"What is this place - headquarters to some kind of government spy ring?" Dylan laughed, a bit nervously.
"You're not going to tell me you're part of a well-funded foreign terrorist cell, are you?"
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "No."
"No, you won't tell me, or no, you aren't a terrorist?"
"The less you know, the better, Dylan Alexander." The corner of his mouth lifted as he said it, then he shook his head. "Dylan. What kind of name is that for a female?"
She crossed her arms over her chest and shrugged. "Don't blame me, I had nothing to do with it. I happen to come from a long line of hippies, groupies, and tree-huggers." He just looked at her, those dark brows lowering over his eyes. He didn't get it, apparently. The reference seemed to go right past him, like he had never bothered with pop culture and probably had better things to do with his time. "My mom named me Dylan - you know, as in Bob Dylan? She was really into him around the time I was born. My brothers were named after musicians too: Morrison and Lennon."
"Ridiculous," her captor replied, scoffing under his breath.
"Well, it could be worse. We're talking the mid-seventies, after all. I had just as good a chance of being named Clapton or Garfunkel."
He didn't laugh, just held her in his piercing topaz gaze. "A name is no insignificant thing. It frames your world as a child, and it lasts forever. A name should mean something."
Dylan shot him a sardonic look. "This coming from a guy named Rio? Yeah, I heard your German friend call you that," she added when he pinned her with a narrowed gaze. "It doesn't seem that much better than Dylan, if you ask me."
"I didn't ask you. And that's not my name. Only a small portion of it."
"What's the rest of it?" she asked, genuinely curious, and not just because it seemed like a good idea to gather whatever information she could about this man who was holding her captive.
She looked at him - at his scarred, yet ruggedly attractive face, the powerful body contained within his expensive new clothes, and she wanted to know more. She wanted to know his name and all the rest of his secrets, which she was certain had to be plentiful. He was a mystery she wanted to solve, and she had to admit that interest had very little to do with the cave, her story, or even her own sense of self-preservation.
"I've gone through your computer files and e-mail," he told her, ignoring her question like she fully expected him to do. "I know you've sent the cave photos to several inpiduals, including your employer." He calmly rattled off the full names of her boss, Janet, Marie, Nancy, and her mom. "I'm sure we could find them with little effort, but this will go much faster if you give me their current addresses and places of employment."
"Forget it." Dylan bristled at the idea of her privacy being so casually invaded. Inappropriately intrigued by him or not, she was not about to unleash this man or his shady cohorts on anyone she knew. "If you have a problem with me, fine. But don't think I'm going to drag anyone else into this."
His face was grimly set, unflinching. "You already have."
Dylan's heart sank at the flat statement that seemed so calm, yet so ripe with threat. When she said nothing else, he got up out of the dainty chair. God, he was huge, every inch of him swathed in lean, powerful muscle.
"Now that you're awake," he said, "I'll see that you have something to eat."
"And give you the opportunity to drug my food? No thanks, I'd rather fast."
He exhaled a low chuckle. "I'll bring you some food. Whether or not you choose to eat it will be up to you."
Dylan hated that her stomach seemed to churn eagerly at the thought of eating. She didn't want to accept anything from this man or his associates, even if it meant starving to death in the process. But she was beyond hungry and she knew that even if he brought her a bowl of lumpy, ice-cold gruel she'd gratefully gobble it down.
"Don't get any ideas about leaving this room," he added. "The door will be locked from outside, and I'll know the instant you try anything. I think you know that you wouldn't get far before I caught you."
She did know that, in a place inside her that was all raw, animal instinct. This man, whoever he was, now held her completely at his mercy. Dylan didn't like it, but she was smart enough to know that whatever she was dealing with here was deadly serious. Like the woman in her, the journalist couldn't deny a certain fascination too, a need to know more - not only about what was truly going on, but also about the man himself.
About Rio.
"What, um...what happened to you...to your face?"
He threw a scowl at her, one that said of all her many questions, this one angered him the most. She didn't miss the way he turned his head slightly to the left, an almost unconscious move that helped to hide the worst of the damage. But Dylan had already seen the burn scars and pebbled skin. From the look of them, she guessed that they had to be combat wounds. Very grave, frontline combat wounds.
"I'm sorry," she said, although whether she meant she was sorry for asking or sorry for what he went through, she wasn't totally certain.
He reached up with his left hand and raked it through the thick hair at his temple, like he didn't care if she stared now. But it was too late for him to call back his initial self-conscious reflex, and no matter how darkly he glared at her, Dylan knew he was bothered by his condition.
And as he moved, she caught a glimpse of an intricate pattern of tattoos on his forearm. They peeked out on both arms from under the rolled sleeves of his shirt, quasi - tribal markings done in a unique, variegated color blend of pale scarlet and gold. On first glance, she thought maybe they were some kind of membership markings, like the kinds American gangs used to show their allegiance.