by Shandi Boyes
Hunter’s lips thinned. “No, Paige. He's making you out to be the one who betrayed him.”
“So?” I shrugged my shoulders. “We know that isn’t true, and that’s all that matters.”
My eyes dance between his. "Besides, I've always believed in Karma.” I grinned a sly smirk. "Once the dust settles, Karma can step in." I dropped my eyes to Hunter's large black boots tapping the floor of the town car. "With a boot that big, I'm pretty sure Karma's kick will really hurt."
That day was a little over six months ago. Today, Karma is will finally see sunlight. Not just for me, but for the hundreds of retirees Riley fleeced of their retirement funds before he relocated his financial services business to Spain.
Hunter’s eyes lock with mine. “I’m not backing down. I’m just making sure you're aware once I push the enter button, everything he has will be gone. I can’t bring it bac—”
His words stop when I lean over his shoulder and hit the enter button, wiping Riley clean of every penny he has.
"Oops," I breathe out, pretending my insides aren't dancing with happiness that half of Riley's money is being returned to its rightful owners, while the remaining half is being distributed to numerous orphanages around the world.
Within ten seconds, Riley’s supposedly hidden bank accounts go from high seven figures to one. Three measly dollars.
“I had to leave enough so he could pay for a balance slip,” Hunter mutters, his smooth chocolate tone incapable of hiding the hilarity in his voice.
He closes his laptop screen and places it into his hemp bag before standing from the pew he's sitting on. I purr like a cat when he wraps his arms around my torso and burrows his head into the grooves of my neck.
I purr louder when the bristles of his beard scratch my earlobe. “You're a bad girl, Paige. I think I like this new naughty side.”
I crank my neck back and peer into his eyes. “Really?” I query as my hands move to the buttons of his suit.
A grin tugs on his lips as the spark of lust fires his eyes. “What are you doing?”
"Research for my next novel.” I walk backward, silently praying the confession chamber is unlocked and empty.
“In a church?” Hunter bows his brows.
My teeth munch on my bottom lip while I nod. "I'll take you any way I can get you."
And I did. Not once, but twice in the little white church in the middle of Rochdale, NY.
The next story in the Enigma series is a brand new character, Brax. You can find his book here: The Opposite Effect
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If you haven’t read any of the enigma series, why not jump right in at the beginning! Enigma
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Chapter One
A frigid breeze causes the hairs on my arms to bristle and goosebumps to form on my nape. It isn’t just the plummeting evening temperatures causing this reaction to my body. It’s fear.
When I press my hands against the railing, I relish the coolness of the stainless steel on my sweat-drenched palms.
Snapping my eyes shut, I take in a lung-filling gulp of air. “You can do this, Isabelle,” I chant to myself.
Millions of people do it every day.
I’ve spent the majority of my time today at airports. To say I’m fearful of flying would be an understatement. I’m petrified. My flight this morning was on a Boeing 777 from San Francisco to New York. I gripped the armchair so tight for the entire eight-hour trip, my French-tipped nail nearly snapped off.
There’s no logical reason for my fear of flying. I’ve never been on a plane that plunged from the sky or lost loved ones during a disastrous flight. My fear is just something embedded deep inside me. I want to say I’m generally fearless, an adventurous person who regularly takes calculated risks, but when it comes to flying, I’m a quivering bundle of nerves.
Gritting my teeth, I push off the railing before I lose my nerve and collide straight into a wall of hardness that sends me sprawling onto my ass. I wince in pain when my right wrist jars hard on the rigid gray marble-tiled floor.
“I’m used to people falling at my feet, but not quite as undignified as that,” says a deep, thick voice from above. Although his tone is stern, it also has a hint of amusement behind it.
Mortified, I raise my eyes, drinking in black polished dress shoes, a well-filled, impeccably tailored three-piece suit, and one pair of the most exquisite eyes I’ve ever seen in my life. The pain zinging my wrist no longer exists as my eyes roam over the magnificent creature in front of me.
More features come into focus—plump lips, powerful jawline, thick, luxurious hair long enough to run your fingers through, but not too long to be unkempt, and an ideally placed dimple in a chiseled chin. The very definition of a man is standing in front of me, and the visual is riveting.
Shifting his head to the side, he arches a brow. He assesses me as vigorously as I perused him. His penetrating glare has my heart rate quickening. Now I wished I had taken my roommate’s advice and dressed more professionally instead of for comfort, but when your backside is going to be planted in a seat for a minimum of sixteen hours, you want it encased in comfort, and there’s nothing more comfortable than my black Juicy Couture sweatsuit.
No, I didn’t pay two hundred dollars for a pair of sweatpants. I found these beauties at the thrift shop in San Francisco nearly two years ago. They have faded a little, now more a charcoal gray than their original black, but they still get the job done. I’ve removed my jacket and am wearing a white, fitted cotton shirt that has risen to my stomach during my tumble.
After yanking down my shirt to a more respectable level, I return my eyes to the mysterious stranger. Once he has finished his perusal of my body, his mouth etches into a firm line, and his eyes narrow.
