Dark Desires (Dark Romance Boxed Set)

by Cerys du Lys

  Eyes squeezed shut, I continued to fight the feelings. But fighting only made them worse. I wasn’t supposed to fight, dammit. Why did I always forget that? The fight or flight instinct was so powerful, so immediate. By the time I noticed I was fighting, adrenaline had flooded all my cells.

  Float through it, I whispered to myself. Release the fear. Just...let it go.

  Relief came in the form of a shout from somewhere outside. My eyes popped open in automatic response, forcing me to face my surroundings. My panic tapered off. The room I was in was neither dark nor, by boating standards, small.

  I was lying on a berth in what was probably the yacht’s master cabin. There were two large rectangular portholes on the opposite wall, curtained to keep out the sun. I blinked as I looked around. The room looked Turkish. An Oriental carpet covered the tiny floor space. Copper fittings were used for light fixtures and trimming. Cabinets and bookshelves lined two of the walls. The bed where I was lying took up most of the space in the stateroom. It was large enough—barely—for two and was covered with a soft black quilt.

  I sat up. My hands, bound with rope in front of me, were useless. My feet were trussed in similar fashion. My boots had been removed and were nowhere to be seen; my socks, too, had vanished. I tugged a little on my bonds, but they did not give. They were tight enough to feel uncomfortable. I moved my fingers experimentally. They felt a little stiff, but I didn’t think my circulation was impaired.

  “Efficient,” I said aloud. I took a deep breath to calm myself. He had tied me, of course.

  How long had I been out? What had he done to me to cause the unconsciousness? There had been no blow, no pain. Just his fingers on my neck, almost a caress, and then oblivion.

  I shivered. My captor was an American who spoke Turkish. He was young, attractive and wanted in nine countries. He was so skillful in the martial arts that he could render a victim unconscious with a touch. A little more pressure would probably have killed me.

  But I was still alive. Why? I saw myself as he must have seen me when he’d brought me in here—my slender body, bound and vulnerable, stretched out in the middle of his bed, myhair wildly strewn across his pillow. Oh, shit. I recalled Metin’s comment about what they should do to me before killing me. Fuck me. Rape me. Maybe a small, dark corner would have been preferable, after all.

  Stop it, I ordered myself. Don’t jump to conclusions. Except for my socks and boots, my clothes were still intact. Maybe he meant me no harm.

  I was trying to cling to this optimistic hope despite a persistent string of worst-case scenarios, when I heard footsteps outside the door to the cabin. I slid to the edge of the bed, my bare toes brushing the floor. A key turned, the door opened, and my captor strode into the room, shutting the door behind him with a thump.

  His bright hair created a halo effect around his head, but he was no freaking angel. There was no innocence in his crystalline green eyes. Rather they were jaded, as if there were no vice he hadn’t tried. His nose was straight, almost too perfect, but his mouth was expressive, mobile. His upper lip was thin and severe, while his lower lip was full and sulky. The combination lent a curious tension to his face—the Puritan and the libertine mixed.

  “It’s about time you woke up,” he said.

  “What did you do to me?”

  He just looked at me as if this were a stupid question. Okay. I held up my cord-wrapped wrists. “Was this necessary?”

  He eyed my bonds and shrugged.

  “Why didn’t you just shoot me?”

  For the first time his gaze passed over me with some degree of masculine interest. Slowly. Thoroughly. He was smiling nastily when his eyes returned to meet mine. “Why do you think?”

  I swallowed. I sought a cutting reply. None occurred to me.

  He strolled over to the corner where there was a washbasin and an assortment of cupboards and drawers. He looked in the mirror, frowned at himself, turned on the taps and splashed water on his face. He proceeded to stretch and pull the T-shirt over his head, revealing a lean but muscular torso covered with golden-bronze skin. The muscles, which were well-defined without being brawny, rippled as he stretched. The spectacle made my mouth go dry.

  He was already stripping. Not wasting any time. My stomach churned. From the way the boat was dancing on the waves, I guessed that we must be some distance out to sea. How many others were aboard? Would anyone help me if I screamed?

