The Brit

by Jodi Ellen Malpas

  “Don’t go far. He’ll want to see you when he’s done,” Terrance grunts, and I look up at him. He’s not scowling at me, but he’s not exactly showering me with friendliness. He doesn’t like me. The feeling is mutual. It’s fascinating how those watching their bosses choosing to cheat on their wives always blame the whore. It’s never the man’s lack of self-control or respect of vows that’s questioned.

  Terrance disappears into the crowd, leaving me on my own. I could go for a wander. Go see some sites. But that’s not part of my job. Being in public isn’t helpful, because I can’t be seen with Perry without risking his race for power, or pissing him off. But I can wander, observe, remain in the background. I need something. Well, I have something—Perry apparently has a new investor—but I need more. I need to be out of Perry’s life. God, how long will Nox have me playing the smitten mistress? Adams makes my skin crawl. I’ve gotten Nox pictures and video footage. I’ve told him what I’ve heard.

  I start a slow wander toward the table where Perry is sitting, but I’m soon pulled to a halt by Terrance’s hand around my wrist. “Not too close,” he warns. I sigh, casting my eyes around the space. It’s bustling. Loud. Almost hectic. The casino floor of the Aria is deafening.

  And suddenly, it isn’t.

  Suddenly, you could hear a pin drop.

  Suddenly, it’s like someone pushed the pause button on life.

  Everyone falls silent. Everyone stills. Everyone looks in the same direction.

  And everyone visibly tenses.

  I frown with my glass at my lips, following their stares until I find what has their attention. My spine rolls until it’s straight, my glass lowering a fraction.

  He’s flanked at every angle by heavies, four of them, and I swallow, letting my stare wander all over his tall, suited frame. His body is nothing short of lethal. His aura is nothing short of a warning. Sharp, dangerous, icy-blue eyes scan the space as the crowd moves to allow him through. It’s like the parting of the sea. The homecoming of Christ. And his face . . .

  “Fuck,” Terrence says from beside me, pulling my attention to him. He yanks his cell urgently from his jacket and dials. “The Brit’s here,” he informs whoever’s on the end.

  The Brit? My eyes shoot back to the man who has everyone’s attention. The Angel-faced Assassin? Danny Black? With the confirmation of who he is, I know I should be doing what everyone else in the vicinity is doing. Trembling. Yet I’m not. It’s been a long time since I allowed myself to be frightened, and if the man before me now can’t scare me, nothing ever will. I’ve heard whispers about Danny Black. His influence. His power. His ruthless and brutal approach to business.

  But no one ever said he’s beautiful.

  I look down at my champagne, noticing it’s splashing up the side of the glass. I’m well aware that this isn’t because I’m suddenly shaking with the fear that was absent. I should be certifiably quaking in my heels at his presence, along with everyone else. But instead, I’m rapt. Trembling for a whole other reason.

  I exhale shakily, looking up through my lashes. I study him as he approaches Perry, and a quick glance at my lover confirms that he, above everyone else here, is shaking the most.

  The Brit comes to a stop, one hand in his pocket, the other extended toward the man I’m fucking. Perry looks like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Danny Black can go fuck himself? I laugh on the inside. With Terrance distracted, I move forward, keen to hear what’s about to go down. What’s going to be said? My God, if I deliver something truly monumental to Nox, I may get more than a photograph of my boy this time.

  “What a surprise,” Perry says, glancing around as he takes The Brit’s hand.

  “A nice surprise, Perry?” The Brit is cool. Way too cool. It’s a dangerous cool.

  “Of course.” Perry ushers him to the side and they speak for a few moments, Adams looking downright terrified, The Brit looking nothing short of impassive. I’ve been around these kind of people long enough to know what I’m seeing. I’m seeing a man in fear of his life and a man who wouldn’t hesitate to take it. I edge as close as I can without being obvious, listening.

  “I’m getting impatient,” Black says, his jaw tight.

  Perry flinches, and my eyes fall to their clasped hands. The Brit’s hold looks brutal, Perry’s flesh white from lack of blood flow. “I’m afraid I can’t do business with you anymore,” Perry says, trying to sound confident, but I know. I just know. “I have to go legit. I don’t have any choice. I’ll pay you back every penny,” he says, prompting Black to pull his hand free and turn it palm up. “No, no,” Perry says, shaking life into his hand subtly. “Not here. Not now.”