Clearly, he’s a man who prefers class over comfort. His apparel does scream wealth and superiority, not to mention his composure, which exudes importance and authority. Grimacing with embarrassment, I scamper from the floor. My heart leaps when he grips my elbow to assist me with steadying my footing.
“Thank you.”
I glance down at the contents of my satchel strewn on the floor from our collision. My bag is full of the necessities a girl needs for traveling—lip gloss, a Snickers chocolate bar, loose change for snacks, a Kindle loaded with my favorite books, and tampons. Oh God.
In a scurry to grab my possessions, I bob, he dips, and we headbutt.
“Fuck,” he curses.
I manage to keep my curse word inside my head, even though it feels like I’ve suffered a grueling left swing from Oscar De La Hoya to my right eye.
My hand shoots up to rub the sting as I move toward the hard, plastic chairs lining the hallway of the airport. My vision blurs, and my footing becomes unsteady as the first signs of a headache form.
Plopping down on the chair, my eyes lift to discover the suit-clad gentleman gathering my satchel contents from the floor. Tampons included. Great!
Once he has collected my items, he places my bag on the chair next to me. His masculine scent engulfs the air when he crouches down in front of me. Seeing him displayed directly in front of me has the depths of his eyes hitting me full force. It’s not just their unique gray coloring that has my brows scrunching, it’s their intensity.
“Are you okay?” The rasp of his voice sends an exciting thrill through my body and causes butterflies to flutter in my stomach.
Unable to establish words through my dry, gaped mouth, I nod. He removes my hand covering my eye to run hi
s index finger along the area pulsing with pain. Now, instead of feeling the sting of pain, I’m feeling the zap of his touch.
He raises two fingers in the air. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Two.”
A mouth-watering smirk forms on his face. “What’s your name?”
I smile. “Isabelle.”
His handsome face is contorted with strictness, but his remorseful eyes give away his genuine concern. “I don’t think you have a concussion, but you need to ice it as a bump is already forming.” His minty breath fans my hungry mouth.
I lick my dry lips before replying, “I’m fine, really.” Totally embarrassed, but fine, nonetheless.
A gold cufflink becomes exposed on the crisp white sleeve of his business shirt when he stands, then holds out his hand. His brow cocks, wordlessly requesting me to accept his gesture. I swallow a lump in my throat before accepting his well-manicured, yet manly hand.
After curling his hand around mine, his other snatches my satchel from the chair. He grips my hand firm enough to indicate his superiority, but not tight enough to cause pain to my wrist still throbbing from my tumble.
When he arrives at the frosted door of the first-class business lounge, I dig my heels into the carpet, lessening his quick pace. When he stops and turns, the air sucks from my lungs from the sheer closeness of his striking face. Most people would feel threatened by his complex gaze, but my body heightens with anticipation.
He tilts his head, his brow cocking again. If I hadn’t heard him talk earlier, I’d assume he’s a mute.
I gesture my free hand to the luxurious business lounge. “I can’t go in there.”
My voice sounds so weak, and I almost roll my eyes at my naïveté. Yes, this guy standing before me is entrancing, but I’ve had plenty of eye-catching men in my life, and my composure is usually more composed. However, this mysterious stranger has me flabbergasted like a teenage girl meeting a member of One Direction.
“I’m underdressed.”
My eyes dart down to my Juicy Couture-covered thighs. This time, I sound how I usually do—friendly, but not a total pushover.
I suck in my stomach when he scans my body. When his eyes return to my face, he smirks. “You look perfectly fine.”
Unsure of a reply, I return his smile. His eyes snap to my lips for the quickest second before he again quickly strides to the business class lounge.
“Mr. Holt,” the doorman greets him without so much of a sideways glance in my direction.
My mysterious companion’s surname is Holt. I like it. It’s direct and stern but edgy—just like its owner.
When we arrive at a countertop bar that’s so well polished I can see my reflection in it, Mr. Holt lifts me to sit on a high-backed barstool. His effortless lift makes it seem as if I’m as light as a feather. After snagging a midnight-black napkin from the countertop, he leans over the bar. His suit strains against his back, allowing me a glimpse of a spectacularly firm backside.
Flipping open a cooler flap nestled in the bar, he removes a handful of ice. My eyes shoot to the bartender, who isn’t batting an eyelid at Mr. Holt assisting himself to their supplies. He wraps the cubes of ice in the napkin, then raises it to my throbbing eye. “Hold that.”
Arching back over the counter, he snags two crystal glasses from a wired rack before signaling for the bartender. He must be a regular at this establishment because the bartender doesn’t ask what drink he’d like. He just grabs a bottle of whiskey from the glass shelves behind the bar and sets it in front of him without a word escaping his lips.
Mr. Holt dips his chin in thanks before pouring two generous nips of whiskey into the glasses. He then hands one to me. “It will help with your headache,” he explains to my shocked expression.
When he downs the shot without a shred of hesitation, my mouth becomes parched from the sensual way he swallows the flaming liquid so effortlessly. Desire surges through my body when his tongue darts out to remove the remnants of liquor from his lips. Needing something to soothe the dryness in my mouth, I grab my glass off the countertop to drink the generous helping in one hit.
