by Nancy Gideon
He didn’t blame her for that. He knew what Sylvia was. The fault was his for believing he saw something other than that truth. No matter what he’d imagined he’d felt in her kisses, seen in her unusually expressive eyes, he’d been taking her to her probable death. Of course she’d do anything to keep that scenario from playing out.
He smiled ruefully to himself, considering her cleverness, not sure how it had been accomplished, but respecting her for her desire to survive, for the will it took to do so. What were the Terriots if not cunning, ruthless survivors?
Though his situation was dire, it wasn’t impossible. As long as his heart beat and blood flowed through his body, it wasn’t over. Even shackled to a chair, James’s prisoner, he refused to surrender his determination to see his task to its end, heartbreaking though it might be. His success would only bring a more personal failure, an inability to protect the one he . . .
He what? Loved? Not love. Desired. He’d wanted her since the first time he’d seen her as a willful girl tossing that amazing hair in a gesture of disdain. He’d been a slave to that passion since she’d smiled at him, really seeing him in the crowd of his more gregarious brothers the way others never did. He’d wanted nothing more than to possess and protect her after she’d teased him with that flirtatious kiss. She’d had no idea what she’d awakened. Or maybe she just hadn’t cared. Not the way he didwith a single-minded devotion.
She’d seen him, and he saw her.
He knew there was more beneath the hard, glossy surface. She’d allowed him to glimpse it in rare moments of vulnerability he suspected she showed few others. She’d trusted him.
He’d promised he wouldn’t let Cale extinguish her fierce fire. How could he keep that vow if he delivered her into the hands of their bloodthirsty family?
So he didn’t fight his helpless position. He used the time to think, long and hard, of what he’d do if the occasion presented itself. Of how he’d keep both his vow and his heart intact.
There was still hope of a solution as long as he yet breathed.
As long as he could convince his brother to allow it.
“Hello, Jamie.” He used the casual name for the first time ever as a reminder of who and what they were to each other. Family. Perhaps not the best strategy.
James’s lips curled in a smug sneer. “You’ve looked better, Turow.”
“So have you. The outlaw life doesn’t suit you.”
He scowled, vanity pricked. “Things were going quite well until you started breathing down the back of my neck. Why couldn’t you just leave it alone, Row, and let me get on with my life? I was no threat to you.”
“You tried to kill our king.” He ignored James’s snort at that title. “You started killing our people for your own profit with that drug you and Martine were dealing.”
A careless shrug. “A few weaklings of no value to us.”
“When did you become such a monster, James?”
Those quiet words jabbed beneath his brother’s indifference. “When did you start stringing words together? I liked you better when you kept your mouth shut.”
Turow’s return to silence goaded him to further explanation.
“I am what we were raised to be,” James argued, eyes flashing in what he must have felt a justified outrage. “To put self ahead of whole, profit before conscience. Don’t try to put a fancy collar on a lone wolf and call it a family pet. We are what we are. Terriots. We howl and fight together, but we hunt alone. Except you. I’ve never understood you. You were never one of us.”
“I’m not the one running away from who he is and those who trusted him.”
The blow came swift and hard, rocking the chair back from the force of it. Turow touched his tongue to the blood welling at the corner of his mouth, betraying no other reaction, encouraged by the fact that he’d provoked an impassioned response.
“There’s no love lost in our family,” James growled. “There’s only self-interest and greed. Cale’s pissed because he never saw it coming. You’re here because I shook your safe little delusion that we were one big, happy pack. That’s always been a lie. We huddled together for protection from the outside, not because of what we’re holding on to. The Terriots are a lie our father propagated as vigorously as he did our ranks. We’re hungry predators who’d just as soon rip into each other as another clan just to stay on top of the food chain. And this animal is going to snap up every one who gets in the way of me taking what I want, what I deserve. Don’t get in the way, Turow, or you’re going to be my next meal.”
