Sprawled across his cot, Owen Filgard stared at Snooki mending her web in the upper corner of his cell. She joined Vinnie the cockroach and Pauly the beetle, his arthropod mob.

The only reason he knew arthropods included insects and arachnids came from watching hours of JEOPARDY! Loneliness of solitary confinement forced him to entertain himself in creative ways. The mental gymnastics helped him hang onto his sanity, what little remained.

He didn't know what day or time it was or even where he was. Afghanistan? Pakistan? Iran? The last snatch-and-grab mission sent his platoon to the scariest little corner of the world, where the three borders met.

After months of planning, long days and nights of surveillance, things had gone sideways. Unable to remember much, he racked his brain for details. He only recalled the night of his capture, when the blast knocked him unconscious. No way to tell how many days had passed. When he came to, he was here. In an ill-constructed hut, with a cot, a bucket, a door, and a pair of windows too high and small for any chance of escape.

In the short time he spent outside, he'd seen three other prisoners, but they were so far away, he couldn't make out any distinguishing characteristics. Like him, they looked well-fed, even if the food wasn't much better than slop. The captors needed their prey healthy for the psychological game of hide-and-seek. Bind his hands and give him a thirty-minute head start. With nothing but desert sands, and his bum leg, tracking was a cinch. No place to hide. Once captured, a beating followed.

His kidnappers lacked ingenuity.

He sat upright, swung his feet to the floor, and buried his face in his hands. The snap and crack of leather haunted his sleep.  Without a mirror, he had no way to see the crisscrossing wounds on his back.

The foul stench of breakfast burning assaulted his nose. Same thing every day. Greasy bread with overboiled curry and chickpeas. A heap of plain rice for lunch, and more mushy peas for supper. At first, the constant diet of lard and spices brought on a serious case of the runs, but eventually, his body adjusted.

He stood and moved to the thin ray of light seeping into the room. Lifting his shirt, he checked the bruising on his stomach and ribs. Fading some. Whoever the hell these people were, would soon come again. They weren't soldiers. No uniforms. No apparent order of rank. They appeared to be local villagers with weapons confiscated from hostages.

There had been no questioning, not that it would be fruitful. He didn't speak their language. No interrogation was a bad omen. If they had no military interest, where would this end? Worst case scenario, they'd tire of the game, kill the captives, and toss the bodies in the desert to rot.

Hopefully, the Army would send a rescue team before that happened. Or would they? If he was right, and these guerillas weren't politically motivated, would special forces even know where to look? If all three countries denied accountability and pointed the finger at one another... The thought pulled him up short. What if this country's government was unaware these people kept prisoners?

He stumbled back to the bed and collapsed onto it. Bone-tired, head throbbing, and his back on fire, he tried to stay positive. With drones and satellites, he'd be found soon. But what if—it always came back to if—the biggest word in his vocabulary. If he'd only had time to activate his beacon, he'd already be out of here. And, if they were homespun terrorists or guerrillas having made no demands, then what? Finding him and the others would be like searching for diamonds in the desert. Over 300,000 square miles.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. What he'd give for one night of good sleep. Impossible in this place. He never knew when his cell door would fly open so they could drag him outside to play again.

He thought of Silbie. If he concentrated hard, shut out everything else, he could almost smell her perfume. Taste her lips. Hear her repeat his name in that breathy, soft whisper he loved so much. He missed her. If he ever got out of this hellhole, she would be waiting just like she promised, and he'd take her in his arms and never let go.

Silbie turned off her phone and dropped it onto the comforter. So many emotions churned in her brain she couldn't sort them out. She didn't know which hurt more. Her stepfather keeping the secret—fear of the unknown—or the one person she'd always depended on for the truth, her mom, who lied by omission. Maybe Parkers Prairie wasn't so different from LA.

She wanted to cry. If someone really could drown in tears, once her's broke free, she'd surely die.

Sadness gave way to anger. Mom and Matthew knew about Owen for three months and not only had they not told anyone, and done nothing! That wasn't right. There should be phone calls, letters, visits with government officials. Had they done any of that? No. They'd sat back and waited. For what? A death notification? An image of a Casualty Notification Officer knocking on the door came unbidden.

The bedroom door creaked open and Maia poked her head inside. "Can I get you anything? Water? Tea? Whiskey?"

Silbie couldn't help but smile and briefly consider that drink. Anything to numb the pain. "No, I'm okay. Thanks for letting me barge in. I couldn't stay at Mom's. I'm so upset with her, I was afraid I'd say mean, hurtful things I couldn't take back."

Maia leaned against the jamb. "I understand. Tomorrow, you'll feel better. You know, once the shock passes."

Silbie sat up in bed, letting her feet dangle over the side. "See, that's just it. I don't want to feel better. I want to stay pissed. Let my anger fuel me to do something. Everybody else is complacent. I need to talk to someone about finding him."

