Complicate

by Pam Godwin

  At the threshold, she paused, glancing back. “Think about what I said. We’ll talk again in a week or two.”

  A week or two? His molars slammed together, every muscle in his body stiffening to lunge and drag her back. But that was what she wanted. She was baiting him.

  He reined in his fear and fought down his anger, blanking his face and maintaining his silence. He gave the bitch nothing, and she gave nothing back.

  Except a closed door and inky darkness.

  Then the music restarted, striking his ears with a vengeance.

  Days passed. A week. Maybe more. The perpetual isolation wore on Cole, his entire world reduced to hot dogs and the same soul-sucking song on repeat.

  He kept his mind and body busy with exercise. Push-ups, sit-ups, lunges, running in place—his options were limited in the confined space. He was losing weight at a rapid pace, and his energy and strength suffered for it.

  There were moments when he was convinced that electrocution or dismemberment would’ve been better. Every minute in the darkness lasted an eternity, every visit from the guards a plaguing disappointment.

  He’d never felt so trapped. Restless. Hungry. Unraveling at the seams. They’d kicked open the gates of hell and unleashed a level of torture that left him hopeless and walking the edge of insanity.

  Okay, maybe that was the lyrics of the song in his ears, but he felt it. He was fucking living it.

  Nevertheless, each time the door opened, he kept his shit together. He didn’t beg or reveal a trace of emotion. When the guards taunted him, he met their eyes and showed no response.

  It required more self-restraint than he thought he was capable. One of these times, he was going to detonate. He could feel himself slipping, losing his hold on his brittle control.

  He wanted to kill them all.

  The music shut off again, and the door opened to the man he’d met the first night, the one who’d operated the drone. Fuck, that felt like forever ago.

  Did his team disappear like he’d ordered? Or were they still in Texas, searching for him?

  Locating people was his skill set, not theirs. He was the best at extracting information and siphoning minute details. It took time and patience, but he would eventually elicit what he needed from these assholes and use it to escape. But if they got their hands on his friends, they could manipulate him in ways he didn’t want to imagine.

  “We haven’t officially met,” the man said. “My name is Mike.”

  The fact that he looked like Bruce Willis wasn’t comforting. Hopefully, Mike would be easier to take down than the action heroes Bruce often portrayed.

  “Get dressed.” He tossed a pair of jeans into the cell. “I have a job for you.”

  Relief warred with distrust, coursing through him with numbing adrenaline. He wanted to ask how long he’d been here, but it wasn’t an important question. So he saved the words and woodenly shoved his unwashed legs into the jeans.

  “Follow me.” Mike ambled toward the factory floor, ignoring the armed guards who stood near the only exit.

  Cole followed him out while zipping up his fly. The jeans belonged to him but no longer fit. Even with the button fastened, they sagged, hanging loosely below his hipbones. He’d lost too much weight.

  It could be worse. He hadn’t lost blood or limbs or his sanity.

  Not yet.

  He stood in a massive, rectangular warehouse the length of a football field with concrete floors and brick walls. The rafters soared several stories above, and windows lined the upper half, far too high to reach. Grime coated the glass, obscuring the view of the sky. But sunlight filtered through the smudges, bright and hot, burning his eyes.

  Up ahead, Mike waited with his arms relaxed at his sides and a lopsided smile tipping his mouth. That smile couldn’t be trusted, no matter how friendly it appeared.

  Cole pulled up his jeans enough to not trip over the dragging cuffs. Then he made his way toward Mike.

  Footsteps sounded behind him. Two guards on his trail.

  He could disarm one of them and use the weapon to kill them both. Mike didn’t appear to be carrying a gun, so Cole could take him out, too. But what about the three men at the exit? And the other ten beyond the door? Since arriving, he’d counted sixteen altogether, including Lydia. If he started a gunfight, he wouldn’t make it out alive.

  “We’re not going far,” Mike said over his shoulder, walking ahead.

