But Temple’s single diamond of a tear … That wasn’t despair. That was rage.
Initially he’d thought it was because she’d hated to lose, and he very definitely had scored a victory over her. Yet he’d caught a glimpse of the look in her amber eyes, and he’d known immediately that it wasn’t so simple as merely anger at being beaten.
If he knew despair, he also knew shame. Because he’d felt it himself every single day for the past sixteen years. A shame he kept locked and hidden away and unacknowledged, because to do so would mean he couldn’t travel the path he needed to. It would lead to doubt, and he couldn’t afford doubt. He had to keep walking it, had to go on. Had to believe in his heart that this was the right way to do what he had to do.
So he knew it when he saw it. And he saw it in Temple.
She was ashamed. Though for what he couldn’t tell. Maybe for letting herself be beaten by him, or for giving in to the chemistry that surged between them. For admitting the truth to him.
Whatever it was, for some completely inexplicable reason, it hit him like a crossbow bolt straight to the gut.
He didn’t want her to be ashamed. She was so strong, so powerful. A lethal, beautiful animal. The thought that she should feel any kind of shame about herself was … painful.
Maybe this is new to her. Maybe you’re the one who should be ashamed, using pleasure against her like that.
Fuck no. She’d been going to kill him. That arm across his throat had been like an iron bar, and he’d had no doubt at all she would have done it. Yet the justification rang hollow in his head the moment it crossed his mind. He didn’t want her … humiliated. It felt wrong.
He released her hair, sliding free of her body and shifting his weight off her. She kept her head turned away from him, motionless. But he had the sense that she was curling up inside, rolling up like a hedgehog to protect herself.
“Temple,” he said and reached out, gripping her chin and turning her to face him.
Her lashes swept up, her gaze guarded and enigmatic. “What?”
Whatever vulnerability had made her cry, it was gone now, but he still felt the need to give her something, fuck knew why. “There’s no shame in losing. You understand that, right?”
Her expression didn’t change. “What the hell makes you think I’m ashamed?”
“I know shame, kitten. I’ve seen every form it takes. And I saw it in you.”
“Stop calling me that.” Sparks of anger glowed in her eyes. “That’s a load of bullshit anyway. Besides, why would you imagine I lost?”
Gently he touched one finger to the tear track on her cheek. “This.”
Instantly the look on her face became shuttered, and she jerked her head out of his grip.
So she was going to bluff it out. Understandable given she was a fighter through and through. He probably would too. Letting her pull away, he said merely, “All I’m saying is that no one loses when pleasure is involved.”
She didn’t reply, somehow managing to extract herself out from under him, her lithe body sliding off the bed. He stayed where he was, watching her because she was beautiful, her movements liquid and graceful.
Idly he wondered whether she would come for him now and whether he should do something to protect himself. But she didn’t even look at him, pulling together the edges of his white shirt she still wore that had come undone while they’d been in bed. Then she turned and without a word headed toward the door that led to the en suite bathroom, slamming it shut behind her.
He stared at the shut door, fighting the urge to go to her, peel back those guards of hers, hunt out all her secrets. Why she’d cried and why she’d given in and told him who she was. Why she hadn’t killed him when she’d had the chance. Why she’d felt the shame she insisted she didn’t feel. And maybe, most especially of all, find out who exactly was Thalia Cross.
Maybe whoever she was would give him the answers he needed about Temple.
The name lingered in his brain, annoyingly familiar. Goddammit.
Making a mental note to go back through his files and do a search on it to see what came up, he slipped out of the bed, getting rid of the condom in a nearby wastebasket.
It was strange to have such a reaction to a woman, especially what seemed to be an emotional reaction. He’d trained those responses out of himself a long time ago, simply because he’d had to. Emotions of any kind would derail him, make it impossible for him to finish his task, so he’d deadened himself to them. Which made it odd that this one woman should have woken them back up again.
She’s dangerous in more ways than one.
Yeah, but only if he let her get to him. He just wouldn’t let her get to him.
His phone buzzed, so he went over to where he’d left his pants on the floor and extracted it, glancing down at the screen. A simple text from Dmitri: Everything has been organized.
Excellent. Goddamn, Dmitri was efficient.
Quickly he pulled on his pants then sent back a reply: Get me a car in an hour.
He wouldn’t need much longer than that to get ready.
Aren’t you forgetting something?
On cue, the door to the bathroom opened again and Temple came out. All signs of tear tracks were gone, her face clean. She’d been wearing makeup and without it she looked so much younger than she had before. Jesus, she looked like she was in her early twenties, if that. So fucking young.
But not innocent.
No, she wasn’t. One glimpse into those big golden eyes of hers could confirm that. And besides, no one who killed people for money could be termed innocent.
Right now though, she looked as far from an assassin as it was possible to get with her scrubbed face and cascade of red curls falling down all over her shoulders. The white shirt—his white shirt—came down to mid-thigh, leaving bare her beautifully toned legs, but sadly she’d done it back up again, concealing the rounded curves of her breasts. No, she didn’t look like an assassin. She looked like a fresh-faced college kid he’d picked up in a bar.
