Covet (Beautiful Sinner Series Book 2)

by Elena M. Reyes

  Next, I begin the search for my shoes. The problem with that is the heels won’t work.

  They’ll be a hindrance. Slow me down.

  “Bingo,” I mutter low, opening a drawer to find socks. Lots of them. In all styles. Which makes it perfect since the kind I’ll need sits atop the bunch and to the right, an old-school pair of over-the-calf socks with two black bands across the top. I put them on; they’re large but perfect, warming my legs while covering me to the knees.

  Sure, I look like a clown, but I’m covered and comfy. Now all I need is my...

  “Crap, my purse.” Last night in our rush, I tossed it somewhere behind him, not caring about the contents inside. My phone and wallet are inside, and so is the hotel’s keycard and a card with the address. “I’m such an idiot.”

  It’s also the reason why I’ve never had a one-night stand before. The uncertainty. The danger of an unknown person and their true intentions.

  And yet you let him have you so easily. Can’t deny that. The intensity as our eyes met across the room, charming green on my hazel, and then the heat that scorched my veins. The harsh lick of desire rolled down my spine as he sipped his drink, never taking his gaze from mine.

  It made me weak. It made me want to take a chance.

  And now here I am. Paying the price.

  My breathing picks up a bit at the thought of seeing him again. Of being close to a man that is wrong for me.

  The kind my mother warned me about.

  Of not having an out.

  “Just go downstairs and explain my family is waiting on me.” It’s not a lie per se. Just that our meeting was yesterday, not today, but he doesn’t need to know that. It’d give me just enough time to—

  A door opens and closes loudly downstairs, then nothing. No noise. No footsteps coming up the stairs.

  Unconsciously, I move toward this room’s entrance, turning the knob and then pulling it open just a smidge. Just enough that I see no one in the corridor or near the top of the stairs. Moreover, at that very moment, I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding in.

  He’s nowhere in sight and that works for me, gives me the opening I need. That maybe, just maybe, I won’t see him again.

  As soon as the thought crosses my mind, I feel a pang in my chest—a tiny and annoying thump that I ignore for the time being. If not forever. Deciphering what it means could be disastrous for me.

  A repeating of the cycle.

  Opening the door further, I tiptoe out and toward the stairs, making as little noise as possible. My heart rate accelerates, beating faster with each step closer to the top landing. Even more so when I notice a figure, tall and intimidating, near the door and to the right. Fear and excitement course through my veins, but I don’t stop.

  I’m on autopilot. Moving without conscious thought until I meet the eyes of the person there.

  It’s not him. Not even close.

  This man is dressed in a black suit, his features hard and that of an older man, maybe in his late forties. His appearance is serious, and yet there’s a hint of a smile that comes through as he reads the disappointed expression on my face. It’s unavoidable. Can’t hide it.

  Confusion with a hint of regret simmers, and my heart does that stupid thump once more. I should be happy, but I’m not. I should be relieved, but instead, all I feel is used. Unimportant and stupid for making a big deal of what obviously isn’t.

  There stands this stranger with my purse in hand, waiting for me, while I was just another notch on his bedpost. An easy lay.

  “I’m an idiot.” All that worry for nothing when he wants me gone; a realization that stings and confuses me further. This is exactly what I should want. What I need.

  “What was that, Miss?” he asks, voice rough as if he’s a heavy smoker, while he moves closer to the bottom step. “Everything okay? Do I need to call Mr. Jameson—”

  “No.”

  At my quick denial, he nods and holds out his hand with my belongings. “In that case, the car is ready when you are.”

  “The car?”

  “I’ve been instructed to deliver you back to your hotel.”

  “Lead the way, then.” What else can I say? I feel dismissed. Like a fool.

  Luckily, the man does as I ask without further prompting, turning on his heel to open the front door where I see a sleek black sedan waiting for me. Its ignition is already on, and before I can reach for the door’s handle, he’s rushing to open it, letting the muted thud of the front door closing follow close behind.