  Of course not. Screams would probably amuse them.

  The sound of the water splashing in the tiny sink made me aware of my parched throat. I was about to ask for a glass of water, when he caught my eye in the mirror. I fancied I saw some glimmer of emotion cross his features, but it was gone before I could analyze it.

  “Thirsty?”

  I nodded.

  Lifting a glass from a metal ring above the sink, he filled it from a large plastic water bottle, and stepped over to the bed. I was confronted with all that lovely naked flesh. His hard belly, lightly dusted with blond hairs, was at the same level as my eyes. “Drink.” He held the glass to my lips. He smelled nice—male-musky, and salty like the sea.

  I sipped, and then gulped. It was warm in the cabin and my fear had made me sweat away more fluids than usual. The water caressed my throat as it went down.

  “Enough.” He took the glass away and sat down on the bed beside me. “You can have some more in a few minutes.”

  Was he being kind? Probably not. Maybe he preferred to fuck a woman who wasn’t completely dried out.

  Once again, I saw him as if in the viewer of my camera—still, harsh and beautiful. I wanted to photograph him. To capture, from close up, the angular set of his shoulders, not too wide, but lithe and graceful. His mobile, capable hands. Those thick eyelashes, much denser than my own, sparkling now with droplets of water. Like his hair, they curled ever so slightly. What would that rough-cut hair feel like under my fingers, those eyelashes against my cheek?

  Shit. I realized the errant direction of my thoughts. Was I brain-damaged? The dude was a criminal. He’d just made it clear that the only reason I was still alive was that I’d been saved for the proverbial fate worse than death.

  “Why were you there?” he asked. “Did you get a tip-off from someone?”

  I realized he still thought I’d had prior knowledge of his rendezvous. “I told you. I’m just a tourist. I had no idea when I started photographing this morning that I’d be shooting anything more than sky, hills, wildflowers, and the sea.”

  “But when the seascape shifted to real people, you kept shooting?”

  I didn’t see any point in lying. “When I realized what you were doing, I decided to record it. I think it’s reprehensible. If you hadn’t caught me, I’d have done something to stop you.”

  Now he looked amused. “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, beyond turning the pictures over to the police. But if they’d caught you, I’d have cheered when they threw you in prison. There are strict laws in Turkey about antiquities smuggling.”

  “So you recognized what was in the crate?”

  “Only that it looked ancient. I have no clue about the value or the date. What do you smuggle—only art objects, or drugs and illegal arms as well? Sounds like a demanding occupation, Nicholas—that’s your name, right?”

  There was a pause. The air of bored indifference had faded; he was regarding me as if he really saw me now. “You can call me Nick.”

  “And you’re American, right?”

  “I’m a mongrel. Part Yank, part Brit, and part Turk. I’ve kicked around in a lot of other countries.”

  “Nine of them, at least.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “You said you were wanted in nine countries.”

  “Oh, that.” He shrugged. “Perhaps a slight exaggeration. One loses count.”

  And what did that mean? He didn’t look as if he intended to explain. “May I have more water?”

  This time he tangled his fingers in my hair and held
the back of my head as he tilted the glass to my lips. I choked. “Don’t touch me.” It was near the spot where his touch had rendered me unconscious.

  He smiled nastily. His fingers came around and cupped my chin. He put the glass down and moved closer, far too close. I could feel his breath. My lips began to tingle.

  I swallowed. I felt so vulnerable. I had never felt vulnerable with Mark. But Mark had never tied me up. Although once or twice, I’d suggested we spice things up with a little bondage.

  Jesus, why had I remembered that? That would have been different. Way different! Consensual. Unlike Mark, this man was dangerous. A criminal. He was sitting too close, touching me too much, and looking at me in a way that freaked me out.

  His thumb stroked up and down my cheek. “Relax. If I were going to kill you, you would already be dead.”

  “What, then? Hold me for ransom?”

  He seemed to consider. “Are you rich?”

  “No.”

