“You’re in the forest with wolves, woman, and even if you think you’re one of us, you’re not. We’ll all eat you alive. Get out of my forest before I’m the one who has you for dinner.”
Shoving myself off the wall and away from her, I swipe some blood from my face and grab the first aid kit from the bed. I’ve only taken a step toward the bathroom when it hits me that she could be wearing a wire, or a tracking device. “Scared, my ass,” I mumble, angry at myself for being even somewhat gullible.
Rotating to face her again, I shackle her wrist with my hand and haul her with me to the door. It amounts to a toilet and a sink, which suits my needs just fine. Pulling the woman in front of me, I place her in front of the sink and mirror, stepping behind her, my hands framing the dip at her waist, and I am far from oblivious of the curvy but slender hips and the round, rather perfect backside. No doubt, both assets are reasons Sheridan would pick her for this job.
Fuming with the thought, my eyes meet hers in the mirror and I see a panic in hers that no one can fake. Good. She should be panicked right about now. “What are you going to do?” she demands.
“Dinner came early.”
She tries to turn but I counter her move, stepping into her, using my thighs to pin her legs. Shifting to hold her more snugly in place, I fit her backside to my front, her soft round rear fitting against my groin. My cock reacts like it’s just been given a reward, thickening instantly, apparently not giving a flying fuck that she’s Sheridan’s bitch, even if I do.
“Let me go,” she demands.
“You just ordered me to do the opposite in the other room.”
“I told you not to leave me behind, not to pin me against a bathroom sink.”
She tries to shift again, and my zipper stretches to painful limits. “Enough,” I grind out shortly through clenched teeth. “I need to be sure you aren’t wired, or wearing a tracker.”
She stills, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror again, her dark brown hair lying haphazardly over her brow. “Wire? Tracking device? No. No, I don’t have either.”
“Forgive me if I don’t take you at your word.”
“What you are going to do?” she asks again, the panic in her eyes from before now radiating in the quiver of her voice.
“I’m going to find out for myself, and we can do that one of two ways.” I turn her around to face me, my legs clamping around hers again instantly, my hands returning to her waist, where I intentionally allow my fingers to flex. “I can search you, and do so intimately and completely”—I pause for effect, the air between us thickening a bit too readily to suit me—“or you can strip down for me and prove you’re clean.”
Her lips part in a silent gasp. “You can’t be serious.”
“As serious as a wolf about to rip out a deer’s throat, sweetheart, and this needs to happen now. Decide. Which will it be?”
“Sheridan wouldn’t have me wear a wire. He’d know you’d do this.”
“Of course he would. The whole idea here is for me to get you naked. He wants you in my bed. And if you’re offering, I won’t decline, but it’ll be me fucking you, not you fucking me.”
“I’m not offering anything.” Her hands press hard against my chest. “Let me out of here.”
“Not a problem,” I say, doing what’s no doubt the opposite of what she expects, releasing her and moving the few inches away the space allows. But we’re still close, a few inches separating us at best, and I can smell the damnable floral scent of her skin. She grips the sink behind her, her chest rising and falling in steady, heavy movements, but she doesn’t leave. Of course not. She works for Sheridan. Even if she wants to go, she can’t.
She says nothing. Does nothing. I give her a grand gesture toward the door. “Feel free. You’re on your own.”
Indecision flickers over her face, that streak of my blood a drastic contrast to her beautiful porcelain skin. Damn it to hell, why am I noticing her skin? Irritated at myself and at her, my hands go to her waist and I literally lift her and set her aside. Stepping to the sink, I grab the towel on the rack and turn on the water.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
I glance up at her. “That question is getting old, but if you must know, I’m cleaning up to get the hell out of here—and so we’re clear, I’m leaving without you.”
“If you think I’m being tracked, why aren’t you leaving now?”
“Because you being wired means Sheridan set up this escape, and he simply wants to keep an eye on us. In which case, I actually have more time, not less.”
