by Jessa Kane
DON’T LOOK
Jessa Kane
Copyright © 2018 Jessa Kane
Kindle Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Epilogue
CHAPTER ONE
Mick
I need to blow off some fucking steam. Now. Tonight.
There are a lot of FBI agents that would be thrilled with my circumstances. Sitting pretty in a Hollywood Hills mansion with an infinity pool, private chef and a movie theater at my fingertips. Not me. I’m a man who thrives in the field. I like getting my hands dirty—the filthier the better. But I’ve been sitting here in a monogrammed silk robe like an asshole for a month with no action. So time’s up. I’m going out for a Budweiser.
Decision made, I finger comb my beard and shove both feet into some boots. There’s a dive bar sandwiched between a taco shop and a ninety-nine cent store less than a few miles from here. None of my uber-rich neighbors would set a shiny wingtip in the place, so my cover will be more than safe. Not to mention, it’s well after midnight and the bigger, tackier mansion across the canyon I’m staking out is dark and silent.
For once.
Most nights, the white European-style enclave is a riot of activity, luxury cars parked in the driveway, women arriving by the bus load to service the seemingly endless revolving door of men. Russian mob, to be exact—thieves and murderers—living the high life of Hollywood royalty.
Not for long. I’m here because I’m the best agent for the job. By the time I ditch this eccentric billionaire cover, there will be a For Sale sign outside that monstrosity of a house. And I can go back to stretching my legs with more active investigations.
I lock the frosted glass door of the house behind me, keeping my head down as I stride for my Mercedes. Parking the sports car in a shitty part of town is probably not the best idea, but I’m desperate to shake this pampered lifestyle for a few hours. If the shiny silver doors get keyed, so be it. Hazards of the job.
It takes me half an hour to leave the hills and hit the highway. Before I know it, I’m taking a darkened turnoff and driving through a completely different world. One I’m much more accustomed to, having grown up in South Boston. A million miles from the land of spray tans, whitened teeth and backpacks designed to carry yoga mats. The flickering, blue Bud Light sign in the distance is a much better welcome than ten thousand thread count sheets, in my opinion. I’m already mentally reciting my beer order as I leave the car parked right outside the dive bar—aptly named Kerplunk—and walk inside.
“Damn.” I laugh under my breath, because this place is even more depressing than I expected. None of the lights are on, the only illumination coming from several melting candles and a neon pink jukebox. That girly color fills the whole establishment with a glow, a stark contrast to the dangerous-looking occupants. There is a certain charm to the bar, though, as if someone plans to take pride in its appearance until it gasps its final breath.
With a dozen pairs of assessing eyes on me, I sit down at the end of the bar and nod to the gray-mustached bartender. “Bud. Bottle’s fine.”
“Yeah.”
He roots through the ice for my order, uncapping it in slow motion, his eyes on the grainy television. When he sets it down in front of me, I put a twenty on the bar and tip back my beer, draining half the thing in one gulp. God, that’s good. Part of maintaining my cover is stocking the fridge with expensive wine and organic juice, on the off chance someone stops by to introduce themselves. Yeah, I have to walk the walk and talk the talk. So my beer consumption has been sadly lacking and I’ve been forced to trade mixed martial arts for swimming laps in my crystal-clear pool. Like a proper billionaire.
Christ, I can’t wait until this job is over.
The bartender sets my change on the bar. I leave a few singles beside my faded coaster and I’m pocketing the rest when a girl walks in.
I call her a girl, because that’s exactly what she is. Petite as shit, her stature overwhelmed by the full, messy brown hair that reaches her waist. A slash of bangs covers her eyes, but she must be able to see, because her reaction to the bar is an accurate one. Her scuffed boots come to a halt, her hands lift to clutch her oversized coat tighter to her chest. For a few counts, that’s all she is. Hair and a coat.
Until she shifts my direction and I catch sight of that mouth.
My cock grows a good two sizes in my jeans, my beer landing hard on the bar.
Her lips are puffy with a slight vertical crease down the center, smooth and sensual, while somehow remaining innocent. They’re parted just enough to see her pink tongue inside. It’s the kind of mouth women spend thousands getting plastic surgery to replicate—especially in Los Angeles—but they could never duplicate this bow-shaped creation. It’s meant to be painted on a fucking angel and floating at the top of an Italian church.
I watch those boots reverse direction. She’s leaving. She should leave. This is no place for a young girl. But I stand nonetheless, intending to…I don’t know. Question her. Make sure she has a safe way home. Maybe I just want to get a close up look at her mouth. Or to check her identification to make sure she’s eighteen before I tug one out thinking about those lips trailing down my stomach.
You’re going to do it anyway.
She’s almost to the door when another man blocks the exit, his expression a depraved leer. And his hands are lifting to touch the girl’s hips when I lunge forward, the words oh hell no pounding in my skull. Obviously, she isn’t expecting two men to converge on her at once, because her chin lifts, head whipping around—
And I’m lost. I’m fucking lost.