  “I want it now.”

  “I don’t carry around fifteen million in my pocket.”

  “I don’t think you heard me.” Black bends a little, surely so Perry can see the deadliness of his stare up close. “I want it now.”

  “I . . . I don’t . . . I don’t have it now. Not at this precise moment.”

  The Brit nods, thoughtful, seeming to ponder something as he rises to his full, intimidating height. I conclude he’s calculating how many pieces he’s going to cut Adams into. “Then we should play for it.”

  “What?” Perry looks plain horrified.

  Black motions to the poker table, and I notice one of his men smirking. “We play.” Slapping on a big smile, he gestures for Perry to lead the way. “Straight-up, good old-fashioned gambling. You win, your debt is wiped here and now. No more business. I win . . .” He bends again, pushing his mouth against Perry’s ear.

  My lover turns white. If he loses, he dies.

  “But you’re renowned to be a terrible player,” Perry mumbles. Fear is embedded on his face. Pure, raw fear. And if I wasn’t seeing it for myself, I probably wouldn’t believe Perry Adams was capable of that look. He’s a shark as a lawyer and has no problem lording his success over his subordinates. Always cocky. Always confident. Except right now.

  “Then you have nothing to worry about.” Black makes his way to the table and gets comfortable, and Perry can barely walk straight as he follows, a curious crowd building around them. That crowd now includes me, and I’m making the most of Perry’s and his men’s distraction. They clearly have bigger problems on their plate right now than a little whore like me. But then Perry finds me past the throngs of people, and when I expect him to warn me away, he gives me a small smile instead. Like, he’s got this. Don’t be worried.

  I’m not worried. I’m fascinated.

  The manager of the casino swoops in, attentive and welcoming of Danny Black and his crew. Something tells me it’s not because a lot of money is about to be bet.

  I slip around the other side of the table for the best view. Of him. His forehead is heavily lined. He has a scar running from just under his eye to the top of his lip. His gaze is shrewd and piercing.

  And utterly spellbinding.

  He’s the most stunningly dangerous-looking man I’ve ever seen.

  And as if he’s sensed someone is studying him, he looks up. I take a step back when his eyes meet mine, and my dead body seems to come alive. Then my arm is virtually yanked out of its socket by Terrence, and I look up at him, a little vacant. “I told you to stay away,” he snarls, but we both know he can’t drag me away without causing a scene. So he leaves me, stalking off toward Perry. Danny Black’s presence has caused a massive panic in the camp, and I can’t help but smile about that.

  My eyes snap back to the table. He’s still watching me, his stare roaming all over my face as he plays with a chip, rolling it between his index and middle finger. My body goes up in flames. I swallow as his blank face slowly turns away from me, his hand reaching for the cards that have been dealt before him. The loss of his eyes does something odd to me. It’s not like they’re warm eyes. In fact, they’re the coldest eyes I’ve ever seen. Killer’s eyes.

  My legs feeling a little weak, I take a seat on a nearby stool, watching as the game starts and Perry continuou
sly flicks nervous eyes to Black. He tries to spike banter with him. He tries to crack a few jokes. He’s trying to thaw the stone-cold killer. It isn’t working. Danny Black remains stoic, playing his hand without a word.

  Throughout the entire game, Black’s expression doesn’t crack, but Perry’s becomes more and more worried with every hand he plays. Perry is wiping the floor with Black, but each time the dealer pushes The Brit’s chips toward Perry, his nerves seem to get worse, his forehead becoming slicker with sweat. The crowd is looking on, for the most part silent, except when the hands are shown. Each time the crowd see the cards, there are mumbled gasps when The Brit loses. Each time, he takes a cool sip of his drink. And each time, Perry wipes his brow.

  And every second I’m watching Black being hammered at poker, I barely take my eyes off him. Because I can’t.

  When the game ends, Black stands and collects his drink, seemingly unperturbed by the mountains of chips that have changed from his side of the table to the other. Perry is quickly out of his seat too, scuttling around the table to Black as the crowd disperses. For a man who just won, he doesn’t look too pleased to still have his life.