  Pallets of discarded stones and cracked blocks of granite cluttered the length of the warehouse. Steel siding sealed up the doors at the far end. No way out. So where the hell were they going?

  His nerves frayed, his shoulders twitching with the impulse to turn back.

  Then he saw her.

  Past a wall of crates, she stood with her back to him.

  His gaze caught on the shimmering beauty of red hair, the nip of a tiny waist, and the flashing tease of creamy white legs beneath her dress.

  A fucking dress. In a headstone factory. In the middle of the desert.

  It cinched at her waist and flared out around her knees. Black fabric with red cherries. Red heels with little red bows. Impractical as fuck. Eye-catching beyond reason.

  He couldn’t stop staring.

  She turned, angling her face into the glow of the windows. Pale shimmers of light accentuated the delicate curves of her profile and illuminated the stunning spirals and brilliant red tones of her hair. Her bangs looped into some sort of pompadour at the front, with the side parts rolling under and down. Strangely vintage. Fashionably retro. Her entire look screamed 1950s.

  He’d never seen anything so shockingly exquisite, so uniquely beautiful. Flawless skin, luscious lips, and voluptuous curves. A statuesque woman with the appearance of a goddess, the heart of demoness, and a fashion style all her own.

  She touched her chin to her shoulder and gave a slow blink, her unnaturally long lashes fanning over porcelain cheeks. Then her sea-green eyes latched onto his.

  Their stares locked for a full second. Long enough to forget where he was or how he got here. A million things needed to be said, but words didn’t exist in the space of their eye contact. Only sensations. Buzzing along the skin. Static in the air. Fire over ice in a heart that couldn’t melt.

  In that unexpected moment between them, he was a normal man, standing before a woman, with a rush of warmth in his chest. She felt it, too, her lips parting, her gaze losing focus. The world blurred, disorientating, and at the same time, perfectly balanced.

  She straightened, turning away, and he released a soundless breath, thunderstruck.

  And infuriated.

  What the fuck just happened? Did they drug the hot dogs? Or was this a side-effect of prolonged isolation?

  He was losing his fucking mind.

  Nothing about that woman was real. From her dazzling hair color to her cherry red smile, she wore a false face and a glamorous facade.

  Mike prowled over to her and slid a hand around her waist with intimate familiarity. She shifted toward him, and their foreheads came together, touching affectionately. He spoke quietly against her mouth and stroked her hair, her arm, her lower back.

  The man’s entire manner seemed to transform in her presence, his expression softening, shoulders relaxing, his posture leaning as if sucked in by her orbit.

  The pathetic fool loved her.

  Hard to tell if she reciprocated the sentiment. She didn’t reject his touch. She also didn’t look at him in the same way. Not in the breathless, gobsmacked way she’d just looked at Cole.

  Mike said a few words near her ear and stepped away, his demeanor hardening, turning cold as he focused on Cole.

  “I mentioned a job.” He clasped his hands behind him, his head down and eyes up. “We want you to work for us.”

  Like hell he would.

  If it was a reasonable job, they wouldn’t have threatened his friends, forced him here against his will, and locked him in isolation. No, they knew he would never agree to this.

/>   Assuming they knew his range of skills, they probably wanted to recruit him for a heist or infiltration mission to steal something of value—a person, a treasure, or priceless information. Whatever it was, the job would be dangerous, undesirable, and in no way worth his time or risk.

  Not that they intended to give him a choice.

  He met Mike’s eyes, exuding the cagey, reticent persona he’d maintained over the past couple of weeks. They had no idea what was going on in his head, if he was slowly going crazy or completely unaffected by the situation.

  A silent man who didn’t stand up for himself was often perceived as ignorant and malleable. He needed them to underestimate him and would continue to play that role until they let their guards down.

  “Now, I know you’re thinking you could never work for us. But I have something you won’t be able to resist.” Mike moved toward the wall of crates and slid a box into view with his boot. “You want to eat like a king?”