"Like who?"

She raked her hand over the covers for her cell. "I have no idea. I tried researching it, and it's so confusing. We have the Secretary of Defense, Under Secretary of Defense, Principal Deputy of Defense, Defense Prisoner of War office, and the list goes on and on. I'm not sure where to start because we aren't in a war. It might even fall under the Secretary of State. She handles foreign affairs, and Owen is in another country."

"Can civilians just call government officials?"

"Maybe. I have my agent checking it." Silbie pressed her fingertips to her temples. Her head pounded like it might explode. "All I know is—I can't sit back and do nothing."

Maia sat beside her, then put her arm around Silbie's shoulders.

Silbie sighed. "I know what you're thinking, and it isn't true. If he were dead, I'd feel it."

"No, that isn't it. I wish there was something I could do to help."

"There is. Reconsider my offer." Silbie wanted to tell her not to hang all of her hopes and dreams on a guy who described their relationship as casual. But that would hurt Maia.

She patted Silbie like a doting grandmother. "If you'd asked a few months ago, I would have jumped at the chance. But I can't be that far away from Dante. It's bad enough he's in Dallas, and I'm here. I don't want to just let this relationship die before I've given it a chance."

Silbie decided not to press the matter. Maia had her mind made up and apparently her future planned. Silbie hoped it worked out, but after talking to Dante, she didn't think that would happen, and it wasn't her place to get in the middle of it.

Maia rose and strode to the doorway, then turned back. "Dante said he'd come by after his dinner with Bea. I wonder how that's going?"

Silbie glanced at the time on her phone. "It's seven o'clock. They're just getting started. But I'll make myself scarce when he gets here."

"Well, I'm starving. You up for pizza?"

The minute Silbie had gotten the news about Owen, she'd lost her appetite. But that was no reason to be rude. "Sure."

Dante stood in front of the sink staring at his reflection. Even with the news of Owen weighing on him, the evening was turning out better than he'd imagined. Somehow, Bea had a way of easing those concerns.

Bea spared no expense. She'd flown Chef Enzo Lemaux from some fancy-schmancy Paris restaurant all the way to Peepee, Texas. Dante figured the amount she'd shelled out for the shindig was enough to solve his financial woes. Too bad he couldn't have negotiated a deal to take cash and opt out for burgers and fries.

He leaned in close to the mirror, ran his fingers through his hair, then washed his hands. The biggest surprise was his hostess. Quite a looker for her age. Probably spent thousands on plastic surgery, an investment well worth it. A tall and toned brunette with dark brown eyes, a near dead ringer for Sandra Bullock. Bea was articulate, clever, and often witty.

Dante hadn't come up with a subject she couldn't discuss. And she let him carry the conversation. Not once did she complain. Usually, the women he dated groaned about something. Job. Exercise. Exes. This had been refreshing.

He strolled back into the living area.

Bea sat on the sofa across from a stone fireplace where flames crackled and spit.

"I enjoyed tonight," he said.

She smiled and picked up a fat folder from the coffee table. "Me, too. Before you go, I have something I'd like to discuss."

The tone of her voice caught him off guard. He eyed the file. "Okay."

She motioned toward the chair to her right, and he dropped into it. His mind raced. Hell, he hoped this wasn't some kind of sex for hire offer. Not that she'd be a bad lay. Hell, if she were twenty years younger, he'd be trying to get into her pants. What was he thinking? She was loaded and could have all the male model Sugar Babies she wanted.

"I understand your firm's in financial trouble."

Her statement startled him. "How do you know that?"

"Please don't be offended. I invited you into my home. I wanted to know more about you."

He bristled at the thought of her checking into his personal shit. It was dinner. Did she think he'd steal her jewelry? Now that she knew about his finances, she'd probably expected that he'd be one of those Bad Hombre's that the Orange Overlord warned about. "You could have saved yourself the trouble and asked."

She took a breath. "You are upset. I'm sorry. If it's any consolation, I'm impressed with what I found."

The compliment—flattering and offensive. "I'm not sure what this conversation is about."

Another breath. This time deeper as if what she was about to say made her nervous. Weird. From the looks of the house, furnishings, and about a gazillion carats glittering her body, she could buy and sell him a thousand times over. No way she should be intimidated.

"I have a proposal."

Holy. Fucking. Hell. She was about to offer him a loan because she'd been impressed with his work ethic. He'd done some research of his own and learned real estate was how her husband had made a big chunk of his fortune.

Dante kept his poker face. No need to let her see his insides were doing a happy dance. There was a God and He'd answered Dante's prayers. This meant everything.  With Bea as his benefactor, she'd send rich clients his way.

"I'm listening."

She straightened. "I'm willing to give you enough money to get your business operating in the black again and personally pay you a hundred thousand dollars—to marry me."

Whowouldathunk. How's that for popping the question.

TEASER: "I can help you find him."