Ripped: A Blood Money Novel

by Edie Harris

  “Oh?” The next shooter hit his mark, and Tobias applauded politely along with the rest of the group.

  “My ancestor—the sitting lord—lost his eldest son in the blaze. Others died, but you know how it is, Faraday. Losing family.”

  Every cell in Tobias’s body vibrated to sudden life, the darkness within rousing at the subtle threat. The threat which might not be a threat at all. That goddamn book. “I think it would come across as insincere if I expressed condolences on your family’s loss,” he said carefully, keeping his eyes on the far end of the lawn where the groundskeeper manned the trap. “I take it your ancestor did not react well to his son’s death.”

  “As might any parent.” Cameron’s voice carried a thread of heretofore unknown strength. “The legend goes that the lord expelled the servant responsible for the fire from the grounds, believing the local authorities would arrest the servant for arson, if not murder. Except that didn’t happen.”

  Adam had been right to wonder if problems were on the horizon with the Noltes. Cameron obviously didn’t intend to let the week pass without demanding some sort of comeuppance from the Faradays. Tobias could only hope he asked for money, so this farcical pretense of familial revenge disintegrated and Tobias could deny the prick recompense.

  Cameron idly drew a shotgun shell from his vest pocket. “The servant disappeared, of course, only to surface years later, never punished for his crimes and living like a king. A vow of vengeance isn’t outside the realm of possibility in such a case, is it, Faraday?”

  Vengeance. Yes, he understood vengeance, but for those in the present, who lived and breathed in the now. Not feuds involving souls whose bodies would’ve long since turned to dust. The threat to Beth and the literal hell she had somehow survived still remained. There was the camera’s blinking red light to contend with, and Tobias refused to permit the individual hiding behind that camera to exist. Cameron and his family could continue carrying on over their centuries-old loss, if they wished, but listening to the aristocrat’s passive-aggressive storytelling was a waste of time for all involved, and Tobias didn’t have time for this shit. “The only vows you ought to worry about are those you’re going to make to Pippa on Saturday.” Lifting his hand to gain the groundskeeper’s attention, he signaled what he wanted, and, after hefting the handful of shells from his pocket in one palm, he calmly called out, “Pull.”

  With the reflexes he’d honed during those formative years alone with his siblings at the compound, he propped the rifle butt against his right shoulder and fired without more than a cursory glance at the clay pigeon. As it shattered, he again gave the command. “Pull.” He loaded the single-shell magazine, pumped the forestock, took the shot one-handed, and repeated the process.

  Tobias repeated the process three more times, burning through five pigeons in twenty seconds.

  Silence fell over the assembled marksmen, interrupted only when Cameron spoke in an oddly strained voice. “I thought you said you didn’t shoot.”

  “Only when absolutely necessary.” As the final broken shards of unglazed clay floated to the ground, Tobias disassembled the shotgun entirely, as he might the sidearm he had stowed in his luggage. The antique stock, the contemporary barrel, the retrofitted magazine and action bar, all fell to pieces in his hands as he deconstructed a weapon that had once upon a time started life in a Georgian-era aristocrat’s armory.

  His thumb passed over the barely discernible F etched in flowing script on the wooden stock before setting the remnants of the gun atop one of the straw bales. He would have to address that F before he left the estate, but not yet. “Thank you for the invitation to join you this morning, gentlemen, but I’m afraid I have other matters to attend to. A tragic consequence of my position.” A position so inconceivably powerful to a man such as Cameron Nolte, the future Lord Valsar, that the petty tribulations of men long dead—and the descendents who refused to let those grudges stay buried—were not normally a blip on Tobias’s radar.

  Spinning on his heel, he moved to climb the steps to the patio, only to halt with one foot on the bottom tread when he saw Chandler standing three feet away, staring at him with wide whiskey eyes. “Chandler.”

  “Toby.” Her throat worked in a visible swallow. “I was, uh, looking for you.” She moved to the top of the steps, close enough for Tobias to catch the fresh scent of their shared shower soap. Lemon verbena, and it smelled far better on her than it ever would on him. “Lady Valsar told me you hadn’t yet eaten breakfast.”