And yet, fifteen minutes ago she had her arm on your throat and death was staring you in the face.
Temple folded her arms. “So what now?”
Good question. He couldn’t leave her here, no matter how many guards he put on her because she was simply too dangerous to leave alone. Which left him little option but to take her with him.
Oh sure. You just don’t want to let her out of your sight. Or your bed.
Yeah, that too, he’d freely admit to that. He hadn’t had a woman in his bed in years and since this trip to the States was going to be a bitch, he could use some distraction. It was even necessary. But first, he had to neutralize the threat she represented.
The obvious solution would be to keep her in handcuffs or some other kind of binding until he wanted her, and yet he found he really didn’t like that idea. Another stupid, emotional reaction of course, but that didn’t change the fact that he didn’t like it. Again, it felt … wrong. Like caging a tiger felt wrong.
“Now,” he said calmly, zipping up his pants, “we have a truce.”
Her eyes widened. “A truce?”
So he’d surprised her. He liked that. He liked that a lot. “Yes. You know what that is presumably?”
She narrowed her gaze at him. “Why?”
“Why the truce? Because I have to fly to the States, leaving in an hour.” He smiled. “And you’re coming with me.”
“But I—”
“You don’t have a choice. You’re my prisoner, and you’re too dangerous to leave on your own. Besides…” He paused, letting his gaze sweep over her, making sure she could see the heat in his eyes. “I haven’t finished with you yet.”
Her lashes came down, and she was silent a moment. Then one corner of her mouth curved in the sexy, flirtatious smile he remembered from the club, where she’d tried to seduce him. “Any man in their right mind would be afraid of me. Why aren’t you?”
It was an act, he could see that. Yet that smile
, that glitter of gold from beneath her lashes, that spark of danger, was like an electric shock delivered straight to his cock. “You think I’m afraid of you because you want to kill me? I’m always around people who want to kill me, kitten. I’m sorry but you’re nothing special.”
A lie, of course. She was special. She’d managed to make him want for the first time in years, but there was no way he’d let her know that. She didn’t need another weapon to use against him.
Something flickered in her gaze, the flirtatious front dropping. “So you’re bringing me with you as your … what? Mistress? Whore?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Nothing wrong with being a whore. Or a mistress. Both honorable professions.”
“And you expect me to keep sleeping with you?”
“I expect,” he said gently, “that you will do whatever I tell you.”
Her mouth tightened. “I could kill you right now, right here, exactly where you stand.”
“You could. But you won’t. Just like you didn’t before when you had the chance.” He held her gaze. “Because I’m not the only one who’s hungry.”
Color stained her cheeks, but she didn’t look away. “This isn’t about sex.”
“Isn’t it?” He wasn’t quite sure why he wanted an admission from her, but he would have it all the same. “You were going to kill me. But you didn’t.”
“Sure I didn’t. Because I wanted that information.”
Ah, so that’s how she was going to play it. He smiled, because that was a bullshit excuse, and they both knew it. “So it had nothing to do with you rubbing yourself against me and panting in my ear? Letting me flip you onto your back and getting the truth from you in exchange for orgasms?” Crying in rage because your body wanted something you didn’t want it to have?
Again that flash of gold in her eyes, sparks of pure anger. “What? You think winning one fight wins you the entire battle?”
“I think you won’t win any battle while you want information only I can give you.”
Her mouth hardened. She was trying her best to hide her frustration, but he could see it in her eyes all the same. She probably wasn’t often rendered helpless, wasn’t often caught on the back foot. Well, neither was he. But that was life, wasn’t it? There was always something around the corner you weren’t going to like. “This truce then,” she said after a moment, her voice flat. “What did you mean?”
He studied her. She didn’t like this, and she was pissed about having to concede, that was obvious. Which meant that this information must be very important to her, especially if she was willing to give up a fight for it. So who was Thalia Cross? And who was she to Temple? Because she had to be someone. This was personal for Temple, he could feel it.
“I mean,” he said slowly, “that I’ll investigate this woman for you. And in return, you promise to play the part of my meek, biddable lover. Which means, of course, no attempts on my life and your presence in my bed at all times.”
She blinked. “So all you want is sex in return for anything you have on Thalia?”
Casually, he closed the distance between them, coming to a stop right in front of her. Her head tipped back as she looked up at him, the expression on her face set and hard. Not giving him a thing.
But those beautiful eyes of hers betrayed her. He could see the currents of her emotions there, the ebb and flow of her rage, the sudden surge of heat as he got into her personal space, the eddies of frustration. She was so warm and vital and alive. So expressive.
“No,” he said softly. “That’s not all I want. I told you I wanted your secrets. And I will have them. Sex will just be the method I use to get them out of you.”
Her jaw tightened. “I’ll act however you want. But I’m not sleeping with you again. And if you try to force me, I’ll castrate you.”
He nearly laughed at that, because he had no doubt at all that she would. And that far from putting the fear of God into him, it only excited him.
You sick fuck.
