by Pam Godwin
A laugh erupted from his throat, and he darted a glance at Liv's windows. “Hate to disappoint you, gorgeous. My dead mother has no use for handbags.”
The door held as still as the quiet behind it. If she felt bad about his mother, she shouldn't bother. Isadora Quiso chose the slow death of crack over feeding and protecting her son. She could burn in hell.
“C'mon. Just open the door.” He dropped his forehead on the frame. What would he do if she let him in?
Fantasies spilled from the oily, malignant lesion that was his mind. He would take her was what he'd do. Strap down those toned limbs until they strained in agony and bury himself in her so deep she'd never be able to purge the stench of him. He was his father's son, after all.
Except Mr. E had not only enslaved and ruined his mother, he'd left her to rot in an El Paso colonia with her unwanted infant.
Van bit down on the toothpick, snapping it in half. He pocketed the pieces, his bitterness cursing at him to embrace his nature. The rancid bits of his life in that ghetto were inside of him. He wanted to pocket those, too.
Yet here he was, growing hard at the thought of ruining another life.
She'd grown too quiet on her side of the door. Had she decided to end the conversation and retreat to another room? He tightened his hands into fists. “Amber?”
The door jostled with her movements.
He sighed in relief. “Just give me one reason why you're holed up.” Give him something vulnerable he could break off and sharpen into teeth.
“I'll give you several.” Her tone was clipped, angry. “I'm allergic to pollen. I'm hiding a dead body. And I don't like you.”
There it was. She did like him. He hadn't missed her gape of appreciation when she'd shut the door. What she seemed to be oblivious to, however, was her enjoyment in their verbal scrimmage. But where was the terrified girl who could barely utter a sentence outside? She really put a lot of faith in that door. He grinned. “Maybe I'm the reason.”
“Mighty full of yourself.” Her volume rose. “Let me clear it up for you. Fuck. Off.”
He'd rather fuck her. And he would. The brick walls of her bungalow might've suspended her earlier panic, but it was a deception he could shatter with little effort. He could wait till she fell asleep and pry open the rear sliding door. A precaution he should've taken six months ago rather than assuming the house was vacant. He'd been careless, and now his favorite bench—and its view—was compromised.
Though, since the moment Amber had stumbled out, something had happened to his focus. “Are we done talking through the door?”
“What are you doing on my porch in the middle of the night?” She sounded tired, defeated.
“I was looking for some old friends and got the wrong house. You’re not exactly rolling out the welcome mat, but I kind of like here. It beats going back to an empty home.” It was more truth than he'd planned to share.
“You don't have—”
He pressed his ear against the wood, desperate to hear the rest of it. Let it out, Amber.
“You don't have anyone...at home?”
His pulse hopped through his veins. His honesty had opened a precious doorway into hers. “No one, Amber. There's not a soul that cares if I live or would miss me if I died.” Maybe he'd laid it on too thick, but the truth was always denser and darker than shit.
The flooring creaked beneath her footsteps. Was she pacing? Considering another swine-related retort?
Finally, the creaking stilled, and her voice drifted over him, sealing her fate. “I'd like to make you an offer.”
Whatever sanity Amber had left evaporated in her desperate state of do-or-die. The decision roiled through her stomach. She needed the dye to complete the projects, and even more troublesome was how she would transport the finished orders from the door to the mailbox before the Saturday mail carrier motored by.
Was enlisting the help from this man the smart thing to do? It felt right, like a nuzzling, belly warming, union-of-lonely-souls kind of right. She knew, too well, how forceful loneliness was, how it could make a person desperate enough to grasp at strangers.
She rubbed her temples and released a frustrated breath. She was making an emotional decision, as Dr. Michaels liked to say, anchored in empathy and illogic. And Brent had always said she was too stupid to think for herself.
Her hands dropped to her sides. There had been a time in her life when she'd ignored Brent's commentary, when her self-image was as true and sturdy as her pageant pose. Perhaps too sturdy. The more she'd let his disgust roll off her shoulders, the crueler the words had become. For years, he'd tried to penetrate her pride, to elicit a reaction. One she'd refused to give. Until, eventually, he'd cut too deep.