  From the box, he removed a can of chicken, a bag of potato chips, and a bottle of beer.

  Cole’s mouth watered at the sight of the beer. Fucking Christ, what he wouldn’t give for a taste of hops on his tongue.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know.” Mike chuckled. “It’s not really a royal feast, but it’s better than the alternative, yeah?”

  Better than hot dogs? Damn straight.

  “The task is simple.” Mike tapped his toe against a pallet of broken granite. “Move these pieces to the pallet over there.”

  He motioned at the empty platform forty yards away.

  The rock pile spanned six-feet high by six-feet wide, and each chunk was wider than his chest. Brutally heavy, no question. His back and feet would bear the brunt of it.

  Why did they want debris moved from one platform to another? To test his strength? To torture him psychologically? Maybe they were just bored?

  “I want my boots.”

  “Holy shit, he can talk.” Mike pointed at him and arched a brow at Lydia. “After sixteen days of silence, I was starting to wonder.”

  Sixteen fucking days. He’d guessed it had been that long, but hearing it didn’t make it easier to stomach. If they owned this building, which was highly likely, this could go on for months.

  Unless the thing they wanted from him had a time limit.

  “I know it’s lonely in that cell, and you’re wondering what the point of all this is.” Mike patted him on the shoulder. “Well, we’re working up to that. Little steps. Right now, those steps go from this pallet to that pallet. Without your boots. Do a good job and you’ll get the food in that box.”

  He needed the carbohydrates. He desperately wanted the beer. But more than that, it was imperative that he spend as much time as possible outside of that cell. Not only for his mental wellbeing but to observe his captors and do what he did best—listen and learn, make small talk and befriend, all the while subtly extracting information.

  So without hesitation, he shouldered past Mike and heaved the first hunk of granite from the pile. His muscles strained beneath the eighty-pound weight.

  Sixteen days ago, he would’ve carried it with no trouble. Today, he felt it in his arms, his back, and his feet as he hauled the load across the warehouse.

  Mike stepped away, joining the two guards in conversation. They were too far away for Cole to eavesdrop but close enough to shoot him if he decided to slam a rock into Lydia’s head.

  She perched on a crate beside the full pallet, watching him drop off his burden and walk back. He took his time. No reason to hurry. The longer it took him to move the pile, the longer he was out of the head-banging cell.

  Except that bottle of beer was waiting. An effective incentive.

  “Your jeans are falling.” She crossed one leg over the other and propped an elbow on her knee.

  He paused before her, fully aware that his waistband hung obscenely low, exposing the patch of hair above the root of his cock. Her eyes went there, lingering, before lifting to his.

  “Such a shame.” She sniffed. “You had a beautiful physique when I met you.” Her gaze darted toward Mike and the guards and returned to him, her accent lowering. “Do what you’re told, and you’ll gain back those muscles.”

  He glanced down at his torso, trying to see what she saw. Was he skinnier? Yeah. But he still had definition. He was still physically stronger than her and could overpower her tiny body if he got her alone.

  Hell, if he got her alone, he would wrench that dress over her head and drive his fist between her legs. He would tear up her cunt and fuck her ass until both holes were permanently stretched open, gaping and waiting to receive his cock again.

  He didn’t have to like her to imagine her wet pussy slurping around his thrusts. In fact, his hatred for her made the fantasy all the more filthy.

  “You know what I want?” He lowered his voice, deliberately rumbling the words.

  Her eyes dilated, her breaths quickening. “What?”

  “Palimi with sour cream and caviar.”

  She flinched, her brows knitting together.

  “Russian pancakes.” He cocked his head. “Don’t you know what that is?”

  “Of course, I know. My grandma made them for me.” She narrowed her eyes. “You only moved one stone. Are you tired already?”

  “Tired of eating processed shit.” He leaned down, exhaling in her face. “I want a toothbrush and toothpaste, and right now, I imagine you want me to have those things.”

