Beautiful Tyrant (Enemies to Lovers - Dark Romance Book 3)

by C. P. Mandara

  'Don't you think we ought to consummate the marriage first, sweetheart? You don't have to go down straight away. Why not take a moment to enjoy yourself first? They'll still be there in an hour.' Helena moves towards me once again, but I am already striding past her.

  'I can't concentrate on anything else until this is all over, darling,' I say, quite truthfully as it happens. There's also the matter that I don't find my new wife in the least bit sexually appealing, but now is not the time for that conversation. Anyway, given my updated and much decreased life expectancy, I figure it's not going to be a problem for too much longer.

  'Brandt, why don't you just grab a drink and relax for a minute?' The pout is back but I'm having none of it, so I shake my head.

  'I'm going to get showered and changed, and then I'm going downstairs. The sooner this is over, the better.' I mean it, too. I'm sick of waiting. I just want this over with.

  Heading straight for the shower, I don't give Helena a chance to try and change my mind. Thankfully there's a lock on the door, and the next ten minutes are mine and mine alone. I need this time to get my head around what's coming.

  When I'm finished I go straight to my suitcase and take out a pair of black pants and a white shirt. I want to blend in. If anyone mistakes me for the wait staff, so much the better. There's a good chance someone will recognise me, but you'd be surprised how you suddenly become nearly invisible when you're one of the hired help. To aid with my transformation I don't gel my hair back, but leave it brushed forward over my forehead. I'll still need to stick to the shadows, but I don't intend to mingle. Besides, by this point most of our guests will be too pissed to notice anything. The Queen of England could waltz in and no one would be any the wiser. By the time I get downstairs I'll be lucky if some of them aren't already passed out on the floor.

  Helena, who's been strangely quiet since I've come out of the shower, suddenly pipes up.

  'You'll need a bowtie if you want to pass for one of the waiters.'

  Dangling a black one from her fingertips, she sashays over. The woman is now dressed in a negligee, if you can call that dressed, and nearly any other man on the planet would give his eyeteeth to tear it off her, but honestly, I don't think of her that way. There's only one woman on my mind, and I'll be lucky if I ever see her again.

  'How did you get that?' My brow furrows as she winds the silky fabric around my neck, fastening it with swift, deft moves. She's clearly done this before.

  'I always come prepared. Know your enemy and all that.' She winks at me. 'You'll do.'

  For the first time since we met at the airport I give her a genuine kiss of affection, although it's only on her cheek. Helena's stupid, vain, often annoying and a vicious snob, but she's not a bad person. I don't know exactly what circumstances have led her to get tangled up with Mal, but I hope she manages to get out from under his clutches.

  'Wish me luck?' I smile at her and take a deep breath.

  She shakes her head and smiles back. 'You won't need it,' she says confidently.

  That's where our thoughts differ. I have a feeling I will need it - and lots of it.

  Three-quarters of an hour later I am down in the hotel lobby, staying close to the shadows as I try to work out where Francesca is. The gun is burning a hole in the inside pocket of a jacket I stole from the staff room not moments ago. While I was there, I also grabbed a big silver serving platter that I try to keep in front of my face whenever I can. As the staff are currently walking around with plates from the evening buffet, I should fit right in.

  I'm petrified. The last thing I need is to be recognised. Mind you, maybe that's what Mal wants. Maybe he wants my face plastered all over the papers as this evening turns into a monstrous mess. It wouldn't surprise me. As I walk around the hotel, my eyes scanning everywhere for the girl I'm about to kill, all I want to do is scream. Can I do this? I don't know if I can, even if it is to save Harper and Gabriel. I don't know if I'm that kind of person. You've got to try. You won't know until that gun is in your hand, pointing directly at your target. Remember, she's not an innocent party in all of this. She'll grow up to be a sleazebag, just like her father. She'll be pedalling drugs and assaulting people before you know it. Will she though? She might just be an innocent bystander who never gets involved in any of this.