“Then you need to know you have less. I’m not bugged. I’m not wearing a tracking device.” She grabs my arm and I face her as she promises, “I’m also not the whore you seem to think I am. But I can’t get naked to prove it.”
The conviction in her voice is pretty damn believable, and so is the desperation in her eyes, but then, why wouldn’t it be? Failing Sheridan isn’t a mistake that comes without a price. And she sure didn’t seem anything but tough in that interrogation room. “Suit yourself,” I say, removing her hand from my arm to face the sink again and bending over to splash water on my face. She doesn’t move or speak, and while I am as aware of her standing there as I am of each breath I take, I ignore her. Using the bar of soap by the sink, I clean up my arms and then my face, my efforts only serving to irritate the gash on my cheek, which starts oozing blood all over again. “Fuck,” I murmur, turning off the water and reaching for the first aid kit, aware that I need stitches I won’t be getting.
“Why are you still here?” I demand, grabbing two Band-Aids out of the kit.
“I don’t know where to go.”
“Away from me,” I say, tearing open a wrapper to bandage up my wound.
“I told you, I don’t know where to go.”
“And yet you acted really damn confident when you were working me over for the camera.”
“My hands were shaking. I was terrified.”
“Well, you put on a good show, sweetheart.”
“I was running on adrenaline. Now reality has hit me.”
“Stop fretting. You made it seem like I kidnapped you.”
“In case I was captured—but Sheridan’s not easily fooled. Please. I need help. I just . . . do what you have to do to believe me. Pat me down. It’s better than getting naked. I think. I hope. Just get it over with.”
It’s all the invitation I need. Shackling her wrist, I pull her back to the sink and in front of me again, my legs once again pinning hers. She twists her fingers in my shirt, her lashes lowered, dark stains on her pale cheeks.
“Look at me,” I order, trying to figure out why I can’t quite turn on the ice in my veins with this woman.
Her eyes open, her chin lifting, and I study her, reminding myself that I have every reason to make this hard on her—except one: the vulnerable, shaken look in her eyes. The woman who betrayed me had convinced me she was Sheridan’s victim, and yet never once had I seen such a look on her face.
I squat down in front of her, wrapping my hands around her slender ankles, where I linger, reminding myself that I need to treat her like a hostile. This needs to make her uncomfortable—but I can’t help but think of my sister, whose life was ripped out from underneath her by no choice or action of her own. The idea that this woman could be the same kind of victim as Amy does not sit well with me.
Letting out a heavy breath, my hands begin to explore her body, running up her legs to the top of her thigh-highs, where I search the elastic for a hidden device. Next, I move up her hips, and she sucks in the same breath I’m now holding as I run my fingers between her thighs. She’s wearing a thong, so as tempting as her ass might be, this isn’t about sex, or taking advantage of her. If I knew she was Sheridan’s bitch, the story would be different.
Trying not to give either of us time to think about the invasion this is for her if she is truly an innocent in all of this, I stand up and turn her to face the mirror again. She drops her head forward, her
long, silky brown hair draping her face. I tug her black silk blouse from her skirt and my fingers tunnel underneath, deftly searching her slender waist, her ribs, and the sides of her breasts. I hesitate only a minute and then do what has to be done. I search the most obvious of potential hiding places for a tracking or recording device, cupping her breasts, and when I feel nothing but curves and woman, I shove down the lace cups, ensuring there’s nothing inside. She pants. Hell, I think I do, too, and I remove my hands, tangling my fingers in her hair and parting it, searching her neckline.
Finally, I turn her to face me all over again, planting my hands on either side of her. She stares down, as far from playing seductress as you can get, but then, she’s probably doing just that—playing me. Still, she’s not wearing a device, and I find myself saying, “I had to do that.”
Her gaze jerks to mine, her cheeks flushed. “I know,” she whispers, delicately clearing her throat. “I get it. I . . . appreciate that you didn’t— ”
“Don’t. Don’t appreciate anything, because I will turn on you in a minute flat if you give me even a flicker of a reason to do it. I don’t trust you.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“You shouldn’t. What’s your name?”
