Taken

Book 1: Give & Take

by Kelli Maine

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

ABDUCTION

He steals her away to a deserted island, to the one place she's dreamed of being-the one place she can't go. He's used to buying whatever he wants, but he can't buy her.

SEDUCTION

How can she resist the magnetism of his body, the longing ache deep inside her? She wants him to take her-on her terms.

DESPERATION

Every attempt he makes to love her only hurts her. How can they go on like this? This is the story of how she was . . .

TAKEN

Release date: December 18, 2012

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 384

Sample

My fingers shake as I log onto the video chat. I can’t believe I’ve made it this far into the interview process with Rocha Enterprises. This is my dream job, and a shot at being the project manager for the renovation of historic Turtle Tear Hotel working for a world-renowned company. It’s a bigger opportunity than I ever imagined I’d have.

I’ve researched Turtle Tear Island and the background of the hotel extensively. There’s no way anyone else is a better candidate for the position, and the fact that I made it this far—through the basic human resources interviews to an interview with the CEO himself—is proof of that.

I click my mouse to connect. I’m five minutes early, but my interviewer is already logged into the video chat. My palms become slick with sweat, and I wipe them on my pants.

“Hello, Ms. DeSalvo. I see you’re prepared to start early.”

Even with my cheap webcam displaying a grainy image, the warm smile greeting me from the screen should put me at ease, but I’m intimidated as all hell. Maybe it’s the deep voice that sends prickles of heat down my neck and flushes my cheeks, or the handsome, clean-shaven face. It could be the tidy, slicked back hair that makes this feel so intimidating and all too real.

This can’t possibly be real. I have to be dreaming.

The dark, piercing eyes on my monitor are most definitely dreamy.

What am I thinking? This is an interview with the CEO of Rocha Enterprises, not some dating website meet and greet. I have to pull myself together.

“Hello.” My voice cracks. I clear my throat, straighten my shoulders and smile. “I’m willing to bet I’m the most prepared applicant you’ve spoken to.”

There. I exude confidence.

My boasting is rewarded with the flicker of an eyebrow and a repressed smirk. “Is that so?”

Oh, that voice sends goose bumps crawling up my arms.

“Maybe you can tell me something I don’t know then. Go ahead and impress me, Ms. DeSalvo.”

My mind flashes through the dozens of facts I know about the property. Despite my staunch desire to remain professional, my over-eager libido rears its head when my interviewer rubs a long finger over a full bottom lip. Somehow, I find myself reciting the romantic love story of Turtle Tear’s founder and his wife instead of something more professionally relevant, like the ecological importance of preserving the integrity of the island.

“Did you know, Mr. Rocha, that Archibald Weston built the hotel to impress a woman?” I wait for a curious lift of the chin in response before I continue. “Mr. Weston was desperate to win the affections of Ingrid Burkhart. He convinced himself that building her a magnificent place to live would win her hand in marriage.

“Turtle Tear Island with its lush green trees and beautiful wild flowers seemed like the perfect place to build it. Archibald grew up in the area and paddled his canoe to the tranquil island every chance he had.” I stop to take a breath and to make sure I’m not droning on too long and losing my audience.

That long finger glides across those amazing lips again. Instantly, I imagine how soft and firm they would feel pressed against my own. Why does my webcam image have to be so awful? If I get this job, I’m buying one that displays in high def.

“You’re an excellent story-teller, Ms. DeSalvo.” A trace of humor mingles with the deep timbre. Could this be a trifecta? Wealthy, good looking and a sense of humor? “I’m entranced. Please, continue.”

“During the course of Archibald’s business ventures, he’d visited the Yucatan and been taken with the Hacienda-style cattle ranches in the region. Turtle Tear Hotel was modeled after a ranch where he’d stayed during one of his visits.”

“Is that so?” Those eyes and a strong jawline come closer to the screen.

My story is impressive. I’m nailing this interview.

“Yes, that is so. Anyway, he built Ingrid a grand hotel since the island is remote and he knew she would want friends and family to visit and stay. Once it was completed, he showed up on Ingrid’s doorstep, dropped to one knee and instead of proposing, presented her with the deed for Turtle Tear Hotel.”

I hear a low, exhaled, “Hmm…” and some shuffling of papers. My screen blurs with movement. “I’m just making notes. Please, go on.”

I take a deep breath and squeeze my hands together. The next part is my favorite.

“Archibald told her he’d put his blood, sweat, tears and entire heart into building the home where he wanted to spend the rest of his life, and since she owned his life, it was all hers to have. He only hoped she’d let him keep his soul, which was bound to hers for all eternity.”

“Wow. That’s an incredible declaration. He was a brave man.”

My heart pounds. I’m afraid it can be seen beating against my blouse on the other side of the small camera. “Yes. He was very brave and entirely selfless in his pursuit of Ingrid.”

“I assume she accepted since they were married?” The question comes through in a louder, more insistent tone that makes my speakers crackle. Something else to add to my wish list.