  Filled with all sorts of misgivings I continue my search for Francesca. It will probably be a blessing in disguise if I don't find her. If she's disappeared I can't kill her - problem solved. Somehow, though, I suspect things aren't going to be that easy. When I find the dancefloor I'm grateful that the room is so dark you can barely see a thing. Most of our guests are now staggering about, lurching from side to side as they expel some of their alcohol calories. Most will be lucky if they don't spend half the night doubled over in the bathroom. I'm almost jealous. These people don't realise how lucky they are. I don't remember the last time I felt like I had a carefree existence. All I do know, is that it was a very long time ago.

  My eyes scan the floor, carefully assessing the crowd. I was almost positive she'd be on the dancefloor, strutting her stuff, but there is no sign of her. Where's a teenage girl likely to be at this time of night? Damn it. Putting my tray in front of my face once again, I walk as fast as I can to the bar and the tables beyond. No one is going to stop me, if I have anything to say about it. In my head I'm currently trying to figure out all the places she could be. Bar, lobby, toilet, or maybe she went back to her room? Who knows?

  In the lobby I spot her father. He's sprawled on a leather Chesterfield sofa and he's talking animatedly on his cell. He has two men sitting beside him, who must be bodyguards, but there is no sign of his daughter. I wait around for a few minutes, hovering in an empty hallway, wondering if she'll come back to join him soon. Ten minutes pass and there's still no sign of her. It appears Daddy has left her to her own devices. Just as I'm about to turn around and go back to the dancefloor someone bursts in a set of double doors, sending a freezing draft of air in with them. The area beyond is lit up with fairy lights, and leads out to a courtyard garden. Maybe Francesca has gone outside to cool off. It's a possibility.

  Shoving my serving platter down on an empty table, I make my way outside as quickly as possible. From the corner of my eye I spy someone putting a hand in the air, trying their best to attract my attention, but I concentrate on walking straight past them. The last thing I need is a request for two gin and tonics and three pints of beer. My fingers are firmly crossed that they do not come running after me, so I move as quickly as I can.

  The night air greets me like a bucket full of water - quite literally. The rain around me is lashing out in driving waves of malevolence, and the air is about as frigid as a woman who's been dumped by her partner for her best friend. When I step outside it almost feels as if someone's dropped two tonnes of snow down the back of my neck, but it doesn't put me off. I need to know if she's out here. If she is, the girl is damn stupid and will probably die of hypothermia before long, but teenagers aren't known for their common sense. Maybe she's been partying hard and needed to cool off? Stranger things have happened.

  The terrace is surrounded by topiary trees, in rectangular oak planters that are covered with hanging ivy. There's a wooden pergola above my head, where more ivy hangs, as do a myriad of plain white lightbulbs. Tables are dotted under angled, white canvas panels that are currently sagging with rainwater. No one is sitting at them. When I look over them I can see the hotel floors stretching high above me, one by one, blotting out the sky. A few lights are on inside the rooms, but not many. Most of the guests haven't gone to bed yet. London is still in party mode.

  Turning around to go back inside, I stop when I hear a squeal - a female one. Frozen to the spot I look all around me, but I can't see anyone. I stand there for two minutes, wondering if I'm going crazy, and finally I decide I am. Maybe I imagined it? Just as I'm about to head indoors there's a giggle.

  'How did you give your dad the slip?' This time it's a young male voice
, and I think it's coming from a small wooden shed to the side of the garden. It's difficult to tell with the rain still pelting down.

  'I told him I was off to the ladies. He doesn't send the goons with me if I'm off to the toilet. The hotel has CCTV everywhere, so he's not worried about me in here.' There's more giggling, and it's definitely coming from what I suspect is a storage shed, so I shift on over.

  'How long do you think we have?' There's another squeal, and I'm guessing the little tyke has just copped a feel.

  'Not long. Ten minutes, fifteen at most, before the BFGs come looking for me.'

  The young man snorts. 'You call your dad's bodyguards BFGs? Ouch.'

  'You talk too much. Shut the fuck up and get on with it. I may have mentioned we don't have much time.' I can hear slurping, so by the sounds of things he's taken her at her word.

  When the guy comes up for air, he asks, 'You really want me to do it here?'

