His to Take (Wicked Lovers #9)(24)
Author: Shayla Black

Before she could protest, he turned away to grab the chair from the desk and drag it in front of her. He plopped down and hoisted one foot on the bed frame, his big legs spread. “Tell me about the rest of your dream. Where does it start for you?”

She jerked her stare away from the faded denim between his thighs. “Always the same. I look down and find that my pink shirt is red for some weird reason. I know I need to leave the house. I’m not sure why but I’m convinced that I must be quiet. There’s something all over the walls. Paint . . . or blood. I don’t know. Anyway, I walk into the hall and head toward the door at the end, but the red stuff is around my feet, and I almost slip on it. It’s warm. Then when I reach the door, I realize it’s all over my hands. I start to panic. The wind blows the door open, then I’m outside.” She shrugged. “You know the rest.”

“You don’t see anyone else?”

“No.”

“Dead or alive?”

“No,” she reiterated.

He crossed his arms over his chest, stared at her for an unnerving moment, then rose and left the room. Bailey stared at the closed door with a frown. What had she said or done? Was he coming back?

Why was the thought that he might not upsetting?

Before she could puzzle that out, he returned with the folder of photos he’d brought earlier. He rifled through it until he came to one. Instead of simply sitting and handing it to her, Joaquin approached with caution. With care.

“I want you to look at this and tell me if anyone in this photo looks familiar to you.”

“If it will help . . .” She nodded.

Joaquin turned the photo in her direction and put it in her hands. When she looked down at the family, her immediate response felt like a punch to the gut. She couldn’t breathe. Felt faint. “Who are these people?”

As soon as the words left her mouth, she recognized Viktor Aslanov. The slight woman beside him with the graceful hands must be his wife. Bailey felt as if she’d seen that face before. On the news, maybe? Three children surrounded them. The oldest, a boy with dark hair. He looked about six. Beside him, a little girl with light brown hair smiled, flashing a row of straight baby teeth. In front sat a toddler who looked maybe two. She had a shock of platinum hair and something in common with her father—bright blue eyes.

“Are you trying to tell me you think the youngest one is me?” she asked Joaquin, surprised to find that her voice shook.

“Yeah. This picture was taken about three years before the Aslanovs died. A family member in Russia provided it to authorities shortly after the murders. The little one there . . . The shape of the eyes is the same as yours.”

True. Bailey wanted to argue that the hair color wasn’t the same, but hers had been much lighter in the pictures her parents had taken of her as a young girl. It had become progressively darker between about seven and puberty. She chewed on her lip.

“Does the toddler look familiar? Did your parents have any pictures of you at that age?”

“No. Our house burned down when I was—”

“Five?” he asked with a knowing stare.

She opened her mouth to answer, then slowly closed it as she exhaled. “Yeah.”

“Convenient, don’t you think? All your baby pictures were mysteriously lost? They didn’t ever send your snapshots to grandparents, aunts, uncles—anyone who could send copies back?”

“My mother said that she was estranged from her family, so she considered herself an orphan. My father was an only child whose own parents had passed away before I was born.”

“Not saying it’s impossible, just asking you to entertain the idea that they might not have been completely honest.” He stood and leaned over the photo, then pointed to Aslanov’s wife. “You look a lot like her.”

She’d noticed that and hadn’t wanted to even think it.

“Same build. Same hair color. Same lush mouth.”

Joaquin had noticed her mouth? Bailey’s gaze bounced up from the picture to his face. The hot stare was back. She licked her lips, and he followed her motion. He didn’t move or change expression, but she sensed his every muscle tightening. Suddenly, she had a hard time breathing.

God, she couldn’t be attracted to him, not after he’d taken her from her home without her consent. Not when her life was so up in the air. Not when she didn’t know for sure who she was.

Bailey jerked her stare back down to the woman. “What do you know about her?”

“Not much. I did some asking around this morning and got a few answers. Aleksandra Aslanov had been a ballerina for the Bolshoi before the fall of the USSR. She was lovely and lauded. She met Viktor after a performance. He was smitten. He came from an influential family, and she’d barely danced her way out of poverty. They married quickly. Based on timing, I’d say she was pregnant.