“Actually, no. She told him he needed her parents blessing if she was to return to Turtle Tear with him.” I clear my throat and can’t suppress a grin. “This is where the story gets really interesting.”

“It gets even better?” My grin is reflected back on a pair of delicious-looking lips framed by deep dimples on both sides. The image pixelates and freezes.

“Much.” I fiddle with my webcam cord trying in vain to get a better connection. “Archibald and Ingrid were the Romeo and Juliet of the Civil War. His family supplied sugar cane from their plantation to the Confederate troops. Ingrid’s family housed Confederate deserters. Even though it was August, 1865 and the war had ended, there was no way Ingrid’s parents were going to give Archibald their blessing to marry their daughter and take her away.”

“What did he do?”

Damn. I wish I could see the expression that accompanies the urgency conveyed in the tone of the question, but my screen is still frozen on that set of white teeth and pair of dimples. Not that I mind. I’m considering making it my new screensaver.

“He tried his best for months to convince her parents he was worthy of Ingrid, even offering to let them live at the hotel, too, but they wouldn’t budge. Finally, heartbroken with nothing left to lose, he climbed a ladder up to her window one night, broke in and whisked her away.

“Ingrid was furious at first, but when she got to Turtle Tear, it was love at first sight and she refused to ever leave the island again. It’s said that she’s buried there, but no grave marker has ever been found to confirm that fact.”

I sit back in my chair—mirroring your interviewer was a tip I acquired in an interview workshop—and wait for a response.

“That’s quite a big risk for the love of a woman. I supposed it paid off for him in the end. Would you agree, Ms. DeSalvo?”

“Yes. The lengths he went to just to win her over… I’m sorry. Ingrid and Archibald’s story always overwhelms me.” I put a hand to my chest and inhale deeply to catch my breath. “His grand, romantic gesture won him his wife and the home where he lived the rest of his life. I hope to work with your company to restore the property and hotel to its original style and design, to make it a place nobody would ever want to leave.”

“Something Archibald and Ingrid would be proud of?”

My chest fills with emotion that can’t be repressed. An enormous smile threatens to split my face in half. “I’d love nothing more, Mr. Rocha. Given the opportunity—”

“The opportunity is yours. I’ve never seen someone so passionate and knowledgeable about a rundown hotel on swamp land in the Everglades. I’d be a fool to entrust anyone less enthusiastic with this project. In fact, you’re the only one I’d trust it to. Nobody has proven themselves more deserving.”

The rest of the interview becomes a blur. A haze of details and names of H.R. personnel who will be in touch to discuss salary and relocation. My head is in the clouds. My dream realized.

I’m the newest project manager at Rocha Enterprises. The Turtle Tear renovation is mine!

Three months later…

The club is packed. Bodies grind together on the dance floor. There’s barely room to move. You catch my eye.

You’re alone.

Bass pounds through my body, rushes from my head to my toes, takes the same path your eyes follow. Your dark-eyed stare is flutter-soft on my skin. It raises goose bumps. Makes me flush. My vodka and cranberry-soaked blood runs hot with need.

You smile. Dimples pierce your cheeks. Your eyes flash. I can’t resist.

“Rach!” Shannon grabs my arm. She’s sweaty from dancing and pulls her blonde hair up off her shoulders. “I’m going.” She tilts her head toward Shawn or Shane or Seth—I’m not sure—the guy she met two hours ago.

“How am I supposed to get home?” She drove.

Shannon shoves her car keys in my hand. “See you in the morning.” She winks and pushes back through the crowd toward the guy whose name starts with an S.

When I turn from watching Shannon go, you’re standing right in front of me. “Hi,” you say. Familiarity strikes, but I don’t think I’d ever forget meeting you.

“Hi.” I fall into your dark eyes and can’t get out. They’re serious and focused on mine. Looking away would be a crime.

You run a hand through your wavy black-brown hair. Are you nervous? I can’t tell. “What were you drinking?” You tap my glass, empty except for melting ice.

“Vodka and cranberry.” I take in a thick, damp breath. Dancing bodies fog up the air, make it heavy to breathe.

You shake your beer bottle, indicating its emptiness. “I’m headed to the bar. Would you like another?”

I have to drive Shannon’s car home, but I don’t want to stop talking to you. I nod. “Please.” I’ll drink slowly. I’ll drive even slower.

I follow behind you, taking in the view of your incredible backside in jeans. A black long-sleeved shirt shifts with your strong, wide shoulders and hugs your narrow waist. You work out. A lot. The body I’m staring at didn’t come from luck and a good gene pool.

You glance back to make sure I’m following. When a group of people push between us, you reach out and take my hand. My fingers curl around yours like they’re possessed.

We reach the bar. You squeeze between two men. I stand back to wait while you order. I watch you reach into your pocket. A second later, you turn to me and hand me a glass.