  “I haven’t, no.”

  “Are you...hungry?”

  “Starved.” He was starving, the years of suppressing needs he had wholeheartedly believed himself above crumbling into the abyss. Jaw clenched, his vision sharpened until he saw nothing but the tough blonde in front of him looking at him with something he might be foolish enough to mistake as awe, and it was enough to make him feel twenty feet tall.

  He held out a hand.

  She took it.

  Her palm warm against his, he led her quickly across the patio and through the doors into the formal parlor, not stopping until they were outside the room and hustling down the west hallway.

  “Breakfast is the other way.”

  “I know.” The fact that she hadn’t tried to slow him down or turn him in the direction of the informal dining room told him everything he needed to know. She was with him, fingers linked securely with his, and the buzzing in his head finally, finally stopped. The only echoes were those of their breaths, their footsteps, and when he dragged her into a shadowed alcove, even those echoes disappeared, too. His mouth made sure of that.

  She whimpered as he stole the kiss he craved, plush lips sweet and giving and heated and demanding. She rose on tiptoe to align with every inch of his, and, God, he was losing his mind. Kissing Chandler robbed him of breath and good sense, hardened him to the point of pain.

  Straining against him, she battled for control. Because it was obviously control that she wanted—and he thought he might understand it, the need to win against a man who had taken away her freedom, dominating her days and forcing her to risk her life for his mission. It made perfect sense, her desire to overpower him.

  But that didn’t, and never would, work for him. Taking her shoulders, he broke away, his pulse pounding unsteadily in his ears. “Don’t fight me, Chandler. Don’t fight what I only want to give.” His entire body tingled with the truth of those words. “Unbutton your jeans.”

  To his everlasting amazement, she didn’t hesitate. Staring up at him, cheeks flushed and lips parted, she tugged at the button and zipper. “Now what?”

  Power tripped through him in a mad rush. “Look at you, doing what you’re told. I’m shocked.”

  “I’m fucking hot for you right now, Toby, and you’re mocking me?”

  Suddenly serious, he stepped into her, stroking the pad of his thumb over the bared stripe of pale skin above the waistband of her panties. “Never.” His thumb swept beneath the elastic waistband. “God, you’re soft.” Soft and warm and pretty. Why had he waited so long to be this close to a woman? Why hadn’t he realized a woman would be soft and warm and pretty under his fingertips?

  She strained closer, brown eyes dilated and sparkling. “Lower. Touch lower.” Her hips wriggled impatiently, just the tiniest bit, and his aching erection stiffened further.

  Instead, he gripped the hem of her sweater in both hands and slowly, slowly, slid it up her torso, fingers skating over her ribs. Touching her was addictive, each brush of skin against skin spurring more of the same. The pressure he applied was firmer now, more proprietary.

  Proprietary? His mind stuttered, then sped. Yes, proprietary. She stood willing under him; not only that, but it appeared she craved his hands, judging by her shortness of breath and racing pulse. In so craving, she implicitly gave him permission to stroke her as he wanted, because he held the re
ins. He could feel the leather straps of those reins wrapped tight around his knuckles, as tangibly as if they were real. In this moment, she was his.

  Palms curving around her rib cage, he dipped his head until his lips hovered over hers. “Lower...or higher?” He thought he’d gone far enough up her torso to have encountered an undergarment, but he felt nothing but flesh. His grip tightened. Nothing but—”Ms. McCallister, where is your bra?”

  To his amazement, she blushed, and her hands fluttered up to land on his shoulders. “Don’t scold me—touch me.” Much as she had the night before, her fingers delved into his hair, fisting there to hold him where she pleased. A teasing nip of his bottom lip, followed by her mouth brushing his in some sort of apology, or perhaps a plea. “Lower, higher, I don’t care, but I slept like hell because of what you did to me with that kiss. Fix it, Toby. Fix what you did to me.”

  Unable to withstand this particular brand of torment, Tobias conquered her with a searing kiss, his lips forcing hers to part, though she wasn’t fighting him. He tasted her mouth as he longed to taste other, more delicate parts of her body. The possibility of having her, as he’d never truly had another woman, was an excruciating high, bubbling in his blood until he thought he might die from the not-knowing.

