The Billionaire's Son. Sharon Hartley

so much in the last year. Would he ever see his son again? Would they even find Jason’s body?

      Kids disappeared without a trace all the time.

      Ballard’s phone rang, the sound startling in the quiet of the room. Everyone turned.

      “Ballard,” the agent barked into the phone. A few beats of silence. “What?”

      The shock in Ballard’s voice forced Trey into a chair. Oh, God. No. Jason.

      “Where?” Ballard demanded. Then, “Got it. We’re on our way.”

      Ballard disconnected and looked directly at Trey. “We’ve got him. We’ve got your boy.”

      “Alive?” Trey stood on shaky legs, not trusting his hearing. “Is he hurt?”

      “He’s fine. He’s in the custody of the City of Miami Police.”

      “No mistake this time?” he demanded.

      “No mistake,” Ballard said.

      Choking back a sob, Trey sagged into the chair again, unable to formulate a response.

      “City of Miami arrested the kidnappers?” This question came from another agent, a female. Trey couldn’t remember her name. All he could focus on was the knowledge that Jason was alive and unharmed.

      “No,” Ballard said. “Apparently the kidnappers remain at large.”

      “What the hell happened?” asked another agent.

      Ballard shook his head. “I don’t have all the details yet, and they can wait.” He nodded at Trey and grinned. “Let’s go get your son.”

      * * *

      INSIDE A FRIGID interview room at the Coconut Grove police substation, Kelly couldn’t remember when she’d ever been so cold. The AC had to be set at about forty degrees, and she might as well be naked since all she had on was flimsy nylon running shorts and a cotton jog bra. Making things worse, her flesh and her clothing were sweaty.

      Officer Rodriguez had wrapped a towel around the shivering Jason, and that helped, but Kelly’s legs were freezing. They’d given her a cup of vile lukewarm coffee, but that had cooled and was of no help.

      There was a reason for the chill of course. The police didn’t want their suspects or interviewees comfortable. She had a bad feeling they considered her a suspect—of what she wasn’t sure, but something. She’d heard chatter of a statewide BOLO as they’d snapped photos of the kid, so maybe they knew who he was. For his sake, she hoped so. The misunderstanding would all be straightened out eventually, but she was going to be late for her shift.

      She’d called her sergeant on the way in to explain, but he hadn’t sounded happy. Shit. She’d been number one in her rookie class and intended to be the highest-performing rookie that had ever entered the Miami-Dade County PD. Missing roll call this soon wouldn’t help with that goal.

      So where was a social worker? DCF was notoriously inefficient, but this delay was ridiculous.

      She needed to contact her lieutenant, but the kid remained glued to her, his legs hooked around her waist. If she shifted his weight to her other side, she could access her phone in her jog pouch. At least she was getting his body heat. He still insisted on calling her Mommy, which was beyond weird, but the kid was confused. Definitely traumatized.

      Maybe Caleb and Adam had drugged him. The kid hadn’t so much as twitched since she’d sat on this hard chair. His breathing sounded ragged, but he was stuffed up from crying. Maybe he’d fallen asleep.

      “Jason,” she whispered.

      He snuggled deeper into her shoulder and twisted her halter straps tighter. Not asleep.

      “Hey. I’m going to move you to the other side, okay? My arm is really tired.”

      He raised his head to look at her. “You won’t let go?”

      The fear and longing in his voice made Kelly’s breath catch. She had no experience with children.

      “No, I won’t let go,” she told him. As if I could. She rubbed his back reassuringly, the way she’d seen mothers do. “I just need to make a phone call. Okay?”

      “Okay,” he said, and went willingly when she transferred his weight to her left shoulder, which of course now made her right side cold. He placed his hot cheek against her neck and stuck his thumb in his mouth.

      Thinking the kid was too old for thumb-sucking, Kelly unzipped the pouch around her waist and withdrew her cell phone. A quick glance told her she didn’t have service. Likely the signal had been blocked.

      “Damn,” she muttered and stuffed the phone back inside.

      She was a rookie. How much trouble would she be in for missing a shift? She glanced at her watch. Roll call was in thirty minutes.

      Maybe it was time to make some noise, attract some attention. She and the kid had been slowly turning into ice for close to an hour. She knew the drill, and someone watched her through the one-way glass on the far wall. She’d never been good at waiting, but had been extremely patient this morning. She was tempted to give her observers the finger, but knew that wouldn’t help anything. And her lieutenant would definitely hear about it.

      “How old are you, Jason?” she asked to pass the time.

      “Four,” he stated, as if she were very stupid. But of course his mother would know his age.

      “Who were those guys you were with?” she asked.

      He closed his eyes.

      “Did they hurt you?”

      “They hit Maria,” he whispered.

      “Why did they do that?” Kelly asked, encouraged by his response. Who was Maria? Maybe the kid had recovered enough to give her some answers.

      Jason shivered and turned his warm face into her neck.

      “Did you know those men, Jason?”

      He released a giant sigh, but didn’t say another word.

      “Okay, okay,” Kelly said, patting his back. “We don’t have to talk about them.”

      The door burst open and four men entered the room. None of them were in uniform. Short hair. Jackets and ties. Feds. DEA? FBI?

      “Jason,” someone shouted in a relieved tone.

      Kelly focused on the speaker as he rushed toward her, and wondered if her mouth fell open. She stared at a man so impossibly good-looking he belonged on a movie screen or in a magazine. Dark hair, intense dark eyes. His jacket, his slacks—everything about him reeked of money and sophistication. The gold watch on his wrist belonged in a museum.

      This god-come-to-earth squatted before Kelly and held out his arms to the kid. “Jason,” he said in a choked voice.

      The kid lifted his head but didn’t release his hold on her. If anything, he tightened his grip and glared at the man.

      “Jason?” The man shifted his gaze to Kelly, and she felt as if she’d been assaulted by an unseen force. Raw power flowed off him in waves. And arrogance mixed with anger. He didn’t like being denied anything. And who would want to refuse him?

      “Who the hell are you?” the god demanded.

      “Kelly Jenkins. Who the hell are you?”

      His eyes widened in surprise as if she was supposed to know who he was. Maybe he was some big-deal movie star. Maybe she had seen him before, now that she thought about it, but she never had time for movies or TV. His nails were manicured; his leather shoes buffed. His skin was smooth, unlined, as if he’d never experienced a worry in his life.

      “Officer Jenkins, this is Trey Wentworth and you’re holding his son, Jason,” one of the suits said.

      “Thank goodness,”