Maybe she'd hardened herself so much she'd become an undesirable person, a detached wife he could no longer love. For that, she only had herself to blame.
You're excusing his behavior.
Dr. Michaels was right. Besides, she was anything but hardened now, and Brent wasn't around to savor it. She squeezed her over-popped fingers, and the silent bend of joints pushed her pulse to her throat.
“What's the offer, sweetheart?”
Interest wove through his timbre, and the endearment had no business shivering over her skin. Nothing was more comforting, or more narcissistic, than feeling desired.
She leaned toward the door and placed her palm on the cool surface. Even if he did desire her, it had no weight in her decision. His intention did, and she didn't know what that was. She didn't know him.
But she hadn't known any of her previous lovers. Hell, her I'd like to make you an offer was the first thing she'd uttered to Zach through the door.
Zach. The recent change in their interactions was the beginning of the end. Perhaps, she'd made such a fool of herself he didn't plan to come back at all. Sometimes, they didn't.
Lack of options was all she had left. “What's your name?”
His pause was brief but unnerving. “Van.”
“Van.” Her voice rasped past a sandpaper throat. “I'll invite you in for four hours while I dye a project and wait for it to dry. In exchange, you will take my finished packages to the mailbox.” She held her breath.
“Does the dyeing and drying involve my skin?”
Her lips twitched, and it felt...safe. “If you misbehave.”
“Are you going to give me herpes?”
She laughed at his teasing tone and covered her mouth, startled by the sound. She lowered her hands, but the smile persisted. “If you ask nicely.” Her face inflamed. Jesus, she was flirting. Oh, fuckever. Wasn't that what she was offering? The same thing she'd offered the last six delivery guys? Sex in exchange for her deliveries?
But Van's name wasn't stitched on his shirt. He wasn't on his lunch break, for twenty minutes on Tuesday or Friday. He'd opened her mail, for Godssake. He asked questions. He pursued her.
“It's a deal.” His voice was firm, final.
Ohshitohshitohshit. It was one thing to flirt and joke through the safety of the door, but letting him inside after she’d run off her mouth and made an ass of herself? What was she thinking?
Her pulse jumped from zero to a hundred and forty, her legs weakened, and the chest pain barreled in. No, please, not an attack. Not going to happen.
She breathed deeply, flexing and holding her abs on each inhale, four times. She would slap on a fresh face and pull herself together, dammit. The four clocks lined on the far wall read 12:40 AM. “I need twenty-four minutes.”
Without waiting for a response, she ran to the bedroom and continued her belly breathing while she changed from her sweat-soaked suit to a clean black minidress. That done, she finger-combed the carpet lines and freshened her makeup in the bathroom.
Blond curls falling perfectly around her heaving chest, she stood by the front door and waited for six minutes.
At 1:04 AM, she spoke. “Still there, Van?”
“Even more impatient than I was twenty-four minutes ago.”
> His voice matched his words, but she didn't let it stop her from unlocking the deadbolt four times. What if he tracked in dirt or poked around in her things? Would his personal questions continue? Should she maintain a far distance? What if her Aw, he has a lonely soul warped into Sweet God, he has a knife?
She opened the door, enough to leave a sliver without feeling the malevolent force of the open air. Then she sprinted down the hall, fighting for oxygen and towing a thousand-pound string of reservations behind her.
The deadbolt slid free, not once but four times in rapid succession. Huh. Was this some kind of neurotic indecisiveness? Or was the crazy woman taunting him? Amber was probably the kind of girl who would leave bite marks all over his dick.
Van grinned.
When the knob twisted and a soft glow illuminated the slivered opening, his pulse electrified. There it was, her free will dangling in the open door. He could take it, violently and recklessly, the moment he walked in. He flexed his fingers, anticipating fistfuls of her hair.
His cock pulsed as the thrill of possibilities heated his blood. It would be so damned exhilarating to throw her against the wall, mar her pretty skin, and fuck her before the stunned effect of terror released its first breath.
