by Zara Cox
He stares at me in tight-lipped silence for a full minute. Then he nods. “I wanted to personally let you know that Krakov expects first class treatment today. He mentioned the last time he was here, you seemed a little…off.”
My skin wants to turn itself inside out. I barely manage to hold it together. “I…didn’t feel well. I think I was coming down with a virus.”
“I explained something to that effect, but he’s the customer, after all. Since you’re feeling better today, I think we should go the extra mile to keep him happy, don’t you?”
A boulder lodges in my throat. “W—what do you mean?”
“I mean, we can start off by meeting his plane when it lands shortly before two. We’ll begin to wine and dine him almost as soon as his feet touch the ground and we’ll continue to do everything in our power to make sure his experience is unforgettable. Can I rely on you to achieve that?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Be dressed and downstairs at quarter to two. Ridge will drive you to the airstrip in the limo.”
On the one hand, I’m two seconds away from emptying the bare contents of my stomach at the thought of going anywhere near Edward Krakov. On the other, I’m giddy with relief that this summons isn’t to question me about the documents I took from his safe two days ago.
I nod and hightail it to the door. I grasp the handle, taste elusive freedom.
“Oh, one more thing, Lucky.”
My heart drops to the soles of my battered boots. I hold my breath, clench my features to neutral and turn.
“My security systems shows my passcode was accessed after hours two nights ago. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
A touch of confused surprise. The minute gathering of a frown. Then mild affront. I’ve practiced it in the mirror a thousand times. “Of course not.” No inflection on any vowel. A perfect, terror-steeped, delivery.
The gold-plated ball pen in his hand rocks back and forth. Back and forth, as he watches me. Eventually, he nods.
“Okay. That’s all.”
12
CONTINUITY
I jerk awake, my racing heart on fire, a silent scream locked in my throat. Two nightmares in one night is a record even for me. The first one is now chillingly familiar—the sight of Ridge’s face when I shot him through the chest and watched the life leave his eyes as he dropped dead in Clayton’s office.
The second one is new. It’s the kind of dream I hate. The one that starts with joy and the blindingly effervescent promise of happy-ever-after, and ends with you poised on the edge of some craggy ravine, knowing in your bones you’re about to fall to your death.
It’s clear that the ghosts of future past and present don’t intend to leave me alone tonight, so I drag my fingers through my hair, resign myself to insomnia and slide out of bed.
The moment I rock up to a standstill, I’m hit with another bout of overwhelming disbelief.
The room I’m standing in is bigger than the great room Fionnella’s team uses in the Midtown apartment. In fact, it takes up three quarters of the whole floor of the loft. According to Fionnella, this is the smallest loft in the complex where she delivered me after my breakdown six short hours ago. Despite having lived in a mansion of The Villa’s proportions, I still find it difficult to wrap my mind around this place…this space…being all mine, at least for the next few weeks.
Provided Clayton doesn’t find me first.
The under floor heating warms my feet as I wander around the bedroom.
True to his word, Q has come through in helping me.
The Hell’s Kitchen property is fully furnished, central heated, and more importantly, stocked to the gills with food, wine and delicacies, some of which I’ve never heard of, never mind tasted.
I walk across the mezzanine floor to the railing that overlooks the cavernous space below. Contemporary furniture and an extensive entertainment center divide the living room from the dining area, with expensive looking potted plants interspersed with paintings and eclectic pieces of art. The kitchen is a gourmand’s dream, and I get the feeling I won’t be brave enough to touch half of the gadgets in there.
After Fionnella’s departure, I left a few lights on to brighten the darker corners. I’m not afraid of the dark, but I have more than enough to be jumpy about. I’d rather not add shadows in dark corners to the list of things to be concerned about.
Leaving the bedroom, I make my way slowly down the stairs, then just stand in the middle of the living room and stare around me.
Who is this guy?
Q…
Funny, the more I think about the name I’ve coined for him, the more it suits the stranger behind the wall. Except he won’t be a stranger for much longer.
I realize I’m not dreading meeting him as much as I thought. Whether it’s because my mind has exhausted itself on the possibilities of what he could be, or whether his treatment of me so far has been decidedly less monster-like than what I’ve been used to in the past, I’m not sure.
Either way, I know deep down that no matter what I’m feeling right now, dropping my guard around him, at any time, is dangerous. And yet, I’m standing in the middle of a living room, less afraid than I was a few short hours ago.
And once again getting…hopeful.
I squash the feeling, and cross over to the double-wide fridge. I want to squeal with delight at being confronted with so much delicious food but I resist the need to gorge on a little bit of everything, and take out the ingredients to make a grilled cheese sandwich. I spotted a sandwich press earlier, and five minutes later am sitting cross-legged on the sofa with my sandwich in my lap.
I take a groan-worthy bite and reach for the TV control just as a beep emits from a sleek black gadget on the coffee table. There’s a blinking green light on one end. Cautioning myself not to freak out, I pick it up. Beneath the light is a command that reads Talk/On.
