He looks at me and rolls his eyes. He throws me the handcuff keys and I catch them neatly mid-air. 'Duty calls. Get her down from there, wake her up, and get her ready for when I get back. Think you can do that?'
I nod. We've gone from violence to sex. That works for me. 'Sure thing.'
As soon as he's left the room I rush to get Harper out of the restraints.
'Are you okay?' I ask. It's a stupid question. She is not okay. If I'm not careful she is probably about to tear my balls off, if she's got any energy left for that.
'I'm fine.' Her eyes are now wide open, staring into mine with unconcealed lust. That's the last thing I need.
'Stop looking at me like that.' I can't think when she's doing that, and I need to think. Freeing her left wrist I move over to her right.
'Looking at you like what?' She blinks and flexes her freed wrist. It must be sore. Pretty much like the rest of her body.
'Like you want to eat me.' Her other wrist pops out easily as soon as the key is turned and she slumps forward, unable to support herself. I catch her easily. 'Whoa there,' I say, gently popping her body back upright. 'Take a minute, okay? You must be exhausted. Just lean on me for a second. When you feel better I'll free your legs.'
'My saviour.' She giggles and I find her gazing at me with those big sable eyes. My cock rises to a stiff, flag post position, and I clench my teeth as I try to ease the tension in my boxers, but now her attention is solely focused on my cock. Oh my God. This isn't happening. My pulse is beginning to hammer in my veins and a buzzing sound is erupting somewhere in my ears. I want to fuck the woman so bad. What the hell is wrong with me? Since when have my allegiances turned? I seem to be a bit flaky all of a sudden.
'Can I let you go now?' I ask. 'Think you can stay upright while I free your legs?'
'I'm fine,' she says, when she must be anything but. Taking her at her word, however, I release her legs and help her out of the X-frame contraption.
'You have got to play with me, Gabriel,' she says. 'If Mal gets back in here and I'm not wetter than a North Sea storm, he's going to take it out on you.' Her voice is pleading.
'You're already soaked, princess,' I say, knowingly. 'My playing with you won't make any difference. All it will do is make the next hour or two with Mal that much worse.' I don't want to get too near her. I'm in dangerous territory. If I do something Mal doesn't like, I'm likely to get tied to his chair while he cuts chunks out of me. There's also the very real possibility I'll get carried away. I can't think clearly when Harper's around.
'Please Gabriel,' she whispers, staggering over to the bed. Just the sound of her voice gets me going, but I ignore it. Striding off into the bathroom I try my best to push all thoughts of sex from my mind. The trouble is, I've already had a taste of Harper Wilkinson, and I liked it far more than I should. Now I want a replay.
'What's he going to do to you?' I have no idea why I'm asking a question I don't want to know the answer to, but I do it anyway.
She lies on the bed and doesn't look at me as she says, 'Hard to tell, but it will be nasty, degrading and utterly humiliating - especially with you watching. Don't sweat it. I've endured his hands on me hundreds of times before, so once more isn't going to make much of a difference.' She's already resigned herself to what's about to happen, and that, for some reason, makes me really mad.
Her eyes catch mine, and she looks at the little red pack in my hand. 'There's no real point in taping me up until he's finished with me. He loves blood. You're going to spoil his fun if you do that, and he doesn't take kindly to anyone who tries to interfere with his whores.'
'Don't call yourself that,' I bark, annoyed that she thinks of herself that way. Is this what years of conditioning have done to her? I hope not.
Harper sighs theatrically, but she does as she's told. 'Patch me up when he's finished,' she says. 'He'll be in a better mood then.'
I don't give a fuck about his mood. All I care about right now is forming a plan that will get us both out of here with our hearts still beating and most of our limbs intact. At the moment, it's looking like a long shot, but I'm a reasonably resourceful kinda guy. I'll come up with something... or die trying.
Chapter Fourteen - Brandt
The day of my wedding dawns with a thick blanket of cloud and lashings of wind and rain. It is so gloomy not a single flower in the Foster-Lyle's perfectly manicured gardens has dared to open. Helena is going to go mental, but that's her problem.