He stood taller, lighter, no longer bound by slave-buyer virginity requirements or his father's bullshit tyranny. He could be greedy, merciless, unrestrained. He could beat her just for letting him in. He could fuck her any way he wanted. Then he could take her home, chain her in his room, and keep her until he was done.
He hadn't taken anyone against their will since Joshua Carter, limiting his sexual encounters to quick fucks with men and women to take the edge off. Had it really been a year since he'd felt this rush? Why the hell was he giving into it now?
Because this fearful, sassy, crazy woman had awoken something inside him.
He slid on his leather gloves, unconcerned with how she might react to them. When he nudged open the door, the sound of her heels speed-clicked around the corner and faded into another room. He hadn't expected a red carpet welcome, but seriously? She didn't know his intentions, yet she'd opened the door and run? That was fucked up from the tits up.
As he crossed the threshold, the aroma of bleach and springtime fumigated his nose, a peculiar concoction of citrus, girly gardenias, and enough disinfectant to saturate a morgue. Maybe she was hiding a body. He locked the deadbolt and followed the aseptic wisp through the small sitting room.
Up ahead, a doorway opened into the kitchen. The hallway branched off to the left, leading to three rooms. Shadows gathered around the entrances of two. A soft band of light gleamed from the third, presumably where she'd run off to. She could wait. If she was stupid enough to let him roam alone, that was her problem.
Dated but well-kept furniture formed perfect right-angles, enclosed by gray walls, wood floors, black fabrics, and the sheer absence of color. What halted his steps, however, were the four round wall clocks, hanging side-by-side, identical in style, and synced down to the motherfucking second hand.
The oddity propelled him to examine the room closer as he listened for her footsteps. Four candles lined the glossy coffee table, four black pillows sat at rigid attention on the gray couch, and four bookshelves filled one wall. No TV. No knick-knacks. No picture frames. And definitely no trace of the pungency that would come with harvesting marijuana. Not that he still entertained that assumption.
Which raised new questions about her twice-a-week visitor. Zachary Kaufman was an unknown who would need to be dealt with.
With the envelopes tucked under one arm, he brushed a gloved finger over the dust-free surfaces, turning in a circle and searching for a deviation in the patterned decor. Everything was in symmetrical groups of four. The row of leather coasters, the books on the shelves, and the five-light chandelier...yep, missing the fifth bulb. Even the damned orchid on the sofa table had four white blooms with four petals each, as if she'd plucked the poor thing to fit an obscene idea of perfect proportion.
While the impersonal space offered little insight into who she was, one thing was certain. She was a straight-up freak of orderly foursomes.
“Come here, Van.” Her voice skipped down the hall, strong and confident.
He stiffened, and his head tilted. She was beckoning him? Oh, how he wanted to answer with a cruel laugh just to expose her misunderstanding. Little did she know, he'd moved the mics during the twenty-four minute wait and had listened to her frantic footsteps running in and out of the back rooms. And why had she made him wait exactly twenty-four minutes? Was it an even-numbered thing or something more practical, like setting up a plan to trap him? If it were the latter, the pistol tucked in his ass crack would let her know she'd surrendered the instant she invited him inside.
He slid his tongue over his lips, seeking the toothpick he'd forgotten to replace. The worst part about being a sick bastard was the internal view of his perversions. He'd watch, like a helpless witness, as his body instilled fear in the eyes of his captives, his memories molding them into a weaker version of himself. In those moments, when his hands became manacles and his strikes connected with flesh, he beat the living shit out of the pathetic boy he once was. Nothing was more therapeutic. Or fucked up.
A jolt of heat pulsated his groin. Christ, he couldn't wait to introduce her to the realm of his imagination.
He leaned over the coffee table and stacked three coasters in a lopsided pile. As he passed the couch, he rotated one square pillow to sit on its cornered edge. His grin stretched so big his mouth hurt. Sometimes, it was the little things that teased sadistic pleasures.