  “So that’s it? We’re square?” Perry asks.

  My intrigue grows as Black stops, throwing his drink back as he faces Perry. “Square?” he asks, pointing his glass at him.

  Perry looks back at the table. “I won.”

  “Of course you won. I’m shit at poker.” The Brit moves in close, virtually snarling. “You think you can walk away from me just like that? Without consequences?” The venom in his tone is cutting. “You still owe me fifteen million, Perry.” His British accent makes me shudder, every word spoken clearly and concisely. Threateningly. He makes a threat sound like a well-spoken promise to look forward to. “I just lost another ten. That ten just turned into twenty.” Black points to the table, where his chips still remain on Perry’s side. “We’ll call it inconvenience money, because it’s been mighty fucking inconvenient for me to fly to Vegas and remind you of your obligations.” His eyes take on more of a dangerous edge. “You now owe me thirty-five million. Have you got thirty-five million?”

  Perry’s eyes widen. “No. God, no.”

  “Didn’t think so.” Black accepts another drink from a tray. “I want the fucking marina, Perry. And no one walks away from me unless I release them.”

  Perry’s eyes close briefly, his situation hitting him hard. Whatever was he thinking getting involved with Danny Black? Adams is a respected lawyer. Or, he was. “The marina.” He swallows. “It’ll happen. Please, just a bit more time.”

  The Brit smiles. It’s fake, almost evil. “Sure, I’ll give you time.” Another casual sip of his drink as Perry visibly deflates in relief. I don’t know why. Even I know there’s a catch coming.

  “Thank you.” Perry smiles, and it’s all I can do not to yell at him for being so fucking dumb. That’s why I’m here. Because he’s fucking dumb.

  The Brit slaps Perry’s shoulder. “No problem, my friend.” Then he points his tumbler at me, his eyes landing on my body with a lethal boom. My insides twist as he drinks me in. His iron gaze frightens me and thrills me. His scar is pulsing, as if his deadly mood brings it to life. The way he’s watching me now, I feel the most naked I’ve ever been. “The woman,” Black says, his accent rich and smooth. “Who is she?”

  I still, the glass in my hand threatening to crack under the force of my grip. Perry turns to me, his relief disappearing. “Her?” He looks at me like he doesn’t know me, which shouldn’t injure me, because he doesn’t. “Never seen her before.”

  “Then you won’t mind if I take her.” Black keeps his eyes on mine, the coldness of his stare eating away the material of my dress, reaching my skin. But my flesh doesn’t go cold. It burns.

  The Brit starts toward me, and despite my mind demanding my feet to back up, I remain where I am. Immobile. Paralyzed by his eyes.

  When he reaches me, we’re virtually chest to chest. My mind rolls. My insides clench. Still no fear. Just complete and utter awe of the dangerous, beautiful killer before me. I lift my chin to keep my eyes on his, and I detect a small lift on the side of his mouth where the scar ends just a fraction before his lip line. He has otherworldly lips. Lips that have ordered thousands of deaths, and lips that I imagine could kiss a woman until she died of pleasure.

  I lift my chin higher, and his mouth twitches farther. He’s read me. Sensed my attraction. My jaw tightens, annoyed that I’ve revealed my thoughts.

  He wants to take me? Why? I’ve sat here, silent, in the distance. I’ve given no clues to suggest I’m in bed with Perry Adams, that I’m of any use to Black. Or . . .

  I glance across to Terrance, finding his nostrils flaring. This is on him. He grabbed me, threatened me, and Danny Black didn’t miss it. The stupid idiot. I can’t go. It’s more than my life is worth. But, then again, no sane person refuses Danny Black.

  Eyes still on mine, Black seizes my wrist with a brutal force I’m all too used to, clawing his fingers into my flesh to the point I know I’ll bruise. I don’t wince. I show no scrap of pain. Judging by the snide leer painting his gorgeous lips, he finds my lack of a reaction amusing. “Come.” He starts pulling me away.

  Perry is suddenly before us, and so are four other men. All Black’s men. They all rest their hands on their hips, where I know their weapons are hiding behind their expensive suit jackets.

  The Brit cocks his head. “You don’t know her?”

  “I do,” Perry whispers, his eyes darting around. “I do know her.”