Turow tugged at the cuffs holding him to the chair’s arms, at the ropes binding his legs to the chair’s. “It doesn’t look like I’m going anywhere. The only threat to you is what you know you’re doing to those who depended on you.”
A fist to the jaw reawakened the huge swell of pain, threatening to steal his consciousness again. Turow hung on doggedly.
“I’m not your enemy, Jamie,” he vowed. “I’m your brother.”
“The brother who burned down my dreams and would take me back home as a martyr to Cale’s arrogance. You’re a fool, Turow. I care as little for your rhetoric as I do your life. You’re only alive because Sylvia said you may have worth. You’d better pray I find it.”
Turow stared up at him unblinkingly.
Galled by his unshaken stand, James leaned in close to snarl, “Let’s see how long you hold onto that pious attitude under Misha’s questioning.”
“What do you want to know?”
The mild response enflamed his fury. “I want to know who Cale has in New Orleans, who’s swayed by his big talk. I want to know how he found Martine, and how much he uncovered about our business.”
“I don’t have those answers. If I did, I wouldn’t give them to you.”
“What do you know?”
A faint smile. “That you’re scared and desperate, or you wouldn’t be torturing your family.”
James whirled away, shouting for his enforcer, Misha, a huge slab of male built on meanness and muscle. “Tenderize him for a later discussion. Don’t kill him. I don’t care what else you do. Be creative.”
Without a backward glance, James strode away, leaving Misha cracking his knuckles as he approached their prisoner with a feral smile.
CHAPTER FIVE
There was something to be said for Five Star accommodations, but Sylvia barely noticed them. Exhausted in body and spirit, she let all else drop away as she entered the second bedroom in their posh suite.
Let the vile machinations turn without her for a while.
Shutting the door on her watchdog’s prying stare, not even bothering to strip back the satiny covers, she collapsed in a weary sprawl into the king bed’s embrace. When she opened her eyes again, the clock read two forty-five a.m.
Groggy and rumpled, Sylvia dragged herself into the elegant en suite, not bothering with the lights. She didn’t need to see her ghastly reflection, knowing it would mirror everything she felt inside and out. Too weary to face that grim truth, she saw to her needs in the dark and returned in hopes of a more restorative sleep.
She could hear the TV in the other room, some late night comedy show she couldn’t imagine James watching. So, he hadn’t come back to check on her regarding their missed dinner. Relieved more than worried, she stripped off the grubby garments, carelessly discarding them to slide naked between silky sheets. Her eyes closed. If James dropped by for a visit, she hoped he’d take what he wanted without waking her. He wasn’t interested in her for her conversation, anyway.
But as much as she desired sleep, it eluded her, leaving her thoughts prowling and unhappy.
What was she going to do?
She rolled onto her back to stare up at the ceiling as if some answer could be found upon that smooth surface.
There was no security with James anymore. No family bosom to return to. She had what she’d always had, her wits and her wiles. And, unfortunately it seemed, a conscience.
What a damned inconvenient
time to discover that.
She twisted in the bed she’d made.
Was Turow still alive? Was he, even now, being beaten and broken by James’s thugs? She refused to imagine it. Beaten, probably. Broken, never. He’d die without giving them the satisfaction, the stubborn fool, while she’d always considered confession good for the soul . . . and for staying alive. The truth would set you free. But Turow would never speak to save himself.
Knowing that tormented her fatigued brain.
She had to make plans, but all she could do was mope about a fate that was beyond her reach or rescue. There had to be a way for her to rise above this intolerable situation. At the moment, she couldn’t find it through the thorny tangle of her emotions.
Resolutely closing her eyes on her grim imaginings, she let sleep reclaim her. Only this time, it wasn’t peacefully blank slumber.
In it, a Terriot middle prince shared her sheets.
And she shared her heart.
James pushed away from the female who occupied his bought and paid for bed for the evening and strode naked to the window. Indulgence in his rather dark pleasures brought no relief, and he resented the lack of calm and clarity they usually provided more than the loss of coin he couldn’t afford at the moment.