With my half-eaten mouthful of grilled cheese fast congealing in my mouth, I remain motionless, and will myself not to panic. The light flashes off after a minute. Just when my heart rate is beginning to slow, and I’ve almost convinced myself that this is nothing sinister, the light comes on again.
I rationalize why it can’t be the worst case scenario. For one thing, Clayton isn’t the type of man to toy with this prey once it is within his cross hairs. If he knew where I was, I would already be in his clutches. Therefore the only logical, please God, conclusion is that this is something else.
I push the button. The light stops flashing but stays on green.
First, I hear him exhale. My head jerks up as the sound filters through the room.
“Lucky.”
I drop the gadget. “Q?” I’m getting used to the smooth automation of his voice. Whatever tech he’s using must be top of the line, because he sounds less robotic and more human each time we speak.
“Yes.”
I look around, spot the discreet speakers tucked into various corners of the living room.
“How are you doing this…I mean, how did you know I was up?”
“I have a state of the art security system that alerts me when there’s movement in the property at odd hours. It’s three in the morning. You should be asleep. My system thinks you’re an intruder. I wanted to verify that you were not.” His voice flows all around me.
I take a couple of steps back and reclaim my sandwich. The explanation is reasonable. But I’m still a little creeped out, if a lot relieved. My gaze darts around.
“What about cameras? Do you have cameras installed in here, too?”
“Only on the outside. I can give you the code to dismantle both if it would make you more comfortable?”
I take small bite of my food. “Can you not do it remotely?”
“Of course, but I suspect you might not believe me if I said it was done?”
I bend my head to hide my guilty flush, even though he can’t see me. Or at least I hope he can’t.
I swallow bef
ore I reply, “That’s okay. If you say it’s done, I believe you.”
“Thank you.”
I take another bite and chew through the silence. “I’m sorry if my moving around woke you.”
“I wasn’t asleep.”
“Oh, okay. Can I ask what you’re doing awake at 3am?”
“Having a drink. And reviewing your shots.”
A reel of the photo shoot flips through my mind and my body heats up. The thought that he’s staring at those pictures right now makes a part of me tremble, while a definite part throbs. When he remains silent, I’m forced to ask, “And?”
“And I’m very much looking forward to fucking you, Lucky.”
The matter of fact words, spoken softly through a mesh of tech, is hotter than anything I’ve ever heard in my life. My body grows heavy and a little weak, and I’m glad I’m sitting down.
“You…you don’t think I’m too thin?”
“We’re working on that, are we not?”
I laugh and the sound is the most natural I’ve heard in a long time. “Fionnella is definitely single-minded about fattening me up, that’s for sure.”
“She’s following my instructions. I want you healthy and strong. I want you to be able to keep up with me.”
My gaze skids to the far corner of the room where a treadmill and cross-trainer have been set up next to a yoga mat. “Can I use the equipment in here?”
“Everything in the apartment is yours, Lucky. You don’t need to ask permission.”
I pause for a moment and then ask the question that’s been on my mind for a while. “So where will…the gig take place?”
“At another property of mine.”
“So, not the Midtown apartment?”
“No.”
I release a breath tinged with relief. “Okay. That’s good.”
“Why is it good?”
I shrug, feel a tad foolish. “Nothing. It’s no big deal.”
“It is, or you wouldn’t have asked.”
“Just that…Fionnella is not the kind of person I want to be doing that around.”
He pauses for a moment before answering. “And why is that?”
“She just seems the motherly sort.”
The pause is longer. “You don’t strike me as naive, Lucky. Everyone wears a mask, even seemingly cookie-baking types like Fionnella. For all you know, hers is the thickest mask of all.” There’s something hard and sinister in his voice.
My skin prickles. “Like I said, it’s no big deal. I would’ve done it either way.”
“Glad to hear it.” His voice still sounds clipped, more mechanical.
I warm my suddenly chilled arms with my hands and rise from the sofa. “I…uh, thanks for checking on me.”
“My pleasure.”
“I think I’m going to head back to bed now.”
“You just ate—I heard you chewing. Going to bed so soon will give you indigestion.”
For an illogical second, I wonder if he’s lonely and trying to keep me here so he can talk to me. But then surely a guy like him, with wealth and power at his fingertips, would have more than enough to occupy him, even at three in the morning?
All the same, I find myself sitting back down. “I guess I can stay up for a little longer, maybe watch some TV…”
“If that’s what you want.”
I glance at the sleek gadget sitting in a futuristic looking cradle and decide against it. “Or maybe not. I don’t want to set off any alarms or anything.”
“Tell me what sort of entertainment you require and I’ll work it from here.”
A tiny bit of that creepiness whispers closer. “I’m good, thanks. I prefer to just…” I stop when I realize the wish I’d almost voiced.
“Just what?” he encourages.
My twitching fingers grasp a strand of hair and toy with it. “I’d rather…talk, if that’s okay. It’s been a while.”
A while is more than an exaggeration. The last person I talked to…truly had a conversation with that wasn’t blatantly or overtly sexual, was my mother. And she’s been dead for seven years. And in the last few weeks, the only person I’ve had more than a one-minute conversation with is Quinn Blackwood, and everything about that man terrifies me into near speechlessness.