  A sound that reeks of finality. Of a goodbye I should want but bothers me when just a few minutes prior, I wanted to leave.

  Doesn’t matter anymore. It’s for the best.

  And it is. Casper Jameson isn’t someone I need to further mix myself with.

  Silence fills the inside of the car, a looming quiet that makes the voice in my head loud. Wondering. Questioning the last twelve hours and my actions.

  Why did I sleep with him?

  Why do I feel so restless?

  My mind is a constant loop, an uncensored movie reel of our night together and then what I heard from outside his office. Moreover, there’s a miniscule part of me that knew to not go home with him, and I still did.

  “What’s your name, love?” a deep, husky voice whispers in an English accent, lips lightly brushing the shell of my ear from behind. He’s close. Close enough that the scent of whiskey with a touch of wood and spice infiltrates my senses, and I bite back my hum of approval.

  It’s sexy. Alluring. I also know who it is before turning around.

  His heavy-lidded eyes have been following me throughout the roof-top pub for the last thirty minutes, almost since the very moment I walked in. Tempting me. Causing my nipples to tighten in anticipation.

  And I’ve been waiting for him to make a move. To approach.

  Since that first glance, I’ve been watching too—catching his stare every few minutes while we play a game of cat and mouse—getting lost within those hypnotic green eyes. While I appreciate just how handsome he is.

  How his top lip curls to the right, a cocky little smirk that makes butterflies erupt within. How his defined and lickable jaw ticks after each sip from the glass in his hand. How his dirty blond hair flops a little over his forehead, a chaotic mess that my hands itch to pull on.

  Even from where I stand, a couple of feet from him and at another small high-top table with a girl I met at the hotel today, I can tell he’s tall. Muscular. A sinful surprise I wasn’t expecting but want.

  This man is the perfect British specimen, and I want a taste. A little of the dominating persona that stands out amongst the sea of drunk bodies all around me. There’s just something about him. Something delicious. Something that calls to me.

  Turning around, I look up at him from beneath long lashes. “I’m Aurora…and you?”

  “Casper.” He winks, picking up my hand and bringing it to his lips. Soft lips that skim across my knuckles. “And I’m your date for the evening.”

  At his response, I giggle. “Is that so?”

  “It is.”

  “Miss, we’re here,” the driver says, snapping me back to the present. I’ve been so lost and inside my head that I never gave him my hotel’s name or the address.

  “How did you—?”

  “Mr. Jameson.” That’s all he says before exiting the car and coming to my door behind him, an action that tells me the subject is closed. He’s not divulging the how or why.

  “Thanks…” I trail off, hoping he’ll at the very least give me his name. He doesn’t. Instead, Casper’s employee gives me a nod and walks back around to his door as I watch. No more eye contact or smile, he leaves me there as he enters and then slowly pulls off the curb to merge into very busy traffic.

  For a few minutes, I just stand there, still lost inside my head, when a body sidles up next to me. It’s a familiar presence. Someone I know will reproach my actions even though they don’t have a leg to stand on
.

  “You’re late and you look horrible,” he says after a minute, tone calm. Too calm.

  Without looking over, I let out a heavy sigh. Just not in the mood. “Why are you here?”

  “Because daughters shouldn’t stand up their fathers.”

  4

  I DON’T FOLLOW HER. It’s not necessary.

  Not when I send a quick text to one of my men outside the minute she rushes upstairs to get dressed. He’s under strict instructions to make sure she gets to her hotel safely and then stay close by. To give me an update on her location every thirty minutes on the dot, no exceptions.

  I want to know everything. The what, where, and how.

  To know if she so much as coughs until I come for her once more.

  Because we aren’t done. Not at all.

  But first, I have somewhere to be, where good little girls should never step a single foot inside.

