by Angel Payne
Running from me.
In the middle of the damn night. In the heart of downtown LA. Into the very situation I’ve been paying Zalkon to help avoid. But this isn’t his fault. This is my shit to own. My mess to fix after thinking a neutral meeting with Angelique wouldn’t end up with the woman trying to keep me on her hook, no matter how dirty her tactics.
Like showing up at the front desk of my own damn hotel and smearing that dirt on the one person who never deserved it.
Garbage I’ll have to clear from my life another day.
Right now, I’ve got other nonrecyclables to worry about.
Fortunately, two of those chunks are down for the next few minutes. Now to deal with the Grand Poobah trash daddy.
“What the hell?” the blow stick yells. I let him dangle, getting a firsthand taste of my “penny pranks” with his ass still flattened to the wall. Indulging a sadistic streak, I focus another electric pulse south of his waistline. He screeches as I push the energy harder, crushing his balls like a device in a BDSM dungeon, turning his erection into a raisin. “Wh-What are you doing?” he gasps. “Come on, man. Th-That’s my junk, dude!”
“Couldn’t have said it any better myself, dude.” I twist my wrist the other way, giving his nads a new spin on the Blue Balls Tilt-A-Whirl. “Stop whining. You’ll be back to normal in two or three weeks.”
“Two or three weeks?”
I shrug. “Give or take. Though, keep sticking that shit into places it’s not welcome, and I’ll be back up your ass, turning it into permanent pieces for the county scrap heap.” Finally, I yank back the magnetic field, letting him crumple to the floor and tuck into full fetal. “We copasetic on that?” When all I receive is a hurried nod, I take a step closer. “Sorry. Speak a little louder. We ‘hustlers’ have shitty hearing.”
“Yeah,” he finally grits. “We’re copasetic.”
I nod, though I’m hardly relaxed. Now the difficult part of the night. Turning to Emmalina—and communicating Reece’s message using Bolt’s persona.
As soon as I face her, I’m shocked but not shocked. Yeah, this is going to be hell to pull off—but for reasons I hadn’t foreseen even from miles away.
As always, her beauty temporarily sucks out my breath. Even now, with her hair a brilliant tangle, her cheeks streaked with makeup, and the front of her pants slashed open, she mesmerizes me in ways I can’t describe. Flips exclusive buttons. Wakes primitive urges of possessiveness. I want to haul her close. Inhale her until I breathe nothing else. Kiss her senseless and then ban her from ever taking the goddamn train again.
Not a possibility anymore—but not because of the façade I have to keep up. Because of all the shields she’s had to drop and her estrangement from the creature she’s bared. A woman who gapes at me, eyes as wide as always, but in fear instead of wonder. Who trembles in a rush of night wind but recognizes her chill extends far beneath her skin’s surface. Who opens her mouth, trying to form words, but only croaks helplessly—and clearly hates herself for it.
Lost, and visually pleading with me for answers, she closes the distance between us with three faltering steps. As she grabs onto me, red-rimmed stare not leaving me, she rasps two words that stab to the center of my gut.
“You’re…real.”
I nod, wondering why I suddenly feel like the mirage to her desert traveler. But I’m not the one who vanishes. Her eyes roll to the back of her head, and she goes unconscious in my arms.
With a soft, sublime smile on her face.
Chapter Three
Emma
I’m smiling.
I know it before I even open my eyes.
It’s puzzling, because I know I’m not even in my own bed—am I even in a bed?—though right now, none of the “important” details seem to matter. I feel like I’m waking up from novocaine. Something should hurt, but I don’t give a damn. I may not give a damn again. Everything’s soft and quiet and smells so freaking good.
I roll over. Whimper a little. Okay, ugh. The earlier question? About what should hurt? The answer is everything. Have I been hit by a truck?
I amend that assessment the second my eyes are open.
If it was a truck, it knocked me to a damn beautiful spot. At first sight, I wonder if I’m back in the penthouse at the Brocade. The view is just as sweeping, with the beginnings of dawn sifting through the maze of city lights below. But geographically, everything is wrong. The ocean’s a little closer. The neighborhood’s a little nicer. There are a couple of broad greenbelts nearby. I’m sure one of them is the LA Country Club’s golf course.
