she must be able to hear his.
And then, as if pulled together by the weight of their connection, they stepped forward at the exact same time. Mouths came together, hard and fast. Hands grappled, fingers stroked. He'd never been so hard in his life, even in all the times he'd laid in bed, his hand down his briefs as he imagined her. For a moment, mortification washed over him, but then she made the softest noise, and he realized that it was his name. And it was so full of need and desire, that it was a wonder he didn't come right then.
"Jane, I--" He didn't know what he'd intended to say, but it didn't matter. His words were cut short by her scream, sharp as a knife and brutally short.
Someone had her. Two black-clad men stood on either side of Jane, their faces hidden by ski masks, their grips locked tight on her arms as they dragged her away from him, her head lolling to one side.
"No!" It seemed like forever before he bellowed the word, before he tried to lunge forward to help her. But he realized in the moment that not even seconds had passed. And that he couldn't help her--he couldn't even help himself. He was caught, too.
He struggled, managing to break the hold on his left arm, and he spun to the right, trying to get free--trying to see whatever he could before they grabbed him again and held him fast.
Four men. Two holding him. Two standing beside them, one with a cloth in his hand.
And then the two who had Jane.
That made six men altogether. Six attackers.
Six kidnappers.
Six, he repeated to himself as he fought fear, battling it down and forcing himself to listen to their voices. To judge height and weight. To study their eyes and fight the terror and think even as the man with the cloth came toward him and pressed the chloroform-soaked rag over his mouth and nose.
And as the world faded from beneath Dallas, he held fast to his mental image of those six dead men. Because that's what they were. Dead. No matter how long it took for him to make them that way.
"Dallas? Shit, man, you still there?"
He realized with a start he'd been clutching his phone as if it was the sixth kidnapper's neck, so tight it was a wonder the damn thing didn't shatter in his hand. Irritated, he pushed his memories aside and focused.
"Where are you calling from?"