He hated being poor. He loathed not being in charge of his world, of his emotions. He was the son of Bram Terriot, the strongest, most powerful visionary his clan had ever known. His mother’s pedigree was envied, flawless. He was a handsome, intelligent, shrewdly confident realist, just the leader his people needed.
Yet they stood behind Cale, the scrappy, vulgar little runt of the litter. That insult never failed to chafe his temper. Wesley he could have tolerated as first born, but Cale! James’s pride rebelled in justified fury.
Perhaps what Turow said was true, but he didn’t care if it was. He had a right to be angry, to punish his family for their ill-advised choices. He had an obligation to do what was necessary to prove them wrong in order to save them from their foolishness. He was their only true leader, the one who could maintain their strength and pride and integrity against the sullied of their kind in New Orleans and Memphis.
Dealing with those in the North wasn’t without its dangers. He knew that, and willingly took the chance. Someone had to be bold. Someone had to take command so their clan wouldn’t fall into chaos and submission the way it almost had before Bram the Beast had roared into power. Like him, James would save them through their sacrifice and ultimate surrender for the good of their clan. And they would thank him for it, not lock him away in a high-rise Reno prison for his efforts the way Cale had their father.
Means meant little when weighed against success. Lives meant less as stepping stones to achievement.
His stubborn prisoner held the key . . . if it could be extracted.
Of all his brothers, James found Turow the least offensive. A shame he couldn’t be spared to serve him. A sigh escaped. No. Turow would never bend a knee to him once he’d pledged himself elsewhere, and so would have to die. But not without meaning. He owed his brother a purposeful death. As Sylvia suggested, their captive was too good to waste.
So, how to exploit him in this climb to power?
Maybe something would come to him after a little more exertion to cleanse his body and leave his mind open to higher, purer things.
He turned back to the bed and the high-priced vessel for his absolution stretched upon it. Time to lay a few more stripes upon that creamy canvas until a clear picture evolved.
With a heartfelt exhalation, Sylvia let the rainwater-soft spray return life to abused body and soul while silently thanking her benefactor. James was many things. A deadly sociopath, certainly, a preening narcissist, definitely, but he did appreciate the finer things in life, like personal comfort. She liked that about him, even though it became more and more difficult to add to that list of positive quality traits.
Wrapped in a plush hotel robe, skin softened and perfumed by an exquisite body lotion, she left the en suite to check out an endless closet, aware of, but ignoring, her burly guardian prowling in the other room.
Doors slid open to reveal a designer rack of garments reflecting her personal taste. A parade of shoes lined up below for her delighted inspection. Drawers held silky underclothes and sleepwear. Nirvana!
Sylvia dressed with care, picking a sleek, plum-colored shift that would make James proud to show her off in the dining room. He’d left a message that she was to join him there at noon, and it was nearly eleven-thirty now. She spent blissful moments drying, combing and styling her hair, wearing it up to emphasize the long line of her neck. Intent on pleasing her provider, she kept her makeup subtle and sophisticated, as were her jewelry and perfume choices. Just as her mother had taught her. A cold, courtesan’s code. It was all about appearance, about playing to male vanity and desire. Martine had created a masterpiece in her daughter.
Uncertain of where she stood with James, Sylvia created exactly what he’d want to see—a perfect vision of feminine beauty and class he could squire about with possessive pride. She hadn’t missed the significance of sharing a suite but not a bedroom. A worrisome fact she was contrarily grateful for. She wasn’t sure she was an accomplished enough actress to go from Turow’s arms to James’s selfish demands with pretended enthusiasm. Distance, though concerning, was preferable under the circumstances. Sex with James would tell her nothing of his mood. That she could only discover through conversation, and fortunately, James loved to talk—about himself—to an attractive or affluent audience. Since with the death of her mother her influence was nil, she crafted a breathtaking façade to please him.
