"I do."
I lift a brow. "Then why are you here?"
He glances around, and for the first time seems to realize that we are being watched. "In here," he says, taking my arm even as he pushes aside the curtain that marks the entrance to the cabana.
There's a daybed inside, and a couple sprawled on top of it. They're fully clothed, but their kiss is deep and passionate, and she is straddling his leg and grinding against him in a sensual rhythm.
I feel my own body heat in response, and I make it a point of looking anywhere but directly at them. Or Dallas.
He clears his throat. "Sorry, folks. I need the room. I've got to talk to my sister."
Sister.
And just like that, the heat that had been spreading through me turns to ice, and I stand there frozen as the couple leaves, clothing askew and not looking the tiniest bit embarrassed.
The cabana has a sliding door that provides more privacy than the curtain, and Dallas closes it now, then leans against it as he looks at me.
"All right," I say, trying to sound casual as I sit on the edge of the daybed. "What do you need to talk about?"
"The Darcy twins," he says, which is about as far as you can get from what I was expecting. I must look as confused as I feel because he presses on. "Why is WORR investigating a resolved kidnapping?"
There are so many ways I could answer that, but I go with the most obvious one. "Why the hell do you care?"
I see a flicker of irritation in his eyes. He's not used to being questioned. That's okay. I'm not, either.
"I'm friends with Henry Darcy," he says. "I was there for him when the girls were taken. And I listened as he talked through his decision to keep the authorities out of it and hire a private team to recover the girls. Just like Dad did," he adds, and I can't help but scoff.
"And that worked out so well."
"The team knew the risk," he counters. "And they were trying to rescue kidnapped children."
"Have you lost your mind?" I don't mean to snap, but I can't help it. "Two of the men Daddy hired ended up dead."
And it was my fault. I should never have said anything. Never told my father and his security team what little I knew.
I'd been warned, hadn't I?
But once I was back in my parents' arms, I'd felt safe again. Safe, yes, b
ut so damn scared for Dallas. They'd convinced me that I had to tell. That I had to give the security team every tidbit of information if we were going to recover Dallas.
So I had. And based on a terrified fifteen-year-old's shredded memories, the team had isolated the target and moved in--and I'd suffered for four long weeks believing that Dallas died in that raid, too.
"That's not the point," he says, as if the fact that I got two men killed doesn't matter. As if it was no big deal that he was tortured and traumatized and starved for another month. "I want to know about WORR. Because I'm damn sure Henry didn't give your ex a call and start chatting."
I almost tell him that it's none of his business, but the fight has gone out of me. I feel numb, and the memories of those long, cold days are too close. I want to finish this conversation. I want to get the hell out of here.
"So you know what happened, obviously. The girls went to Mexico with some friends to celebrate their eighteenth birthdays, and they were snatched. Sold into white slavery to some rich asshole in Mexico City. It's pretty impressive that Henry's hired guns found them," I admit.
"It is," he agrees. "After the first seventy-two hours, the odds of getting those trafficked girls back was slim to none."
"You know the stats," I say.
He eyes me levelly. "I pay attention. Like you, I'm interested in the subject."
I say nothing. The truth is, I've made a career researching and writing about kidnappers and their victims. Dallas ostensibly runs several divisions of the family business. In reality, he spends money, drives fast, and fucks hard. I know why I do what I do. Him, I don't understand.
"So tell me the rest," he urges.