Prisoner Mine

by Megan Mitcham

  “Easy,” he warned. “I can’t have you passing out. You’d miss all the fun.”

  His voice thundered an inch from her lady bits, vibrating her from inside out. It did nothing to slow her breathing. Her breasts surged to the ceiling, and then lulled so quickly her extremities tingled and the room narrowed to a shallow tunnel.

  “Greer?”

  “Hum?”

  “Are you scared?”

  “No. No.” Her head whipped back and forth, tousling her hair. “I just can’t catch…” She panted.

  Z’s mouth encircled her clit and sucked.

  Greer gasped. Her lungs locked. His hands pulled hers from the bedding and entwined with her fingers. The comfort anchored her to the earth. It pulled the room and the slow strokes of Z’s tongue into sharp focus. Her pulse regulated. She clung to his sure grip and bowed to his skilled mouth. Each lap of his silky, taunting tongue drove her higher and higher, while his hold encouraged her fall. Greer held tight to Z, closed her eyes, and let go of everything else.

  A shot of ecstasy unlike any orgasm she’d experienced licked its way through every nerve ending in her body. Her back curved off the bed. Her toes pointed and her legs quivered.

  “Oh God. Oh God. Oh Gooo…” Her chant disintegrated into moans and throaty whimpers.

  His strokes kept pace with her vocal symphony, and then tapered, matching her breaths. When her taut form uncoiled from the stringed instrument of passion it had become Z whispered kisses up to the crown of her pelvis. His fingers slid from hers. An acute moment of bereavement jarred her bliss. Her bleary gaze found him.

  He pushed his chest off the mattress. A fine sheen of sweat clung to the ridges of his pecs and darkened his tousled hairline. His kisses continued up her centerline to the tip of her chin. Her lips parted to accommodate his, but they jumped over her mouth to her nose and finally her forehead. The bed creaked under his shifting weight. He settled beside her thrumming body.

  The popcorn-speckled ceiling came into view. They laid diagonally, closer to the foot of the bed than the head. At the end nearest corner the bare mattress peeked out, the sheet meant to cover it ruffled near her feet. Her hum ebbed, overtaken by a chill. Greer turned toward Z, fully expecting to be patted on the head and told to go to sleep.Why provide him the opportunity? She dove into the crook of his arm, wedged her head under his chin, and cuddled her legs around his hairier ones. The unfamiliar texture of hard muscle and itchy hair should have kept her on edge, but contentment warmed her. After a long silent heap of seconds, Z’s arm nestled against her back. His hand covered hers over his heart. Every muscle in her body noodled. Euphoria and exhaustion combined with his heady scent proved a lethal concoction. Her gaze lingered on the bump of his pulse at the base of his neck as long as it possibly could before succumbing.

  14

  O ne. Two. Three. Four. Jesus, 116 more seconds to go. Zeke tore his gaze from the poorly-calibrated wall clock and tried to calm his heart rate. He inhaled for ten seconds, and then exhaled for ten through the first minute. The persistent muscle jammed into his sternum like a rising alarm clock. He focused on using his diaphragm to move breath in and out of his lungs. It always worked in the field, but this was unlike any mission he’d ever endured. The jittery pounding continued. Fifty-six. Fifty-seven. Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine.

  Zeke lifted Greer’s limp arm and head, held his breath, and slipped from under her with the same care he might show a depressed landmine. When his backside cleared the bed he lunged to the far corner of the room. His hands found his hips. He hung his head between his shoulders and huffed as though he’d run across the Afghan desert…again.

  For a bird who weighed 135 pounds sopping wet, Greer knew how to wallop a bloke’s feet out from under him. The damnedest thing was she didn’t know that she knew how to do it. It came as naturally to her as the sway of her perfectly curved arse. No schemes, no pretense. The arm and leg that had been sprawled across his body retracted close to hers, accentuating the bow of her lower back and pert bottom.