Yeah, he was sick. Sick for liking the chase, for liking the fight. For wanting the resistance and the sweetness of eventual surrender. But he’d always known that. And it turned out embracing that sickness was easier than fighting it.
Maybe that’s why your father was the way he was. Maybe one day he just got tired of fighting.
A sliver of ice slipped beneath his skin at the thought. No, he wasn’t the same. He hadn’t given up, not where it mattered. He had his plan, and every step he took was another step forward, another step to taking down this terrible empire he’d helped create. What did it matter if he took a little something for himself? With a woman who was certainly not helpless in any way, shape, or form?
“Perhaps you’ll like me forcing you, Temple,” he said, reaching out to cup her jaw, brushing a finger over her cheekbone because he just couldn’t seem to stop himself from touching her. “Perhaps the surrender is exactly what you want.”
She jerked her head back, the golden sparks in her eyes turning to ice. “If you don’t have a cock, you can’t force anyone.”
This time he did laugh, the thrill of her challenge reaching somewhere deep inside of him. “Try to take it then. You know how I like a fight. You know you like one too.”
“Get me the information about Thalia, and I might think about it.”
Jesus, she never stopped pushing, did she? “Didn’t I say no more bargains? No, only one thing is going to be happening. You will be coming to the States, and you will be sleeping in my bed. No argument.” He gave her a feral smile. “Resistance is futile. In fact, resistance is preferred.”
The gold in her eyes froze even further. “How will I know you’ll even get me the information I want?”
“You don’t.” He turned on his heel and started heading toward the door since he had shit to do before they left. “You’ll just have to trust me.”
“Seriously?” she called after him. “Over my dead body.”
He didn’t bother to turn. “If it comes to that, kitten. If it comes to that.”
CHAPTER NINE
Temple gazed out the window of the gracious Upper East Side brownstone for the fiftieth time that morning, and tried not to grind her teeth with frustration.
She’d been here two days and already she felt like an animal in too small a cage.
She was used to being in control, and being so utterly at the mercy of someone else sucked. Especially when that person was the biggest crime lord in Europe.
The man you failed to kill.
Like she needed that reminder.
Temple turned away from the view of the Manhattan street, trying not to remember the last time she’d been in New York, where, after a very uncomfortable half an hour with Zac Rutherford, she’d accepted a chance to take down what had proved to be their mutual enemy. Jericho.
Two weeks Zac had given her, and, God, it had already taken her a week and a half to get to the club in Berlin and get herself taken, another few days of kicking her heels with the other trafficked girls until Jericho had finally chosen her for the night. And now another three days had passed and she was still no closer to finding out about Thalia. And Jericho was no closer to being dead. And if she didn’t find some way of contacting Zac soon, he might hire someone else to finish the job.
Cold slid through her. No, that couldn’t happen. Jericho wasn’t going to die until she’d found out where her sister was.
Which meant she had to get out of this elegant brownstone she was locked into, unable to go out on pain of a bullet in the head, or steal a phone from someone. If she played her cards right, she might have been able to steal Jericho’s, but unfortunately, she didn’t know where he was. She hadn’t seen him since he’d left her standing in his bedroom in Paris.
Not five minutes after he had, a woman had entered and dumped a pile of clothes on the bed then left. The clothes, including underwear, had all fitted her perfectly. Jeans and a close-fitting long-sleeved T-shirt, a biker jacket of soft black leather to wear over th
e top. There were even heavy black boots to go with them.
She’d tried not to notice the softness of the fabric or the cut of the clothing as she’d dressed, since clothes were a guilty pleasure she seldom indulged in. But she couldn’t control the shiver of delight as she’d pulled on the jacket, relishing the feel of butter-soft leather beneath her fingers.
She hated to admit it, but despite his boring taste in business clothes, Jericho had good taste in everything else.
After that, she was taken to a car by the sullen Russian bodyguard and then whisked straight to Charles de Gaulle airport. Somehow a passport—which had to have been fake—was presented and she was processed through customs and placed in a room on Jericho’s luxurious private jet. The door to the room was locked and remained so throughout the flight.
She didn’t bother to break it down since doing so would be pointless. Instead she spent the time allowing herself some sleep in the surprisingly comfortable bed, though half of her kept expecting Jericho to join her at any moment.
He didn’t.
And she didn’t see him after they’d arrived in the States either. She’d been taken to the brownstone and left there with Dmitri, the sullen Russian bodyguard. Again.
It was infuriating. She didn’t even know why they were here, what Jericho had come here to do, though she assumed it had something to do with the American trafficking networks.
God, she hated not knowing.
She’d attempted to leave, if only to check Jericho’s security measures, and found that not only were the windows bulletproof, but they were also alarmed, any interference bringing approximately ten guards down on her all armed to the teeth.
Escape wasn’t going to be easy.
She stared around the room, an elegant lounge area with a sofa and armchairs beautifully upholstered in rose-colored velvet. Apart from the chairs, everything else in the room was white, the furniture sleek and modern, the white walls hung with various abstract art canvases.
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