by Pam Godwin
Until the report of gunfire shuddered the air. A single shot, fired from across the warehouse. Everyone froze.
His pulse thundered, and his lungs crashed together. Then, one by one, the weight of ten men lifted off his body.
He lay on his back, staring at the rafters through blood-soaked eyelashes. Everything hurt, and he relished it—the madness of the pain, the rush of adrenaline, and the utter freedom in unleashing his temper. He savored it almost as much as the sound of her clicking heels heading toward him.
Fucking finally.
“Tie him up.” She handed off her rifle to a guard while motioning at the rest of them. “Put him on that pallet.”
Christ, she was a vision. He wiped the blood from his eyes to steal a better look, and holy fuck, he couldn’t stop looking.
Black combat boots, a tiny skirt checked in white and black, fishnet stockings to her thighs, silk-ribbon garters over skin like fine china, tits spilling from a black corset, and that hair. God, that hair. It hung in rippling waves of fire, as bright as the red swallow tattooed on her chest.
Pressure tightened between his legs, swelling against his zipper. She glared, and he grinned, no doubt resembling a feral, blood-spattered animal.
“I’m gone for five days, and all hell breaks loose.” She held her spine ramrod straight, her little hands clenching in fists at her sides. “Goddamn children. The whole lot of you!”
The men, smeared in their own share of blood, shot death looks in her direction. Some of them pressed their lips tight as if biting back scathing retorts. If she wasn’t careful, she might have an insurrection among them.
But for now, they followed her orders without argument. Hands fell upon him, hauling him up and dragging him across the factory floor.
They dumped his ass on a stack of wood pallets. Another stack leaned on its side between the wall and his back. Rope bound the platforms together, forming a makeshift L-shaped chair, perfect for restraining a crazed man.
He gave them hell, struggling and spitting as they tied his arms, neck, and waist to the pallets at his back. But much like the fight he’d just lost, one against many proved to be a wasted effort.
Thirty yards away, Lydia stood close to Mike, their heads bowed together, talking, touching, paying no attention to his useless thrashing.
When the guards finished trussing him to the platform, her voice snapped through the room. “Everyone out.”
She didn’t spare the room a glance, her gaze still fixed on Mike as she returned to their conversation.
The factory floor echoed with the tread of retreating footfalls. Mike vanished with the guards, and when the door slammed shut, only Lydia remained.
A thrill ran through him. At last, he would have some time with her, and he needed to make every second count.
She turned to him, her gaze as vibrant as the colorful ink on her arms. An abundance of cleavage decorated her corset, the view goddamn distracting as she pulled in a long breath and slowly released it.
Fucking hell, she was killing him. More painful than a fist, more lethal than a bullet, more formidable than an army of men, she brandished beauty like a mythical weapon, gaining the advantage by merely standing before him, looking like that.
Soft auburn brows arched above eyes that sparkled with the luster of polished emeralds. Supple red lips gracefully curved downward, unreasonably sensual. Deadly. Like cherries soaked in poison.
He knew she wasn’t real. The hair, the garters, the heat in her gaze—all of it was a honey trap to lure him under her spell. He knew this, and yet, he wanted to risk it. He wanted to risk his whole goddamn existence for a taste.
His body burned for her, restrained as it was beneath the rope, his zipper, and the plight of his circumstances. He would be lying to himself if he thought he could fight the intensity swarming through his system.
There was sexual attraction. Then there was this. He had nothing to compare it to. Not his relationship with Danni. Not the countless women who had come before her. He’d never felt this hungry, this captivated, this fucking petrified of his own lust.
Maybe regular sexual activity over the past seven years would’ve diluted the voraciousness of his appetite. Maybe if he hadn’t been sitting naked in a dark cell for the past month with nothing to do but fantasize about his redheaded captor, maybe then he wouldn’t…
Fuck.
That was it. That was her plan.
Spending time with her would’ve worked to his advantage. He would’ve identified her weaknesses, her flaws, and seen her for who she really was. But spending a month alone? With only random glimpses of her to fuel his hungry imagination? That worked to her advantage.
Absence makes the heart grow fonder.
Or, in his case, absence made his lust burn hotter. She’d managed to keep her distance while staying ever-present in his mind. She wore a shroud of mystery that he couldn’t peel away, leaving him to obsess over the only thing she let him see.
Her extraordinary beauty.
Once she finally let him in, there would be nothing left of his resolve.
It was fucking brilliant.
He tracked her with his whole body as she strode past him, seemingly ignoring his presence. Pretending. It was what she did best.
A few feet away, she grabbed a rubber hose and twisted a spigot on the wall, turning on the flow of water.
Twitchy, he yanked at the restraints. With his hands bound on either side of his head and more rope tethered around his neck and waist, he couldn’t move his upper half. Physically defenseless.
She pulled the hose toward him, grabbed an empty bucket, and tossed a bottle of body wash onto the pallet beside him.
Given the collection of soap, shampoo, and towels along the wall, this was where the team showered. They’d been living here for at least a month, probably longer, and a stone factory wouldn’t be equipped with a room for bathing.
