Wicked Pleasures

by Rhonda Lee Carver

  “My body is just fine the way it is, thank you.”

  He didn’t have to look to know she was pounding him with a heated stare. He kept his back to her as he crossed the room toward the door. “So you say. It’s not fitting for a woman to weigh so little. How will you carry a baby with no nourishment available to feed a child in your womb?” Her snort cracked the air.

  “I could carry a baby with no problem. I eat healthy. I work out. I have a strong body. I’ve never had any health conditions. And why the hell would I care what you think? I’m only saying that if I have a baby, but I won’t, it certainly wouldn’t be yours anyway.” Her chin was at a challenging slant. “Arguing is useless.”

  “Unless you call being a workaholic a serious issue,” he said. “That is a health risk and the dark circles underneath your eyes are a red flag that you’re malnourished.”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  He turned to face her. Her hands were on her hips and there was a slight pout to her bottom lip. He found it engaging, in an odd way. “Your blood pressure is rising, sweetheart. That’s definitely not good for the body. And no, it may not be any business of mine, but why are you hiding from people?”

  “I’m not hiding. That’s a crazy assumption.”

  “You work more than twelve hours a day. You say you have a boyfriend, but what sort of man is happy with only seeing his partner every few weeks? When you’re in love, you desire to spend as much time as possible with that person.”

  “I’m not in love—”

  He smiled. She’d fallen right into the trap. “Exactly. I made my point. Why waste your time?”

  “You don’t know me or Gage.” She folded her arms over her chest.

  “I do know you, but you’re right, I don’t know him.”

  “And my point was, I will never have sex with you, and we will never conceive a baby.” Her chin was set in a determined angle.

  “There you go using that word never again. Such negativity. How about for the next few hours we call a cease fire? I’m famished.” He grabbed her hand and was grateful that she didn’t resist as he led her out of the room, down the hall and into the formal dining room.

  His cook was placing their plates of chicken, potatoes and rolls on the table when they walked in. “Just in time,” Roark said. The smell of the meat made his mouth salivate. Bronte pulled her hand away. He saw the uncomfortable look she gave him and then the curious slant of her eyes as she looked at the cook. “Bronte, this is Miss Deveraux.”

  The grey haired woman turned and greeted them with a bubbly laugh. Her cheeks were crimson and she wore her usual, heavily starched, blue and white trimmed uniform. Her apron was pristine. She was spotless and didn’t appear to have cooked anything. “Hello, Bronte. Is it okay if I call you Bronte? I don’t want to show my bad manners. I just think you have such a beautiful name.”

  Roark watched Bronte. Several different expressions flitted across her face but he knew what rolled around inside her mind. He bent and whispered into her ear, “You can tell her whatever you like. She won’t help.” She snapped him a look of complete rage. He shrugged. “Don’t be pissy with me. What were you expecting?”

  “That you’d have dropped dead by now.” She held death in the grip of her gaze.

  He smiled. “I thought we agreed to peace?”

  “If you remember correctly, I didn’t agree to a peace of nothing.”

  He didn’t respond. “Thank you, Miss Deveraux. It all looks delicious. You’re free to go.” He gave her a nod and she disappeared in through the swinging doors leading into the kitchen. He went to the head of the table and sat down as his stomach growled. Grabbing his fork, he dug into the thick breast of chicken when he realized Bronte was still standing near the door with her arms crossed over her chest. Peering at her over the meat, he thought she looked like a child who was throwing a stubborn fit. He set his utensil back down and sighed. “What’s wrong now?”

  “I’m not eating,” she stated defiantly.

  “Come and sit. Try a bite. Miss Deveraux is an excellent cook.”

  She shook her head, sending tendrils of hair whipping around her cheeks. “No.”

  “Bronte, think of the baby,” he encouraged.

  “Are you a complete lunatic? I’m not pregnant nor will I ever be by you.”

  “Suit yourself, Bronte.” He got up and went to her. He easily lifted her into his arms and started for the double doors leading outside.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Outside,” he answered.

  “I’m not going out there. It’s pouring rain.” He felt her body tighten as she clutched at his shirt.

