The Brit

by Jodi Ellen Malpas

  Just like I am.

  With a salacious smirk tickling the edge of her mouth, she dials and puts the phone to her ear. I snatch it away and click it to loudspeaker while I take my gun back to her forehead.

  “Hello?” Adams voice is hoarse and tired.

  “Perry, it’s me,” she says, eyes on mine. “I have to be quick. He’s in the shower.” She reels it all off like she could be reading from a script. Auditioning for a role she’d die for. There’s urgency in her voice that almost has me believing her too. Jesus, she’s good.

  “Oh my God, Rose, sweetheart,” Adams gasps. “What has he done? Has he touched you? The bastard. I’ll kill him. I swear, I’ll kill him.”

  I look over my shoulder to Brad. There are three things in his short spurge of words that have assisted in white-hot rage turning my veins to ashes. First, of all the things he could have called me, he calls me a bastard. Second, he’ll kill me? The man just hung himself. Just as soon as I’ve got what I want, I’ll cut every organ out of his body and feed them to the Dobermans that guard my mansion back in Miami. Those two things are enough. But hearing him call her sweetheart has the gun vibrating in my hand. She must be able to feel it.

  “You have to get me out of here.” She keeps her eyes on mine. They’re devoid of emotion, but her voice is not. “Please, just get him what he wants or pay him back. I’m begging you. He’s an animal, Perry.”

  I cock my head in question at her choice of word. Animal? She can’t hide her secret smile.

  “Rose.” Adams sounds defeated, and it has my attention. “I’m so sorry for getting you in this mess. I’m doing everything I can. My contact will help. He’ll sort this out, I swear.”

  His contact. I look at Brad again, and he nods his understanding. He’s in bed with someone else, and whoever it is must be making it more worth his while than I was. And I was making it pretty fucking worth his while. Ten million dollars’ worth his while. What have they promised him, and what has he promised them? But more to the point, who are they?

  As I cast my eyes back to Rose, I just catch the falter of her steely expression. I can’t figure out if it’s hurt or worry.

  “But I can promise you one thing,” Adams goes on.

  “What?” she barely whispers.

  Yes, what?

  “Danny Black is a dead man.”

  Her eyes widen. And what do I do? I smirk. A death threat? Is that all he has? I hear Brad sigh his tiredness. I can virtually hear Rose’s heart pound harder.

  “How?” she asks, surprising me. Oh, nice. She wants the gory details of my apparent demise?

  “Just trust me. Hold on in there, sweetheart. I’ll get this sorted out and you’ll be with me in no time.”

  I pull the gun from her forehead and swirl it in midair before her nose, my way of telling her to wrap it up. I’ve heard enough. Enough to know that Adams is trying to turn me over. It’s the last thing he’ll ever do.

  “I have to go,” she breathes. “I just heard the shower shut off.”

  “Okay. Make sure you delete this call from your recent call list. He’s a shrewd man. Doesn’t trust.”

  “Okay.”

  “I love you,” Adams says, with so much softness, I believe him. The stupid fuck.

  “I love you too,” she replies, with so much resolution, I’d believe her too.

  If I wasn’t looking into her dead eyes.

  I disconnect the call. “Hold on in there, sweetheart,” I say quietly, taking my gun and running it down the center of her naked breasts. Her chest concaves. Her nipples pebble.

  And I smirk wickedly.

  I turn to the men, ready to debrief them, but fuck if they’re looking at me. They’re staring at Rose. I clear my throat, and they all get their eyes under control. I look back to Rose. Her blue eyes darken. And she subtly pushes her chest out and widens her stance a fraction, spreading her thighs, giving my men more to feast their eyes on.

  What the fucking hell? A switch flips in me, taking my body temperature to burning levels. I grab her harshly, yanking her toward the door. The men, alarmed, move from my path, all dropping their eyes to their feet. And Brad? He just shakes his head at me. I snarl at him as I steam out, looking out the corner of my eye, seeing Rose’s breasts bouncing, her wet hair slapping the perfect globes as I manhandle her back to the bedroom.

  Fuck!