“Gia Hudson.”
“Is that your real name?”
I don’t miss the two beats of hesitation or the lowering of her lashes before she says, “Of course it’s my real name.” Her gaze finds mine. “Is Chad yours?”
I ignore the question, which hits a nerve I don’t examine right now. “What were you doing with Sheridan in the first place?”
A knock sounds on the door of the bedroom, and I shove myself off the counter. “Clean the blood off your face,” I order, not waiting for a reply as I head through the small room to greet our visitor, my nerve endings buzzing, and my damn cock hard. Cautiously, I crack the door open to find a teenage boy who resembles Hugo standing in the hallway.
“Trouble, señor,” he says in English. “There are men searching the neighborhood. My father turned down the lights and bolted the door, but he says you should leave out the back.”
I curse under my breath and scrub the whiskers I can’t wait to shave. “We’re going.” I turn to get Gia but she’s already here, her shoes in hand.
“I heard,” she says. “And ‘we’ better mean you and me together, because you aren’t leaving me. Not after I just let you search me.”
The smart thing to do would be to do just that—leave her. The odds of her being part of a setup are a good 90 percent, which leaves only a 10 percent chance she’s a victim and/or an ally. And it’s not like I’m a saint here. In fact, I’m a pretty damn accomplished sinner, but I choose the targets of said sins with care. I didn’t choose this woman, and I know how dangerous Sheridan is. If she really crossed him, he’ll kill her.
I grab her wrist and pull her to me. “You do exactly what I say, when I say it. Understand?”
She swallows hard. “Yes. I understand. I will.”
I grab her hair, twining my fingers in the long, silky strands, and force her gaze to mine. “Fuck me over and I’ll fuck you ten times harder and faster. And not in the way that feels good.” My warning issued, I release her. Still holding onto her wrist, I enter the hallway, Gia—or whatever her real name is—in tow, and I swear I can almost see Sheridan’s laughing face and hear him calling me a fool all over again. But it doesn’t seem to matter. I’ve made up my mind. This woman is coming with me, at least until I decide what to do with her.
TWO
I’M STILL HOLDING Gia’s wrist as I lead her out the back door of Hugo’s house into the dark, muggy Texas night—so unlike the New York winters I’ve become accustomed to now. Stepping onto some kind of concrete patio, I can barely see my own hand in the inky black of the space around us. A few more steps and Gia hits a piece of furniture, and I grab her, pulling her against me to keep her from falling and covering her mouth with my hand. She is tiny, easily injured, as is my sister. It doesn’t make her innocent, but handing her over to Sheridan, if she truly betrayed him, would assure her death. I’m a lot of things, but a murderer, even indirectly, is not one of them.
She grabs my arm as if she’s panicked, her hair catching on my whiskers as I whisper a warning: “One little peep and we could end up dead.” I wait for her to nod and release her, shackling her wrist again to lead her across the yard. It’s so damn dark; I silently curse as I nearly stumble myself. The inky blackness surrounding us might offer a cloak, but it also renders us blind, on top of being unarmed in a rough neighborhood riddled with gangs and now, with Sheridan’s men.
Reaching the chain-link fence, I release Gia and hurdle it with only a quick, short shake of metal. “Come on,” I order when she doesn’t immediately follow, and I watch her shadowy outline as she seems to struggle to lift her skirt and stick a foot in the fence. I grab her free hand, her shoes dangling from the other, balancing her as she crosses over the top. Her sudden intake of breath, followed by a few short pants, tells me she’s hurt and, afraid she’ll fall, I wrap my arm around her and lift her the rest of the way down to the ground. In the process she ends up flat against me, my hand on her mostly bare backside. Grinding my teeth, irritated at the tightening in my groin for too many reasons to count, I intend to set her away from me but she pushes out of my arms before I can, yanking down her skirt.
