SeductiveIntent

by Angela Claire

  He pulled his cock out slightly and then thrust in again. “Are you trying to trick me into getting you pregnant?”

  Wrapping her arms around his neck, she murmured, “What if I was? What difference would that make? I’ll be swimming out on the tide while you’re passed out. You’ll never see me again.”

  “Oh,” he groaned, giving it to her really hard for that. “You do that and I’ll have to chase you to the ends of the earth.”

  “Why?” Her legs came around his waist, her sweet ass tipping up toward him as he thrust. “To arrest me?”

  “Fuck no.” Kissing her, he muttered, “To marry you of course.”

  When he came, he stubbornly held his cock deep within her as he ejaculated, though she had made a stab at trying to push him off when she realized he was coming.

  Hell, he was never going to wear a condom again. Why should he? He was with the mother of his child.

  That was the last thing he remembered.

  * * * * *

  Vinita wandered out onto the balcony of the plush Cayman Islands hotel she had checked into under her own name. Her own current name, that is. Comparing it to Arthur’s dirt cheap digs earlier today, she marveled yet again at how right she had been in the choice she made so many years ago.

  “Guten Abend.”

  Good evening.

  She swung around at the greeting from the man sitting on the balcony chair who she hadn’t noticed at first. The downside of her choice she supposed. She hoped he hadn’t killed anyone getting into her hotel room. Not that she valued Cayman—or American, for that matter—lives. But it was always messy and she was tired of cleaning up after everyone else’s messes.

  About to admonish—no, admonish wasn’t the right tone to take with this man, unless she wanted to end up as one of his messes—or rather request that he switch to English, he saved her the trouble, doing so before she even had to ask him.

  “So I’m hoping you have good news for me, my dear.”

  Like her, he had no trace of an accent, German or Spanish. Just the cultured tones of a cosmopolitan citizen of the world.

  No need to beat around the bush. “I’m afraid not. My people have turned out to be surprisingly inept at this task.”

  “Yes, tipping Interpol off was regrettable.”

  It never did to show fear. And in fact, she wasn’t all that surprised. It was understandable that they were keeping close tabs on this endeavor. She was, however, scared. Failure was so seldom an option for her or anyone else involved in this man’s affairs.

  “I have another plan in mind.”

  He lit a cigarette casually. “Really?” She hoped the mouthful of smoke he blew at her as he exhaled wasn’t some sort of metaphor. But since subtlety was not his forte, probably she was safe on that score. “What is that?”

  “I’m going to get our property from Beckett myself.”

  He stood up. “Fine. But just in case, I am putting at your disposal a number of my men to aid in your endeavor.”

  Wonderful. So now she had an armed guard. “That’s very generous. Thank you. And they are where, if I may ask?”

  “Oh, around. But don’t worry, should you leave this hotel, they stand ready to accompany you. That can be covertly or overtly. Your choice.”

  They always gave a choice and she always preferred whichever one didn’t get her killed. “Thank you. I have a few details to work out first. How shall I contact them when I’m ready?”

  “No worries, my dear. They’ll make themselves known. But in terms of your details, please keep in mind that I would really rather not wait past tomorrow at noon.”

  She nodded. “I understand.”

  She hoped to God—not that she believed much in Him of course—that he would just leave. Unfortunately, he dropped his cigarette to the cement ground of the balcony and smothered it with the heel of his expensive shoe. Then his hands went to his leather belt.

  She swallowed, looking around. No one was out on the adjoining balconies and they were too high up for anyone to see much of anything from the beach. But that was not to say someone couldn’t come out at any minute.

  “Mein Herr,” she said hesitantly. “Perhaps we should go inside.”

  “Posing as an American has made you so timid, my dear. Remember who you are.”

  She had a horrible feeling as he slid the belt out of his pants that he fully intended to remind her.

  She looked at his wavy, white-blond hair, his even features, his ice-blue eyes. At one time, long ago, she had even considered him handsome. He didn’t seem to age. None of them did as far as she could tell, due to some bizarre genetic experimenting or a deal with the devil or both. But she no longer considered him handsome. She tried to keep that thought out of her eyes. It would be harder on her if he saw it.

  “Put your hands on the railing, please. The one facing the ocean.”

  She obeyed, knowing he meant to put her back to him. She could feel him approach behind her, stiffening only slightly when his hands came around to the belt on her own trousers, unfastening it, unbuttoning and then sliding them down. She watched the waves as she felt him go to her panties, sliding those down as well.

  Her hands clenched the iron of the railing as his fingers trailed down the crack of her ass.

  “So firm still,” he marveled. “Those injections work beautifully.”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “And your skin is so much lighter than it was when you first came to us. Not as light, of course, as a true specimen, but you could almost pass for pure, despite your dark hair.”

  She knew what he meant by pure. It was a term of art for being like him, of his pure race. She said nothing.

  “But of course you aren’t.”

  She felt his fingers, two of them at least, jam up her behind. She drew in a breath swiftly.

  “Do you like that, my dear?”

  “Yes,” she said dully.

  “Of course you do, you filthy whore.”