  “Kill me now.” He stalked to the bed, snatched the comforter off the floor, and dropped it across her soft skin.

  She tugged the covers over her shoulder and tucked them under her chin without blinking. Zeke backed away and paced the edges of the room like the caged animal he was. What the bloody hell was wrong with him? He’d managed captivity in an outhouse on an Alaskan glacier better than this. But how?

  He never lost sight of the goal—hold out until he found a way to get out. The same could work here. He needed to find out who had ordered their abduction and why. Once he had those answers he and Greer could go their separate ways. His calluses scraped the length of his face.

  Zeke sat on the edge of the other bed, as far away from Greer as the queen sized mattress allowed. The bag lay at his feet. Beside it the first-aid kit gaped, its contents strewn about the faded greens and pink of the patterned comforter. He reached for the single packet of antacid tablets, ripped into the foil, and popped them in his mouth. While he ground the chalk into barely consumable paste, he pulled the laptop in front of him.

  Five windows cluttered the screen. He scrapped each of them. Right now, the list was useless. The code didn’t follow any known cyphers. He opened the list of Stas holdings Greer had unlocked.

  Each entry listed a physical address, property value, inventory value, and site “manager.” After scrolling through the extensive list until his eyes crossed and his lids threatened to shut without proper caffeinating, a pattern materialized. Values for the arms warehouses, “gentlemen’s” clubs, and transportation centers correlated with others in their category to within ten to twenty thousand dollars. Transportation took the largest sums. They bought officials throughout the state in which they operated, in addition to the cost of vehicles—planes, semis, trucks, cars, boats—and the insurance they carried to cover the hauls. Warehouses came next because of their inventory. The paltry amount assigned to the gentlemen’s clubs proved that they weren’t in the business to make money, but for their own personal power trips.

  Dip-wads.

  Several listing values stood above the rest. Each lacked any name attached to the property. Using live satellite feed, Zeke pulled up the addresses in individual windows. The grit of sand and froth of ocean marked a beach house on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, while the green of a golf course sidled up to the Miami mansion. There was an air strip in California and an estate in upstate New York. He didn’t have a clue what it meant, but the familiar spark at the base of his pituitary meant the sliver fit into the multilayered puzzle somehow. The same way he knew Greer fit into this equation, somehow.

  She huddled under the blanket in a tight little ball. Her long lashes rested easily on her cheek. He needed to figure shit out and fast. The more time he spent with her, the more jumbled his insides became.

  Zeke turned back to the screen—trying his damnedest to ignore the uptick in his chest—and logged into the black screen. He typed the address for the air strip into the white search box, and then pressed enter. A white line ran from one side to the other only four times before the windows offered one result—Gibraltar Investments.

  President Grieves W. Stockton’s campaign slogan and the irritating music that accompanied the commercials paraded through Zeke’s mind. Stockton, steady as Gibraltar.

  “No fucking way.”

  He uncoiled his fists and drummed away on the keys. Every address he entered cycled back under the same holding as he’d expected. Time to dive deeper into the rock. The link took him to the information page for Gibraltar Investments. A blanket on anonymity cloaked the owner or owners, but that had never stopped him before. He searched every bank account tied to the holding.

  A sea of numbers sloshed onto the screen. He scrolled through the three ledgers and found more than 500 pages per account. The first deposits and withdrawals began two years ago, six months after the president had taken office. They also matched the amount on the Stas books for each of the
properties. Beyond those entries, daily deposits and withdrawals populated the registry. None of the amounts exceeded ten thousand dollars nor repeated the same value. Whoever had set this up either knew just enough to get by without getting flagged or, more likely, never expected anyone to look.

  Zeke grinned while he entered the routing number for one of the deposit transactions and hit enter. The white line zoomed across the screen once, twice, ten, twenty, fifty times. His grin fell. After too damn long the white words, No Results, flashed at the center of the screen.