  I've heard enough. All I really need to do is confirm that the girl is Francesca and then shoot her. It's a bit annoying that she has a bloke with her because it's extremely likely that I'm going to have to shoot him too. Oh well. It could be worse. If we were inside the hotel, with the BFGs, it would probably be mass murder on a grand scale.

  Pulling the gun out of my pocket I glare at it, as if it's about to blow my hand off. Mal hasn't provided me with a silencer, which is telling. When I pull the trigger, this thing is going to announce my presence to half of London. I've already figured that Mal wants me to go down noisily, probably so he can show Harper the news report of me being led away in cuffs - or being shot. The latter is more likely. When those bodyguards hear the noise they'll be out here faster than a rocket with lightspeed turbo-boosters. Okay, maybe not quite that fast. What is wrong with me? Just get on with it.

  Edging around the side of the shed I note that the door is open. The two lovebirds haven't bothered to close it, probably thinking that no one would be stupid enough to follow them out here in the rain. Normally they'd be right. Unfortunately, tonight is not their night. Craning my head around to the entrance, I try to keep most of my body behind the shed while I peer inside. One quick glance is all I need. It's Francesca. It couldn't have been anyone else, really. Pulling my head back around, so I can stay hidden, I lean against the side of the shed with my chest heaving. The gun is shaking in my hand. What the fuck am I doing?

  More squeals and giggles are coming from inside as the two kids continue making out, and I am standing there shivering, my hair plastered to the side of my head, frozen to the spot. She's just a girl. It doesn't matter which way I paint this, I can't justify shooting a child. If Mal had asked me to shoot her father, that might have been different, but I can't do this. I'm not made that way. My hands are shaking so hard I won't be able to aim the gun anyway. This isn't happening. No way. If I have to sacrifice Harper and Gabriel in the process, so be it. I'm not a child killer. Fuck this. Fuck my life. And while I'm at it, my death had also better be fucking quick. Putting my face in my hands, I try my best not to scream out loud.

  Two shots ring out in the darkness, startling me so much I nearly drop the gun. They weren't loud, but you couldn't mistake them for anything else. It looks like someone has beaten me to it, and they've hired a professional. What do I do now? If they find me they're going to kill me too. Oh Jesus. What a fucking evening.

  'For crying out loud, Brandt, you look like a ghost. They're dead. Breathe.' I know that voice. Oh. My. God.

  'Helena? Is that you?' It's a stupid question. I know it's her. I just can't believe it.

  'Get in here and put these on. We don't have much time if we want to get out of here alive.' She yanks on my arm, pulling me into the shed where I come face to face with Francesca and her buddy, who now have matching holes in the middle of their foreheads. It's an image I'm not going to be able to unsee for quite some time. By some miracle I don't retch all over the floor in front of me, but it's a close-run thing.

  Helena is thrusting a pair of black jeans and a black shirt in front of me. I grab them instinctively, not really knowing what I'm doing. Thankfully she seems to be on top of things. She's wiggling out of the black catsuit she's wearing and removing a black scarf from her hair. Stepping into a pair of blue jeans, she then pulls a cream jumper over her head.

  'Didn't you hear me? Hurry the fuck up. They'll be out here before we know it.'

  That finally spurs me into action. Changing into the jeans she's just given me, we stuff our old clothes into a bag she's carrying.

  When I've finished Helena is already back out in the garden. 'Follow me,' she says, and I do. Even I'm not stupid enough to wait around. All hell is about to break loose, and I want to be as far away as possible.

  Helena strides off ahead, but she doesn't go back through the bar area. Instead she heads for a fire door which is situated at the back of the courtyard, and by some miracle it happens to be open. Pushing through it we head through a darkened corridor at the back of the staff quarters, which leads around to the front of the hotel. At this time of the evening it's empty, and I am glad of the fact. We've barely gone twenty metres when all of a sudden we're in the bright glare of the hotel reception, coming in through a side entrance. Helena is still marching onwards, heading for the revolving doors which lead outside to freedom. Surely it cannot be so easy, can it?