  “Not much point in that, then, is there?” One of his fingers brushed the lobe of my ear, making me suck in my breath. The tingles in my lips had spread to my belly. What the fuck? Why didn’t his touch revolt me?

  I was obviously in some sort of denial. The whole thing seemed a little unreal. I knew this was a common reaction to sudden disasters—people couldn’t face that something awful was happening to them so they pushed reality away for as long as possible.

  “Is Sybil Matheson-Heath really your mother?”

  “Yes, but she’s not rich, either. Archaeologists rarely are.”

  He emitted a short, cryptic laugh. I was puzzled by the storm of emotion that flashed in his eyes, but he offered no explanation.

  He pushed his free hand through my hair; the other retained his grip on my chin. I wanted him to stop touching me, but I suspected that if I demanded it he would either laugh at me or up the ante somehow.

  “Do you know much about your mother’s work?”

  “Some. She took me on digs with her when I was a child. I’ve read her books, and I took some archaeology courses at college.”

  Keep him talking, Ellie. I had read once that you should always try to forge a connection if you were snatched by someone hostile, like a kidnapper or a terrorist. If you were seen as a real person, with thoughts and emotions, hopes, dreams and plans, you were harder to kill than if you remained a cipher or an object.

  “I started out by majoring in archaeology, but I soon realized I’d never be in her league. The idea of crawling around in subterranean caverns, searching for potsherds, has never appealed to me.” Indeed, it gave me the shudders. People who suffered from claustrophobia did not make good archaeologists. “I ended up majoring in history.”

  “And now you’re a journalist.” His voice was abstract, disinterested; his thumb had moved to my bottom lip. It rubbed gently, back and forth over the surface, sending little frissons of sensation along every nerve in my body.

  “Photographer,” I corrected.

  His eyes turned speculative. “Are you any good?”

  “Yes.” I jerked my chin, trying to free myself. And failing. “Don’t.”

  “Stop fighting me. You’re my prisoner. Any rights you once had, you’ve lost.”

  Well, that pissed me off. Dumbass! “Is this the only way you can get a woman? Knock her unconscious, tie her up and toss her into your bed?”

  “You’re still alive. Yilmaz—that’s the man I was doing business with when you interrupted—wanted to shoot you.”

  “Yes, but what will happen to me after you’ve—” I broke off, mynerve beginning to fail. Don’t cry. Don’t give the swine the satisfaction.

  “After I’ve forced you to gratify all my wildest fantasies?” The dry, impatient note was back in his tone. “Don’t be such a drama queen.”

  “I’ve never been tied up and raped before. Sorry if I’m over-reacting.” Sarcasm. Unwise, probably, but I couldn’t seem to keep my mouth shut.

  His hand left my face, and then he rose and moved away from me. My relief was so strong I closed my eyes and leaned back against the wall. The boat was rocking on the waves, but the sea must be calm, because the movement was not too extreme. One thing to be thankful for, I supposed. At least I wasn’t seasick.

  I heard my captor cross the small room, open a drawer, then return. My eyes snapped open, and the blood drained into my toes. There was no gun this time. This time he was coming at me with a nasty, large-bladed knife.

  Chapter 4

  Ellie

  “Christ, you’re easy to scare.” His voice mocked me. “But blood-letting would mess up my cabin. Give me your hands and hold still.” He slid the blade between my wrists and sawed through the rope. It took a while; the cords were thick. He then knelt, and I felt his fingers on my bare ankles for an instant before he started on the ropes there. At length they fell off and dropped to the floor.

  “Thank you. I thought—”

  “It was obvious what you thought.”

  I rubbed my wrists, which were itching from the rope. Don’t act so cowed and grateful. That’s exactly what he wants. It’s all part of his psychological game. He intends you to be dependent upon him for water, for kindness, for life itself. Don’t make it so easy for him.

  Nicholas, now standing over me again, took one of my hands in his and examined it. It was scored a bit from the rope. His mouth twisted into a frown. He massaged the wrist with his thumb. It helped, but I hated him for it. Why did he keep touching me? How had I gone from being the sovereign lord of my own body to having no voice while a stranger put his hands on me?