She’s the most beautiful…anything I’ve ever seen in my life. Fine, I’ve lived a pretty gritty life full of bullets and blood, but I’ve also managed to catch my share of sunsets, babies laughing and the Sox winning the Series. I know beauty. Nothing comes close to her. Her eyes are bright gold and fringed in a forest of black lashes. I’m so snared in them and the curiosity there, I almost miss when her coat gapes open and I see what she’s wearing. And the lithe curves she’s barely covering.
Jesus. Christ.
Determined not to let anyone else see the sweet body she’s hiding, I grip her forearm and tug her close. Damn, it feels right. Feels like…my hands were always meant to be on her. That’s insane, though, right? No time to question my odd reaction now. I just know if anyone touches her tonight, it’s damn well going to be me. “She’s mine.”
The dude who almost touched her still has his hands poised in the air. “That right?” He sucks his teeth. “See, I was thinking. I wouldn’t mind having her with me for the night.”
“Would you mind a concussion?” While I stare down the asshole over my brunette’s head, I’m also wrapping the coat more securely around her, belting it in a double knot. Finally, the guy backs down, hoofing it back to whatever dark hole he crawled out of and the tension dissipates in the bar.
I don’t relax, though. Nothing about me is relaxed—and that’s highly unusual. I keep it cool in the most volatile of situations. Comes with the job. But something about this girl and the way she looks at me…makes me feel like a giant. Her gi
ant. It’s almost like I’m accustomed to the sensation of having her eyes on me, but that can’t be right, can it? All I know is I want to smash anything in her path like it’s my God-given duty.
“Come on,” I mutter against her temple, surprised further by the kick in my ribs when she shivers and steps closer. “Let’s get you a drink, goldie.”
Hailey
There’s always one thing a person deems worthy of a risk.
For some, it’s a child. Or money. A lover.
It’s art for me. Painting. The sound of brush strokes on canvas are like a warm hug to me. The bright blues, yellows and reds are my friends. If I’m going to use those friends, they better give their lives for something worthy. I often wait days for the light outside my bedroom window to be just right, so I can portray a landscape accurately. That doesn’t require risk, though.
This? Walking into a rough establishment in an unfamiliar town just so I can get a close up look at my current subject? Now that’s risky.
Speaking of my subject, he’s nothing like I expected. He guides me to the bar, then plucks me off the ground with two hands around my waist, dropping me onto a stool. And then he just frowns at me under dark eyebrows. When I climbed into the back seat of his Mercedes tonight, I expected him to drive to some flashy club or a girlfriend’s house. Maybe a helipad. Aren’t those the usual destinations of Hollywood billionaires? Never did I expect him to pull up in front of a seedy shack with neon signs in the window. What gives?
Maybe I should have stayed in the car. Eventually he would have come out and driven home. He never would have been the wiser that his neighbor from across the canyon was stowed out in his backseat. And I could have returned to my airless tower without getting caught. But no. With my father out of town, sneaking out had proven way too tempting. I’ll just tiptoe across the canyon, study the fascinating man through his living room window so I can paint him perfectly and go home! Perfect!
Yeah. My plan didn’t involve my subject stomping from the house at the exact moment I was creeping up his driveway. Why didn’t I just dive into a bush, instead of jumping into the backseat of his car? If I had, maybe I wouldn’t be inside this fire hazard of a building, still determined to memorize the grizzly bear man.
Now, he runs his tongue along the top row of his teeth and steps closer, almost into the V of my thighs. So close, my chair tips a little, but he reaches back and steadies it, the ancient wood creaking in his grip. “You take a wrong turn after Pilates or something?”
“I…” Whoa. Is it his deep voice tugging that string in my belly? “Huh?”
My neck is starting to hurt from looking up, up at him. Lord, he’s big. Bigger than he seemed the times I watched him on the balcony of his house. His beard is dense and black, only a few shades darker than the ink blue of his eyes—such a unique color I’m already mixing the paint in my head. And from the neck down…
I have to remind myself to breathe when my attention travels over crazy-wide shoulders and a barrel chest. He’s easily five times my size. And mean with it. No wonder that man who blocked the door surrendered. My subject appears capable of wrestling a bear. Or crushing cinderblocks in his fists.
His face comes closer to mine, his tongue poised on his lower lip. “I’m talking about your clothes, Goldie. Little bun huggers and a sports bra. Did you get lost on your way back to Calabasas from the gym?”
“I…” I didn’t expect anyone to see me. I was only supposed to be out of the house for twenty minutes. Spying on you. Can’t exactly tell him the truth, can I? “Yes. I, um. Was trying to avoid traffic and…I got turned around.” Frantically, I search my mind for the common phrases I hear coming from downstairs in my house. Anything to make me sound like a regular girl—and not a prisoner. “You know these LA freeways. They all look the same.”
My subject is definitely skeptical, but I’m saved when the bartender arrives with a beer, slapping it down in front of me. O-kay. Guess ordering a Sprite is out of the question. The bearded grizzly man takes my chin and turns my face back in his direction. “Where is your car now?”
“Around the corner.”
A muscle jumps in his cheek. “And you thought it was a better idea to walk in here half naked than to drive somewhere safe?”