“Are you going to bathe me?” He arranged his face into a smile despite the unease simmering inside him.
He hadn’t felt the touch of a woman in seven years, and he knew, he fucking knew this woman’s touch would be his undoing. But he tamped it down, didn’t give her a hint of the turmoil rolling in his gut.
She stood before him and squeezed the handle on the hose, shooting a blast of frigid water at his chest. His breath caught, and his muscles tensed. But once the shock wore off, he threw back his head and hooted with maniacal laughter.
After a month without a shower, it felt fucking refreshing. Cold water saturated his filthy beard and crusty jeans, seeping into the creases of his body and rinsing away layers of sand and dirt.
Nothing restrained his legs. So he stretched them out, spreading them wide and soaking up the spray, all the while whooping with unrestrained laughter.
Until she aimed the spray at his face.
He coughed, choking on water. Then he laughed harder.
She shut off the hose. “You’re deranged.”
“Turn it back on.”
“Tell me who bought the stolen intel.”
“If I tell you, will you let me go?”
“I won’t return you to the cell.”
“Ah.” He chuckled. “Is my grave already dug?”
Her dainty nostrils stiffened with a sharp inhale. “I won’t kill you.”
“No, you’re too soft to kill an innocent man. You’ll make one of your goons do it.”
Without breaking eye contact, she fired a burst of water at his groin. The denim added some protection, but fuck, the jet hit hard. And cold. His balls receded up inside him, his laughter effectively cut off.
She shifted the hose away and filled the bucket.
He relaxed, watching her. “Where did you go for five days?”
“Out.”
“Out of town?”
“Out of state.”
“Why?”
“Why? Yeah, let’s start there.” She heaved the full bucket onto the pallet beside him, set her hands on his thighs, an
d leaned into his personal space, surrounding him with the cherry scent of her hair. “Why did you provoke the guards? What the fuck were you thinking?”
“Your concern is touching.” He tilted his head. “Does this mean we’re friends?”
“What?” She jerked back, eyebrows pinching.
“I’ll be honest.” He tugged on the rope. “This doesn’t feel very friendly. Unless you’re into this sort of thing. Which I am. But only when I’m the one playing with the rope.”
“Mm-hmm.” She narrowed her eyes, her accent laced with sarcasm. “We both know how many times you’ve played over the past seven years.” Holding her hand up between them, she made her fingers and thumb form the shape of a zero.
“You want to be the one.” He wet his lips, his mouth inches from hers. “The one I break my celibacy with.”
“No,” she said too quickly. “You’re…just…” She made a sound of frustration. “You’re smarter than this, Cole. Smart enough to know the guards were baiting you.”
“Smart enough to know you are baiting me.”
“Sometimes, I wonder…” Her gaze dipped to his lips and returned to his eyes. “Who’s baiting who?”
Intelligent sea-green eyes stared out of the face of a Gothic angel. Enraptured, Cole stared back, knowing eye contact with this cursed creature was treacherous. Lydia didn’t just look at him. She looked into him as if she knew his darkest desires.
But that was impossible. While he couldn’t resist his attraction to her, he made damn sure he didn’t show it. He’d been trained to disguise emotion, a skill that had served him well throughout his career.
Without averting her gaze, she reached for the bottle of soap beside him and squirted a cold glob on his chest. She edged closer, pushing into the V of his legs, and boldly perched on his knee.
With her featherlight weight on his lap came the smooth touch of her hands on his flesh, fingers splayed, just the right balance of caution and assertion as she spread the gel to his shoulders and throat.
He sank into the warmth of her caress, fixated on her unreadable expression. What sort of woman was she? Heartless? Tender? Promiscuous? Complicated? He didn’t know enough about her to make a judgment. But goddamn, she knew how to touch a man.
Her fingers swept across every inch of his upper body, rubbing gently, working in the lather, unselfish with the soap. With the bucket, she rinsed away the grime, leaving no part of his exposed skin unwashed.
When she reached his hair, her fingernails dug in, scraping his scalp and combing him clean.
He fucking groaned.
It felt surreal, like a day at the damn spa. Not that he would know. He’d never been to a spa, never been pampered or massaged into a pleasure-drunk coma.
He didn’t trust the feelings it evoked. She had an agenda. A nasty one. But he let himself, just for a moment, indulge in the sublime ecstasy of her hands on his body.
She spent a lot of time on his facial hair, scrubbing and soaping with rapt concentration. Christ, how he must’ve reeked. The hair had grown too long, venturing into lumberjack territory. He preferred a quarter-inch military beard.
With his head tipped back, he stared down the length of his nose. “Have you found any creatures crawling in it?”
“No.” Her luscious lips crooked up at the corner, amusement glowing in her delicate features. “I’m trying to imagine what you look like without it.”
“I’ve shaved it off many times over the years. I’m sure you’ve seen photos.”
Images of him didn’t exist on the Internet or dark web. He made sure of that. But he pretended otherwise as a way to fish for clues and subtly nudge her into giving something away.