  Fine, maybe they knew a little more than he’d given them credit for, but he had a hunch and he refused to stop until it panned out or proved him wrong. Sweat gathered on his upper lip. He accessed the high-powered sequencing software, pulled in the account reports, and ran a diagnostic. The program estimated a four-hour run time. It always took at least thirty minutes longer.

  He needed to talk to the president, but he couldn’t, not without blowing all his covers. How many were there now? Who the fuck was he today? In truth, he’d never known who he was, a punching bag, a street kid, a kid taking orders from Her Majesty’s Royal Marines, a dagger, and then what? A rogue.

  The clock on the top right of the computer read two-oh-eight a.m. Where had the night gone? His gaze slid to Greer. Her lips puckered in steady respiration. Slowly, he eased his back against the headboard, and then opened the information he’d downloaded from the US Elite database. He stared at the registry, at the 1.2 billion dollar entry that had doubled the private security firm’s budget last year, at the red flag that signaled his involvement and embroiled him in a world of shit.

  He patted the pistol next to his leg, saw the light flashing on his homemade security system, doubled checked Greer’s calmed breaths, and then propped his head against the wall. Nothing to do now but catch some sleep and dream about the end of this nightmare…not the pain he’d endured through it. His arms folded across his chest with his palm covering the throbbing scar.

  Greer’s sharp cry ripped through his subconscious like a wraith in the night. Zeke bound to his knees on the saggy mattress, lifted his weapon, and scanned left to right for the intruder. Sunlight filtered in through the cracks between the window and the thick curtain, but revealed no Stas. Greer sat on the floor between the two beds. The camisole and shorts covered her body and her own small hand sealed over her mouth. Light from the laptop on her straight legs revealed wells of unshed tears.

  Zeke set the gun on the rumpled covers, kickstarted his heart again, and climbed onto the floor in front of her. He expected her to scream. Get away from me. How do you have all this information? Who are you? Her head swung back and forth in denial. He sat in front of her for a full minute, but no protests poured from her lips. Tears fell over her clamped hand. He reached across and pried her hand free one finger at a time.

  “Can you zoom this in?” she whimpered.

  His fingers hooked the computer and turned it on her thighs. The satellite feed of the upstate New York house filled the screen. He clicked on the diagnostic. It showed ten minutes remaining. After returning to the estate, Zeke magnified the sprawling house with its circular drive, court yard, pool and pool house, and pond, barn, and attached horse paddock out back, and then turned it toward Greer.

  Her lips pressed together. Streams formed on either cheek. She slapped them away, but fresh ones cascaded in their place.

  “What is it?” Zeke's hard voice cracked. He hated the tell, but damn the terror in her eyes sliced him in half.

  “It’s...” She drew an uneven breath, and then started again. “It’s the place.”

  “What place?”

  “My father and uncle took me and my cousin on their business trip. Dad always left me with a nanny, but agreed to bring me at my cousin’s request. He got to go to the country house all the time. I was excited to go. There were horses, a pool, a pond. I thought we’d go riding together, fishing. My dad and uncle locked themselves in the study the entire time. On the third day…” Her quivering finger lifted to the green-roofed barn. “After, I hid in the stall with one of the horses until the housekeeper came calling for dinner, and didn’t leave my room the rest of the trip.”

  He pulled the computer from her lap and shoved it onto his bed. Her knees drew to her chest. White-blonde strands curtained her back and legs. Muffled sobs leaked from the human cocoon. He sat next to her like a useless fool with no tool or weapons with which to fight her sorrow. Plans to slaughter her family formed in his ripe mind, but what good would that do her? As kind-hearted as she was, she’d probably mourn the fuckers.

  Zeke eased his hand onto her shoulder. Her cheek nuzzled his fingers. The move bolstered his resolve. He slid his hands under her arms and lifted her into his lap, giving her every opportunity to protest. She clutched her hands and knees to her chest and burrowed under his chin. Her small body shook against him for a long while. The longer she cried the tighter his arms held her. Without conscious choice, he quietly sang the song his sister sang to him when he was sad.