In my humble opinion, it's the perfect day for a disaster of grand proportions. If possible my mood is even blacker than the weather and people would do well to stand as far away from me as they can. Not even the vicar is safe, and that's saying something.
My thoughts are everywhere and nowhere all at once. Is Harper still alive? Is Gabriel? Will I live to see the end of today? Am I going to kill someone? Will I fuck up my fake vows in front of hundreds of people? Actually, I don't even care. If I'm only going to be alive for the next twelve hours or so, worrying over my lines isn't worth my time or attention.
The only blessing today has provided so far is that I will not be seeing Helena until we walk down the aisle. She's a stickler for tradition, apparently. Highly odd then, that she has virtually steamrolled me into marriage by claiming to be preggers several weeks before the event. Traditions must have changed somewhat since I've been inside.
Pacing up and down in my hotel room, I keep staring at the suit in the wardrobe. It is dark grey and comes with a white dress shirt that has been starched to within an inch of its life. It is accompanied by a gold waistcoat and cravat. I hope someone can help me with the cravat. I have no idea how to tie the thing.
Looking down at my watch, I realise I have just half an hour until the wedding car is due to pick me up. Christ, I'd better get dressed. The last thing I need is for the soon-to-be in-laws turning up while I'm running about in my boxers.
Pulling on my pants, I wonder for the one millionth time who it is that Mal wants me to kill. I have my theories, but as yet that's all they are; theories. I'm no closer to unravelling this mystery, and that can only be a bad thing. How am I supposed to do it, anyway? Am I going to have to shoot someone? Strangle them? The thought of killing someone is so abhorrent I'm not sure I'm going to be able to get through the day without puking. There are two types of people in this world - those that can kill and those that can't. So far, I've fallen into the latter group. I haven't got the stomach for it, and my conscience would eat me alive after the event. Am I prepared to kill someone to save Harper and Gabriel's life? Will Mal even keep his word if I do? He's a thug, for crying out loud. He tortures people for a living. I have about as much chance of seeing my friends alive again as I do of meeting the Dalai Lama.
There's a sharp knock on my door. It makes me jump. I already know it's not room service because I ate breakfast over an hour ago, so I think I can safely assume that it's someone who wants to drag me to my impending nuptials. Grabbing my shirt, I button it up as quick as is humanly possible and drag some socks on. Looking almost presentable, I then open the door.
'Well, look at you,' says a fat bald guy dressed in a very bad suit. Mind you, it's still better than the ridiculous attire I'm in, so I'll keep quiet.
Raising my eyebrow expectantly, I wait for something bad to happen. I'm fairly sure this guy is one of Mal's meatheads because the Foster-Lyle's wouldn't be seen dead conversing with the likes of him.
'Yes?' I ask, after we've been standing and staring at each other for what seems like an hour.
'You Brandt Browning?' bald guy asks.
'Yep, that's me.' Shoving my hands in my pockets, I wait patiently for whatever is about to happen next.
'Good. Let's go inside.' He indicates the interior of my hotel room.
'Oh, I don't think so,' I say, shaking my head. The last thing I need is to be trapped in a small space with one of Mal's goons.
'I don't think you understand; that wasn't a question,' bald guy says, and there's then a bulge
inside his very unflattering suit jacket, which suggests I should obey unless I want my guts splattered all over the insipid magnolia walls that surround me. What an asshole. Doesn't he realise this is supposed to be the happiest day of my life?
Throwing the door wide open and plastering a monstrously fake smile on my lips, I let the twat inside. To be fair, it's unlikely he's going to kill me; I won't be able to do Mal's dirty deeds if I'm dead, will I?
Closing the door as soon as he's inside, I turn around. 'Any chance you know how to tie a cravat?' I ask.
Bald guy spins around and grabs me by the throat. 'Do I look like the type of guy who gives fashion tips for a living?' Getting his gun out of his jacket he begins waving it around. This is exactly why I didn't want to let him in.
'Good point,' I reply. 'So, what are you here for?' I figure we may as well get this over with.
