“What do you mean I beat you to it?”
He shrugged. “Like I said, do you think I brought you here for fun?” His smile fell away. “After tonight, you won’t have a boyfriend to come looking for Emmy. And I’ll make sure they both watch while I slice you from your center to your mouthy lips.”
Laine gaped. Hatred and fear battled together to stop her heart. She pressed her fingers to her throat, each breath a struggle.
He slammed the door shut.
It was a trap. And Roarke would walk right into it.
Laine lowered herself to the floor, curling her knees to her chest and letting her tears fall. By turning on the cell phone, she’d led Roarke right to them. She wanted to blame herself, but Cameron would’ve turned the phone on anyway.
There was no way to warn Roarke. She could only hope that he hadn’t picked up the signal or that he’d guess Cameron would try to ambush them.
She rocked gently on the floor, her chest tightening by the minute. After fifteen minutes of fighting off a panic attack, she’d lowered her heart rate to a less-dangerous level. At this point, she had to surrender. To know Ollie was looking out for them—for Roarke.
He wouldn’t let?—
The lock unsnapped, making Laine jump out of her skin. Self-preservation told her to close her eyes. The door creaked open, then shut quietly. Soft-soled shoes padded on the concrete floor.
“I know you’re awake.” The gentle male voice stirred something in her memory.
Slowly, she opened her eyes. A man stepped forward, and she immediately recognized him: the driver of the van. One of Cameron’s men.
Disgust singed the tip of her tongue. If she’d had an ounce more energy, she’d have hurled a fist at him, or at least some vile words.
When he was a few feet away from her, he stopped and crouched. His slow, careful movements whispered he wasn’t a threat, but common sense made her wary.
“What do you want?” The question came out on a croak.
He lifted a bottle of water. “I brought you something to drink. I saw that you attacked Cameron.” His tone held no reproach. “Amir stitched him. He’s resting. They both are.”
She bristled. “What do you want?” she repeated. If this was some kind of sick act, or he planned to assault her, she’d scream the walls down—even if it meant getting a bullet in her head.
His amber eyes searched her face. “I’m sorry he did that to you. If I’d known—” He shook his head and looked away.
Something about his face was kind. If there was any chance this man could be her ally and help her and Emmy escape, she had to take it.
“May I?” She reached for the water.
He quickly unscrewed the cap, then carefully helped her lift her head and brought the bottle to her lips. The cold liquid slid down her throat, soothing some of the agony and zapping some energy into her bones.
“Thank you.” She wiped her mouth with her fingers as he laid her head back down. “Why are you doing this?”
“My name’s Rayan.” His gaze lowered. His thick dark eyelashes accentuated his masculine bone structure. When his eyes met hers again, unspoken anger flared in his warm irises. “My sister was Fatima.”
Laine gasped. Carefully, she pushed herself into a sitting position. The water in her stomach turned with the movement, threatening to eject itself from her mouth.
Fatima’s brother . . .
Cameron’s sweet wife rushed into her mind—along with the moment Cameron had pulled the trigger.
“I-I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
His balled fist balanced on the concrete floor. “I was told she’d died during a carjacking. That she’d been killed by one of Cameron’s enemies.” He shook his head, and the corners of his mouth turned down.
“I heard you in the car. You said, ‘How could I possibly trust you after Fatima?’” His voice wobbled.
Laine’s muscles bunched. She couldn’t think of a worse way to find out a sibling had been murdered. Tears filled her eyes. “Fatima was wonderful. She was very kind to us and never made us feel unwelcome.” She sniffed, wiping her eyes.