  I push her through the door and throw the gun on the bed before I go on a shooting spree. Then I shove her up against the wall aggressively. The back of her head hits the plaster with a thwack. And she smiles a sick, satisfied smile. I could explode. “Who is he dealing with?” I gasp in her face, my fury leaving me breathless.

  “I don’t know.” Her chest heaves as she pulls air into her lungs. “He doesn’t talk business around me.”

  “If you’re lying to me—”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “How do I know that?”

  “You think I want to protect him? He’s nothing to me but a new pair of shoes each week and fancy hotel rooms wherever he wants to take me.”

  Her face. Stone cold. I see a similar sight in the mirror every day. “How does it feel to know he’s left you at my mercy?” I ask.

  “About as good as it feels knowing I’ll be sleeping with you again tonight.”

  My lip curls. It’s another face-off. They’re both electrifying and frustrating. This woman fucking frustrates me. Why? Because she challenges me. The weak woman who asks how high when she’s told to jump is challenging me. Me. Danny Black. Does she have a death wish?

  I’m about to ask her that very question when her eyes fall to my lips. And in answer, mine drop to hers. I could take her here and now. Fuck her black and blue. Make her scream my name. Shit, I could do with the relief. She wouldn’t stop me.

  Without any prompt, my lips move in toward hers. They brush. She moans. “You want it, don’t you? You want my big dick pounding your sweet cunt.” My cock pleads for her to confirm it as I lick the seam of her lips, grinding our hips together.

  She hums, sounding dazed. “I’d rather you kill me.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  “You need me.”

  She’s right. And I’m starting to need her for another reason—one that doesn’t involve business. My tongue leaves my mouth, skimming the tip of hers. I groan roughly. She whimpers softly. “Go on,” she whispers, goading me. Giving me the okay? She bites my bottom lip, tugging the flesh. “Kill me.”

  Fucking hell.

  I move my mouth across hers, hoping to taste fear, but instead I taste nothing but sex. It’s intoxicating. Mind-blanking. “Fuck,” I whisper, and I feel her smile around my mouth.

  The door swings open, Brad appears, and I’m yanked back from the brink of a dangerous moment. Perfect fucking timing. His gaze moves from us to the bed. Where my gun is. Not in my hand. Not tucked behind my back.

  Shit. I push Rose away and compose myself under the suspicious glare of my right-hand man. “We just got confirmation of Adams’s dinner reservation at Hakasan tonight,” he tells me.

  “Who with?”

  “Some lawyers and governors. Sounds boring as shit.”

  “But still . . .” It’s business as usual for Adams, then? Cheeky fucker. I look at Rose. She’s motionless, quiet, eyes on mine. And she’s still naked. I grab a towel and thrust it in her chest, a demand to cover herself. “Looks like you and I are going on our first date this evening, sweetheart,” I inform her, taking myself to the shower.

  Chapter 8

  ROSE

  * * *

  Our first date. Or rather, the first round of Perry’s torture. It’ll be a show. A demonstration.

  I’m driving Black wild, and I can’t help getting satisfaction from that. But it feels so good to have a little control, even if it’s a twisted psychological control.

  I haven’t seen Black since this morning. He’s been holed up in his office with his army of men, though he made sure one guarded the door to the bedroom so
I couldn’t escape. I found that out when I actually tried to escape, peeking out the door to check if the coast was clear. It wasn’t. The guy smiled at me, a knowing smirk full of laughter. And I spilled some crap about needing a drink. There’s a perfectly furnished mini bar in the bedroom. He knew my game.

  I’m getting desperate. I’m not supposed to be here. I’m supposed to be with Perry Adams. He has a new investor. I need to share that information with Nox, need to tell him where I am, but I can’t so much as sneeze without Black finding out. He’s having me watched constantly. And to make matters worse, I’m lying to him. Bare-faced lying. He thinks I’m a gold-digging whore who’s latched onto Adams for financial benefits. I wish.

  The outcome of this mess is becoming clearer and clearer.

  Me.

  Dead.

  The question is, who will kill me? Nox or Black?

  I fiddle with the towel wrapped around me, trying to focus on my boy and my reason to live, at the same time trying not to think about how Black paraded me in front of his men naked, and then clearly regretted it.