  Not knowing her flavor.

  Not knowing her scent.

  Not knowing her slickness.

  It was the last that decided him. One hand still resting along her rib cage, his thumb caressing a rounded softness that could only be the underside of her breast, he slid his other palm down her flat, toned belly until his fingertips met the top edge of her panties. “I think lower,” he breathed against her lips, and slipped beneath the light blue lace he’d fantasized of ripping hours earlier, with his teeth.

  He discovered her—”Wet,” he rasped, tongue sweeping into her mouth as his mind fuzzed, only to sharpen again in acute need. “You’re all wet, sweetheart.” The endearment rolled off his lips as no sweet words ever had before. “Tell me how you like it.”

  When she didn’t immediately answer, worry gripped him that his inexperience—made obvious by his demand for direction—had deterred her. Thinking quickly, he shifted the hand beneath her sweater to cup her breast fully. His thumb flicked accidentally across her nipple, and the hardened point pebbled further under his touch.

  Back arching, her chest thrust forward, she raked her fingernails over his scalp. “I like it when it’s you. That’s what I like.” Her hips writhed until he cupped her fully, her arousal coating his fingers, and she gasped as she kissed him. “I like knowing you can’t keep your meticulously tidy hands off me.”

  “I can’t,” he agreed darkly, and then, counter to his too-true words, he removed the hand from her breast and took hold of her chin, forcing her hands to fall to her sides. Gaze searching hers, he withdrew his touch from between her legs and brought his slick fingers between them. “Not so tidy now, am I?” Driven by instinct, he brought his fingers to his lips and finally got his first real taste of Chandler McCallister.

  Goddamn perfection.

  Her breath left her in a whoosh as she watched him lick the essence of her off his own skin. “You’re a mess,” she confirmed.

  He rewarded her by sucking the remaining earthy sweetness from his fingers. “And it’s your fault.” Angling her chin, he claimed her mouth and let her taste herself on his lips, his tongue.

  She moaned, her body curving into his as she clutched at his shirtfront. She met him kiss for starving kiss, deepening the contact and melting against him. His hand left her chin to clasp her nape in blatant possession, his other hand finding the small of her back beneath her sweater. Pressing his erection against her midriff, he drowned in the pleasure of holding this deadly woman as though she had never been his enemy and had, instead, been his.

  The thought was enough to clear his head of the madness she seemed singularly able to infect him with. With great care, he untangled their limbs, putting necessary inches between their overheated bodies. When he was certain she could stand without assistance, he reached out to zip and button her jeans, not entirely sure why he felt the urge to do so himself when she was perfectly capable of straightening her own clothing. Irritated with his hands—hands that itched to strip her down to nothing but naked skin and pure, sexual need—he shoved them into his trouser pockets.

  Plastic bumped the knuckles of his right fist. The encrypted drive containing the video files of Beth’s torture, better than any cold shower. “I apologize, Chandler. I shouldn’t have dragged you off like that.”

  Shrugging, she tugged at the hem of her sweater before crossing her arms over her chest. “If nothing else, it was smart for our cover. You’re my boyfriend—makes sense you like getting me alone in dark corners.” Her slender throat worked to swallow. “Reality’s a bit different. Getting involved with me is a bloody stupid idea, Faraday.”

  Why he chose to tease her, he didn’t know, but he couldn’t deny the need to erase the unexpected hint of desolation he saw in her bright eyes. “Only if you insist on holding a knife to my throat whenever you’re angry. I’d prefer if we didn’t go that route again.”

  A laugh burst out of her before she smothered it, literally, with the back of one hand. “Jesus, Toby. Don’t make me like you. Please—” her husky voice sobered, intensity sharpening her syllables as she gazed up at him “—please don’t make me like you.”

  Something beneath his breastbone clenched tight at her plea. That she might like him, that it wasn’t necessarily mere animalistic attraction drawing them closer... “It’s not intentional.”