  “You won’t melt. Plus, it won’t hurt you to get cooled off.” He pushed open the doors and with her still in his arms, he ignored her protests and walked out into the rain.

  “No! Oh my…this is ridiculous.” She snuggled her body closer to his as she wiped the water from her face. They were soaked in seconds. He lowered her to her feet, but she made no move away from him. She brought her chin up and her gaze narrowed. “You’re even crazier than I first thought.”

  The anger was gone from her expression. Wetness dripped from her eyelashes and she was beautiful. “It’s okay, Bronte. Life is about enjoyment. When was the last time you played outside in the rain?”

  There was hesitation. “When I was about seven. My mother and I used to run and jump in puddles,” she said as her eyes sparkled.

  He laughed. “Come along.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her into the yard. Their bare feet sloshed in the grass. “Let’s find a puddle for you.”

  “I’m not playing in a puddle, Roark.” She buried her feet into the ground as if to prevent him from moving her.

  “Here’s one.” He picked her up again and ran. He dropped to his knees into the water and it splashed up onto their bodies. For the first time, he heard her laugh and it made him happy, something he hadn’t felt in a very long time. “Are you ready to go back in?”

  She nodded. Together, they walked back inside. Miss Deveraux waited for them with warm towels and a look of disbelief. “Roark, how dare you take her outside. She’ll catch cold.”

  “We needed to lighten things up,” Roark said as he winked at Bronte who was now frowning, although he could see she tried very hard to hide her enthusiasm. “Let’s eat.” He sat down and Bronte made her way to the extra plate setting. “You’re hungry after all,” he said. “Admit it, our body needs nourishment.”

  She didn’t even glance his way when she said, “You can take your chicken, stick it up your ass and see if you can take a flying leap off the nearest cliff.”

  He wanted to laugh but he didn’t. No reason he should inspire any verbal assault. And he found delight in watching her dig into her food. They ate in silence, but it was a different quiet than he’d known over the years. He actually found it quite pleasurable to have company at the dinner table.

  Chapter 4

  NIGHT WAS FALLING. Roark stood on the balcony, as he did every evening. His body ached but he still had the strength of three male humans. His mind was lucid, yet time was ticking. He didn’t like feeling out of control. If only he could tell Bronte everything he knew, but she’d never believe him. In fact, she’d want to flee even quicker. It was imperative that he not rush things.

  He went back into his bedroom and reached for the old, worn journal from his nightstand. The book had become his place of solitude—a refuge from a world that didn’t understand his way. He picked up the pen and began writing his thoughts when the doorbell rang. He dropped the book into his drawer, locked it into safekeeping and placed the key into the crystal glass. He headed downstairs and opened the front door. Shelby stood on the doorstep, wearing all black and a cunning grin. “Opening your own door these days, Roark? Did you finally give that old Jasper retirement?”

  “Fuck off. You know I couldn’t have Jasper here with Bronte. He’d have made a mess of things.” Shelby passed him and Roark cl
osed the door. “Up for a drink?”

  “Maybe two or three,” Shelby answered.

  Roark led the way into the den. He went to the whiskey bar, poured two large glasses full of scotch. He handed one off to Shelby. “Have a seat my friend and tell me what has your hair standing on end,” Roark said.

  Shelby took a seat on one of the leather chairs and stretched his long legs. He sipped from the glass, seeming to gather his senses before he spoke. “It appears we have a problem.”

  Roark didn’t let Shelby’s words frazzle him as he drank, enjoying the burn of the expensive liquor. He didn’t indulge often. “Tell me the details.”

  Shelby nodded, running his hand through his locks, a sure sign he was concerned. “A woman by the name of Fallon Montreal has been burning up Bronte’s phone.”

  “And what exactly is the problem? Bronte is on vacation. People aren’t supposed to answer their calls while relaxing in paradise.”

  “Apparently this woman,” he tilted his head, “is different than most people.”

  “How so?” Roark asked.

  “She’s Bronte’s assistant,” Shelby answered.

  “Where’s the phone?”