  “Finish the job, and I’ll think about it.” She didn’t shift away, but the scrunch of her nose confessed the state of his breath.

  Good.

  While his whole body needed a thorough cleaning, the fur on his teeth bothered him the most.

  He stepped back and dragged another rock off the pile. As he towed it across the warehouse, he felt her gaze on his ass, knowing the top half of his crack hung above the sagging jeans.

  Didn’t matter how badly he reeked or how much muscle he’d lost. She liked looking at him as much as he liked looking at her. His was an unwanted attraction. Maybe hers was, too.

  Or maybe she put on that dress and made up her hair because she wanted him to notice her.

  Was she after information in his head? Or was this a ploy to use him and his skill set to acquire something for them?

  They had no idea who they were dealing with.

  If she intended to seduce him into cooperating, she should start by washing that shit off her face. But even then, she didn’t have a chance in hell.

  He hoped she planned to use sex to get to him so that it could backfire on her with deadly consequences.

  Lydia couldn’t ignore the thudding in her ears or the heat swimming in her belly. It produced a terrible glow inside her, giving rise to a complicated question.

  What if?

  Two simple words, known to spark monumental theories and discoveries. They could also lead to disastrous mistakes.

  She wasn’t the only one asking the question. It took two to engage in eye contact, and when she and Cole stared at each other, both of them sizzling in the charged air, she saw her reaction on his face. She saw her shock, her curiosity, her what if?

  Under no circumstances was she expecting his gaze to grab her and twist her up like it did. She wasn’t expecting the sheer intensity in his eyes as they imprisoned hers, seeing her as something other than an enemy.

  Deep down, beneath the scars of loss and the vitriol that had led her here, she was a woman like any other, with longings and vulnerabilities and dreams that had nothing to do with violence and death.

  She’d done well enough to bury that softer side over the past eleven years, and in one goddamn look, Cole Hartman brought it to life.

  She blamed the dimples.

  And his mysterious confidence.

  Not to mention his alluring sex appeal, the rugged build of his powerful body, the sculpted flex of his ass, and the untamed beard that should smell disgusting in its unwashed state but instead only added to his masculine potenc
y.

  Damn him for being so devilishly, unfairly handsome.

  And damn him for putting these foolish musings in her head.

  Watching him heave stone after stone wasn’t helping her concentration. She shouldn’t be affected. This was a job. If she started warming to him, years of training and sacrifice would be forfeited.

  She couldn’t afford to lose all the progress she’d made just because the job happened to be a sexy son of a bitch.

  She. Could. Not. Fail.

  No more what-ifs. No spontaneous explorations of possibilities. Any deviation from the plan was bad for her and this operation. Because one thing was certain. Cole was precisely the type of man who would use her and leave her for dead when he finished.

  As he trudged between the pallets, his teeth clenched with exertion. He’d lost muscle mass, but he’d started out with so much. Far more than the average man.

  He still had a decent amount of brawn flexing through his frame. And a golden complexion. Pillowy lips. A chiseled face. His expression, when at rest, wore a natural smile. Flirtatious without even trying. Dangerous to the core. He was a gorgeous, tattooed beast.

  If she had a type, it was Cole Hartman. She imagined he was every woman’s type. Including the one he let go.

  Danni Savoy.

  The pretty dancer was inked on his forearm amid a collage of unrelated designs and symbols. She glimpsed a motorcycle, an inverted cross, several suns, a leaf, chains, a spider web, and dozens of other illustrations too small to make out at this distance.

  The artwork sleeved both arms and half of his chest. And though she hadn’t stolen a glimpse of him naked, Mike had mentioned there was a large black snake coiled around his thigh.

  This wasn’t a guy who put fortuitous ink on his skin. Every piece told a story, a secret, and she wanted to learn them all. Starting with the dancer.

  She knew very little about Danni aside from his relationship with her. They’d dated for ten months. Got engaged. Then he took a job that separated them for three years. That job was the reason he lost her to his best friend.

  It was also the reason he was here.