“Senator?” The voice came from behind her father’s back, deep and rough, and familiar. “Sorry to interrupt, sir, but there’s been a disturbance out in the front of the museum. I’m afraid it’s no longer safe for Miss Hawthorne to be here.”
Jack. Jack was here.
A pulse of something that felt horribly like relief made her knees momentarily weak, though she refused to let that show either. No weakness, not yet. And certainly not when Jack might have been the one who’d betrayed her.
Fury glittered in her father’s eyes, hot and bright, then it was gone, his usual easygoing smile firmly in its place. He straightened and let go of her wrist, turning to face Jack.
“Disturbance?” he asked mildly. “Really? I thought my security was better than that.”
Jack’s attention was wholly on her father and for some reason it pleased her to see that Jack was taller than he was. “It’s being handled, but no security is a hundred percent foolproof.”
“Certainly, but is it really necessary for my daughter to leave now?”
Jack’s expression was impassive. “I believe it is, sir.
Her father made a huffing sound, then turned to her, that fake smile still on his face. “Well, you heard the man, Callie. I guess I’d better let him take you home. Don’t want to be accused of putting your safety at risk, hmmm?”
Her wrist throbbed and her anger throbbed along with it, but she gave him his own fake smile back at him. “No, we definitely don’t want that, Dad.” She couldn’t quite keep the edge out of the words and she knew her father had heard it, because she saw his anger flicker again.
“Please come with me, Miss Hawthorne,” Jack said, nothing but authoritative. “We’ll get you to your car.”
Part of her didn’t want to run, because leaving now was definitely running. Part of her wanted to stay and do battle with her father once and for all, get rid of all the years of rage she had bottled up. Show him that she was strong, that she had a mind and a will of her own, that she wasn’t some doormat that liked being bossed around and told what to do.
But Jack was moving toward her and arguing would only give her away to her father even more, and besides, she didn’t want to be forced. She wanted this to be her decision, so she turned in the direction of the doors before Jack could reach her and started to walk.
“Remember what I said,” her father said quietly as she passed. “Call him tomorrow, no arguments. Unless you really don’t like playing that little guitar of yours.”
Shock nearly made her stop, but she forced herself to walk on, to ignore him.
Those cameras in her house had been his after all. As she knew they would be.
She left the corridor and walked back out into the party, the music and noise swamping her. But she ignored it. She felt icy cold and yet burning up all at the same time, rage and fear twisting and coiling in her gut.
“Callie,” someone said in her ear.
She ignored the voice, heading straight back out of the party and into the entrance area of the museum. The front doors were ahead of her and she walked right out, the icy night air caressing her skin, reminding her that she’d left her wrapper behind.
There was a limo pulled up to the curb ahead of her and she moved toward it without hesitation, trying to ignore the storm of emotion that sat inside her, the rage and frustration and, beneath it, the fear.
Jack was suddenly there, opening the door for her, and she got in, sliding over the soft leather of the seat, the warmth of the car’s interior against her cold skin making her shiver. Except, as Jack got in and shut the door after him, she couldn’t seem to stop shivering and the harder she tried to get herself under control, the more she shook.
She could feel Jack’s green gaze settle on her, watching her, and she didn’t know what to do with herself. She wanted to be calm, to pretend like he hadn’t just walked in on her father threatening her. She wanted not to feel humiliated or as if she’d been rescued. But it was too late for that now, wasn’t it?
Jack knew now what her father was like. He’d seen it with his own eyes and she didn’t know whether to be glad or to be frightened.
Callie clenched her hands into fists. “I don’t see any disturbance,” she said, trying to defuse the tension, her voice uneven. “What were you talking about?”
Jack, sitting on the seat opposite her, his expression unreadable, didn’t answer immediately. Instead he hit the intercom button and ordered, “Take us to Miss Hawthorne’s place.”
“Hey, this isn’t your goddamned car,” she snapped, anger and fear leaping high. “You can’t order my driver around like that.”
Ignoring her, he reached out and before she could stop him, he’d taken one of her hands in his, turning it so the underside of her wrist was visible.
Trembling, Callie tried to jerk her hand away but his grip was unbreakable and anyway, it hurt.
He said nothing, staring down at the darkening purple bruises on her skin.
You’re like your mother now, aren’t you? She always had bruises there too.
Rage burned inside her, hot and formless. Years of frustration and anger, years of helplessness and fear, all combining into a toxic, acidic mix in her gut. Making her feel like screaming or crying, or smashing her fist straight through a wall.
Then Jack raised those sharp green eyes to hers and she felt like he’d sliced through the top layer of her skin, exposing raw nerve endings. Exposing her pain and her weakness.
She didn’t want him to see it. She didn’t want him to see how emotional she was. Because she knew that if he discovered the depth of her anger, he’d also discover the depth of her fear, and even she didn’t want to know that.
She’d been running from that knowledge for years.
“He did this.” Jack’s voice was flat, the rough edge in it pronounced. “He hurt you.” It wasn’t a question.
“It’s nothing.” Callie tried to pull away from him again, the blood pounding loudly in her head.