  The moment my front door closes and I see her enter the awaiting car from my security feed, I push my chair back, pocketing my phone and the two custom karambits. I walk out without another word to my cousin, knowing he has more questions, but I couldn’t give a bloody fuck about them. Now isn’t the time for bollocks or even a little ribbing, something that as my right hand he understands.

  His footsteps follow mine out of the room, but we part ways as I head upstairs to collect something I’ll need. Taking the stairs two at a time, I reach my room and find it in complete disarray with clothes—my clothing—strewn about. She’s emptied every drawer of the armoire in her haste to leave. Plain vests, gym shorts, pajama bottoms, and even a few pairs of joggers are atop my bed and on the floor beneath.

  However, none of that matters when I see that her little black dress lies in tatters near the furniture’s bottom drawer. Must’ve brought it upstairs in her rush. The scrap of satin she calls panties are nowhere to be found, but she left with something of mine on that delectable body, a reminder of me, and for now that’s enough.

  “Good girl,” I groan, palming my already thickening cock through the outside of my trousers as the faint scent of cherry blossoms infiltrates my senses. I’m hard for her, throbbing all over again, and want nothing more than to bring her back to my bed, but there’s a more pressing matter that needs my attention.

  And it’s the anger, the want—that tumultuous combination that causes me to grit my teeth and walk over to a small compartment hidden behind a painting of the London skyline at night. There’s a small safe there. One of the many throughout my two-story home that provides easy access to an arsenal of weapons.

  This one, though, doesn’t hold much outside of my favorite chrome Colt 1911 and the custom holster for my knives. Punching in a four-digit code, I grab each, and then the extra magazines ready and loaded beside them.

  I’m not changing, but I do choose a pair of old combat boots for this particular meeting with Otto. He’s the kind of man that will appreciate my way of handling this type of situation, the less-than-formal setting, and after lacing them tight, I walk out.

  Each step toward my private parking structure next door is loud against the floors. It echoes, follows me as do the two men awaiting my orders outside. No one speaks, they just follow.

  When I purchased this property, I bought the one on either side as well because I like my privacy. Because money talks, and a few extra zeros on any check will buy you anything you desire.

  Once inside my garage, I point toward the two black Range Rovers while walking toward another small panel near the entrance. It’s a small box with a fingerprint reader, and I place my thumb at the center. Then there’s a click, and the sliding of a panel which reveals ten sets of keys.

  I grab the ones to the left on the top row and press the unlock button on the fob. At once, doors open and then close.

  Turning around, I notice Callum still outside while holding a hand out. “I’m guessing you’re driving alone.” My response is to toss him the set that belongs to the Rover where two of my men sit inside. “We’ll follow, and security will be here within five minutes to replace the men coming with us.”

  I nod and get inside my own car, taking off toward the Eye. It’s a thirty-minute drive that I cut down to fifteen, weaving in and out of traffic as drivers around me press down on their horns—glaring at me in annoyance while my car cuts them off at close range.

  There’s a rush of excitement that comes with the art of scaring the piss out of them, and even more so when they don’t know it’s me. That moment at red lights as they send curses my way—waving a fist or flicking me off—and I lower my tinted window to show my face, is priceless.

  The closer we get to the touristy area, the thicker the congestion on the roads becomes. There are buses and people walking, all looking up toward the landmarks we’re known for and snapping selfies.

  They aren’t self-aware. Ignore danger.

  These wankers don’t care—they ignore the fact that a man like me will run them over without an ounce of remorse for being arseholes. And what’s worse, no one will lift a finger against me. To turn me in.

  Pulling into my private parking spot behind my building, I turn the ignition off and let out a perverse chuckle. I’m so close to parliament; to where all the lords of this great country hide away for hours fighting the good fight while men like me break their laws. I defy them, metaphorically flip them off, and not one will rise against me.