Circling back to the front door, he toed off his sneakers and left them there. His silent gait carried him to the kitchen where he unlocked the sliding door. Would she check the locks? He dropped the thick drape back in place to cover the glass, adjusting the pleats to their former order so she wouldn't notice he'd touched them.
A couple of minutes had passed since she'd let him in. Was she clutching a butter knife, waiting to pounce? Counting to four over and over? He smiled at the thought of keeping her waiting.
With easy breaths and slow strides, he entered the short hallway, embracing the pursuit, stalking the innocent, preying exclusively on trust.
She'd willingly opened her door for the last time. Her naiveté would be the first thing vanquished by the hard, heavy weight between his legs.
Filling his lungs, he swallowed his enthusiasm and paused at the first of the three doors in the hall, an empty bathroom. As much as he craved an impulsive fuck-fight, he would take her the way he'd captured all the others, with planning and patience.
He dug a toothpick from his pocket and gripped it between his teeth, buying a few seconds to relax his dick. To speed things along, he shifted his thoughts to the one pure thing in his life. His daughter's vibrant smile, her lively mannerisms, and the crescendo of her precious voice spiraled breathless warmth through his chest and eased the strain against his zipper.
God, he wanted a place in her life, but she lived with Mr. E's widow. Revealing his identity to Livana was a long-term plan-in-progress.
It'd been easy for Liv to slip into Livana's life. The authorities knew she was Livana's biological mother. Legally, she was entitled to claim custody. She had a steady job, plus the six million he'd given her. But he didn't think she'd ever take their daughter from her stable home. Liv was a recovering slave after all, with her own aftermath of healing and maturing to work through.
Unfortunately, his ability to claim custody was nonexistent because he didn't exist. Not to the authorities and not to Mr. E's widow. Exposing his identity would link him to Mr. E's trafficking operation and land him life in prison. So his safest avenue to Livana was through Liv.
He gnashed his teeth. Before he could approach Liv, he needed to understand how she'd freed eight slaves and made the buyers disappear. Cartel? Hired hit man? Last thing he wanted was to become one of her disposed bodies.
With a swift adjustment
of his finally-flaccid cock, he strode toward the only illuminated doorway in the hall and stopped at the entrance, his thumb on his hip, fingers near the concealed gun at his back.
She perched on a stool at the center of a bed-less bedroom, facing him, her back rigidly straight and her gaze on his gloved hand.
Four leather knife sheaths lay on the workbench behind her. His eyebrows crept up his forehead. Definitely a far cry from cowgirl boots. Would she ever cease to surprise him?
Rubber utility mats lined the floor. One wall held a treadmill, a Smith machine, and a metal rack stacked with free weights, arranged by size. No wonder her ass was a wicked bounce of muscle. He imagined her bent over and the inviting space her firm cheeks would create between her thighs.
Heat pierced through his body, contracting his muscles and leaving little room for patience. Fuck, the wait felt like a hundred searing needles, but he relished it, wanting her beneath his skin.
His bulk filled the doorway, legs spread wide, arms loose at his sides, confident he could draw the gun before she could wedge a hidden weapon from that tight dress. While he waited for her to look up, he drank in her features. The regal curves of her face. The tiny slope of her nose. The way her lips naturally tipped upward despite the tension around her mouth. But why the hell had she changed her clothes?
The overhead light reflected off the blond curtain of her hair. The color seemed...wrong, too pale for her honey-light skin. It fell over her face as she stared at the floor, a paradox of insecure beauty.
He tilted his head. Of course, he knew very little about her, but he was missing something crucial, a fragile facet beneath the pristine makeup and trained physique.
He rolled the toothpick with his tongue. “Why do you bleach your hair?”
Golden-brown eyes connected with his, blinking furiously, so deliciously nervous. “It's...” She huffed. “None of your business.”
Slowly, cautiously, he slid back the hood of his sleeveless sweatshirt. Her breathing quickened as her gaze skimmed his exposed biceps, his face, and lingered on the scar that divided his cheek. She looked away, her shoulders curling around her ears.
