Free Deliverer by Tamara Hart Heiner

under her name.
    Now what? Truman stared at them. How did a kidnapper act? He inclined his head, catching himself before he extended a complete bow. They would see that as a mocking gesture. "Please, sit." He motioned to the chairs around the table.
    The brunette—the Carnicero 's daughter, if Claber had his facts straight—lifted her face, gaze flicking over the table. Jacinta Rivera. Truman searched her face, looking for a resemblance to the vigilante. He knew from the way her nostrils flared that she was hungry. They all had to be.
    They ambled forward, slowly, as if expecting him to spring a trap. When nothing happened, they sat down around the table, still silent, still glancing around in suspicion.
    Could he blame them?
    He had a show to put on. Truman began piling his plate high with food from different dishes. He glanced at the girls as he speared a long piece of broccoli. Their eyes were on him. More precisely, on his food. None of them had touched their soup.
    He suppressed a sigh. So much food here. Plenty for them to have some. Don't , he told himself. "I don't particularly like the color of pea soup either." He spotted a cloth-covered basket in the middle of the table, within reach of the girls. He doubted Grey baked his fresh rolls anticipating that the kidnapped girls would eat them, but Truman couldn't deny them that much. Besides, bread and soup went together. "There's fresh bread." He pointed his fork at the basket.
    That got their attention. All three began sticking their hands in for rolls. Rivera grabbed a handful and dumped them in her lap. Truman watched her take a bite and close her eyes. Maybe Grey was wrong. Maybe he could accomplish more with them if they didn't feel intimidated by him.
    She opened her eyes and they met his. She ducked her head, splotchy redness creeping up her face. Grabbing her spoon, she poked at her soup.
    No. It was too late. No matter what he did, they would never trust him. "So." He placed some golden, deep-fried shrimp on his plate, despite the fact that he had no appetite. "Why were you watching the robbery?"
    No one answered. He looked at Murphy, the redhead, who sat on his left. "Well?"
    She didn't look at him, and his eyes fell on Sara Yadle, the youngest of the group. That shiver of delight and surprise ran through him again.
    Becca . Except she wasn't Becca. He had to keep reminding himself of that. Yet the feeling of familiarity wouldn't fade. He couldn't make himself not care for her. Putting a gruff note in his voice, he said, "What do you think, girl?"
    Sara's eyes lifted from her bowl. "Curiosity."
    He raised an eyebrow. Was she the only one brave enough to respond to him? "Dangerous." Not a surprise, though. Many of the troublesome endeavors he participated in as a child began with curiosity.
    He examined them while they sipped their soups and tried to see them as objects, expensive items for him to do what he pleased with. "Such beautiful girls." None of them responded, except to maybe huddle down further in their chairs.
    While he knew he should maintain the distance between them, a part of him wanted to draw them out of their shells. He didn’t have guests often, and he was curious about them. "Do you have names? How about it? Red?" He nodded at Murphy. "By far the most beautiful in the group. Exquisite beauty." His eyes were drawn to Sara, again against his will. "And you are nothing but a child. Yet your innocence is so—captivating." He frowned, stopping his words. Careful, Truman. He couldn’t feed this fascination with her. He forced himself to turn to Rivera. Their salvation. He could see some of the features from the man in the photograph, now that he looked. She was his daughter. She had to be. Now he just needed to make sure it really was the Carnicero . "And you."
    She met his eyes. "What about you? We don't know your name."
    "Of course you do. Who else would I be, but The Hand?"
    The girl exchanged a glance with the redhead, then looked