I'll Find You Part 2

"I have to?" he challenged.

"When you realize the mistake you've made, you'll . . ." Be sorry. That sounded so overly dramatic she couldn't make herself say it. "Just let me go."

She realized belatedly that her free hand was still gripped around her carryall, as if her very life depended on it. Slowly she dropped it to the ground. If he was looking for Tucker, she wasn't going to give him away. "I don't know any boy." She glanced down at the carryall, anything to keep from looking at him directly. "I have some cash with me-not much-maybe enough . . ."

"G.o.ddammit, Teresa." He gave her another shake. "Do I have to drag it out of you?"

"My name's Callie. You've got me mixed up with someone else."

He swore tightly, beneath his breath, then grabbed her right wrist, too, pinning her flat against the wall. Both of her wrists were down by her waist but now he twisted up her left arm, pulling it forward until the bracelet Tucker had given her was at eye level between them.

"What about this?" he asked, meaning the bracelet.

Callie stared into his eyes with growing panic. All she could think about was Tucker and the bracelet. It was valuable. It must be! How had he gotten it? And how did this man know about it?

She suddenly didn't care what he wanted. She didn't care who he was. But if he tried to steal Tucker's bracelet from her he'd be in for the fight of his life. She'd rather die than let him take it from her.

"Let go of me," she said tautly, jerking at her left arm. But his grip was too strong, his fingers too tight around her wrist. She glared at him, matching his savagery with her own growing anger.

"Looks like I struck a nerve," he said with a smugness that infuriated Callie. "We both know where you got the bracelet."

"Yeah?"

He nodded.

"Well, if you know how I got it, you're a mind reader."

"Stephen gave it to you."

"No." But uncertainty flickered through her. Stephen Tucker Laughlin. That's who he'd said he was looking for.

"Or you stole it from him," he added easily. "Victoria probably gave you too much of a pa.s.s on that one."

Is Tucker this Stephen Tucker Laughlin he's looking for?

"Who are you?" she asked.

"The black sheep of the family. If you try hard enough, I'm sure you'll figure it out."

He clearly thought she was someone else, and she already understood she wouldn't be able to convince him of that fact. And he also wasn't going to listen to her, no matter what she said. It was insane and she felt panic rise inside her.

She hauled back and kicked him as hard as she could, connecting with his s.h.i.+n. He cursed viciously but didn't release her. Callie tried to kick another time but suddenly she was slammed hard against the wall again. The air shot from her lungs and she inhaled like she was starved for air. His full weight was pressed against her.

"I'm not Teresa," Callie gasped. "In my wallet . . . my identification . . . you'll see."

"Shut up," he growled furiously. "I know you. So help me, before this is over you're going to know me, too."

"It's a mistake . . . it's a mistake."

She could hear the hard pounding of his heart as if it were in her own ears. Her own pulse beat in rapid tandem. She hadn't been this close to a man since Jonathan. Hadn't wanted to be. The bizarre events that had led to this encounter only added to the intensity.

A scream rose in her throat, but as if he sensed it his grip changed and one hand pushed down on her collarbone, the fingers lightly creeping toward her throat.

"Don't," he said softly.

"You're scaring me." Tears built behind her eyes.

"That's the idea," he muttered grimly.

A sound caught their attention. At the north end of the alleyway, two young men were just entering.

Thank G.o.d. Callie could have wept with joy. Salvation was at hand.

But then she met the eyes of her captor and they read each other's mind at the same moment, Callie gauging just when to cry for help, her attacker wondering how to silence her.

She opened her mouth, but her cry was extinguished as his mouth suddenly descended on hers, grinding down on her, cutting off her breath. As a kiss it left a lot to be desired, but as a means of keeping her quiet it was quite effective. She made choking sounds that could have meant anything, and though she tried to push him away she was helpless against his weight and the surprise of his unexpected maneuver.

She pounded on his back but he was impervious to the action. The fingers of his right hand held her face a prisoner.

There was no pa.s.sion in the kiss, just a steely determination that Callie found more frightening than anything he'd done so far. He loathed what he was doing; she could feel it in the tight, unyielding contours of his lips, the tense hostility that radiated from every pore. If this was the way he felt about the mysterious Teresa, Callie found herself glad she wasn't in the other woman's shoes.

Except she was-sort of. At least he thought she was.

Teresa . . . Jonathan had called her Teresa the first time they met . . . that was the name, wasn't it? Or had it been Marissa . . . ?

The missing piece dancing outside her memory floated within reach. Something about Teresa? Immediately it slid out of reach again.

One of his hands was wound in her hair and her head was trapped. The two teenagers whistled as they walked by. Callie wondered if she twisted, flailed, and sought escape, they would even consider she was a woman in trouble. She was aware of how much this kiss might look like an act of pa.s.sion.

As soon as the young men were out of earshot, Callie's captor released her lips as if she burned his touch.

"Don't," he warned.

"I wasn't going to do anything." Actually, she'd been thinking about slapping him and letting loose a bloodcurdling scream at the same time. Instinct warned her against antagonizing him further, however. This man was no ordinary hoodlum. And by his accent he was obviously American, like herself. He truly believed he'd found Teresa. If he would just give her a chance to explain, maybe he would leave her alone. He wasn't a threat to Callie Cantrell, so it was better . . . smarter . . . to play along.

"Where's the boy?" he asked again. "Tell me."

She knew with bone-deep certainty now that he meant Tucker. Had to be. There were only so many coincidences she could believe in. Had Tucker, or this Teresa person, stolen the bracelet from him? Was that it? Not that she gave a d.a.m.n, but she wasn't going to reveal anything to him that might put Tucker in danger.