  Shelby reached inside his shirt pocket, pulled out the slender, white cell and tossed it to Roark. “Send the bothersome woman a message, pretending your Bronte, assuring her things are okay,” Shelby said.

  Roark pushed buttons on the phone and meddled through a few of the messages. “That won’t work. This woman, Fallon, she’s worried. She’s a smart woman and looking out for Bronte. Apparently, something was forgotten when you took Bronte from her office. What would that be?” He looked across the short distance to Shelby who had sweat beading his brow.

  “We didn’t see the briefcase Bronte had left outside of her office. I told Crenshaw to clean up but he didn’t do his best,” Shelby said.

  “Bronte would never forget her case. That would definitely alarm someone who knew her well.” Roark set the phone down. “But mistakes happen. We’ll just have to figure out a solution.” Shelby didn’t show any unrest, but Roark sensed his unease.

  “You’re taking it pretty easy, buddy. Crenshaw almost pissed himself when I confronted him. He thought you’d have his heart on a silver platter.”

  “I have more important things on my mind,” Roark emptied his glass and went to pour another. He brought the decanter and filled Shelby’s glass too. He set the crystal down and chose a seat on the leather couch. “Why are you still uncomfortable, Shelby?”

  The older man slid forward in the chair, resting his elbows on knees and clasped his hands together. “The Bitches fiancé, Gage Dell, has also been calling. He doesn’t like that she’s not returning his calls.”

  Roark shrugged. “Why should this concern me?”

  “You don’t read the newspapers or watch the news, my friend. The man owns DellCorp. He has enough money and influence to stir things up, and the more people who know that she’s missing, the harder it’s going to be.”

  “So the man has money and power. Bronte told him she needed time. He can search all he likes and he won’t find her.” Roark rubbed his chin. “Now, do what you need to do on your end with Dell. Tell Crenshaw he’s safe, unless he fucks up again. I can’t have any screw ups when it comes to Bronte.” Shelby started to reach for the phone, but Roark lifted a hand to stop him. “I’ll keep this.”

  Shelby sighed and relaxed back into the cushions. “Where is she now?”

  “Locked in her bedroom,” Roark answered.

  “Not in your bedroom performing her duties?”

  Roark looked at the other man over the rim of his glass. He took a slow drink and then finally said, “I like women warm and willing.”

  “Meaning you haven’t persuaded her yet? Are you losing your touch?” Shelby laughed.

  “I’m a man of honor.”

  “What are you waiting for?” Shelby narrowed his eyes. “Don’t tell me that you’re allowing the feelings you had for Ji—”

  Roark made a growling sound, and Shelby clamped his mouth. “I don’t want to talk about her.”

  “Come on, Roark. Bronte’s a mere human. Give her the best night of her life and she’ll be thanking you,” Shelby snickered, which ground through Roark’s patience.

  He wasn’t sure why the man irritated him, but the tension building in his abdomen spoke volumes about his tolerance. It wasn’t any of the man’s business or concern what he did with Bronte. He heard Shelby’s clearing of throat. Roark looked at him. “Yes?”

  Shelby placed palms down on the chair arms and shook his head. “Fuck the Bitch and get it over with. Then I’ll tie her back up and send her where she came from.”

  The energy changed in the room. Shelby noticed it also because his eyes widened and his jaw tightened. Roark considered himself a man with phenomenal tolerance, but when he lost control, he didn’t take pains of keeping his agitation undercover. In a dash, he was standing within inches of Shelby, peering down on the other man in anger. Roark didn’t need to prove that he was the dominant of the two. Although Shelby had a few inches on Roark, his strength was matchless. “Your attitude is stinking up my home, Shelby.”

  “I apologize if I said something—”

  “Bitch isn’t a very nice name. It’s bad mannered to degrade the mother of my child and the woman I—” He swallowed the rest of his words. He had to keep his emotions under wrap. And where his temper came from, Roark wasn’t sure. Furthermore, he didn’t know why Shelby was showing lack of respect. They both understood the importance of Bronte’s role. “I’m not happy how this has gone down. We’re not savages and we can’t sink to those depths, no matter how pressing time is or what’s at stake. We can’t forget what brought us to this situation to begin with.” He backed away from Shelby, detecting the man’s fear and sweat. “Are we clear?”

