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gritted out.
    “The boy?” she repeated blankly.
    “Stephen Tucker Laughlin. Your son, Teresa. Where is he?”

Chapter Two
    Your son.
    The words stopped her cold. Stephen Tucker . . . ? Tucker? He meant Tucker? Her head swam. Tucker wasn’t her son. Her son was gone.
    He shook her hard. “You’re not going to faint,” he warned.
    No, she wasn’t going to faint. But was that the truth? She felt like she could faint.
    Teresa. He’d called her Teresa?
    “Where is he?” he demanded again.
    Her heart raced with fear. Her mind was dull and sluggish. With a feeling of unreality Callie stared at the man. There was a grimness of purpose around his mouth that chilled her blood. She tried to capture her scattered wits. “Who are you?” she managed to get out.
    “Make a guess.”
    “What? I can’t . . . I don’t think—”
    “Take a good, hard look.”
    Callie could do little else. His face, tanned to the color of teak, was within inches of hers. His eyes were bluer than her own, with thick, dark lashes and tiny white lines edging from the corners where the sun never reached. Dark hair framed a lean, savage face; she was certain his nose had been broken more than once. His mouth was wide and sensual and she thought a bit cruel; his jaw, firm and jutting, sported a dark growth of beard. He looked handsome, dangerous, and determined.
    And he scared the living shit out of her. “What—do you want?”
    “Show me the boy.”
    Did he mean Tucker? He must. His hand still held her left wrist. The grip was tight and hurting, and only the solid wall behind her back kept her on her feet. “I don’t know you.”
    “Not yet.”
    She didn’t like the implied threat in his tone. “I don’t know who you think I am, but you’re mistaken.”
    His fingers flexed and tightened on her wrist. “People tell me I look like Stephen. Personally, I’ve never thought there was much resemblance. What do you think?” He leaned in so close that she could see the individual hairs of the stubble on his chin.
    “Stephen . . . ?” His grip tightened but she was at a loss. “I don’t know any Stephen. You—you have to let me go.”
    “I have to?” he challenged.
    “When you realize the mistake you’ve made, you’ll . . .” Be sorry. That sounded so overly dramatic she couldn’t make herself say it. “Just let me go.”
    She realized belatedly that her free hand was still gripped around her carryall, as if her very life depended on it. Slowly she dropped it to the ground. If he was looking for Tucker, she wasn’t going to give him away. “I don’t know any boy.” She glanced down at the carryall, anything to keep from looking at him directly. “I have some cash with me—not much—maybe enough . . .”
    “Goddammit, Teresa.” He gave her another shake. “Do I have to drag it out of you?”
    “My name’s Callie. You’ve got me mixed up with someone else.”
    He swore tightly, beneath his breath, then grabbed her right wrist, too, pinning her flat against the wall. Both of her wrists were down by her waist but now he twisted up her left arm, pulling it forward until the bracelet Tucker had given her was at eye level between them.
    “What about this?” he asked, meaning the bracelet.
    Callie stared into his eyes with growing panic. All she could think about was Tucker and the bracelet. It was valuable. It must be! How had he gotten it? And how did this man know about it?
    She suddenly didn’t care what he wanted. She didn’t care who he was. But if he tried to steal Tucker’s bracelet from her he’d be in for the fight of his life. She’d rather die than let him take it from her.
    “Let go of me,” she said tautly, jerking at her left arm. But his grip was too strong, his fingers too tight around her wrist. She glared at him, matching his savagery with her own growing anger.
    “Looks like I struck a nerve,” he said with a smugness that infuriated Callie. “We both know where you got the