Except he wouldn’t let her. His fingers were holding her securely and pulling against him only made her wrist hurt worse. But somehow she didn’t mind that. Somehow it turned the pain from something that had been done to her, into something she chose.
“It’s not nothing.” This time his voice was full of gravel and the look in his eyes was full of blades, cutting her open. “He’s the one you’re afraid of, isn’t he?”
CHAPTER 9
Callie sat opposite him in the limo, her face flushed, her blue eyes full of rage and a thousand other emotions he couldn’t untangle. She was shaking, too, but it wasn’t from cold.
He’d seen her in that corridor with her father. He’d seen that bastard standing close to her, looming over her with his hand wrapped around her wrist and twisting it.
What he’d thought earlier had been right, and he’d known the second he’d seen the senator whisper in her ear and she’d gone white that something extremely serious was about to go down.
The protective instinct had kicked in hard and so the second Callie had put her champagne down and followed her father out of the main function area, he’d gone after them. It had taken him a couple of minutes to get through the thickening crowds, but he’d finally managed it, coming into the hallway to find that motherfucker standing over her, hurting her.
He’d wanted to kill someone before. He remembered the intensity of his rage and he’d felt it again, licking up inside him at the grip the senator had on Callie’s wrist. At the redness of her skin around his fingers. And once again it had taken every little bit of control he had not to get out his gun and pull that fucking trigger.
Getting her and himself out of there had been imperative, so he’d invented a lie on the spot about a disturbance, anything to get Callie away from that bastard.
Except now she was upset and furious, and he could understand both because no one wanted to be seen in a position of weakness. Hell, he knew what that was like. It had been the most difficult part of his recover
y, lying in his hospital bed weak and in pain, too helpless even to bathe himself or go to the bathroom on his own. For a man used to being physically fit and in control, it had been torture. So yeah, he got her fury. He got the reason for her defiance.
But still, he wanted to hear her give him the truth herself.
Her chin jutted in the way he was starting to become familiar with, rebellious and stubborn, and she jerked against his hold again, even though it must be hurting her. “You told him,” she said suddenly. “About me going to the club.”
Shock caught at him. “What the fuck? No. Of course I damn well didn’t.”
“I don’t believe you.” Wildness glittered in her eyes and beneath it a desperation he didn’t understand. “How else could he have known? He told me he didn’t want me flaunting myself at clubs like a slut and there’s no way he could have known, not with those fucking cameras—”
Jack moved, responding automatically to an instinct he didn’t even know he possessed, wrenching his earpiece off before crossing to sit next to her, then pulling her firmly into his arms.
She gasped and went rigid, her whole body trembling, but he didn’t let her go. He held her tighter, letting her feel the strength of his arms and the warmth of his body, giving her what physical comfort he could.
She struggled a little against him, her palms lifting to push against his chest. But only for a moment. She went still after that, all the fight draining out of her, her breathing coming short and fast against his neck.
Only once she’d stopped shaking did he slip his fingers beneath her jaw and tilt her head back so he could see her face.
It was pale, her eyes shadowed and full of storms.
“Listen to me,” he said softly, fiercely. “I didn’t tell your father a fucking thing. Not about the club, not about any of it. And I don’t know who did, but that’s irrelevant now.”
“But how can you say it’s—”
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he went on with calm authority, because he knew what he was going to do now. He’d made the decision even before he’d seen those bruises on her arm. “If you don’t want to talk about your goddamn father, fine. But this situation is just fucking unacceptable and you’re not staying in it.” Callie opened her mouth yet again, so this time he put his hand over it. “No, don’t say a fucking word. I don’t know who’s listening.”
A fine tremor shook her, a little less intense than the last shake. She was still holding herself rigidly, the warmth of her breath against his palm, that sweet sugar scent of her winding around him. And he had a sudden, intense vision of himself with his palm over her mouth as he slid a hand between her thighs, stroking the wet little pussy he found there. Stroking her clit and making her shake with pleasure, not fear. Sharpening the steel he knew was part of her, testing her strength, making her eyes go dark and wild and hot.
He wouldn’t let her come until she was begging him, until she was screaming his name. Until she’d given every single fucking thing to him.
His cock was hardening and Jesus Christ, it was so not the right time for him to be thinking shit like that, so he shoved the vision away. “We’re going back to your place,” he went on. “And you’ll take five minutes to get your shit together and then we’re out of there.”
Now she’d gone very still and he could feel her breathing accelerate. Her hair smelled so fucking good he wanted to nuzzle into it, inhale her.
“Don’t ask questions,” he continued, making it an order. “Don’t fucking speak. Just do what I say. I’m taking you somewhere safe, understand. Nod your head if you do.”
He didn’t know what would happen if she refused, and there was a moment where he thought she might. But then she gave him a short, sharp nod.
He tried to breathe through his mouth, tried not to inhale the delicious scent of her. “Are you going to try and stop me?”
Again, there was a moment’s hesitation.
Then quite suddenly, she turned her head toward him, making his hand slip from her mouth and before he could pull back, she’d leaned forward an inch or two and nipped at his bottom lip. Hard.