  Black leans in, getting his face close to Perry’s. “The marina. Until then, I’ll be getting to know her.”

  Perry is yanked from our path by one of Black’s men, and I’m pulled through, Black’s hold of my wrist now loose, though still firm. We make it to the elevators, surrounded at every angle by his men. I’m not struggling with him. I’m unsure why. Maybe because I’ve learned the hard way not to fight with forces out of my control. Danny Black is definitely a force out of my control. He’s a force out of everyone’s control.

  I look down when he moves his grip from my wrist to my hand as we board the elevator. Then up when I feel his eyes on me. The cold blue stones sink in deep under my impenetrable skin. “No fight?” he asks. It’s the first time he’s spoken to me directly, and his British accent does nothing to slow down the fluttering inside my tummy. I’m morbid. Must be. My fucked-up life is the only answer to why I find this animal attractive. I’m so fucking angry with myself. I’ve always worked hard to force attraction, to fool people. Now I’m working hard to fool a man into believing that I’m not attracted to him. This is a fucking disaster.

  I rip my eyes from his and stare at the back of the man in front of me, saying nothing as the elevator carries us to the very top of the hotel. We exit, still surrounded by his men. It’s a carefully executed operation, every man here knowing their place. Everyone knows their place. Except me. What am I supposed to do?

  Only when we’re in the safety of his suite do they disperse, heading to a room off the main space, leaving me alone with Black. I watch him as he wanders over to a cabinet and pours himself a drink. I hear the ice hit the glass. The sound of the liquid meeting the tumbler. The hypnotic clinking of the ice mixing with Scotch as he swirls his drink, turning to face me. Now, in the harsh light of the room, he isn’t just dangerously handsome. He’s deadly handsome. His black hair and pale blue eyes are a stark contrast, but a perfect combination, his tan skin is dusted with even, dark stubble, and his scar is more prominent. Deeper. His eyes seem dead. Cold and dead. But beyond the frostiness, I sense heat. White-hot fire.

  Walking casually toward me, he continues to swirl his drink, holding my gaze. Then he’s close again, and I feel my jaw tightening once more in determination to remain as cool as he is. He takes a sip of his drink, forcing me to look away from his taut throat. But I can only convince my eyes to move a few inches up to his, finding him studying me as he rolls an ice c
ube around in his mouth. Hot and cold. Fire and ice. Two very different things that come together so perfectly. He is fire. And he is ice.

  Then he crunches the cube, the sound deafening in the silence. “You remind me of someone I used to know,” he says, his voice low and penetrating.

  “Who?”

  He moves so fast, I miss his hand sailing through the air toward my cheek until his palm connects with my face, delivering a brutal slap. My head jars, and for the first time since I can remember, it hurts to be struck. Not that he would know because I don’t cry out. I don’t flinch or grasp my burning cheek. I just stare him down, watching as a knowing smile creeps onto his face. This smile is genuine. It’s a smile that you would never know this hard face was capable of had you not witnessed it for yourself. And something tells me not many people have.

  He nods mildly, taking another swig of his drink. “Slap me,” he commands, full of demand and authority that only a mad person would ignore. So maybe I’m mad, as well as empty.

  I shake my head, and he dips, bringing his lips close to my ear. “Slap me,” he whispers, the quiet sound not lacking any of the demand in his previous order, but also sounding like the most erotic order ever murmured.

  “Why?” I breathe, closing my eyes as he blows subtle breaths into my ear. Every exhale seems to seep into my mind and ignite every other sense I possess. I’m hyper-alert. God, I feel more alive now than I ever have, and it’s absurd for me to feel this way. The man has death painted all over him.

  He pulls back and places a fingertip on my blazing cheek, drawing a line through the fire. “Because I told you to.” Taking a step back, giving me the perfect range, he raises his glass. “Do it.”

  I don’t know why, but I don’t think he’s tricking me. I don’t think he’ll beat me black and blue if I strike him. He’s figuring me out. So, I do something I’ve never dared do before. I hit a man, and I do it without one concern that I might be brutally punished in return. My arm moves as quick as his, my strike accurate and hard. It’s like a lifetime’s worth of stress lifts from my shoulders, a million slaps saved for this moment. It’s as if he knows I needed it more than I realize myself.