  Shelby nodded, his adam’s apple bobbed. “Definitely.”

  “Come now, have another drink and relax” Roark said. “Then you can tell me more about this Dell. The information could be very useful.”

  An hour later, after Shelby had gone, Roark dialed a number on his phone. It was answered on the second ring. “Roark here. I need you to pay a visit to someone. Her name is Fallon Montreal.”

  ****

  Bronte stretched and smiled, the luxurious satin sheets felt heavenly against her body. Then she opened her eyes and remembered where she was. The Roark Prison. Her gut tightened.

  Sitting up, she noticed a blue jay perched on the outside of the window. She got out of the bed and stared out into the new day. The sky was bright and the sun filtered into her room, lifting her mood slightly. She wished she could open the windows to let fresh air in, but she knew they wouldn’t budge. Warden Roark had all of his bases covered, but she hadn’t lost confidence. Eventually he’d let his guard down.

  A knock came at the door. Bronte quickly grabbed the blanket and dragged it across her thin gown. “Go away.” She wasn’t ready to see Roark this morning.

  She expected to hear his husky voice, but it was Miss Deveraux who said, “I prepared breakfast, my dear.”

  Bronte wondered if the other woman knew Roark’s business. If she did, that made her an accomplice. How could she not be aware of the circumstances? Roark had told her yesterday that Miss Deveraux wouldn’t help.

  Bronte wanted to be alone.

  “Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t have a—” The key in the lock sounded then Miss Deveraux appeared in the open doorway. So much for privacy. Miss Deveraux walked in, smile in place, carrying a tray.

  “Here you go, dear.” She set the platters of food onto the desk. “Mr. Roark said you should have breakfast in bed. I wasn’t sure what you liked to eat in the morning so I made a smorgasbord of some of my favorites. I hope you enjoy.”

  The effervescent woman reminded Bronte of someone. It was as if they’d met before, but she wasn’t sure how. Bronte didn’t want to like Miss Deveraux, but how could she dislike someone who reminded her
of a grandmother? The older woman had sincerity and kindness written all over her cheerful features, making her seem innocent. So then why was Miss Deveraux involved in Roark’s scheme? Bronte wondered if she gained the older woman’s friendship, could she convince her to help in a getaway.

  “This all looks delicious, Miss Deveraux.” Bronte looked over the variety of plates. They were full of fluffy scrambled eggs, French toast, fresh fruit, blueberry muffins and a pot of steaming coffee. The scrumptious savory and sweet smells made her mouth water and her stomach growl. She hadn’t eaten much during dinner last night and she couldn’t wait to dig in, but held back.

  “Thank you.” Miss Deveraux nodded and started for the door but she stopped. “Oh, I’m losing my mind. I almost forgot that I’m supposed to get something.”

  Bronte popped a piece of fruit in her mouth as she watched the other woman disappear into the walk-in closet. She came out seconds later holding a pair of tan riding pants and a long-sleeved button down. Bronte stopped chewing. “What are you doing, Miss Deveraux?”

  Her expression turned into one of uncertainty. “Mr. Roark requested that I gather this outfit for you to wear today. After your meal, he’d like for you to meet him downstairs. He has a day planned for the both of you.”

  Adding to being captive, she was being dressed. Anger shot up her backbone like a rod of contention. She couldn’t hold in her frustration. “I won’t be wearing that today,” Bronte stated.

  She’d had enough of Roark’s demands and orders. He could keep her hostage but she wasn’t about to succumb to every command he dished out. “You can tell Mr. Roark that I am not putting on that outfit, and neither will I meet him.” Miss Deveraux’s gasp cracked the air. Bronte wanted to include that she wasn’t going to eat his food either, but under the basic principle that he was keeping her against her will, she believed it was her job to keep herself healthy. She needed her strength—definitely mental strength. One never knew when she’d have to claw her way out of this place.