'To tell you who you've got to kill this evening,' he says, quite happily. He even smiles as he says it. Where does Mal get these people from?
'Well, let's get on with it then. I have people to see, places to be.' I look at my watch meaningfully. I've got less than half an hour before I need to be out of this place, and I still haven't figured out how to tie a cravat.
'So I hear,' says bald guy, his sickly grin still firmly in place. I want to punch my fist straight through his face, which I'm fairly sure would wipe it off in an instant, but I figure that would be unwise. Grabbing my suit jacket, I shrug it on and go hunting for my shoes. If bald guy wants to drag things out, that's his problem, but I'm damned if he's going to have my full attention while doing so.
Bald guy loses his enthusiasm for tormenting me as soon as he sees I've lost interest in the game.
'Their name is Frankie,' he says, as I'm busily shining my shoes with the hotel sponge. While this day might not be the happiest of my life, I have certain standards to maintain.
Frankie. Is that a man or a woman? It would be hard enough for me to kill a man, but almost impossible if I have to kill a girl.
'Who are they?' I ask. Maybe if they work for the Inland Revenue or something I won't feel quite so bad about all of this.
'You'll figure it out. Mal says you don't need to know any more than that, so my job here is over.' Bald guy's eyes are currently glued to my shoes, and while I have to agree they are so damn shiny you could almost see your face in them, he needs to get out of here.
'Wonderful. Now if there's nothing else, I have a wedding I am going to be later for...' I leave it hanging. In case he's almost as stupid as he looks, I eye the door behind him for clarification.
Thankfully he gets the message. 'Right ho. I'll be seeing you later.' The man then strides out of the door without a backward glance, and as soon as it shuts behind him there's another knock.
He's probably forgotten to give me a gun or something. Fantastic. This is all I need. So dragging the door open wide I say, 'What the fuck do you want now...?'
Two seconds later Rupert Foster-Lyle comes in. Shit. I cannot deal with my life right now.
'Do you want to try that again, son?' he asks, in what is a rather frosty tone. Can't say I blame him.
'I'm so sorry, Sir,' I say, trying my best to think of a way to backpedal out of this as quickly as possible. Thankfully it doesn't take long for something to come to me. 'The last person to knock had the wrong room number, and I thought he was going to demand I up and leave right away. I can't cope with that right now. I think I have these pre-wedding jitters. Even my hands are shaking. And to make matters worse I cannot, for the life of me, figure out how to tie this damn cravat.' I throw my hands up in exasperation. Rupert smiles. There is a God.
'I can sort that out for you, son. After that, we'd better get a move on. The cars are waiting downstairs. It wouldn't do to be late.'
The wedding goes off without a hitch, despite everyone getting torn to bits by the weather. I don't fluff my lines, Helena looks beautiful even though she's a traitor, and no one kills anyone. Yet. Even the bridesmaids behave themselves and considering not one of them is above the age of six, that's a result in my book.
So far I have no idea who Frankie is, or how I'm going to kill them, but I hope that will become apparent as the day wears on. If I get desperate, I'll just have to ask Helena the names of all of our guests. Knowing her she'll love that. She hasn't stopped gasbagging since we got out of the church and her constant drivel is beginning to drive me nuts. If I had to stay married to her for any length of time, I'd go insane.
Our reception is being held in a hotel which, whilst not one of the glitziest hotels London has to offer, still oozes five-star luxury and charm. Quite honestly, I'm surprised we weren't banished to a bed-and-breakfast or something. I'd thought Rupert and Julia would probably want to hide us away, but that doesn't appear to be the case.
When we enter the reception room, the blinding white walls around me nearly dazzle my retinas. Everything is white, except the silverware on the tables, and the mass arrangements of pale pink peonies that sit in clear glass bowls as the focal centrepiece. Even the chairs are upholstered in thick white leather, and the lamps strategically set around the room are also of monochrome design.
'Don't you just love it?' Helena squeals. From my point of view it's a bit like white torture, but I am wise enough not to mention this out loud.
