driver tugged down his mask and lit a cigarette. “Are you fucking your bodyguard, princess?”
“Leave her alone,” Owen said.
“I didn’t ask you, rent-a-cop. I asked her.”
Penny said nothing.
The driver looked in his rearview mirror, as if searching for the answer on her face. “They’re not fucking,” he said, taking another drag. “He probably wants to fuck her, but she’s too much of a daddy’s girl to let him.”
She tried not to flinch at the insult, which hit pretty close to home. The only men she’d gone out with since Tyler had been family-approved. Young Republicans from L.A.’s Hispanic Conservative Coalition didn’t count as real dates, either. Penny and her sisters attended a lot of events on her father’s behalf. She put on a pretty dress and smiled politely. None of her dance partners compared to Owen.
Even if Owen had been interested, her father wouldn’t approve of her dating an ex-convict. Especially not during the campaign. The media already scrutinized her choices, which reflected poorly on her parents. She’d shamed them by getting pregnant at seventeen. She also felt somewhat responsible for her aunt’s death. If she hadn’t taken Penny in, she’d still be alive. They’d been on the way to a doctor’s appointment when the earthquake struck.
Penny wasn’t deeply religious, but she loved her family. Her parents had been wonderful with Cruz. In return, she’d given up some personal freedoms. She didn’t have time for a serious relationship, anyway. Being single was part of her penance.
She snuck another peek at Owen, studying the pale tattoo scar on his neck. She’d often imagined putting her lips there and kissing away the hurt. Now the mark stood out in harsh relief against his flushed skin. Was he angry or embarrassed? If the driver’s words rang true for him, she wouldn’t have guessed it from his behavior. He never let his gaze linger on her body, never touched her for no reason.
Their trip through the desert ended at the mouth of a shallow, wind-carved canyon. The protected nook was surrounded by nondescript rock formations and covered with camouflaged netting. A trio of tents loomed in the shadows.
Penny counted three more men around a campfire. Most wore caps or beanies. Cowboy-style handkerchiefs shielded the lower halves of their faces.
The driver exited the vehicle, opening the door for Penny. It was difficult for her to maneuver with Cruz in her arms, but she managed. Dirk dragged Owen from the backseat and pushed him toward the campfire while the driver led Penny to one of the tents. She carried Cruz inside and laid him down on a soft blanket. As soon as he was settled, her captor gestured for her to come back out.
His crew gathered in a half circle around her. Although men had stared at her before, she’d never felt this vulnerable, not even in a boisterous crowd. Public reactions ranged from respectful comments to rude catcalls and blatant groping attempts. Owen had a hard elbow for the most aggressive types.
These men were more dangerous than a group of rowdy extremists. And Owen couldn’t help her if they got aggressive.
“Search her,” the driver said to one of the men. “And take her shoes.”
This order created a stir of excitement in the circle. Owen strained against Dirk’s hold, as if he wanted to kick and head-butt and body-slam everyone around him. His nostrils flared as a heavyset man in a fishing vest stepped forward.
Penny knew she couldn’t struggle. Triggering Owen’s protective instincts might prove fatal for him. If the kidnappers wanted to get paid, they had plenty of incentive to keep her and Cruz alive. Owen was dispensable.
She turned her head to the side, enduring the stranger’s touch. Her dress was thin and insubstantial, hiding nothing but expensive lingerie. He skimmed his hands along her curves quickly. His friends seemed disappointed when he did a perfunctory job instead of sexually harassing her.
“What a waste,” Dirk said.
“I don’t think Gardener has a dick.”
“Just a gunt,” another man said, and they all laughed.
Penny could only guess what that word meant. She removed her strappy high heels and handed them over, her mouth thin. They were worth a small fortune, but useless here. She couldn’t walk a quarter mile across the desert in those shoes. Barefoot, she’d encounter burrs and cactus needles in the first ten steps.
The leader gestured for her to go back in the tent, satisfied. “Make sure she stays there,” he told Gardener, who sat down on a crate nearby. He zipped up the opening, blocking her view of the men outside.
She curled up next to Cruz and hugged her arms around her middle. The tent appeared large enough for three people, at most. There were two blankets inside. She started to tremble from stress, rather than cold. Now that the men couldn’t see her, she had no reason to hold her emotions inside. Her face crumpled, and tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. She broke down in muffled sobs, her hand clapped over her mouth.
Someone switched on the radio in the SUV, settling for a Spanish-language station. She wiped her cheeks, listening. There might not be anything else available this close to the border, but she doubted these men enjoyed Norteño music.
They didn’t want her to hear them.
She scrambled toward the front of the tent and lay flat on her belly. Unzipping a tiny opening at the corner, she peered through it. Owen was on the opposite side of the campfire. His wrists were still cuffed behind his back. The leader stood before him, smoking. His body language conveyed a challenge.
Owen shook his head, denying whatever he asked for.
The man flicked away his cigarette and stepped forward. Cuffing his hand around Owen’s neck, he drew back his fist and punched him in the stomach. Owen doubled over, coughing.
Penny bit the edge of her fist to smother her scream.
* * *
PAIN SPREAD THROUGH Owen’s midsection, settling like a ball of lead in his gut.
Although the blow wasn’t unexpected, it hurt. It always hurt when his brother hit him. From a very young age, Shane had used brute force and intimidation to get what he wanted. He’d been violent and impulsive, quick to snap.
Owen had dismissed most of their childhood rumbles as sibling rivalry, fueled by testosterone and an extra dose of dysfunction. Boys were supposed to be physical. The toxic environment they’d been raised in had exacerbated the problem. Their father had instigated fights between them, encouraging Shane to attack weakness.
Back then, Owen hadn’t stood up to either of them. He was younger than Shane, and nowhere near as aggressive. He’d never understood the appeal of hurting someone he loved. He preferred to run, hide and avoid conflict.
Now they were both adults and closer in size. He was handcuffed and at Shane’s mercy, but he refused to cower. Owen might have a chance against Shane, one-on-one. He wasn’t a scared, skinny kid anymore.
“Is that all you’ve got?” he wheezed.
Shane’s eyes widened with disbelief. Instead of sucker punching him again, Shane squeezed the nape of his neck and let go, chuckling. “You’ve grown up, little brother.”