"Listen to me. Just listen," she added tautly when she saw more impatience cross his face. "I'm not Teresa, whoever she is. I'm Callie, Callie Cant-" She cut herself off at the last minute, realizing it wasn't beyond probability that he knew exactly who she was and that this whole scenario was an act. She was, after all, Jonathan Cantrell's widow, and though Jonathan had run through a substantial portion of the Cantrell fortune, this man might not know that. In essence, she was the heir of what remained and maybe he knew that, too.

Is this what you can't remember? she asked herself. Is this what Jonathan was hiding? "I'm not Teresa," she said again, firmly. "I don't know you, and I really resent the way you've accosted me. I'm a tourist. On vacation. That's all. Now, get the h.e.l.l away from me."

"You're not Teresa."

She shook her head.

"You just happen to be wearing a Laughlin family heirloom."

The bracelet burned on her arm. "I don't know about that."

"You don't?"

"No," she said firmly.

"If I didn't have the evidence that said otherwise, I might even believe you."

"You're lying. You won't believe me no matter what I say."

He looked faintly surprised by her challenge. "You got me there."

"Look at my identification, for G.o.d's sake!" she demanded, throwing caution to the wind. If he was really after Cantrell money, no amount of lying about who she was could save her now. "My wallet's in my bag."

"Fake identification's not beyond your capabilities."

"Oh, please."

"I'll look at it when we get to your place."

"My place?"

He'd been looking in the direction the teenagers had taken, as if considering where to go from here. Now his dark head turned back to her. "Your place."

"We're not going to my place," she stated firmly. "I'm not who you think I am."

"I know who you are," he ground back at her again.

Callie realized there was nothing she could say. This stranger was convinced she was someone else. He truly believed she was this Teresa person and he wasn't going to listen to reason. What the h.e.l.l was she supposed to do?

What if Tucker is waiting for you?

"You're crazy," she whispered.

"Take me to the boy and I'll go away."

His grip had weakened slightly after the kiss. Callie pretended to consider his demand, inwardly counting her own heartbeats. She twisted from his grasp and jumped away in one swift movement, racing for the end of the alley with all her might.

One thought in her mind: Run!

She could feel him gaining on her as the wind streaked past her ears. She felt fingertips brush her back and she leapt forward, cras.h.i.+ng down on one unsteady ankle. Her sandal caught a cobblestone and she flew forward.

Her face hit the ground and her chin jarred with the impact. She saw stars and for one, wild moment prayed she could be hurt, at least rendered unconscious.

Except he would probably just pick her up and kidnap her.

He was beside her in a moment, turning her over gently. She groaned and closed her own eyes against the concerned blue eyes that seemed to peer into her soul.

"d.a.m.n it, Teresa. G.o.ddammit." He expelled his breath and she felt it on her throat. "For chrissakes, just stop. You can't just run away with Tucker."

"You're going to be so sorry." She didn't open her eyes, but there was steel in her unsteady voice.

"I'm going to stick to you like glue until you give him up. Where is he? Tell me, and I'll let you go."

Callie was unable to answer him. She realized she was losing her fear of him. He wanted Tucker. Keeping her eyes squeezed shut, she thought of a dozen responses that continually boiled down to the one that finally pa.s.sed her lips, "Screw you."

He hauled her back up as if she were weightless. Then he half-carried her toward the end of the alley. She toyed with the idea of making another break for it, but she was seized by a wave of dizziness.

"You okay?" he asked tautly, the words dragged out of him as he set her on her feet.

"No." She was hanging on to him as if her life depended on it, her fingers clenched into the fabric of his s.h.i.+rt.

"It's reaction," he said when she couldn't continue.

b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

They stood there a moment. Callie could hear her stuttered breathing and feel his anger and indecision.

"Just stand here a minute and don't talk," he said. "You'll be all right."

She snorted in disbelief. Who was he kidding? She didn't think she'd ever be all right again.

Her head slowly cleared and she abruptly let go of his support. When she did, his arms dropped away from her with undisguised relief, though he kept a hard eye on her. Callie felt a p.r.i.c.kle of annoyance. She hadn't asked for this; he'd forced it on her. And if he found touching her so offensive he shouldn't have accosted her in the first place.

He was warily watching her, probably wondering if she would run, fall, attack him, or G.o.d knew what.

Reaction was indeed setting in-only it wasn't reaction from the fall, it was reaction to the whole situation-to him, to everything. Callie leaned a trembling palm against the wall of her apartment building. "Leave me alone," she rasped out. "I don't know what you're talking about . . . and you hurt me."

For the first time she witnessed some uncertainty in his expression. "You kicked me and-"

"You hurt me," she repeated on a hiccup. For good measure she leaned her cheek against the hot wall and closed her eyes. She could feel her body tremble and she added a little stuttering intake of breath, hoping he felt terrible.

"Aww h.e.l.l," he muttered. Then, "Don't try to run away again."

"I'll be lucky to walk with the aid of a cane," she said, working up to tears. If she could just squeeze out a few maybe he'd realize what he'd done to her, how much he'd scared her.

There was definitely a hesitation. Good. She wanted him to think she was worse than she was. And he had scared her. And her jaw and head hurt and her knee was sc.r.a.ped, and that was his fault too. Her eyes burned and tears reached her lashes.

"I know your games," he said. "Stephen told me. Victoria said something too."

"I thought you were looking for Stephen."

"Not the boy." He sounded like he was holding on to his patience with an effort. "Stephen. Your husband."

She cracked open an eye and saw that he was watching a tear slide down her cheek. "My husband?"

He met her gaze. "Man, your act is getting old."

"Just leave me alone."