  The joy I felt in that moment floored me. And scared me. He couldn’t stand another man seeing me naked. So what would he think about another man touching me? Or violating me? I sickly smile to myself. There it is again. Joy. No, Rose. Joy isn’t an emotion I should get used to. I feel it from time to time, once in a blue moon when I get a glimpse of my boy. And then, moments later, the inevitable heartbreak when my reality sinks back in.

  I need to get out of here, or I’m a dead woman. I might not feel much, but I still have a survival instinct, and I want to live. Even if I’m a prisoner in my own life. It still means someone else is free. My mind momentarily wanders to places I always forbid it to go, before I quickly pull myself back from the brink of feeling. Feeling would be pointless. It wouldn’t change anything. I need to focus on getting myself out of this mess. But tonight, I have a date. I also have another problem.

  I look at the red dress on the floor, the only item of clothing I have here. I hate myself with a vengeance for wanting something else to wear. Something I picked. Something undeniably me. I can’t remember the last time I wore something because I wanted to wear it, not because someone else wanted me to wear it. In fact, it’s never happened. As a little girl, I didn’t want to wear the rags that were the only clothes within my reach. And as a woman, I’ve never wanted to wear the clothes I’ve been made to wear to make me look like the enticing piece of meat that I am. But I have. Because that’s what I do. Because I have no choice. It’s the times when I’m alone, when I can lounge in a pair of pajamas, that I feel most like me. I cherish those times. Have to, because they are a rarity.

  I sigh and stand, pulling my towel in and going to the bathroom. I find a hairdryer in the vanity unit and start blasting my hair. I have no makeup, no perfume, no anything. And I hate myself again for wishing I did. Because I want to look nice. Not for him, but for myself. Because it’ll enhance the power I’ll feel when I’m holding my own with Danny Black.

  Another sigh.

  I flip my head upside down, blasting my hair from every angle. One thing I’m blessed with in this miserable life is thick, wavy hair and even a rough dry will give me something smooth and manageable. I spotted some men’s hair product earlier that I can use to gloss if necessary. His hair product. His shower gel, his shampoo.

  Tossing my hair back, I look up to the mirror. And freeze. He’s standing in the doorway watching me, and I’m quickly so thankful he can’t hear my thoughts. He’s in a suit. A three-piece. A light gray three-piece suit. Designer. Bespoke. It makes his hair look blacker, his eyes bluer.

  He’s trimmed his stubble, making his scar more prominent. He’s fixed his hair, making it almost too perfect for his sharp, angry features.

  I’ve been looking at him for far too long. I quickly gather myself, feeling the towel loosen around my chest. I don’t stop it from falling, letting it hit the floor as I switch off the dryer and blow my hair out of my face. His facial expression doesn’t falter in the slightest. I’d wonder if he’s becoming immune to the sight of my naked body—Lord knows he’s seen it enough—but I sense his determination to remain unaffected by my brazenness. I confuse him. He can’t hide that. I imagine every woman falls all over herself to please him, whether that be because of lust or fear. The latter is wasted on me. The former I will go to the end of the earth to contain.

  Without a word, he comes to me, taking my wrist and pulling me from the bathroom, ever the gent. He stops us by the full-length mirror in the bedroom, placing me in front of it and taking up position behind me. Unashamedly, he looks me up and down in the reflection, his chin virtually resting on my shoulder. “What will you be wearing for our date?”

  He knows damn well I only have the red dress. “Whatever you tell me to,” I reply evenly.

  He nods approvingly. “I’m telling you to wear what’s laid out on the bed.”

  My eyes dart to the bed beyond his reflection, seeing a floor-length gown. It’s a muted silver satin, a lovely off-the-shoulder piece cut on the cross. It’s very me. It’s just what I would choose. It’s not tarty or suggestive. It’s elegant and beautiful and . . . him? Obviously. Is The Brit trying to transform me from a whore into a lady? I chew my lip as I try to slow my whirling mind.

  “You hate it,” he says, and it’s the first time I’ve heard him sound unsure.

  My gaze finds him, seeing his eyes look unsure too. It makes the monster seem vulnerable, and I soften a little on the inside. Does he actually care whether I do or not? “Do you like it?”