I grimace, hating the burn that sets my throat on fire. I slam the glass onto the countertop as my watering eyes lift to Mr. Holt.
“Another?”
Not giving me the chance of a reply, he fills my glass again before sliding it across the ebony counter. Due to the overgenerous serving, whiskey splashes over the rim to puddle the glistening countertop.
I lift my eyes to his, which are glaring into mine, but his expression is neutral, even with his lips curved. “Are you trying to get me drunk, Mr. Holt?”
“Would it make it easier to get into your panties?”
The veins in my neck strum as my pulse quickens.
He winks, cockiness oozing out of him. “I’m joking.”
I sigh a disappointed sigh. Hearing my shameless response, Mr. Holt’s eyes lock with mine. His gaze is primal, commanding, and strong. It freezes me in place and heats my face. My brazenness surprises even me. I’m not usually so bold, but with his self-assuredness and grace, I have no doubt he’d be extraordinary in bed—sheet-clenching, multi-orgasms, can’t-walk-straight-for-days sex.
My hand holding the ice trembles as I turn my gaze to anything but Mr. Holt’s sinfully handsome face. Even without looking at him, my pulse still quickens. I can feel him studying my profile.
We sit in silence for several minutes, but my awareness of his closeness is still paramount.
Once the ice has melted, I dump the napkin onto the countertop, then drag my hand down my thigh to remove the inky stains smeared on my fingers. I gulp when, in the corner of my eye, I spot Mr. Holt’s tongue delving out to lick his thumb. I stop breathing when he lifts the same spit-covered thumb to my right eye.
Suddenly, he stiffens as his nostrils flare. His eyes are darker now, even more demanding. It appears as if he’s unearthed my body’s response to his briefest touch. I’m about to assure him everything isn’t as it seems when the shrill of a cell phone saves me from making a fool out of myself for the third time this evening.
With his eyes darting between mine, Mr. Holt slides a sleek phone out of his trousers pocket. “Yes.”
His tone alludes to his authority, but I’m too busy taking in the time on his Rolex to work out who he’s bossing around. I only have twenty minutes before the check-in for my flight closes.
“Thank you for your assistance, but I must go, or I’ll miss my flight.”
I snag my satchel off the countertop, then push off my barstool. Mr. Holt seizes my wrist before I can dash for the exit. He advises his caller to wait before he lowers his phone from his ear.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine, thank you,” I reply graciously.
With reluctance, he relinquishes me from his grip. After exhaling a long, tedious breath, I hot-foot it to the exit doors of the business class lounge, not once glancing back at the mysteriously captivating Mr. Holt.
Chapter Two
As I splash water on my face to calm the heat spread across my cheeks, I take in my disheveled appearance. My eyes are wide and bright, my dilated pupils making them appear darker than usual. Sunbathing for hours has given my beige skin a vivid glow, meaning the hue of my cheeks is less illuminating, and my lips are plump from the sting of whiskey.
I want to say my rouged appearance isn’t entirely based on the enthralling Mr. Holt, but that would be a lie. At least my clumsy display in front of the most self-assured man I’ve ever met warranted a moment of reprieve from my panicked state. I’ve barely thought about my fear of flying the past thirty minutes.
After exhaling a big breath, I hook my satchel over my shoulder, then pull open the heavily-weighted door of the ladies’ restroom. I rush toward my departure gate, hustling to avoid being late since my run-in with Mr. Holt has left my time stretched thin. I swerve, dart, and weave between thousands of commuters who appear just as frantic as me.
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By the time I make it to my departure gate, my neck is drenched with sweat, and my cheeks are blemished. I blow an unruly hair out of my face before handing my ticket to the immaculately dressed airport staff member behind the counter. Her top lip snarls as her eyes roam my flustered appearance.
“It’s not as it seems.”
A tsk escapes her lips as her slitted gaze lowers to the computer monitor on her desk. With my bright-eyed expression and flushed cheeks, my appearance could be mistaken for someone who just tumbled out of bed after a night of rigorous activities. I wouldn’t mind being reprimanded if that were the cause of my late arrival. After all, it’s been a while since I’ve seen my sexually satisfied face in the vanity mirror, but that’s not the reason I’m arriving at the departure gate without a minute to spare. It was my disastrous run-in with the most strikingly handsome man I’ve ever met that has me scampering.
Once my ticket is thrust back into my hand, I head down the gangway. My knocking knees become more apparent with every step I take. I focus my attention on the male flight attendant standing at the end of the corridor, hoping his light blue eyes that pop right off his face will distract me enough to board without incident.
They do—somewhat.
My hand tremors when I give him my ticket. “Good afternoon, Ms. Brahn.”
I fleetingly smile. I’ve lost the ability to speak now that fear has once again emerged from deep within.
“Today you’re seated in 1A. Upon entering, take a left at the second corridor.” He hands me back half of my ticket.
Nodding, I take a hesitant step forward. Loud pounding rings in my ears with every shaky step I take. After walking through the galley, I turn toward the coach section of the plane.