Her world had tumbled, and she’d twist in the fall until getting her feet squared and firmly planted. At James’s side, if it was the only way to survive.
She wasn’t wrong. Chill blue eyes warmed in appreciation as he watched her approach. They didn’t speak to one another as they waited together at the entrance to the top floor’s revolving restaurant with its breathtaking 360-degree vista. The establishment’s pricy menu discouraged family visitors, usually leaving a high-rolling or business clientele to enjoy the view and exceptional offerings.
With his palm riding the low curve of her back, James guided her down a long private hallway behind their exotic maître-de to a small, secluded dining room for the two of them to enjoy alone. He insisted on pulling the chair out for her, letting his hands graze her shoulders before he took his own seat. His smile encouraged her to relax, but not too completely.
“You look stunning,” he announced. “Did you find everything you need?”
“And all I desired,” she added with a sultry lowering of her eyelids. “You are an impeccable host, James. Thank you.”
“A step or two up from what my brother provided, I assume.”
Her smile didn’t falter. “A huge leap, actually. Turow wasn’t interested in my comfort.”
He still smiled, but his stare pinned her like a bug to a mounting board. “Even when he was fucking you?”
Not missing a beat, Sylvia made a disparaging noise. “Especially then.” She waited, relieved by the interruption as a pricy vintage was presented. She sipped from her wine after James approved the choice, then offered, “Would you like details?”
A cool pause before he decided. “That won’t be necessary. After all this time with Misha, my brother will happily give them himself, along with any other items I’m interested in knowing.”
Turow was still being tortured as they sat sipping a very nice red, enjoying the scenery.
To disguise the way that knowledge ripped through her, she rolled her eyes. “Can we speak of something a little more suited to table talk? I’m bored to death with your brothers and their dramas. What are our plans?”
He regarded her unblinkingly. “Our?”
“Yours and mine. Or did you expend all this energy rescuing me just so we could go our separate ways?” She held his stare boldly, waiting, but not pressuring.
Fi
nally, his charming grin escaped. “Life would be dull without you.” He drank from his glass, observing her over the rim before murmuring, “I wasn’t sure you wanted to continue as partners.”
“Like my options are many.”
Sarcasm was the wrong move. His features tightened. “Am I the best of the worst, then?”
Sylvia laughed, recovering quickly. “Don’t be so sensitive, James. You are my first choice. The plan was always for us to rule together.”
“Hmm. And over what kingdom would that be?”
“Why, any one we choose. Nothing’s beyond our reach once you put your mind to it.”
Liking the sound of that flattery, he unbent as their endive salads arrived. The tone of conversation remained minimally superficial through the rest of the meal. Once the dishes were cleared away and glasses refilled, his mood grew withdrawn once more. Sylvia advanced her questions with care.
“So, are we to remain in Las Vegas?”
“You sound concerned.”
“Our family has investments here.” Though Reno was their main base of business, the Terriots controlled or held a percentage in several luxury establishments on the Strip, making the chance of bumping into a familiar face uncomfortably high.
“This is one of them.” James smiled as she sat up straight and glanced about in alarm. He took up her hand, pressing it lightly. “Don’t worry. Not all my brothers are enchanted with our new king. Some want to keep their options open.”
“We have allies?” She did a quick mental inventory of the princes in the House, weighing their loyalties to find a likely candidate. There were those firmly behind Cale: Turow, Frederick, Colin, Kip and her brother Wesley, and those who rode the fence: Lee, Stephen, and Adam. None seemed ripe for treason. “Who?”
“Patience, my dear. We’re playing a delicate game at the moment. I must be discreet.”
“You don’t trust me? After my mother sacrificed herself for our plans?”
Her grating accusation didn’t earn the desired result. He continued to regard her cautiously, a mild smile doing little to soften his features. “Your mother’s loyalty was never in question. It was her plan, after all. She wasn’t discovered in our enemy’s bed.”
