Solitary days spent drenched in sweat and frigid nights trembling in a cot left Owen feeling hopeless at times. Still, he made good use of the last forty-eight hours doing pushups, sit-ups and jumping jacks while mulling over ways to escape. The exercise only made his leg hurt worse, but he figured it was good for it. At least the make-shift splint was gone.

Snooki warned against his plans. But what did a spider know? Easy for her to judge. She could crawl out anytime she wanted but seemed content working her web or dangling by a silk thread.

"Let's review Plan A again. Dig a shallow grave, bury myself up to my neck, wait for them to pass, then shoot out in the opposite direction."

What about food? Water?

"Good point. Maybe instead, I'll come back here."

I have to put the quietus on that, too. What's the point other than pissing them off? You got a death wish?

He hated to admit it, but she was right again. "Okay, what about Plan C? Same setup but this time, I'll sneak to where the other prisoners are kept. Maybe they have answers to my questions. Or a strategy of their own."

Even if he didn't make it back to his cell before being caught, it was worth the risk. The minute he gave up, it was all over. Doing nothing meant imminent death. Strong winds made the frigid nights even more biting as his fingers and toes numbed. His hands and feet throbbed from cracking and the bitter taste of blood from splitting lips lingered in his mouth.

Boohoo. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. If you're serious about your alphabet ideas, you need to buck up and be ready. It's been three days, and it's getting dark. They'll come soon.

Owen trained his eyes on Snooki. "You sound just like my sister. Why don't you make yourself useful? Go crawl around and dig up some Intel. Like who are these people, and what do they want?"

I'd like your sister. Zari, right? Funny name, but if I sound like her, then it fits. We just call'em like we see'em. And what about that girlfriend of yours? Silbie? What kind of name is that?

"It's unique. Her name fits her. She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

Okay. Okay. No need to pitch a hissy fit.

His emotions spiraled at the thought of never seeing Silbie again. Add the solitary days drenched in sweat and frigid nights trembling in a cot left Owen feeling hopeless. Maybe he should just bury himself completely and be done with it.

Hold up there, cowboy. That's crazy talk.

He pressed the heels of his hands against his temples.

The door swung open and his tormentors stood armed and smirking, ready to play. Three this time, pointing G3 rifles at him. One with a stump of an arm smiled, showing a definite need for dental work.

They led him through the maze of shanties to the outskirts of the village where nothing but barren desert stretched before him.

Someone jabbed a gun into the small of Owen's back and pushed him forward. Making the most of his head start, he ran until the darkness swallowed him. Now was his chance. He fell to his knees and shoveled with his hands. When the trough was deep enough to lay in, he raked sand over his body, leaving only his face exposed.

Several minutes passed before voices waned in and out, then faded at last. He rose from his grave and tore out toward the village. Staying in the shadows and bending low, he hurried until he reached the area where he'd seen the other prisoners.

Blood raced through his veins. Fear pounded in his ears as he crept to the rear of each shack and turned an ear. Babies cried and children laughed. He moved on. A woman sang. Dishes clanked. A man spoke. He hurried along. The full moon swept from behind a cloud like a spotlight. He pressed his body flat against the hut, then sprinted to the next, pausing only long enough to rule it out as a holding cell.

The last two dwellings came into view. He dug in his heels, then crouched beneath the window of the first. Inside, a man repeated the Lord's Prayer.

Owen straightened to his full height. "Psst."

The voice fell silent.

"I'm Sergeant Owen Filgard with the 372nd Support Battalion. Where are we? Why are they holding us?"

"God, it's good to hear an American voice. Sam Fields."

"Battalion?"

"No. I'm just a travel writer from Chicago."

Owen shifted, keeping a sharp eye out for movement. "I only have a minute. What do you know?"

"Only picked up bits and pieces. They want money. A ransom."

"Where are we?"

"Some shitty province in Iran. A village called Tiz'eh. How'd you get free?"

When Owen finished briefing him, a noise startled him. "What about the other two guys?"

"Gone. No idea what happened."

Owen's gut sank. "I gotta go. Keep your ears open. Try to find out if a ransom was paid. Who they were. Anything that might be useful. I'll try to come back the next time they let me out."

Adrenaline fired every synapse and sent him running. Before long, he was back in the desert crawling. Thankfully, the moon had retreated again and forced the wasteland into bitter darkness.

Until now, the caper had kept his mind off the falling temperatures. But with his mission complete, his strength gave way as freezing winds slapped his skin.

A beam of light swept over his body, and the hunters surrounded him. They looped a rope around his waist and dragged him back to camp. The rope cut into his ribs. He pressed his lips tight and his eyes shut to keep them from filling with sand. His nose was a different story. Grit filled his nostrils and he struggled for breath.

He prayed the beating would come soon while he was still numb.

When Bea mentioned getting Dante a suit, he immediately thought mall. How stupid of him. Apparently, rich people didn't do shopping centers. They arranged private fittings around a trifold mirror.

He eyed the rack of Armani suits and the tailor waiting to take his measurements. Dante never dreamed of a career in fashion, but Bea wanted final approval so he strutted with his impersonation of a Chippendale dancer.

She laughed herself silly, and he liked that. With what her future held, she needed as many lighthearted moments as he could give her. And as crazy as their agreement was, making her happy in the short time they'd have together was important to him.