  It was anyone’s guess whether he actually believed the lie, but she repeated it every time he put her through this or some other demeaning demonstration of his “mastery” of her. Worse waited for her if she ever dared to tell the truth. He, and all the men like him, demanded complete subjugation from the chosen few they had admitted to their secret society. And they liked to prove that subjugation, again and again, in ever varied and usually painful ways.

  Vinita tried to think of it as the cost of the luxurious lifestyle she lived, care of these monsters.

  Without any moisture, he worked his fingers brutally in her while she stayed perfectly still, although the force of his fingers was so hard sometimes it shoved her toward the railing. All the while, she knew his other hand was holding the belt at the ready.

  She heard his breath coming quicker behind her, blind to whether anyone had emerged on to any nearby balconies or not. If someone saw, there was undoubtedly one of his men nearby to dispatch them.

  She felt his feeble cock struggling to harden against the cheeks of her ass. He would rip her in two practically and it would still not render him stiff enough to mount her.

  That’s when the belt would come into play.

  By the time he got to it, she welcomed the absence of his fingers in her ass so much that she didn’t much care about the stripes the belt would leave. The injections would heal them quickly enough.

  She gritted her teeth, willing herself through the pain.

  He delivered fewer lashes than he usually did. In a hurry perhaps. As he put his belt back on and left her to get her own clothes in order, she wondered yet again why they didn’t just take Viagra. The mundane thought always cleared her head. Perhaps they had tried it and were immune to it for some physiological reason tied to their unusual genetic make-up, the experimenting gone amok some time ago, as she understood it.

  He left her without a word.

  After making a quick survey of the suite to ensure no maids or bell boys were in any closets or under the bed with
their throats slit, she took a deep breath at finding none and began to plan.

  She had less than twenty-four hours to deliver. She glanced at her watch. Much less.

  “Or else,” she muttered out loud.

  * * * * *

  Sam watched the Chameleon dissolve into the late-night crowd at the beachside bar, trying to decide whether he believed the story he’d just heard. The guy was an admitted con man, after all. He was no doubt very good in spinning a story. It was a hell of a story too. But if it was true, Brendan Beckett could be in danger. And not from his gorgeous girlfriend either.

  He ordered another beer, downing the icy brew as he mulled it over. After this Arthur had started to talk, Sam had uncuffed him and walked with him to this bar, the first they’d run into. The con man could have gotten away at any time. In fact, Sam had fully expected to be forced to chase him down at least one time. But the guy hadn’t. He didn’t know what Arthur’s connection was to the girl—other than as a partner of course—and the guy didn’t offer it, but he had seemed worried about her.

  Not that he couldn’t have faked that pretty easily too.

  That was the problem with con artists. It was hard to know when they were telling the truth—which was, of course, why they were con artists after all. And it was a hell of a story. Sam had spent the last couple hours just trying to decide whether he should believe it or not, asking questions, probing further.

  He wondered whether Beckett was having any easier time getting the truth out of his little prisoner. According to Arthur, she didn’t know very much of it. At least Beckett was probably having more fun trying to get it out of her than Sam had with her partner.

  He held up his empty beer bottle, trying to snag the overtaxed waitress’ attention and get another. Failing to do so, he went over to the bar himself, wedging between one barely dressed blonde and one barely conscious drunken college boy.

  “My God, so you’re like a captain? Really? Where’s your ship?”

  “I’m on shore leave,” a low voice answered the blonde and Sam’s head whipped in that direction.

  What the fuck was he doing here?

  “Hey, Kendon,” the man acknowledged him over the girl’s shoulder. “I thought that was you.” He held up a shot glass and downed it.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked the captain of Beckett’s yacht. He’d only met Michaels this afternoon after he had flown in and joined Beckett there to plot strategy, but he had recognized the voice right away. “Where’s Beckett?”

  “In bed, I’m sure.” The captain chuckled.

  “You’re docked? I thought he planned to stay out there all night.”

  “He did. It turns out he just didn’t want any company. He sent me and the rest of the crew back in a skiff.”

  “He’s out there alone with the girl?”

  The captain raised an eyebrow, more sober than he had at first looked. He and the rest of his crew were former navy SEALs, which was part of why Sam had had the confidence that Beckett would be safe while out on the yacht. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on with Beckett and the girl, but you’re not giving the guy enough credit. I know he looks like a wuss, but I’ve known him for quite a while and he’s in no danger from the girl. He can handle himself.”

  Captain Michaels gestured for another shot, while the blonde took Sam’s inconvenient interruption as an opportunity to go powder her nose as she coyly assured her potential hook-up.

  “It’s not exactly the girl I’m worried about,” Sam muttered, wondering if he could find Arthur again and maybe beat the truth out of him as to whether this was just some shell game of “play the rich guy” or whether the long elaborate tale he had spun was a possibility. Sam had pretty good instincts, if he did say so himself, and right now his instincts were on full alert.