The bedroom I’m in is no less breathtaking. Though the color palette is California mission tones, brown and sand and gold, there’s nothing traditional about the furniture. Everything is elegant but practically space-age, looking crafted especially for its place in the room. I’ve never been in a bed this huge, which seems like a king and a half, with several pillows as long as I am tall. There’s a control panel in the nightstand with more buttons than a starship from one of Wade and Fershan’s games. Though each of the buttons is accompanied by an icon, I’m hesitant to push anything with my novocaine brain still in full effect.
“Where the hell…”
I let the query fade. It’s not the proper question. Another horse belongs in front of this cart.
What the hell happened to me?
Suddenly, my memory kicks in—but only in crazy flashes. Really crazy flashes…
Reece, waving from the elevator. Adoration in his eyes. My sweatshirt around his waist…
Blasted into nothing by Angelique La Salle. Her siren’s smirk. Those cufflinks in her hand…
Blasted apart again, the only choice my heart would allow. Running. Refusing to confront my own stupidity. My blind trust in an idiot’s fairy tale…
Really blasted then, by the creeps in the train station. Their hands on my body. Their knife in my clothes. Their threats in my ear…
Then the biggest explosion of all.
Him.
Flinging them through the air. Pinning them to the wall. Black leather. Grim fury. Effortless power. Supercharged. Supersonic.
A superhero. Saving me.
Saving me?
“Holy shit.”
I sit straight up. Mess up the covers with a bunch of swipes and kicks. I need to confirm they’re real. That I’m still real. That being real won’t smash away the memories.
Memories? Or a dream?
“Holy shit.” I whisper it this time, along with the gentler strokes I give to the million-thread-count sheets. I keep roaming with my hand, up and over the plain white T-shirt into which I’ve somehow been changed. It fits me like an oversize gunnysack, but it’s as soft as these damn sheets and smells as clean as cedar. Most importantly, it beats the hell out of the eau de gangbanger in which my work clothes are likely drenched by now.
But for all that, I’m still left with no clues about who it really belongs to. What the hell is going on?
I’m saved from confusing contemplations about that by a harsh vibration from the nightstand. My phone, inside my purse, is easy enough to grab. I smile in gratitude at the caller’s picture and eagerly swipe at the screen.
“Neeta.”
“Emma!” The punch of her voice makes me lean away for a second. “Baap re! You are okay!”
“I…I think so.”
“Where are you?” Her demand is pitched with panic. Before I can come up with a decent answer, instinct steering me away from the obvious, she rushes on. “We saw you. On the news. It was everywhere!”
“On the…news?” I shake my head, trying to free it from the fuzz. “What was? Why? How?”
“The security camera feed from the Soto metro station.” She takes a huge breath. Her tone softens. “You were attacked, Emma. Do you remember?”
“Yeah,” I say too quickly. I rub my forehead with the opposite speed. There’s so much to process. Too much, even before the most daunting thought of them all thunders back into my
gray matter. “Yeah. I remember it all.”
Tangible stillness. Then her reverent murmur. “Even the last part?”
“Even the last part.”
“So…Bolt is real?”
“Yeah.”
And I think I’m in his apartment right now.
Fortunately, Neeta’s occupied with her own high gasp. “By all the gods. Emma.”
I wince. Her fervor slams me, too huge to take in. I’m motion sick, and the only thing turning is the earth on its axis. Maybe if I beg hard enough, God will do me a solid and halt it for a few minutes. “Can… Can I call you back in a little while?” The Almighty will likely want my full attention on the stop-the-globe request.
“Of course. Wait.” There’s shuffling from her end. Her breaths are hollow, as if she’s cupped a hand over her phone. “Are you still with him now?”
“No.” Not a lie. I still have no idea what this place is or how I got here. Hell, I don’t know if I’m a guest or a hostage—though when I hear a door open somewhere nearby, I sense that answer is near. With heartbeats attacking my throat, I mutter, “Call you back soon,” and disconnect the line.