  I shook back my long hair, which was falling into my face. “People will be looking for me. When I don’t check in with my mother and my friends, they’ll call the authorities. You won’t get away with this.”

  He smiled thinly. “We’ll see.”

  “The sensible thing would be to take the yacht into shore and drop me off. I’m a complication that you don’t need.”

  “The sensible thing would be to weigh your body down with something heavy and drop you overboard. It’s an option that will remain on the table while I assess what other uses I can put you to.”

  The uses I pictured were scary and degrading. It was nothing but bravado that kept me from curling up in a ball. “I won’t be used by any man, so stop threatening me.”

  His eyes darkened and he grabbed me, fisting a handful of my hair. It hurt. “You’re frightened and trying to cope. I get that. But you’ve landed in the middle of a fucked-up mess, and it’s gonna get worse. Right now, I’m your best hope of staying alive, so don’t piss me off. Do exactly what I order you to do, and maybe you’ll survive. Defy me, and you’re dead.”

  I noted for the first time that there were dark circles under those large eyes of his, that he was weary and not quite as much in control as he was pretending to be. An ordinary man, vulnerable, even as I was. Not a god or a hero, despite his lean, golden beauty. Not all-powerful either.

  “I don’t want you here,” he went on. “You’ve no idea what a complication your presence poses. It would have been far more convenient to shoot you and toss your body into the sea. Maybe you haven’t realized how close you came to endless night.”

  I felt the sweat break out again. He’d chanced upon a metaphor that called up my worst anxieties. So I continued to beat at him, knowing no other defense except attack.

  “So I should thank you for saving my life? Am I expected to lie back, spread my legs, and express my gratitude? Is that what you mean by obeying your orders?”

  He still had the knife in one hand. He saw me staring at it and his knuckles whitened around the handle. “As a matter of fact, yes,” he said coldly. “If I tell you to strip, you will strip. If I tell you to spread your legs for me, you will do so. If I order you to drop to your knees and suck me off, you will do that, too, and gracefully. If you disobey me, you will be punished. If you repeat it a second time, you will be killed. Learn the rules, Ms. Heath, and follow them, or you’ll s
oon begin to wish I’d permitted Yilmaz to put a bullet in your brain.”

  He grabbed the shirt he’d stripped off and pulled it over his head. Then he opened the door to the cabin and exited. I heard the key turn on the outside; I heard him stomp away. Then there was silence, except for the pounding of the sea, and my own heart.

  I began to tremble all over. Then I cried.

  Chapter 5

  Ellie

  He did not return all day. I wallowed in a series of alternating moods—mostly scared, but sometimes angry, numb, and just plain confused because I couldn’t stop remembering the way his muscles slid just underneath the surface of his smooth skin. I plagued myself with what-ifs: what if I’d stayed another day in Istanbul, what if I’d camped somewhere else on the coast? What if I’d slept a little later this morning? What if I hadn’t started taking pictures? What if I’d run to my bike, started it up, and blown out of there before they could catch me?

  My mind went round and round, trying to think myself out of this mess. This wasn’t happening to me. This couldn’t happen to me. This was all a freaking bad dream.

  At some point, I pulled myself together enough to measure the boundaries of my prison.

  I was securely locked in. The door would not budge and the portholes, though they opened, weren’t large enough to crawl through. Anyway, the cabin was in the extreme bow of the sailboat and the windows opened onto the churning sea.

  One door did open, though. It led to a toilet. The head, as I supposed they called it aboard ship. I was glad to find it. After neglecting to ask him for it earlier, I’d been anxious over the possibility that I might be locked up somewhere without one.

  I used the sink in the cabin to clean up a bit. I pulled off my sweaty clothes and scrubbed myself. The water was plentiful and hot; it revived my spirits. Wishing I had clean clothes to change into, I donned my underwear and jeans and looked sadly at my top. Lying bound on that bed in a sweat of panic had resulted in two dark patches under the arms. I wondered what he’d done with my pack, my camera equipment, my cell phone and my rented motorcycle.