“Thanks.” I take a deep drink, ignoring my self-promise to sip and make it last. Looking at you, I need all the courage this vodka is offering.

You sip your beer, watching me. An intense magnetism pulls between us. I’m sweating. I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand. The vodka is kicking in fast. I stumble sideways. You grip my arm.

“Feeling okay?” you ask.

The room spins and tilts. Black spots swim through my vision. “No. I need to sit.” My drink slips through my fingers and splatters on my bare leg.

“I’ve got you.” You put an arm around me and lead me toward the door. “You need some air.”

I’m blacking out and coming to, over and over again. This has never happened from three and a half vodka and cranberries before. “I need to get home.”

“I’ll take you,” you say.

“No. I…” The words won’t come. They buzz around in the darkness inside my mind searching for the light. I watch them break apart and fade.

You usher me through the parking lot. Open the door of a black car. Put me inside. “We’ll be home soon,” you say, buckling a seatbelt around my waist.

I try to grip the door handle to get out. My arm won’t move. My head lulls on my shoulder. The blackness narrows, leaving a small tunnel focused on the dashboard. Then it closes completely.

No more words.

No more light.

No more sound.

Just like that—I’m taken.

My eyelids are heavy, too heavy to lift. Light glows white behind them. I turn toward its source, and it gets even brighter. I crack my eyes open, peel their stickiness apart. Everything’s blurry. Light shoots through my head like an electric shock. I cringe and squeeze my eyes shut again.

My mouth is dry. My tongue, stuck to the roof, is limp and swollen. I swallow, but there’s no wetness to quench my thirst.

I open my eyes again, slowly this time, just narrow slits to get used to the light. There’s a window. All I see is sky, clear and blue. Where am I?

Panic surges through my chest and squeezes tight enough to make me gasp. I don’t remember anything—where am I? How did I get here?

I sit up. Ropes tie my hands to the bed. My heart rate speeds, my muscles quake, my eyes dart around the room and land on you.

“You’re awake,” you say, standing from a leather couch and thumbing a button on a remote to turn off the muted T.V.

I remember you. The club. The drink. “You put something in my drink.”

Quickly, I take stock of my clothes. Skirt—still on. Top—still on. Underwear, bra—both in place. My shoes are the only things missing.

“I didn’t touch you,” you say, coming to the side of the bed and pulling up a straight-back chair. I shift away as far as I can, press my shoulder against the cold windowpane. The bed sits higher than mine at home and it’s smaller, narrower. You lean forward and rest your elbows on the mattress.

We stare at one another. Your intense gaze is the same as the last time I saw it—when you drugged me. My chest heaves with the effort of breathing. My heart races. “Why am I tied to the bed?” My voice cracks.

You reach for a bottle of water on the nightstand, twist the cap off and hold it to my lips. “Drink.”

I shake my head and pull away. The ropes scratch and burn my wrists.

You smile. “There’s nothing in it. I promise.”

Your dimples make you look like a nice guy. You’re not a nice guy. “I want to go home.”

You run your finger underneath the rope and stroke my wrist. “You are home, Rachael.”

I try to pull away from you. “Don’t touch me!” Sobs roll up my throat and out my mouth. Tears gush from my eyes. “I want to go home!”

You sit back and prop your foot up on your opposite knee, thread your hands behind your head and watch me crumble. Your face is etched with remorse. You close your eyes—I want them open, want you to feel pain and guilt for what you’ve done to me.

Flames of rage dance in my belly, crackle and roar inside me. I dart for you, thrashing against the ropes. I will kill you. Tear you apart. “This is fun for you?” I curl my feet up underneath me and push against the ropes with my toes. “Let me go! Let me leave!” I manage to get my teeth on a rope and try to chew my way to freedom.

You reach out and grab my shoulders. “Stop. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

I lick blood from my torn, raw lips. My wrists bleed. I throw myself back onto the pillow and scream at the top of my lungs. I scream until my eyes throb, until my ears pop, until my voice is only a rasp.

You stand over me and stroke my hair back from my forehead. “Rest,” you say, and walk out of the room. I watch you leave hating myself for ever thinking your body was something I wanted.

Why did you take me? Is this human trafficking? Will you sell me as a prostitute, a sex slave? My chest aches, and my breath hitches and shakes. I have to keep it together and find a way out.

I run my eyes over the long, rectangular room. A nightstand sits beside the bed and the chair you sat in. At the end of the bed, a dresser is pushed against the wall. The couch and T.V. make up a sitting area on the opposite side of the room with a matching leather chair and a wood table between them. The ceiling is slanted. I’m held captive in an attic bedroom.

You didn’t close the door. I’m not locked in. If I could get the ropes untied… Does anyone know I’m missing? My phone. Where’s my phone? They can track me that way. Did you take it?

My mom will have a break down when they tell her I’m missing. My dad died last year. Her reaction to losing me to a job offer in Florida a few months ago was bad enough to keep me from taking it and leaving Ohio. She . . .