I refocus when I hear faint sounds of feet on a hardwood floor. He’s moving around. I realize this is the first time I’ve heard him do something other than speak.
My imagination fires up, trying to conjure up an image just from his electronic voice alone, trying to imagine where he is, what he sees when he looks out his window.
“I’m all ears, Lucky.”
“Are you here? In New York City?” I blurt before I can stop myself.
The pause is long, uncomfortably so. “No.”
I’m not sure why that dims my mood, the fact that we aren’t in the same city. “Are we in the same country?” I press, despite knowing well enough that I should back off.
His answer this time is smoothly forthcoming. “Yes, I’m in the States. Does that please you, Lucky?”
My laugh is entirely self-conscious. “Why would you ask me that?”
“Because I sensed your unhappiness to find me not in the same city as you.”
“You sensed it? What are you, psychic?” I play at being amused, but my gut clenches with trepidation at his astuteness.
“I’m surrounded by your pictures, Lucky. Your face reflects your mood beautifully, your body even more so. Your voice is merely another conduit of your emotions.”
“Or I could be a very good actress.”
“I don’t think so, but if you insist, I look forward to discovering which version is more accurate.”
“I have time to practice my poker face then.”
“Good luck.”
Like all his words, there’s a thin trace of cruelty in them. I should be disturbed. But I find myself clutching a plump cushion, and when I turn my head, I realize I’m reclined on the sofa, the T-shirt I wore to bed now resting just beneath my panty line. “So, did you…did you like all of the photos?”
“Every single one. But one in particular captured my attention.”
My breath catches. I suddenly feel too hot, and I want to peel the T-shirt over my head, but I don’t want to move. “Which one?” I whisper, half of me hopes my voice is too low for him to hear and the other half yearns for an answer.
“You’re seated. Your knees together, feet apart. You look…conflicted. Like you’re fighting something you want to give in to, but won’t allow yourself.”
My chest vibrates with the strength of my agitated breathing. Beneath the T-shirt, my nipples are stiff, ravenous peaks. My stomach is hollowed out, and a wholly involuntary twitch of my hips clearly outlines my bare pussy against my thin, white panties.
“There’s also a touch of guilt,” he continues, “as if you don’t think you deserve what you’re not allowing yourself to crave.”
“Wow, all that in one picture? You do fancy yourself a clairvoyant,” I dare to tease.
I hear a clink of ice against glass. “Tell me which part I got wrong,” he commands.
I can’t, of course, so I don’t answer.
“There will be no guilt when I fuck you, Lucky. No guilt, no fighting, only your complete surrender.” The statement seethes with purpose, and I’m caught in the web of sensation so strong I experience the tiniest of releases between my legs.
My hips twitch again and I turn and bite the cushion. Hard.
Fuck.
“Do you understand?” he demands.
I blink to try and regain focus. “Y—yes.” My voice is a shamelessly turned on croak.
“Lucky?”
God, the way that electric current vibrates through me! “Yes?”
“Time to head to bed.”
My gaze roves over the room, takes in the stairs leading up to the bedroom. “I don’t think I can move.”
“Why not?”
Because moving will ruin what the sou
nd of your voice is doing to my clit. “I’m…comfortable right here.”
“I see. The sofa is comfortable enough, but I’d prefer it if you don’t make a habit of it. Uninterrupted rest when it’s mandated will ensure your continued health.”
I should be pissed that he’s instructing me on where I should sleep. But the thick river of lust moving through my body is too delicious to ruin with a fight.
I tug the folded cashmere throw from the back of the sofa and drape it over me before I snuggle deeper into my makeshift bed.
“Right. Noted. Thanks for your understanding, Q.” Saying his name makes me smile.
“Goodnight, Lucky.” I imagine I hear faint amusement in his voice, too.
I turn my head and search for the black box. It’s still on the floor where I dropped it earlier. The green light is still on. I stare at it as languor sweeps over me.
My sleep is thankfully dreamless. When I wake four hours later, my eyes immediately zero in on the box. It’s still where I left it.
But the light has gone out.
And I’m once again left wondering if it was all a hallucination.
13
PLACES
The fitness instructor is done with me by nine. The intense two-hour session leaves me weak-limbed but wide awake as I exit the Wall Street subway and make my way to the Blackwood Tower.
Today, I’m feeling a little less self-conscious—but no less vigilant—courtesy of the eight Bloomingdales shopping bags that arrived on my doorstep this morning. I opened the first one to find a note from Fionnella.
As discussed, dress rehearsal for clothes begins today. Find enclosed first selection.
As discussed? First selection?
Am I that unsophisticated to need a rehearsal for clothes? My frown stayed in place all through breakfast. I was a little out of it last night after my epic rant in the apartment, but I’m pretty sure I would’ve remembered a discussion about a new wardrobe. My brain may be a seething mass of fear-induced knots, but I’m sure I would also have remembered a planned shopping trip to Bloomingdales on my behalf. My eventual text to that effect garnered a one-line response.