  “Whether I like it isn’t the question. I want to know if you like it.”

  I’m so fucking confused. Why the hell does he care? “I love it.”

  He nods sharply and moves back, revealing a shoe box too, as well as a basket full of makeup. “I didn’t know what cosmetics you use, so I had them send everything.”

  Where’s this all come from? Is he being kind? “Have you ever bought a woman a dress before?”

  His persona seems to change in an instant, the veil of evil falling. “I don’t spend my money on clothes that are going to be ruined when I rip them off.” He turns and walks away. “We leave in fifteen minutes. Be ready.” The door slams.

  The man is well protected. That much I’ve learned, and it’s really not surprising. I shudder to think how many people want him dead. Me included. We walk from the limo to the hotel door, the staff falling over their feet to greet him, smile, ask if he needs anything. He doesn’t acknowledge one of them, pulling me along beside him, his grip of my hand solid.

  I can’t ignore the fact that I feel the loveliest I’ve ever felt. The dress, the Dior strappy heels, and the makeup. The fact that I’m wearing four-inch heels and he still towers over me is a novelty. My hair is roughly pinned up, my makeup perfect.

  I’ve gone to too much effort. But for the first time in my life, I made an effort because I wanted to, not because it was expected. The reason why is something I need to cast aside. Though when I stepped into the room where he was waiting with a brandy in his grasp, I saw the squeeze of his chest from his inhale. The tremble of his hand as he lifted his drink to his lips. The stirring beyond the fly of his gray trousers.

  It was the same reaction I had when I set eyes on him in his three-piece.

  Wonder.

  And, like me, he tried to hide it.

  “Mr. Black, what a pleasure,” a man says, falling into stride next to us. “Anything you need, please, just ask.”

  Black continues, not even blessing the man with a glance. But then he pulls to an abrupt stop, forcing every one of his entourage to stop too, all of them clearly confused. “Actually”—Black uses his free hand to go to his inside pocket, then turns to the man—“your chopper. Have it on standby.” He releases my hand and flips off at least a dozen hundred-dollar bills and passes them over before claiming me again. “I might feel like a sky tour of Vegas after dinner.”

  “Of course,
sir.”

  A helicopter? Just like that? “That’s a bit spontaneous,” I say without thought as he moves us forward again.

  “I don’t do spontaneous,” he replies flatly, releasing my hand and taking it to my lower back. My teeth bite down together, as his big palm splays the entire width, his touch burning through the silky material of the dress. Danny strokes the area gently, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s mindful of the bruise he’s seen there. “Spontaneous gets you killed,” he adds quietly.

  “Wasn’t this dress spontaneous?”

  “Yes, and it might get me killed.” His face is deadly serious when I shoot a surprised look his way. “After you,” he says, opening the door and letting me go through, but not before three of his men.

  I see Perry immediately. He’s at a table of four, throwing back shots rapidly. He looks troubled. Very, very troubled. I feel Danny’s mouth at my ear, and my body rolls. “I hope you’re looking forward to this evening as much as I am.”

  “I would rather walk on broken glass.”

  He laughs softly as we’re led to a table mere feet from my lover. A romantic, cozy table set for two. Just two. Two places laid side by side. Not opposite each other. They’re next to each other. This is going to be more of a spectacle than I anticipated. Danny Black is about to torture me throughout dinner, and appearing disgusted rather than turned on under Perry’s watchful eye is going to be hard.

  One of Danny’s men indicates the seat, and I sit, placing the silver purse that’s a perfect match to the dress on the table. Black takes a seat beside me. He’s close. Too close. His men move away, not too far but far enough to give us privacy, not that this dinner is going to be private. Nowhere near.

  I know the second Perry sees us. I know because Black curls his arm around my shoulder. And then I feel the heat of his mouth moving in on my cheek. My body does what it’s so good at doing when he’s this close. It trembles. I flick my eyes to Perry, seeing a horrified stare pointing my way. I try to pass my shakes off as a shuddery cringe, closing my eyes as if struggling to endure Black’s closeness. I should be quite convincing, because I really am struggling. Thank God Perry can’t see my thighs clenching under the table.