I scramble out of the bed, following the noise despite my uneasiness. Gingerly, I walk toward the sounds.
“Whoa.”
I definitely didn’t expect…this.
First, there’s a built-to-fit architectural island constructed out of custom-hewn rocks and curved insets of dark wood. It’s formed by crescent-shaped bookshelves that arch over a curved, see-through fireplace. On either side of the fireplace, narrow steps lead to a sunken reading area with plush couches. A second bookshelf brackets the other side of the area.
In short, my idea of heaven on earth.
Sealing the deal? My own angel comes with the package.
He stands in the doorway off to my left, leading to what looks like a bathroom as oversized as the bed. Steam billows around the lean muscles of his towel-wrapped hips, as if he’s really just emerged from heaven and the clouds don’t want to let go. Can they be blamed? He’s glorious, from the bold cut of his abdominal V to the rippled plateaus of his proud shoulders.
And every damp, defined striation in between…
No. No.
I don’t want this. I don’t want him. I can’t want him.
Because he’s not my angel.
Because somehow, in some strange twist of fate, I’ve ended up here with him—wherever here is—and now must deal with looking at him like this. Knowing the shirt he pulled off to get like this had cufflinks with it. Those cufflinks…
We were caught up in a…discussion…
“You’re awake,” Reece states.
I push one foot back. Another. “Yeah.” Finally, I’m able to step away. “In a lot more ways than one.”
“Velvet—”
“Do. Not.” The point is worth halting for. I stand my ground, stabbing one finger at him. “You don’t get to ‘Velvet’ me anymore. Or ‘Bunny’ or ‘Baby’ or ‘Foo Foo’ or whatever the hell else you’ve cooked into that Kool-Aid.” I let the finger fall. “I’m not drinking it anymore, Mr. Richards.”
“I’m not asking you to drink.” He should be given points for not budging from the doorway. “I should have never even asked you to take a sip.”
I pivot from him. I know I should let him have that as the last word, accepting accountability for layering more meaning on our fling than he ever should have, but my legs are locked in place. My heart is intractable, clinging to its need for logic. So stupid. There’s no logic here. Not with a player like him, who enjoys the big boys’ version of chess. Shifting real-life people as his pieces. Playing with their hearts.
No. Not my heart. You don’t get that part, damn it. “Is that why you had him bring me here?” I peer around again. I don’t want to—resisting the interior-design lusties all over again—but I can’t help it. “And where is here?”
A humorless chuff. “You think I live at the Brocade twenty-four-seven?”
I don’t answer. Of course that’s what I think, especially now. In the space at the hotel, it’s simple to slot him into one role. Arrogant, breath-robbing boss man. Here, he’s more reachable. More real. He does stuff like read, sleep…take showers.
“And who, exactly, did I have bring you here?”
“You know who.” I stab him with a glare as vicious as my tone. “That…person. Or whatever he is. Bolt. You know him somehow, don’t you? So you contacted him after I passed out. Or maybe you had him knock me out somehow…” Which is a disturbing thought, so I don’t finish it.
“Why would you think I know him?”
I ignore the subtle scalpel in his tone too. I don’t want to be nicked by whatever has sharpened it. Apprehension? Tension? Do I care?
I shouldn’t. I can’t.
“Don’t you know all the special people, Mr. Richards?” I finish it off with pure snark before descending the stairs to the sunken reading heaven. I shouldn’t be doing this, purposely closing the gap to such incredible temptation, but I refuse to keep talking to him anywhere near the bed. “People like Angelique La Salle?”
Perfect words for reinforcing my resolve. The man may be only be in a towel now, but less than twenty-four hours ago he was in the back seat of that woman’s car—letting her take off his cufflinks. And the logical things that came after that.
Reece doesn’t follow me down the stairs. He remains on the higher level, arms folded, feet braced, once more in misplaced pharaoh mode. And I have got to stop equating his smooth-talking, perfect player ass to every brand of royalty there is. He’s not king or pharaoh or czar material. He’s barely duke material, and that’s only because dukes are notorious pussy chasers already.