“No photos.” Her hands moved on to the upper part of his face, cleaning around the contusions he’d incurred during the fight. “I didn’t know what you looked like until the night I met you in the desert.”
Shock jolted through him, but he maintained a bored expression. “You met me that night because I allowed it. Because I deliberately activated your bug.”
She pressed closer, lathering soap around his eyes and cheeks. “Your breath smells good. Minty. You’ve been using the gifts I sent.”
If she wanted a thank you, she could eat a dick.
Biting her lip, she stared at his mouth. “I planted those bugs in Rylee Sutton’s house, knowing you would take them and eventually lure me to your location. You met me that night in the desert because I allowed it.”
“They’re not just bugs. You planted customized tech, designed for the NSA.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.” She slid a hand into his hair and pulled, yanking his head back. “The only way you would recognize that tech is if you worked for them.”
Or if he worked for something deeper, darker, and more clandestine. But he wasn’t about to tell her that. “What does Rylee Sutton have to do with this?”
“A few months ago, you showed up in Texas, stalking her.” She released his hair and leaned to the side, her attention on his hand.
With his arms fastened to the pallet on either side of his head, he opened his fingers and let her look at his palm. The gash from the rock had healed cleanly over the past two weeks, thanks to the supplies she’d provided.
She gently washed the area around the wound and moved to his other hand. “After vanishing off the map for seven years, here you were, riding into the desert on your motorcycle. You went straight to El Paso, then Eldorado, monitoring Rylee’s old and current residences. She was your only focus, seemingly the only reason you came out of hiding. So naturally, she became a target for your pursuers.”
“I wasn’t in hiding, and I didn’t realize I had admirers.”
“Pursuers.”
“Same thing. I see the way you look at me.”
“I see the way you look when I mention your pretty dancer.”
He didn’t blink. Not a twitch.
Danni had never been involved in his affairs. He’d always kept her in the dark, completely separated from his career. Now, she lived a safe, happy life, doing what she loved. Dancing. She married the man she loved. A powerful businessman and billionaire, who had the resources and unparalleled desire to protect her.
Her photos were out there, her personal information available to anyone who wanted to investigate her. That didn’t matter since she was no longer connected to Cole.
It wouldn’t have mattered if an eleven-year-old assignment hadn’t come back to haunt him.
“You’re still in love with Danni,” she said, her accent straining. “But you came to Texas to stalk Rylee. Who is she to you?”
“Since you were stalking me, you should know this.”
“I think, initially, she was a threat to your friends. While you were digging into her background, she was off in the desert with Tomas, getting stabbed with a hot dog.”
“Stabbed with a hot dog,” he deadpanned.
“His hot dog. It’s a fitting analogy, given your diet over the past month.”
“You’re a twisted bitch.” His nonchalant tone made her smile.
“I’m right about Rylee. Whatever her connection was to you and your friends, it was personal. You wouldn’t have returned to the states, otherwise.”
She wasn’t wrong, but he kept his face unexpressive.
“You haven’t been in the country for seven years.” She raised a brow.
Not true. He’d visited on three different occasions. Day trips, in and out. Evidently, they weren’t watching him closely enough.
Her thumb trailed along his bottom lip, her eyes locked on the movement. “Where have you been all this time?”
“Enjoying retirement.”
“You might’ve retired from a legitimate career, but I know you’re working with the Colombian cartel. You’ve made a name for yourself, Cole Hartman. How does it feel to be notorious in the criminal underworld?”
That was the intel she had on him? The gossip of crime lords and traffickers? He’d put most of those rumors
out there himself. All smoke and mirrors to embellish the truth, incite fear, and mislead enemies away from what he was actually doing.
She had no idea he was part of a vigilante group or that his earlier career was in an organization that no one knew existed. That meant she didn’t have connections in the intelligence sectors. So how did she have access to those high-tech bugs?
“Who do you work for?” He nipped at her finger on his lip.
She yanked her hand back. “Tell me who bought—”
“No. I’m not going to tell you what you want to know, and you’re not going to let me go. We’re at an impasse, Lydia.” He flexed his thigh beneath her pert ass. “How long have I been here?”
“Thirty-one days.”
“How much time do you have left to complete the assignment?”
“Enough.”
“There’s always a deadline.” He made a tsking sound. “Something has to give.”
“You.” Her lashes lowered, fanning over porcelain cheekbones before lifting to expose the force of her magnetic glare. “You have to give.”
“When I don’t, you’ll take. Am I right?” He glanced at his restraints, his vulnerable position. “How much are you willing to take? How far down this dark hole are you willing to go?”
How evil are you, Lydia?
“All the way.” She slid off his lap and opened the button on his jeans. Then the zipper. Her eyes found his, and she yanked on the wet denim.
His stomach coiled. His skin grew hot, and his pulse took off at a sprint.
Enduring the soapy caress of her hands below his waist would be the absolute best and worst thing that could happen. It needed to happen. They needed to get personal and intimate and fucking filthy together, so he could break her open and fuck the stubbornness out of her.
At the same time, he had to remember that she was using the same strategy on him. She intended to ply him with her body, and all the while, he would let her believe she was the one in control.