If I’ve learned one thing from my criminal mastermind father, it’s how to evade questions. Even if I’ve only learned those skills by eavesdropping on our landline or listening to him conduct meetings through the heating grates. “Maybe I should have gone with the other guy.” I purse my lips and look over both shoulders. “He’s starting to seem like the nicer option.”
His chest muscles grow rigid. “I don’t do nice. But…you make me wish I could.” His hand leaves the back of my chair, burying in my hair, his mouth opening against my cheek. “What’s going on here? You and those eyes casting some kind of spell on me?”
A melting sensation starts in my middle, legs and arms and neck feeling all loosey-goosey. I haven’t had contact with another human since my mother passed away, my dad content with pats on the head once in a while. That must be why I want my subject to…pick me up and hold me and kiss me. Yes, kiss me. I’m under the influence of an endorphin rush, which probably accounts for the stupid thing I whisper into his beard. “Can I study your face in the light?”
He rears back a little, eyebrow raised. “What for?”
Good one, Hailey. “You have a really interesting nose?” I explain lamely. “I’ve always been fascinated by noses.”
He chuckles. “You’re an odd little thing.”
“You’re an odd big thing,” I shoot back, my face flaming. “I’m sorry, that was mean. Even though you said it to me first.”
His chuckle turns into a full-fledged laugh. “Say whatever you want to me, Goldie. I promise you I’ve been called a lot worse.”
“Me too,” I whisper, before I can stop myself. “A burden. A liability. A royal pain in the ass. Those are the worst ones.”
I can hear the grinding of his jaw. “Who called you those things?” He pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath. “Christ. If it’s a husband, I’m going to be the reason this place finally collapses, because I’ll rip the fucking walls down.” Ink-blue eyes narrow, searching my face. “I don’t know what’s happening to me, but I’m…you’re not going home to a husband. I…can’t allow it.”
Do I tell him the truth because I want to soothe him? Or am I just so relieved to have an ally, the words spill out of me like paint from a bottle? “Not a husband. My father.” My fingers itch to touch him, so I flatten them on his stomach and drag them up his chest, sucking in a breath at his growl. “He keeps me locked in a room.” Tears fill my eyes. “It took me months to learn how to pick the lock, but I was too scared to actually leave. Tonight I finally got the courage because…”
Because he’s out of town. I don’t say that part, though. It’s too much of the truth. There’s a very low chance grizzly man will ever spy me across the canyon. After all, my bedroom windows are tiny and tinted. But what if he does? He could confront my father and he’d die for those efforts. Who knows what would become of me for defying the notorious Ivan Stepanov tonight?
My subject looks like he’s actually going to rip down the walls, whether I have a husband or not. “Look at me and listen carefully. I’m Mick. You’re safe with Mick. You understand?” He drops his mouth to mine, the brush of our lips giving off sparks in my stomach. “I’m not the type of man that believes in fate, but hell if both of us escaping to this place tonight is a coincidence. You’re mine now to take care of. And I won’t let a fucking thing happen to you. Ever. That’s a vow.”
I grow a little dizzy in the chair at the conviction in his voice, the touch of his mouth. I know Mick believes what he’s saying. But he doesn’t know my father.
Ivan Stepanov is known in two countries as a ruthless butcher. Once he sets his sights on you, there’s nowhere to run or hide. I’m going back to my tower whether I like it or not. If Stepanov�
��s daughter ran away, he wouldn’t be able to let the slight pass. I wouldn’t last a day, even with this grizzly man guarding me.
He tilts my chin up. “What’s your name?”
“Hailey,” I say, forgetting I shouldn’t. How can I lie when he’s so close?
“Hailey.” His gaze falls to my mouth and he shakes his head. “Now I need to know how old you are.” Determination radiates from his big frame. “I’m keeping you protected no matter what, all right? I’ve got you.”
“Then why does it matter?”
I feel something hard against my inner thigh, before he moves it away, coughing into his fist. “Like whether I need to keep you protected from me, too.”
My pulse ripples. I’m not sure I know the baseline of this conversation, but I know Mick likes touching me. And I sense he wants to touch more. All of me. It’s crazy, but…I want to let him, too. There’s an air of safety and honesty I’m drawn toward. All my life I’ve been made to feel small and insignificant. His giant presence makes me feel small in a good way. Like I’m still worth cherishing. He thinks this meeting was fate, though. Am I being deceptive by not telling him I stowed away in the back of his car?
None of that matters, Hailey. You’re going home. Anything else is impossible.
“Who are you talking to in the head?”
“Myself.” Unable to quell the impulse, I lay my cheek against Mick’s chest and hear his powerful heartbeat. “Usually I’m the only one I have to talk to. I guess it’s become a habit.”
His hand smooths down the back of my hair. “You come home with me,” he says, gruffly. “And I’ll let you study my nose in the light.”
I gasp, smiling up at him. “You will?”
Mick swallows. Loud enough for me to hear. “Need that age, Goldie.”
“Twenty-four.”
“Lie.”
“Twenty—”
“Lie.”
I feel my pout and there’s nothing I can do about it. “How do I know how young is too young?”