“You think Angelique La Salle is special to me?”
I match his stance before pushing out a confused huff. The question isn’t rhetorical, but it sure as hell isn’t compassionate. He wants—demands—an answer.
“You going to tell me she’s not?”
He hauls in a long breath. While letting it out, he steps down to my level, though little else changes. He’s still in his Ruler of the Universe stance. His gaze is the color of armor in the rain.
“She used to be…a good friend,” he finally murmurs. “She was in town. I met her so I could return some things to her.”
“Like a pair of cufflinks?”
His next inhalation is sharper. “Yes. Among other things.”
I glower carefully. “Good friends.” I tell myself not to finish it…but what other choice is there? Bleed out slowly or just rip the damn bandage off? “How good?”
“We were…involved. About a year and a half ago.”
I back up by a step. Swallow hard. It’s the blood I asked for, just not the pain I expected. “Involved.” And as long as I’m hemorrhaging… “Like lovers?”
His posture tightens. The sight of it is both exquisite and excruciating. The man isn’t built like a tank, but the creator spared no detail on his defined, beautiful body. His muscles are carefully carved, utterly decadent.
“No,” he states at last. “Not like lovers.”
“So you didn’t fuck her?”
“Oh, I fucked her a lot. But she was not my lover.” His gaze is now as intense as lightning. “She let you believe something differently, didn’t she? When she came to the hotel. When she tried to bring back those goddamned cufflinks.”
“But how did…” I shake my head, answering my own question. “The security cams. The same way you knew I’d left the hotel, right?”
“Yeah.” He draws out the word, making room for a strange subtext in his tone. I’d usually call it tension, but not the same kind I’ve seen in him before. This stress is different. It doesn’t make him scary anymore. It makes him vulnerable. “Something like that.”
“Something like that?” Damn it, I want to ignore that tenderness. To pretend that side of him isn’t speaking out at the wrong, wrong, wrong damn time. “How?”
His nostrils flare. H
is mouth compresses into a solid line. “What did Angelique say to you?” he finally counters, nearly in a growl. “You two talked. She was at the front desk for a while.”
I turn from him again, for a couple of different reasons. One, it’s hard to remember my own name with him in that towel, let alone what his va-va-voom ex-girlfriend said to me last night. And number two I go ahead and voice out loud. “Why should I answer your question when you won’t acknowledge mine?”
“Because your answer is going to help me keep you safe.”
“Safe?” I practically laugh out the word. It’s either that or I’ll start bawling—and hell if I’ll let him see that. “That’s a funny term to me right now, buddy.”
“I am aware of that, Emma.”
“Are you?” I whirl back around. Now it’s time to get delirious. And pissed. And outraged. And scared. “Are you really aware, Mr. Richards, of my ‘safety’ when it comes to your crafty ex?”
His hands coil. His jaw squares. He jerks his head, raining drops from his hair over the taut slabs of his chest and the chiseled dessert tray of his abs—but dessert isn’t an option as he slowly steps closer, brandishing hard eyes and flaring nostrils.
“Crafty?” He growls the word but punctuates with a harsh chuff. “Crafty. Well, there’s a piece of funny.”
“Excuse the hell out of me?”
He breathes in again through his nostrils and exhales with vicious force. “I think you don’t know shit about ‘crafty,’ Emmalina—and that frightens me most of all.” He leans over, skewing the towel sideways, exposing the strain of his extended hip—not that I get more than a glance as his ire blatantly grows. “‘Crafty’ is a word for your shoe-eating dog, your scrapbooking neighbor, or the grandma who makes Christmas wreaths out of used soda cans. It’s not the word for my lunatic bitch of an ex-girlfriend.” He closes the gap between us and opens one of those fists to grab my shoulder. “Do I make myself fucking clear?”
My breath wads at the back of my throat. Forget considering his vulnerable side. What he reveals now isn’t even a run-of-the-mill soft side. This is him, genuinely spooked by the idea of Angelique even talking to me last night.