  “These things never are,” she whispered, and slipped past him to disappear around the corner into the grand hall, her footsteps on the marble staircase echoing in his ears like gunfire.

  Chapter Eight

  Pippa was avoiding her.

  They hadn’t spoken the morning after karaoke, and now it was Thursday afternoon, the wound inside Chandler infected and festering the longer she went without talking to her twin. Tomorrow night was the rehearsal dinner, and the next day Pippa would marry Cameron of the Secret Mobile Phone, Cameron the Liar.

  The more Chandler thought about Pippa’s discovery of the secret mobile, the less comfortable she grew with consigning her twin to a future of questionable safety with the Noltes. Irene certainly wasn’t objectionable, but Victoria certainly had it out for Pippa, not to mention whatever Cameron was hiding. Who would protect Pippa against their machinations once Chandler was gone?

  Toby will.

  As soon as the thought occurred, she rejected it, ignoring the sudden swell of heat low in her belly caused simply by thinking his name. He was another individual determined to avoid her, it seemed. Since their tempestuous run-in yesterday morning—and for God’s sake, what was she supposed to do with a man who handled a firearm so divinely, ignore him completely?—Tobias had managed to keep to himself, setting up shop in one of the downstairs parlors with his phone and his tablet, tapping a pen against a yellow legal pad as he spoke in quiet tones to whomever was on the other end of the line.

  Chandler knew this because she’d walked past the cracked-open door to said parlor approximately fifteen million times. Approximately.

  But she hadn’t entered, and he hadn’t invited her to, though he undoubtedly knew she paced the hall. Supper that night had been a solemn affair, with almost no one at the dining table speaking. The bridesmaids and groomsmen murmured among themselves, of course, but the core family unit conversed in stilted monosyllables—Cameron and Victoria shooting glares at Tobias, Pippa tensely ignoring Chandler, Tobias checking the time on his wristwatch every minute or so.

  The awkward family dinner constituted a particular form of torture previously unknown to her. She had little desire to repeat it.

  Which was why she sat at the top of the main stairs, peering into the front foyer belo
w, staking out her prey. More guests were set to arrive today, which meant Pippa would be playing hostess, bustling in and out with the manic, cheery enthusiasm only a soon-to-be bride could produce. All Chandler had to do was wait for the opportune moment to pounce, and Pippa would be forced to talk with her.

  She couldn’t leave Val Manor with their relationship in shambles. That couldn’t be their final goodbye.

  To kill the time, Chandler drew her own phone out of her pocket and glanced at the red circle telling her how many calls she’d missed during her captivity and how many voicemails were left for her. She’d avoided tapping on that particular icon since Tobias had returned her mobile, but with their journey to Russia looming, she would be smart to know what sort of reception was in store for her once she made contact again with the Polnoch’ Pulya.

  She skipped the missed calls and messages from Pippa, scrolled past a couple relating to her cover identity at the bank, searching for Russia’s country code.

  Where are you? There’s been no word from John.

  John has disappeared. Do you know where he is?

  Call in, Mary. He’s worried about you.

  All three messages from a voice she’d know anywhere. The Accountant—the man whose flat she’d borrowed for the duration of her stay in Moscow, and who’d long stood as the organization’s quietly considering second-in-command. Could it be that no one in the organization knew of Nash’s death? It was possible, she supposed, and it was a possibility she needed to bank on to get into the warehouse once more. The softhearted Accountant would probably offer her the benefit of the doubt, at least at first. Any leeway she could finagle for herself, anything that made it a single percentage point more likely she’d survive the upcoming encounter, she would grab onto it with both hands and never let go.

  The doorbell chimed, echoing deep throughout the house, and she shoved the phone back into the pocket of her jeans as Pippa hurried into view in the foyer below. Chandler wrapped her hands around the marble balusters and peered down at her twin. She and Pippa had fought before, of course—they were sisters, not saints—but Chandler sensed the encroaching press of time-run-out hovering overhead, demanding she fix the rift her lies had caused. She still didn’t want to share her crimes, didn’t believe Pippa knowing of them would ease conscience or worry, but if the truth was her salvation, Chandler could find the strength to offer that truth. Somehow.