I give her two beats to pull herself together, but when she starts fiddling with her shoes, I wrap her tiny wrist with my hand again and start running, which means she has to run as well. Blinking rapidly into the darkness, I head down a narrow alley that runs behind a row of small houses, unhappy when our passing sets several dogs barking, but I’ve committed to this direction and we’re charging forward. The path runs out and I stop, Gia running into my back, but I am unfazed. I squat down, and she follows as I look left and right, spotting the flicker of flashlights to the left only.
Leaning in close to Gia, I whisper, “We’re crawling to the right, along the edge of the building.”
She gives me an impressively calm, decisive nod that I manage to see now that my eyes have adjusted. Holding up a hand, I silently warn her to wait, then wave it a moment before I take off in a crawl toward what looks like one of the giant warehouses that are planted smack-dab in the middle of residential territory here.
We travel the length of a steel-sided building and enter the parking lot of another. The instant we’re at the next building, I shift into a squat, leaning against the wall. The streetlight above us is burned out, offering us the shelter of darkness. Gia slides in beside me, and I’m pretty sure her knees are feeling the pain of our hasty escape, but I can’t save her skin and her life. I listen for any activity around us, picking up the sound of muffled voices to both our left and right, and the realization that we are sandwiched in between them is not a good one. The only way out is forward or backward, and I’m not sure either is clear, but then, the gambler in me is genetic.
“We’re going forward,” I instruct Gia softly, “back where we came from, exactly where they won’t expect us to go, and we’re going now.”
I don’t give her time to think, or our enemies time to catch up with us, pulling her to her feet and running across a road. We quickly travel down the side of one warehouse, and then another—both illuminated by streetlights I don’t welcome right now, but fortunately the street is deserted. The voices of Sheridan’s bastard lackeys fade behind us and it gives me hope of escape, driving me to run harder and faster. Minutes become a blur of adrenaline that pumps harder and faster at the sight of the highway and the two blocks of open space we have to cover to get to it, but I don’t miss a step. I grab Gia’s hand and charge forward with determined steps that continue right up to the edge of the highway, and still I don’t stop.
Determined to put distance between us and Sheridan’s men, I tighten my hold on Gia and enter traffic, cars speeding toward us too rapidly for comfort. Our destination is a huge parking area favored by downtow
n partiers. Once there, I squat, taking Gia with me, and begin checking for unlocked doors. All the while, cars zoom past us on either side of the parking lot and above us on the ramp, and there are people around us—lots of people, considering it’s Friday night and the nearby Sixth Street is the city’s weekend hot spot. But then, getting lost in a crowd is exactly what I’m after.
Two people pass right by Gia, and her expression is pure terror but it works in my favor, setting her in motion as she starts checking doors with me. “Bingo,” I say, opening the door to an F-150 pickup. “Get in,” I order her.
Whatever her motivation for sticking with me right now, she doesn’t have to be told twice, quickly scrambling inside the vehicle. I follow her and order, “Stay low,” but apparently she’s smart enough to set a bomb and knows to get down on the floorboard, because she’s already there.
Crouching in the driver’s seat, I yank the plastic panel from under the steering column. “You’re stealing the truck?” she asks anxiously.
“If you wanted to grow morals, you should have done it before involving yourself with Sheridan.”
“Says the man looking in the mirror.”
“I never claimed to have morals,” I assure her. “In fact, I don’t have many. You should remember that the next time you want my help.”
“Won’t a stolen vehicle get more attention, not less?” she asks, leaving my smartass comment alone. “What if it’s called in to the police? Can’t Sheridan track us on a scanner?”
I ignore her, yanking out the wires and going to work, all the while wondering if that was a question or a warning from someone far too close to Sheridan to earn my trust. She had better not hold her breath on that one. It takes me sixty seconds to get the engine started, and I stay as low as possible as I put us into gear. “Don’t get up,” I warn. I notice the blood-stained tissues in her hand and wonder if that’s from the fence—but I plan to save her life, not take her for a manicure.
Forsaken Page 3