  “One for sorrow,

  Two for joy,

  Three for a girl,

  Four for a boy,

  Five for silver,

  Six for gold,

  Seven for a secret,

  Never to be told.

  Eight for a wish,

  Nine for a kiss,

  Ten for a bird,

  You must not miss.”

  The sobs morphed into hiccups around seven, and abated by nine. Her fingers rubbed across his pectoral several times. She sat and grimaced at him.

  “Singing’s that bad, huh?”

  “No.” Her mouth formed an exaggerated O. She swatted the notion away, and then went back to drying his chest. “I soaked your chest.”

  He placed his hand over hers, pinning it in place. Her wet gaze found his. It sucked him under the current. Without calculating, Zeke placed his hand at her nape and pulled her close. His lips slid over hers, again and again. He loved the taste of her, the feel.

  The computer beeped. Zeke tipped her head to the side and looked at the screen. The debited sums minus the property sums from all three counts equaled exactly 1.2 billion dollars.

  His will power joined forces and he pried his lips from her pliable mouth. Her head swiveled to the laptop screen, and then back.

  “What do all those numbers mean?”

  “They mean I have to question your father.”

  15

  “M y father?” Greer jerked upright.

  Z didn’t respond to her shriek. She’d heard him and he knew it perfectly well.

  “You mean interrogate him?”

  “I do hope he resists.” Z shrugged.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’d quite enjoy torturing him.” His eyes darkened to a shade of hell.

  Greer swallowed her fear. She prodded his chest with two fingers. “That’s not what I meant and you know it. Why do you have to question my dad?”

  “You know why. You just don’t want to believe it. Just like you don’t want to think I’m a piece of shite.”

  “I’m beginning to change my mind on that.” Her arms crossed into a knot over her breasts.

  Z levered his forearm under her bottom. She closed her eyes against the rush of ecstasy that overtook her outrage. He held her to his chest, stood on his knees, and moved to the edge of his bed. If he tossed her on top she’d probably forget about the argument in five seconds…or less. She swallowed the excess saliva in her mouth and tried to ignore her musk on his lips.

  He sat with her still in his arms, turned the computer to face them, and then clicked each of the properties in turn. “These properties are all in a holding named Gibraltar Investments.”

  Panic she’d tried so hard to bury over the years bubbled over. Greer’s hand caught the cry that shot from her throat.

  “I can tie your dad and uncle to this house, but I can only question one of them right now.”

  She struggled with the terror thoughts of
her uncle and cousin conjured. Her hand fell away. “That’s the Stockton family motto.”

  “I know. I was in the States for part of the campaign.”

  Greer’s stomach flipped again. She pressed her nose to Z’s neck and breathed long, deep breaths until the gymnastic event ceased.

  “Better?” he asked.

  “I guess. How do you have access to all this information?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  She smirked. “I already did.”

  “How’d you get the computer off my lap without me knowing?”

  “In my work noise gets a woman killed. Nice diversion. Now, spill.”

  He dumped her onto her bottom, stood, and dug clothes from his bag. “I could divert you, if I were so inclined.”

  Greer let her gaze drop to the erection popping his boxer briefs. “So, you’re not inclined?”

  “I’m hungry and…” His gaze raked her front.

  “And what?”

  “I can’t roger you, and then off your father, if the need arises.”

  “Roger me?”

  Z shoved his legs into his pants and yanked on a T-shirt. “You know what I mean. It wouldn’t be proper.” He shoved several bills into his back pocket, his pistol into his waistband, and headed for the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To get some food.” He disengaged the device on the door. “Shoot anyone who comes to the door, except me, and don’t call your father.”

  “You trust me not to call him while you’re gone?”

  “I trust you’ll do the right thing. Once you really think about all the things we can piece together, you’ll know what that is. Oh, get dressed. We’re leaving in thirty.” He opened the door, slipped through the opening, and then disappeared behind it.