The pain was small, yet it went straight to his cock as if she’d touched him there directly.
She pulled back, staring at him. She was still trembling, but there it was in her eyes, that fire, that spark. That steel inside her challenging him.
Desire twisted against the control he’d laid on it, and it took all he had not to shove his fingers in her hair and jerk her head back, deal to her what she’d just dealt to him.
“Good,” he said instead. “I don’t want you afraid.”
Her dress pulled tight across her breasts as she took a breath, her pulse racing at the base of her throat. She looked furious and desperate at the same time. “How do I know this isn’t some trick? That you’re not going to take me straight back to my father?”
He stared intently at her, letting her see the truth in his eyes. “You want to know what I really think of your father? I think any man who lays a hand on a woman like that deserves to be six feet in the goddamn ground.”
Her gaze flickered, but her tension didn’t ease. “Let me go.”
“No. Are you going to do what I say?”
“I don’t understand why you even care.”
“Let’s just say I’ve had experience with assholes like your dad and I know where that kind of shit eventually leads. It’s nowhere good, Princess. Which is why, whether you like it or not, you’re coming with me.”
She swallowed. “I don’t . . . I don’t want to be rescued.”
“I don’t care whether you want to be rescued or not. It’s happening.” He adjusted his grip on her and reached into his pocket, taking out his phone. Kellan had given him a code to use for an emergency extraction and he punched it in now without a second’s hesitation. If they were going to leave, they needed to do so fast and without drawing attention.
The limo slowly came to a stop as they approached Callie’s house and Jack released her, opening the door and getting out. He checked the street automatically, then held the door for Callie.
She stayed where she was.
Fighting the instinct that was screaming at him to get her the hell away as quickly as he could, he bent and looked into the limo. She was sitting there with her hands clasped in her lap, her attention straight ahead, her chin lifted and her back rigid.
“Princess.” He tried to keep his voice gentle. “Get the fuck out of the limo.”
“I . . . wanted to get away from him. I always have.” She didn’t look at him. “But I wanted to do it myself. I didn’t want to be rescued.”
He heard the note of distress in her voice and it felt like a kick aimed straight at his heart. Gentleness wasn’t in his nature, but he would try to give it to her if that’s what she needed, and he suspected that right now, she probably did.
“Here’s how I see it,” he said quietly. “You have two choices. You can either come with me, or you can stay. You might not like those choices. They might not be the choices you wanted. But you have them. They’re yours to make. Not mine and they’re certainly not your fucking father’s. One thing you gotta know, though. It’s not staying that makes you brave. It’s the leaving that takes courage. Believe me, I know.”
She sat there for a long moment, not moving, and he forced away his impatience. Forced down the need to grab her and drag her into the house.
This was something she needed, he could sense it.
Eventually he said, “You can trust me, Callie. I would never hurt you.”
Another moment passed and then finally she turned and looked at him, and the expression in her blue gaze gave him another kick to the chest, though he wasn’t sure quite why.
Then she looked away and slowly moved to the car door, getting out, not waiting for him as she headed straight to her front door, her head lifted regally.
He didn’t give a shit, a flood of something hot and intense filling him. Because she’d wanted a cho
ice and so he’d given her one.
And whether she knew it or not, her choice was him.
* * *
Callie went straight into her bedroom and tore off her gown. Jack had told her five minutes and she knew he’d meant every word. She kicked the satiny fabric onto the floor before going to her dresser and pulling out a pair of jeans, a tee, a dark blue cashmere sweater, and a thick winter coat. She dressed quickly, then got herself a bag from her wardrobe and stuffed whatever other clothes she could find inside it.
She tried not to think about the decision she’d made there in the car, after he’d told her that true courage was leaving, not staying. After he’d told her she could trust him and something had shifted inside her whether she’d wanted it to or not. Or at least, she tried not to think about that feeling.
Because it meant something.
She’d thought that his decision to rescue her had taken the choice she’d made to rescue herself away. But he hadn’t. He’d simply told her that the decision to come with him was hers to make, as was the choice to stay.
She’d never had a choice like that before, that wasn’t coerced, and for a second she’d been paralyzed both by the enormity of the choice, and by the extent of her own fear. It was one thing to think about escaping her father. It was quite another to take the step to do it.
But he’d told her she could trust him and she knew that she could. She just . . . knew. And the decision after that had been easy.
But she definitely didn’t want to think about the rest of her behavior, when she’d been in his arms, resting against his hard, hot body, and she’d bitten his lip. And definitely not about the craving that had filled her as he’d put his hand over her mouth. That intense need she had to lash out at him, fight him, let him take her anger and hurt. Hit him as hard as she could, struggle and rage without fear.
It made her want him so badly she ached.
But she didn’t think about that, either. She packed her bag on autopilot and she grabbed her guitar case, and five minutes later she came out into the living area to find Jack waiting for her.
He’d changed out of his tux and back into his usual uniform of jeans, thermal, and a leather jacket. He had that black kit bag slung over his shoulder and his expression was hard, his green eyes absolutely unreadable.
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