Three-thousand-dollars for a suit blew his mind. Bea didn't even blink. She thought he looked so handsome, she bought two. While the tailor marked the alterations, she went into the other room to make phone calls. When she returned, she handed Dante a credit card. "This is a company account. Use it for whatever you need—or want."

He eyed the plastic and wondered if she'd always been this free with money or if this was a new attitude because of her illness. Measurements complete, Dante, still bare chested, shucked the fancy pants and reached for his jeans. "We have a few hours to kill. You wanna gamble?"

"I didn't sleep on the plane, so I think I'll take a nap. But you go. I've set up a line of credit for you. See Mr. Kosinki."

"Seriously?"

"Yes."

"How much?"

Her face pinched, then a smile played at the corners of her mouth, and color bloomed on her cheeks. "You're a rule breaker."

He buttoned and zipped his pants, then rocked back on his heels. His mind raced with what rule he could be breaking, but no need to tax his brain. From Bea's expression, she was dying to tell him. "Which one exactly?"

"Two things you should never ask. A woman's age and the price of a gift. You've already done both."

"Hey, If I'm going to be a kept man, I need to know my limitations. It makes this easier on both of us."

"Ten thousand dollars. Will that be enough?"

"Wha—ten—? He strangled on the words. The tumor must be affecting her good judgment. Was she insane? Expensive clothing was one thing, but to hand over that much cash to risk pissing it away was something else. He took a deep breath, then released it slowly to relieve the tightness in his chest. "I've signed the contract. You don't have to keep giving me things to sweeten the deal. I'm committed to this, Bea. Once I make up my mind to do something..."

She held up her hand. "I had you investigated, remember? I know you haven't taken a salary in months, and you've been miserable. You're entitled to some fun. Let me give you that. I want to."

He crooked his finger. "C'mere."

She moved to him and he wrapped her in his arms. "Thank you. I won't be gone long."

She laid her head on his chest and her breath floated across his bare skin. "Stay as long as you like. Just don't come back drunk."

On the elevator ride down, Dante's phone vibrated. He pulled it from his pocket and stared at the list of missed calls and texts. Maia. Silbie. Dad. He needed to return them but to say what? I'm marrying Bea Bennett? The barrage of questions surely to follow that statement deserved answers, and he was bound not to give any. But they needed to at least know his whereabouts, so he texted Silbie and Dad to let them know he was safe and in Vegas. For now, that would have to do.

That left Maia. Her lighthearted texts had hit home. His gut twisted. His actions would affect her more than anyone, and he felt like a jerk knowing he'd hurt her.

The elevator doors opened and he stepped into the hallway, found a bench and tried to come up with the right words. Maybe he should call her. A text was so cold and distant. But, what if she cried? He wasn't sure he'd handle that well. No, either way, after he broke the news, she'd hate him. He pulled up her contact and typed.

I'm sorry.  I'm marrying Bea Bennett today.

He wouldn't ask for forgiveness. He didn't deserve any. But Bea's money would help find Owen, and other than saving the business, that had to be Dante's top priority. He pocketed the phone and headed toward the casino to find an ATM.

He quickly located one, stuck in his debit card, and waited for it to spit out the two hundred bucks from his pitiful bank account. He glanced down at the receipt and winced at his balance. $87.12. If Lady Luck was on his side, he could win enough to pad that amount. He might be a fool for not using Bea's money, but he had principals.

He found a blackjack table with a vacant spot, slipped into it, and bought chips. Placing a twenty-dollar bet, the hefty dealer in a white shirt and black vest dealt each player their cards. Dante stared down at a ten and six. He signaled a hit. Another six turned. Bust.

The dealer moved to the next player, a woman in a pink sequined dress showing way too much cleavage for her size. She'd field dress at a good two-fifty. The woman had to be close to Bea's age, but she couldn't hold a candle to the future Mrs. Filgard. That's one thing that made it easier to accept her offer. Bea was one classy chick.

He stacked fifty dollars in chips into his betting circle. The dealer slid Dante an ace of hearts and a king of spades. Dante sliced his hand over the cards, and the dealer stacked his winnings next to the bet. Something told Dante to up his wager. Never a good idea to go against a gut feeling, he piled a hundred into his circle. Once again, the cards turned in his favor.

He was on a roll. He pocketed a five-dollar chip and bet the remainder. Once again, a ten and six came. Damn. He sent up a quick prayer, motioned for a hit, and struggled for breath when the eight fell.

He sauntered away from the table, ordered a shot of whiskey from a passing waitress, and waited for her to return. He reached into his pocket and fingered his last chip. Hell, he might as well lose it all. The waitress appeared. He knocked back the whiskey and asked to buy a five-dollar card. The bank of slot machines flashed like a carnival midway. The same old lady who'd been sitting at the last machine when Dante entered the casino cashed out and limped away.

He didn't bother to sit, just inserted his card, and selected to play the maximum spin for five bucks. The wheels rolled. Music played. The first window stopped on a knight. Then the second. The third. Fourth. Fifth. Bursts of fireworks lit the screen. Bells and whistles blasted. A crowd gathered. Dante collapsed onto the stool as the total winnings pulsed across the monitor.

$26,924.76.

Poor Owen, he's having none of the luck and isn't doing too well.

TEASER: She took a deep breath. "I have terrible news."

Wonder what's going on there?