  “Well, I admit I don’t like the idea of one of the Becketts being at sea without any of us on board. They usually only do that when The Ann’s docked. But we didn’t take her far enough out to worry about pirates, if that’s what you’re thinking. That actually is a distinct possibility in some waters, which is why we’re armed when we’re at sea and we keep a close watch. But Beckett didn’t insist on going that far out. I wouldn’t have left if he had. He just wanted to be out of reach of land. His girl’s a pretty good swimmer, apparently.”

  “Christ.”

  “Lighten up.” The captain downed the shot. “He’s a good guy. I don’t know what he has in mind, but it’s not—”

  “Is Beckett armed?”

  “What?”

  “You said the ship is armed when you go out. Is he armed or does he at least know where the guns are kept?”

  “He knows, of course, but actually the lock to the armory requires a pass code that only I have.”

  “And you didn’t give it to him?”

  “What’s going on here? Is the girl some kind of a psycho or something?”

  The blonde was back, perching on her bar stool and flashing an annoyed look at Sam.

  “Come on,” Sam said, forgetting about getting another beer. “Sorry, miss,” he told the blonde, “I’m borrowing your date here.”

  “What? Why?” The captain didn’t look any happier at that pronouncement than his date had.

  “We’re going to radio The Ann and tell Beckett how to get access to those guns. And then we’re going to go out there and head that boat back into harbor.”

  “Listen, pal, I don’t take my orders from anybody whose last name’s not Beckett.”

  “Okay, then you can take them from me.”

  They both turned. Another blonde had taken the place of the drunken college boy on the stool next to him. This one was much younger than the one who’d set her sights on the captain and much prettier but much more out of bounds. Sam sighed, shaking his head.

  “Miss Beckett,” the captain said, surprised.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Mindy?” Sam didn’t stop to question how he knew it was that one and not her sister. He just knew. She smiled in a way that said she was pleased he could tell.

  Great. This was so not what he needed right now.

  * * * * *

  After muttering some nonsense about Sophia being the mother of his child, Brendan had fallen into a dead sleep after their last bout of lovemaking. Good thing too, as she was so sore between her legs that she really was going to be numb if he went at her again. Which she of course would let him do if he wanted to because it was so darned much pleasure. Who was she kidding? She could never be numb with this man. Never.

  At some point, she had managed to rouse him enough to get him to the cabin, where he had curled up beside her. She smoothed the hair from his forehead, watching his face in the moonlight. He was just so beautiful. So sweet. She only hoped he didn’t hate her when he woke up sober in the morning.

  With that thought, she fell asleep, cuddling up to him as he wrapped his arms around her in his sleep. The sound of a motor boat startled Sophia awake. It was still dark. One of Brendan’s arms was across her bare waist and she tried to get up, but it prevented her.

  “I heard something.”

  “It’s just the crew coming back,” he muttered. “Go back to sleep.”

  She started to lie back down, but the total quiet that accompanied the motor shutting off unnerved her. Maybe they were just trying to go about their business as noiselessly as possible so as not to wake their boss.

  No worries there. He had drifted back to sleep, a combination of sex and whiskey being the culprit undoubtedly. Lifting Brendan’s arm, she wiggled out from under him and threw on shorts and a tee shirt. Walking into the main saloon, she stopped dead at the muted voices coming through the stairwell from the deck above her. For one thing, they weren’t speaking English. They were speaking German, with some kind of accent she couldn’t place.

  Brendan’s crew, though she had only seen them briefly and only talked to the captain, had been American, she believed. Someone touched her shoulder and she whipped around
.

  Brendan clapped a hand over her mouth to stop any exclamation and whispered with a nod of his head toward the voices, “Friends of yours?”

  She shook her head no.

  He searched her face and then removed his hand. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Sophia had never in her life tried so hard to convey in her expression that she was telling the truth to another person. And she had never done it when she actually was.

  “Okay. I believe you.”

  “Not the crew, then, I take it,” she whispered back.

  “No, which means we’re in a shitload of trouble.”

  “Why?”

  “I think those are pirates.”

  Now, she may not have had the cleanest past, but just as she had assured Brendan when they were dancing, she and Arthur just swindled. With the one exception of holding Brendan at gunpoint—mostly just because she liked him so much, as convoluted as that reasoning was—they were never violent. The kind of people who ambushed yachts and called themselves modern-day pirates scared her as much as they would scare anyone.

  “Do you have a gun?” she whispered to Brendan and he gave her a wry look.

  “Do you?”

  “Not with me, unfortunately.”

  He took her hand. “There’s an armory on board, but I don’t have access to it.”

  “Doesn’t that defeat the purpose?”

  “We’ll have to hide.”

  But he had no sooner said it than a plethora of boots hit the stairwell. Her stomach dropped. Automatic weapons in hand, there were at least half a dozen scruffy-faced hard-looking men in pseudo-military regalia in front of them suddenly. She moved closer to Brendan as one of them stepped forward, speaking in German.

  Unfortunately, it was a language she understood enough of to be scared shitless.

  “Sorry to break up your little love nest,” the spokesman then said in English, motioning with his gun toward the stairwell. “But we’d like the pleasure of your company.”

  “For what?” Brendan asked, so coolly that Sophia was surprised by it. He didn’t look drunk anymore either.