  Callum follows, parking in the spot next to mine, and gets out a minute after, rushing to fall into step with me as I enter the kitchen’s back door. Eyes lift as I make my way through, but quickly shift away when they take in my facial expression. Faces are lowered and all movement ceases; nothing can be heard outside of the sizzle of a deep fryer and the two or three pans on the burners.

  I look at the manager on shift and give him a nod. No words.

  His reaction is automatic, almost running to hold a finger on a nondescript button near the large walk-in coolers. It blends in with the other two there that manage the lighting and a backup fan for emergencies. Eyes on mine, he waits for me to enter my office before the fake wall begins to lower, sealing us inside.

  No exit.

  No entry.

  It’s out of sight and with soundproofing thick enough that I could blow the blasted building from below and no one would realize until it’s too late.

  Inside the room and behind my desk, there’s a large bookcase the size of a door—a mobile bookcase that opens with the slight pulling of an old copy of Romeo and Juliet that Mum thought was funny to place there and use. Moreover, unless you know it’s there, the entrance is undetectable. Clever in that hiding-in-plain-sight kind of way, and I can appreciate the subtlety.

  Callum gives the book a small tug and the lock disengages, moving the wooden structure an inch or two forward, giving us a peak at the darkness behind it. A void that for most who enter is the entrance to hell, while I find the dark and morbid relaxing. A release.

  My men enter first, walking down the stairs that lead to a large and open space, then they wait for me; three men with heads looking straight ahead while a low whimper meets my ears. It’s a fascinating sound: fear. The way someone crumbles as reality sets in when I walk inside the room.

  However, I make Otto wait. Fuck with his fragile mind the way he screwed my business.

  My family’s money. Took food right from their mouths.

  His disloyalty, the way he took it upon himself to sell and profit from what isn’t his, doesn’t warrant any leniency from me. Especially after I gave him a job when his family—wife and two kids—were on the streets without a pound to their names. After I got him cleaned up. After I put them in a home that same night and made sure his family was taken care of while his training down at the pier began.

  He earned more than most because of the women in his life.

  None of that seems to matter, though, when greed becomes a prominent driver in a person’s life. They don’t think. Don’t process that shit could go wrong and you wi
ll find yourself staring at the end of a murderer’s knife.

  Once again, I crack my neck, shaking my head from side to side as another pulsing energy begins to flow through my system. It’s a heady concoction. Almost as delicious as Aurora’s pussy.

  Placing my holster, knives, phone, and gun down atop my desk, I shake my arms out, loosening my limbs. The room is cool, and yet I’m a raging inferno as the moment begins to settle. As I let my need for blood to spill take over.

  Rationality and compassion have no place inside this meeting.

  I pull my vest over my head and then fold the cotton fabric, leaving it beside my gun. A gun I won’t be taking with me. This sentencing will be more of an intimate affair. Hands on.

  To the victor goes the spoils.

  “Please.” It comes from the floor below, a yell of desperation that pulls a smile to my face. “Mr. Jameson, I’ll work the debt off...do anything you need me to. Just don’t...” a broken sob follows and I’ve yet to make an entrance “...my daughters and wife need me.”

  I don’t answer.

  I don’t utter a single word as I put my holster on, securing the leather strap down each side of my chest, and then pick up each karambit. In the low lighting, the steel gleams, a sharp contrast to every single item within the space. It’s weight feels good in my hand, like an extension of me, but I don’t plan to use them yet.

  No. I’m nothing if not fair.

  Placing one in each holster, I turn and walk toward the stairs, taking them down to the all-dark room. My men await orders. Await my decision with their heads straight ahead while the traitor squirms under the scrutiny.

  The man in question, Otto, is kneeling on the cold concrete floor. His shadow shakes and a chain rattles with each move. But louder than anything else is his breathing—harsh intakes of air that seem to choke him as his lungs close up and panic sets in.

  “Lights,” I say, and someone flips the switch a second later. Everyone in this room knows the rules except my guest, and they quietly take position, blocking the stairs behind me. Only one way in and one way out. “Look at me, Otto.”