  It is. When we get to the steps outside there's a car waiting for us, and we jump inside. I have no idea where we are going, and I don't care.

  Chapter Sixteen - Gabriel

  'Here, have mine. I'm not hungry.' Pushing my plate of stale pizza towards Harper, I watch as she shakes her head. The action maddens me. She's sick. She's needs to eat. There is no convincing her though. It's like she's already accepted the fact she's going to die in here. I'm not having it.

  'Eat,' I threaten, almost growling at her. I can't watch her starve herself to death. She looks bad enough as it is.

  'No.' She pushes the plate back at me. 'You need it more than I do. If we stand any chance at getting out of here, it will be because of you. Keep your strength up. I'm used to being hungry. This is no big deal for me.' To make matters worse she then pats me on the arm, encouraging me to go ahead and eat the damn thing. I want to scream. The girl is so selfless and unassuming that I just want to wrap her up in my arms and tell her everything will be okay. I don't, because I don't like lying. At the moment there is no guarantee of anything at all.

  Picking up a slice of pizza that's seen better days, I split it in two and hand her half. 'Eat. If you don't eat yours I won't eat mine.' This tactic has worked for me before, and my fingers are crossed that it will work again. 'I mean it,' I add when she looks ready to argue.

  She sighs but accepts the offering. We both then bite into the cold dough and grimace. It's unpleasant, but it's some kind of sustenance, I guess.

  Mal's kept Harper and I locked up for days inside this pathetically tiny room. Sometimes he remembers to feed us, sometimes he doesn't. We're lucky there's a bathroom, else we'd probably have died of dehydration by now too.

  And speaking of Mal, the bastard is on his cell phone outside. I swear he should have that thing glued to his ear. Mind you, it's probably the only thing keeping him from spending all day in here with us, so his phone is a godsend.

  'Are you okay?' I've been awake for hours, but Harper is sleeping longer and longer. Her body is weak and it can't heal itself, not without proper nourishment, and she's not going to get that here. We both know we're not leaving here alive - which is why we can't stay here much longer. It will only be another day or two before Harper is unable to walk, and I'm not leaving her here. I can't leave her with him. Even though I'm already going to hell, the devil would have a special place for me if I left this poor girl here with that monster. There are no words for what he does to her. No. Fucking. Words.

  'I'm fine,' she whispers. It's a standard response. She's not fine, and she hasn't been fine for a long time. I have no idea how she's managed to last as long as
she has, but I'm praying she can last just a day or two longer.

  'Hang on in there. We will get out of this,' I whisper, squeezing her hand tight. I'm working on something. At the minute there are a few holes in my plan, but I'm ironing out the wrinkles. I just need a decent distraction. Then we're good to go.

  She nods, but I can tell from the look in her eyes that she doesn't believe me. She thinks this is a one-way street from which there is no escape. I refuse to believe that. I've been in tighter situations, and I'm still here to tell the tale.

  'Can you handle him tonight?' I already know the answer to that, and it's a no. Harper's reactions are getting slower and slower, mostly because she's sick, and Mal's patience is wearing thin. She needs to be at the top of her game when he's in the room, and at the moment that just isn't possible.

  'Yes,' she whispers. It's a lie, but she says it with such conviction. How is it possible that such a small girl can possess such strength? I have no idea, but I wish I had half of what she does. I know for a fact there's no way I'd have lasted this long under his hands.

  When Mal comes back in from his phone call, he is in a bad mood. He doesn't say anything, but I can tell from his wooden movements and by the way his jaw has hardened. I'm good at reading people like that. Perhaps someone has stiffed him on a haul, perhaps he's caught someone dipping their fingers in the till, or perhaps one of his rivals is trying to expand their territory - whatever it is, Mal's long face says it all. He's going to take his ill humour out on us, and by 'us,' I mean Harper.

  Walking over to the half-opened bottle of Jack, he pours himself a generous measure of whisky before his glance then flicks over Harper's massacred body. He then smiles, obviously deciding life isn't all that bad. This doesn't bode well.

  'Miss me?' he asks, when Harper glares at him.