'It's stunning, darling,' I say tactfully. The last thing I need now is drama or hysterics. This is Helena's day, and she can have whatever she wants, whenever she wants it. I just need to get through it in one piece - preferably without killing someone.
In fairly short order we are handed a glass of champagne while trays of canapes are draped in front of us, one by one. I don't have much of an appetite for anything, but I try my best to appear as if I'm enjoying myself. Normally this would involve drinking, but today that could be dangerous, so I need to be careful.
It isn't long before the first guests begin to arrive. Then we are stood alongside Helena's mother and father while we welcome everyone inside. It doesn't take me long to realise that this is an excellent opportunity to learn everyone's names. As each couple is introduced to us, my eardrums are on red alert for the name Frankie, but no such name is announced. Typically everyone is announced formally by their first and last names, just to make my job that little bit trickier.
In the end I narrow it down to three possibilities. We have a Franklyn, who's at least seventy years of age and a lover of tweed, a Francis who is in his mid-forties at a guess and accompanied by his pregnant wife, and a Francesca. Francesca is just a young girl, but devilishly attractive with black hair and startlingly blue eyes. When she directs her attention to me my wife immediately stiffens, but manages to suffer through some polite niceties until the next couple comes along. This is interesting. I'll have to ask her about it later, when I get a chance. All I can do for now is commit the three faces to memory. I'll have to ask my questions later and draw my conclusions from whatever I can learn then. I'll also have to figure out if I'm prepared to kill someone to free my friends. If there was a guarantee of them being released, I have a feeling I might, but there is no such guarantee. Mal is unreliable at best, and it would be wise for me to remember that.
The day drags on with speeches, toasts, food, wine and dancing. I have no appetite for any of it. My focus is on working out which one of the three Frankies I'm going to have to kill and trying to learn everything I can about them. It's not until it's time to dance that I finally get my bride's attention all to myself. Prior to this we've been sat around our table, making polite conversation with guests.
'What can you tell me about Franklyn?' I ask her, as the dulcet tones of Somewhere Over the Rainbow begin. The song makes my skin crawl. This wedding is entirely Helena down to every last horrendous detail, including my gold suit, but as it's a sham that is unlikely to last for more than a day, there's no point in complaining.
'Is that who you're supposed to kill?' Helena asks with a puzzled frown.
'Why?' Her face tells me that
Franklyn is about as threatening as a kitten.
'He works with my dad. He studies molecular biology. I can't think why Mal would want him dead. Besides, he's likely to die of natural causes within the next five years. He's already had two stokes, and he's not in the best of health.'
I mentally cross Franklyn off my list. If Mal is targeting pensioners, he's getting desperate.
'Who's Francis, then?'
Helena gives me another odd look. 'Mal hasn't told you who you've got to kill? You've got to figure it out for yourself?' It seems she can be intelligent when it suits her.
Shaking my head, I say, 'No, all he's given me is the nickname, Frankie. There are three people here who could possibly have that nickname, which is making life a little difficult.
'He didn't give you any more than that?' Helena looks surprised. Clearly she hasn't seen Mal's sense of humour in action. The man lives to torment people. And now I've got out of prison he's got a new idiot to play with, although it doesn't look like he intends to drag our relationship out for long.
'That's all I've got. Does he do this kind of thing often? Maybe he doesn't get out much, and he has to get his kicks where he can?' Hell if I know.
'I just ferry drugs for the man. We don't chat. He's not my type.' Interesting. Mal can't get enough of Harper, but he has no interest in Helena. Maybe we do have something in common, after all.
'He's not come on to you sexually at all?' After what she's just said I'm pretty sure the answer's no, but I have to check.
Her eyes flicker away from me. 'God, no. That would be the end of us, if he did.' Wrong answer, I think. That would be the end of you.
Changing the subject back to the original one I ask, 'So who is Francis? Is he worth killing? Does he do something illicit or illegal for a living? Maybe he works for law enforcement?' Who would a drug dealer hate? Someone who would get in his way, I'm guessing.
Beautiful Tyrant (Enemies to Lovers - Dark Romance Book 3) Page 13
